2047: Hell In A Handbasket
Page 20
03/08/2047 09:00
Ed Gordon walked through the rubble of Aleysha's destroyed neighborhood for the third time. Thin tendrils of smoke drifted up from a few buildings and the street still reeked with the fetid smell of decomposing bodies. Work crews hadn't yet cleared away the tons of concrete and debris marking the attack zone. Budget cuts reduced the available city manpower capable of driving the big cranes and bulldozers needed for such a job. Without federal help, the city couldn't afford to hire experienced contractors so the work was slow and erratic. The attitude at City Hall was simple. These people were dead, there was no housing shortage given the exodus from the city. Government money should be spent on the living. If property owners wanted the job to move faster, they could pay for it themselves.
Ed looked at the smoking ruins and decided he wouldn't spend the upload time and funds on this story. It was old news and, without a great angle, destined to stay that way. He walked the street, absorbed the smells and smoke and remembered how the African streets had looked and smelled almost the same after he and his fellow army conscripts finished with their attackers. Those memories never left him and one of the reasons he liked being a reporter was the ability to tell human stories such as this. But this one wouldn't be told again. He knew it had received as much airtime as it would get and there were other newer stories to keep the Nets flowing.
He turned away from his reverie and allowed the story to fall into history.
Ed looked directly at Ro Taylor, his Lieutenants and bodyguards, lined up and watching him from twenty feet away. He saw Ro smile at him, his sense of panic screamed to get his white ass out of this killing zone, but he deliberately took a deep breath and remained motionless. It was always a coin flip in this business. Some days you got the story, some days you did well to survive to tell another one, and one day you might be the story. He couldn't decide which this was yet but there was only one way to get that answer.
"Mr. Taylor, we've met several times. I'm Ed Gordon from ZeeVid. Can I ask you a few questions?"
There was no response. His stomach tightened up, he felt the acidic burn beginning, his adrenalin ramping up and Ed did the only thing he could. He launched the drones, started recording, uploading to the satellite systems and the production team at ZeeVid. He heard his producer's voice a second later and knew he'd monitor whatever happened.
"You broadcasting, Mr. Gordon?"
Ed didn't know what to say. The question was easy. Of course he was broadcasting. But why was he just called, "Mister"? And the tone wasn't angry either so what was happening here? He thought it best to play this straight, these guys knew he was afraid of them. There was no sense laying on the bull.
"Yes, Mr. Taylor, I am. It's standard. Do we have a problem?"
"Mr. Gordon, we don't have a problem, you and I. But I have problems and we might do well to talk about those. But off camera if you please."
Ed took one of those gambles reporters take now and then. He knew he didn't live in a time when reporters lives were important. He'd listened to the stories of enough veterans to understand things had changed and instead of protected by both sides, reporters were now targets. There were days you needed the protection of being on-air and there were days when being on-air got you killed. This was one of the latter he decided so said, "Production. Going offline," and patted his shoulder so the drones would land. He then met Ro's eyes directly. Ro nodded. It was an acceptance nod and not a kill-this-mother nod. He relaxed.
"Let's get a coffee," said Ro.
Ed smiled in return, "Yeah, a coffee would go down well about now." Which was a lie. The acid in his stomach sure as hell didn't need another dose of caffeine to help it along but one never refused an offer of life.
The gang closed about them as they walked out of the block, away from the destruction and death smells. Ed's stomach settled. As they moved down the streets, the crowd opened around them creating a passing turbulence and closed in behind as if they'd never been there. Walking beside Ro, Ed noticed his strut and smiled at the confident walk, felt the control he had over his men surrounding them and understood Ro was a real leader. This man hadn't bought his way to the top, and he silently acknowledged he wasn't in the same class.
Ed might be a good storyteller but understood that was his limit. He smiled at his self-awareness, and he kept taking what he thought were unseen glances at Taylor. Ed was surprised when Ro spoke.
"Like what you see, Mr. Gordon?"
Ed laughed out loud, nothing he could do would fool this man. So the truth it would be. "Yes, Mr. Taylor. I am impressed."
They walked several blocks deeper into the ghetto and the air changed from a death-stench to a normal industrial and too-crowded smell of sweat and wet laundry on the windless streets. Clotheslines filled narrow alleys between buildings and were full of drying clothes. People going about their daily lives jammed the streets.
Ed realized the group was shrinking behind him and a quick turn of his head showed the bodyguards taking up positions behind them. Ed understood this was a rear guard to protect Ro. Drive-by shooters would be under attack before they finished turning onto the street. As Ro took a chair outside a small shop and gestured to him to take the other, Ed noticed other members continued walking to the other end of the block. There'd be no surprise coming at them from either direction and with the main corps of Ro's protection between them and the street, this was as safe as Ed would ever feel this deep in the ghetto.
