“As a journalist, I get so much bullshit mailed to me, it’s hard to tell real from fake sometimes. I’ve been fooled before, so when I saw the dead aliens in the pit, yeah, I was skeptical. I took the photos to my cameraman, Fred, and he took them to his labs for verification.”
She bats one of the cushions beside her as if it were to blame.
“They couldn’t find any marks of forgery or alteration. They couldn’t say for sure if it was fake, so I sat on it.”
She looks away and purses her lips.
“I knew it was a bad idea to pull them out on Van der Beek like that, but…” Her eyes turn to the camera as if seeking sympathy. “I had to know. I wanted to believe they were fake. Still, I had to see his reaction, I had to hear his response. I had no idea he’d actually confirm them.”
She looks down into her lap. When her head lifts there is indignant green fire in her eyes.
“He took off his microphone and said, ‘If you even think about airing those photos, Soshiba Varicorp will assume you’re the author and the lawsuit will burn down the entire news station’. He said, ‘I’ll be sure the journalist community knows you single-handedly ruined a respected news company and no one will hire you again’.”
She looks at her feet then glances around the living space.
“A half-million a year and a condo in DC filled with beautiful shit.” She grabs the cushion beside her and hurls it out of view. Something fragile hits the floor and shatters.
“He was so goddamned guilty! And I just dropped it. Because I was scared…”
Her face flops into her hands, the heels of her palms driving the water from her reddened eyes. She looks up.
“I was scared of losing all this, of losing my career, the access, the special parties, the status, the…” She trails off again.
“I swore an oath,” she says, nearly roaring, “to serve the truth! To be the watchdog of the powerful, to report abuses to the people. And I cowed because some powerful prick can take all this away with a word.”
She sniffs hard, wiping the tears away.
“I can’t eat. I can’t sleep. There’s something awful happening and I can’t let it go.”
She lets out a long exhale, and her shoulders droop.
“Bob wasn’t any help.”
Her spine straightens and she crooks quotation fingers in the air.
“While we respect your position, we can neither assist, nor encourage you in your investigation of Soshiba Varicorp.”
She relaxes her posture.
“Jellyfish. It sounded so rehearsed, it made me wonder how many times he’d given that speech.”
She wipes her eyes dry with determination.
“I’m not gonna throw it all away on a set of photos, but as of now, I’m starting a file. Everything hincky with SoVar I’m going to keep with me, every interview, every newscast, every snapshot, every accounting spreadsheet, including this video. That way, if I start to chicken out, I can watch this and shame myself back to some integrity.”
Her face is flush with color.
“Terrorism? No fucking way.”
She reaches aggressively toward the screen, and the video ends.
Beckert can hardly sit still, energized by the woman’s passionate determination. He still has no idea what any of it means, however, as the colorful vocabulary is lost on the functional dialect of a Cadre operator.
He struggles to draw sense from the strange words and concepts, the whirring images cascading one after another, the splendid city and lavish lifestyles. The variety overflows his rational senses into a greater, subliminal awareness, and he suspects within the scenes of power and privilege lie the clues to the great mystery of humanity’s fall.
The next two media records are filled to capacity with financial data, stock manipulations, suspect banking transactions, and Beckert surmises these are the troves of data the reporter swore to collect. Many interesting and chaotic patterns emerge from the data sets, which tangentially appeal to the young Geek, but they have little meaning otherwise.
He expects more data on the third record. Instead, he finds more video.
DC News 2481, March 15th, Financial Report. The counter beeps to zero.
“This is Genia Mendes with the Financial Report.”
Her hair color is too uniform to be natural and appears dry under the intense studio lights. Heavy make-up tries to hide deep lines in her brow. A sharp gray and black suit fits snugly against her thinned frame. Sunken eyes carry a dire expression, and she takes a deep breath before speaking.
“World markets suffered their deepest collapse in history today on news New Bangalore and New Beijing have been lost.”
She clasps her hands together to keep them from trembling but her face is stony.
“Unlike the loss of New Dresden, which was attributed to terrorism, New Bangalore and New Beijing were destroyed in a coordinated strike by an unknown enemy. President MacFarlane has recommended a formal declaration of war to the World Reserve, and has nominated our own General Westphal to command United Forces. While the World Reserve has declined a formal declaration of war, they have shown willingness to prepare for war by elevating Westphal to five stars. We tried to reach the President for comment, and were deferred to Westphal himself, due to the fact the general will be taking point on all activities surrounding the destroyed colonies.”
A window opens beside the reporter, displaying a short man in crisp charcoal uniform. Medals and awards are stacked in rows on his left breast. Piercing eyes flash with fearsome cunning. Beckert’s eyes bulge with recognition: it is the general from the video resignation.