A large black woman served two steaming cups of coffee, and she gave a big smile to both of them as she returned to the shop.
"You take yours black I understand Mr. Gordon. This is good stuff. I bring it in myself and my good friend, Julie here, she takes care of it. And she only takes a small bit for herself and her very best friends. The system works for both of us."
Ed sipped the precious brew. Coffee was a luxury and was worth a trip into the ghetto if only to smell it again.
"You have my attention, Sir," said Ed. The formal tone in this meeting reminded Ed of the South where he knew the honor code and showing respect was ingrained in everyone. The person you're talking to may hate your guts in private but in public, honey wouldn't melt in his mouth. Gangs operated on those old Southern rules. Saying "Sir" and "Ma'am" was just paying respect, getting them to mean it was something else.
"You decided not to tell the story again. I saw you hesitate and then you decided against it. Why Ed?"
Ed noted the move away from the mister salutation and understood a truce or working friendship might be on offer. A tentative one to be sure but one that could not be taken lightly nor casually. He thought about his earlier decision to be honest with this man and knew his best option was to continue with honesty.
"Nobody cares. It was a story. A tragedy. Innocent people died but the official story, backed up by battle video, is your gang killed 42 marines. When the army went in to arrest those responsible, the gang fired a rocket at a chopper and the chopper fired back. And other gang members fired from other parts of the street - gun flashes are visible in the battle cam reports. The polls show the public believes those responsible got what they deserved, and there were a few innocent lives lost as well. Too bad." Ed shrugged.
"And you? Do you care?" asked Ro.
Ed considered his answer for a moment before saying, "I didn't really belong in the forces because I make a better storyteller than I'd ever make a soldier. But yeah, I care. But there's just no story I can tell that will change or have an impact on this."
"That's our reading, too. The public cares for the blood but not for real life," said Ro.
They sat in silence sipping the hot coffee. It was finally cool enough to drink without burning tongues but hot enough to release the amazing fragrances found in freshly ground beans.
Ro broke the silence. "Here's my number, I already have all of yours. I'm sure this isn't the last bit of trouble we'll see nor the last story you'll write. Call me if you need a story. James and Brandon will take you
to the park so you don't get lost. Take your coffee with you." And he grinned as he rose, waited five seconds for the rear guard to catch up, form around him and continued on his morning neighborhood rounds.
Ed emptied his cup, stood to see the unsmiling eyes of his escort, and one of them, he didn't know who was who, pointed across and down the street. This had been an interesting meeting and Ed still wasn't sure what it was about or what he was supposed to do.
And then he remembered Ro saying he had all my contact numbers. Surely he hadn't meant the high-security ones for direct contact to ZeeVid. He was excited because if the gangs can penetrate high-security communications, now that would be a story. And with a smile, he realized the entire meeting had been set up so he'd understand that specific message. The gangs had penetrated both ZeeVid and likely, the government's computers. But now, what could he do with this? And what did Taylor think he'd do?
12/09/2047 17:10
In the private residence of the White House, George and Sarah relaxed in a pair of overstuffed wing-back chairs of undetermined age. Brought from Savannah, they were George's favorite chairs and perfect for informal conversations over a glass of vintage bourbon. George knew he was about to set Sarah on a mission that would change the world. He wondered how she would handle the company in this new world they were creating and whether she'd have the imagination to make it a better one after he and Charlotte passed on. Or would she continue on her course as a successful plutocrat cementing an immovable system into place as the world changed around her? Interesting questions, he decided. He'd have to work with Sarah on corporate bobbing and weaving in response to change. It wouldn't do to have her lose control of the company because she fixated on personal revenge or quarterly profits instead of long-term success.
"Sarah, how's the move progressing?"
"We've got a temporary air base constructed and our troops are arriving regularly now. The engineer crews and heavy weapons are all on site and the working base is coming along on schedule. Should be operational within a month and then we can recruit and bring men onboard so we can meet those overseas contracts," said Sarah.
"What if I told you I'm not concerned with those contracts? Not to build a permanent base? What if I told you the time for them was over and done and it was time to chart a new course? We've absorbed the other major Security companies and we're about to be the sharp end of the stick for the U.S. So what's stopping us from setting up a different corporate structure and location?" said George.
"Now what have you gone and done with that fertile brain of yours?" Sarah leaned forward, intent on understanding her father's line of thinking.
For the next half hour, George laid out his research. How the world's economic structure and governance had changed, and would continue to change, in the next fifty years. He listed the effects of climate change on every continent and every major economic power. Then he described the likely scenarios over the short term.
George leaned back in his chair, his hands telegraphing his points with their waving. "Consider this. Climate change has wrecked much of our coastline and the economies of those areas. Ongoing drought in the Midwest mean we've burned through our grain reserves. China is in the same condition only their pollution indices are far beyond ours; and ours are terrible. That fracking boom wrecked ground water reserves in every country that used it, including us, Western Canada, and damn near every major grain producer in the world including Russia, France, and Argentina. We all went looking for cheap energy underground and managed to fubar our own water. It's not fit to drink, and it's not fit to water crops. It will take tens of thousands of years, or expensive purification technology to make it drinkable."
Sarah mirrored her father's relaxed position, leaning back in his chair.
"OK, but not much new here. We've talked about these scenarios before. You obviously have new thoughts about the solution to all those problems?" asked Sarah.
"Where is there a good source of land and clean water? Right. You got it," George said as Sarah's eye's widened. "Here's my thinking and my initial plan."
Both moved forward to perch on the edges of their chairs. It only took fifteen minutes to outline the pathway that would set them on a collision course with the rest of the world.
"Good Christ. Where did you come up with that data and plan? I almost hate to say this but it makes a great deal of sense when explained like that. I'll have to think about it and put the planning together. I assume nobody else knows about this," said Sarah.
"Your mother knows, of course. She's been more than helpful. Now the three of us know."
"This could work. Yes, it could. I can already see how we can make it happen and what we might achieve. Interesting indeed. It's the next logical step," said Sarah. "I'll work out the logistics now I know where we're really going."
The conversation went no further because Charlotte called them to dinner. And when momma called, they jumped.
13/09/2047 10:15
Charlie Webster and Matt Allen sat at their usual table with the other regulars sharing the news and views of the week. They'd been doing this for as long as any of them could remember and the only thing to stop attendance was planting and harvesting. Weddings and funerals would have but nobody scheduled those for Thursday mornings at seven.
"Did you hear about George Johnson over on the seventh? Poor son-of-a-bitch shot himself last night. What's that? Five in the last year?"
"More if you count the entire county."
"Speaking of offing yourself, that was some show the other night about the New York police payback-raid. It's a modern game of cops and robbers and this week the cops won."
"No sympathy here, those gang bastards had it coming and deserved it. Shoot the bastards. They don't deserve better the way they treat other people."
"You see the troopers shooting that guy with his head out out the window waving a white towel? That's not right if he'd surrendered."
"Right, put the bastard in jail. He'll be out tomorrow morning and shooting soldiers himself by tomorrow night. Screw him. "
"No problems with me, either. Bastard got what was coming."
"Hey Charlie, how you doing?"
"Crops looking good right now. We're going to have to hire in a harvester now the bank has mine, but it looks like it will pay off. I also got a half dozen head from Freddie Bales to grow on in the pasture down by the lowland. It's still green down there so it should support a few steers. So, I'm playing around with what we have and maybe start over. Ain't no jobs here, and Betty, she's not interested in moving to town. Mind you, there's no jobs there either so at least this way we'll feed ourselves and get through next winter. And then who knows what will happen? What are you guys doing?"
The men took turns around the table expressing a range of hopes and plans for the season but it became clear the best any of them could hope for was to survive. The reality of rebuilding in this desolate landscape was a dream.
One by one they stopped talking to stare at their mugs until Matt reopened the conversation, "At least the fucking bank went bankrupt."
The group laughed although the laughter was from a place somewhere other than happiness.
13/09/2047 12:15
"You've gotta be kidding me," said Gordon. "None of those files is left on the server? Really! What the hell happened to them?"
"Well, it's kind of obvious somebody hacked us, and the only logical group to do that would be QuellCorp. You stirred up those good old boys and it seems a few of them have some computer skills," said Gordon's producer. "We thought the only ones that could get in every now and then were the NSA. Don't ask me how they did it, I'm just a producer. But the propellor-heads downstairs tell me there's nothing left of your files. And they aren't overly worried about those files at the moment, they're trying to harden down the entire system."
"Why don't you just shoot me?" yelled Gordon. "I'm sitting out here in god-dammed D.C. and New York City with my ass hanging out. The only thing I had on QuellCorp
was that data and it's gone. Really? Smithers probably died getting it to us. Now I can't prove a damn thing, the story is castrated. If I say anything, legal is going to have a heart attack on the damned spot. And who knows what Sarah is hatching? I'm likely her next target?" Gordon finished the conversation with a combination of swear words he'd never used before.
Two other bar regulars watched Gordon's face turn crimson, listened to the invective, then turned and smiled at each other. They watched Gordon nod a few times and then slam the phone onto the counter. Both stopped smiling as Gordon turned to them.
Raising an eyebrow, one asked, "Problems?"
"Fuck off," said Gordon thumping off his stool and stomping towards the exit.
20/08/2047 09:20
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