The general appears much taller on screen as he steps up to a podium and speaks.
“We are facing a cowardly enemy, one who strikes against unarmed civilians. They spared no one.”
Westphal’s lips curl into a sneer.
“The military spending of the last four years has not been in vain! We will hunt this enemy. There will be no legal process. We will find everyone responsible, and we will destroy them. No matter where they hide, no matter where they run, we will find them.”
His fist crashes onto the podium.
“And we will wipe them out!”
Hands fly up from the crowd, reporters begging for the general’s attention. Westphal’s strong arm points out at one of the reporters who stands.
“General, what of the ships and soldiers defending the colonies? Has anything been heard from them?”
Westphal narrows his eyes.
“I’d like to know myself. We found wreckage, but not nearly enough to account for the full defense force. That means many of the ships stationed at New Bangalore and at New Beijing are missing. I don’t like the thought of it, but it’s possible they were involved in the attack. One more question, I have work to do.”
The hands fly up again, fervently. The General selects a slim, dark-haired woman with gold spectacles.
“General, is it possible this was an alien attack?”
The General scoffs derisively. Heckling laughter spreads through the group of reporters.
“Madam, I’m sorry you wasted your time coming here today. Now that’s all.”
The general steps away from the podium, an entourage of aides and advisors in tow. The window closes.
A new window opens on Genia’s opposite side. The view is from a mountainside, looking down into a wide valley at a distant military installation. Long lines of vehicles crowd at the gates to get in. Within the gates, long fields of tarmac are occupied by large, squat transports. Soldiers and small craft load into the back of each transport. One at a time, the large vessels rise from the tarmac and new arrivals land in their place.
“The largest military mobilization since World War Two has begun, with all active duty, reserve, and off-duty personnel ordered to report for deployment. Retired officers under the age of seventy are being recalled to service as are honorably discharged servicemen under the age of forty-five. Such a large mobilizat
ion must have taken a long time to organize, and there is wide speculation the World Reserve was aware of the colony attacks well before today. With that in mind, it raises a question. What else are they hiding from us?”
“Cut!” shouts a voice from off camera. Genia bristles, staring daggers through the off stage voice.
“These editorials of yours are getting old, Genia. Just read the damn copy!”
“This is news, Bob,” she spits back. “Our government is covering up something big, here. If we don’t report it, we’re complicit in the crime!”
“Jesus Christ, what crime? Our colonies are gone, and the government wants to show a strong response. People are scared shitless right now, Genia, and they’re rioting! So maybe they waited a week or two to tell us so they could get the National Guards prepped. If it helps keep people from hurting themselves or each other, that’s just good sense! I’m sorry if that damages your precious integrity.”
“They’re lying to us, Bob, and you know it.”
“I don’t give a FUCK! There is no free press while lawsuits abound. If by now, you can’t accept that information is not free, never has been, and never will be, I suggest you pack up your pompous naïveté and choose new work. And if that’s not clear enough, let me boil it down: Read the copy, or you’re fired.”
Genia stares calmly at the off-stage voice. She turns her palm up and extends her arm toward the man as if she were offering a tray.
“Ladies and Gentleman,” she says with mock respect, “my producer, Robert Tatascori.”
She lowers her hand to the desk, her face rebuilt into a practiced mask.
“All right, Bob, just the news.”
“All right,” the producer cools. “We resume in five, four, three…”
Genia readies herself and looks into the camera. A window opens beside her showing a view from a hovering vehicle. Centered in the window is a large supermarket, burning and under siege by rioting mobs.
“Banks across the globe closed their doors to prevent depositors from draining their accounts. Automated Teller Machines suffered the brunt of the frustration with over twenty million reported destroyed or vandalized beyond repair. Without access to cash, and driven by fears of scarcity, many communities saw scenes like this one in Guadalajara, Mexico. Rioters stormed local supermarkets and looted whatever they could carry. To disperse the crowds, National Guard soldiers used tear gas, stun weapons and, when confronting armed civilians, deadly force. Police and SWAT performed crowd control, allowing Fire and Rescue teams to get into the worst areas. Many neighborhoods were spared devastation thanks to the heroic acts of the uniformed services.”
The window switches to a close-up of officers in thick vests batoning crouched looters before shooting them at close range.
“Several nations declared Martial Law today in efforts to pacify their populations. When asked if the United States would do the same, President MacFarlane had this to say:”
The window grows to full screen, displaying a still photograph of the President at a dark wood desk. Three tall windows stand behind him, framed with gold curtains. Between the windows, colorful flags hang on poles topped with gold eagles.
“Americans are too sensible to turn wild,” says MacFarlane’s pre-recorded voice, “because they see what happens in the world when lawlessness abounds. Americans don’t want to see their loved ones taken down by well-trained soldiers, so naturally, there will be no need for such measures. Above all, we want to see Americans go on with their normal lives and have faith that we will prevail.”
The window shrinks and disappears, leaving Genia centered on camera.
“Back to you, Todd.”
The video goes blank. Entranced, Beckert cycles the media records.
The next video opens with Genia’s face close to the screen without make-up. Her hair is tied back, and she wears a black tank top. The light from her computer monitor makes her pale face glow against the dark background of her unlit condo.
“Things are bad,” she says, typing hurriedly. Her eyes dart back and forth over the screen. “Really bad. With governments and military so fully occupied, people are trying to get in to SoVar’s production facilities to escape the violence.”
Her fingers fly over the keyboard, tapping a frantic rhythm.
“Government bureaus are losing their hold on information…There have been leaks all over the place.”
She pauses, her eyes bouncing back and forth between two points on the screen.
“Our ships are disappearing, presumed lost. One of my sources hacked a military archive and found an image of a strange vessel, unlike anything we’ve ever produced, almost as big as the Europa.”
Her finger sweeps over a small pad beside the keyboard.
“Admiral Welles denies it, calls it fake, then can’t explain why it has a verified archive tag. He was more interested in knowing who provided the photo, of course.”
She shakes her head, her eyes still focusing on the monitor screen.
“I got a ton of data on New Dresden and the slaughter of the reptile people.”
Her jaw flexes.
“It was a genocide. We had no idea the scale…burned them out of their homes, butchered them for the dirt they were living on. God, Keller must have thought they were primitives, but what if it was some kind of vacation spot for them, like Tahiti or the Galapagos?”
Her finger taps the pad.
“Maybe it was a commune like Tasmania. Maybe they wanted to live simply, I don’t know. I just know if Indonesian pirates killed every man, woman and child in Tasmania, Australia wouldn’t just sit by and watch.”
A loud crash outside startles her and she looks toward the noise. Angry voices shout in the distance. Genia gets up from her seat and walks out of sight. The voices rise in fury, and metal clangs against metal. Three explosive pops echo and the angry voices end, replaced by terrified screaming.
Genia walks back and sits into her chair. She shakes her head sadly.
“It’s bad enough we slaughtered a peaceful species, now we’re killing ourselves off.”
She draws a stuttering breath.
“I don’t see how we can last.”
The corners of her mouth turn down into a despairing frown. She brings a hand up and squeezes her jaw.
“No,” she growls. “No time for that.”
Her fingers reach for the keyboard and resume their frantic pace.
“I don’t think an apology will end the fighting, but we have to do something.”
She sighs deeply.
“There must be someone who isn’t completely corrupt, someone in power who has some sense. I’m sending this out to everyone I know in hopes at least one person will try and end this…even if it means our surrender.”
She taps the pad and slumps back in her seat. A loud knock on the door startles her again.
“Ms. Mendes,” a muffled voice calls, “come quick! Your friend Marcos has been shot!”
“What? Oh, God, NO!”
Genia taps a key and the video ends.
Beckert grits his teeth, troubled, but fascination lures him back to the console. After the video, the media record is stuffed with images of New Dresden. The Geek cycles through them at length.
Photographs taken high above the colony show black and gray fingers radiating from the complex into the surrounding environment. Thick haze billows from the main vent and shadows thousands of square miles down wind.
The images progress to scenes of deep pit mines, soured rivers, clear cutting, and mountains of ore tailings. Machines rust where they failed, oozing thick fluids into the ground. Trash and broken tools lie haphazardly around them.
Destroyed communities form the bulk of the images: heaps of burnt or buried reptilians, simple yet beautiful mud and wood homes leveled then scraped aside. The blighting is total, and it takes Beckert a long time to reach the end. He sits in the aftermath, stunned.
Bewilderment and disorientation forms an oppressive cloud in his mind.
The answer is right in front of him but he cannot grasp it. Incomprehensible. Elusive.
There’s one more, he remembers, thinking about the record still wedged into the broken camera. The Geek leans forward and removes the compartment from his rack. Opening it slowly, he looks down at the palm-sized device Argo gave him. His finger tips trace the edges of the delicate device as he contemplates what it might contain. He ejects the unlabelled record from the camera and slaps it into the console.
There is no countdown this time, just a shaky view running down an office hallway. Genia’s voice calls from off screen.
Black Hawks From a Blue Sun Page 21