With a thought, the system shattered. With intent, it complied. Firenze seized the main satellite array, and let loose the signal. He opened the unit's TACNET, bound their feeds, and poured the data into the web. Dormant code sprang into action. Archived data spewed forth. The EBS activated. The world would watch . They would be denied the comfort of ignorance.
Durandal would light the way.
#
In high orbit, Communication Relay Satellite 492 was the first to receive the signal. The on-board computer detected the EBS code, queried, and received the proper response. The computer acknowledged the origin as being deep inside the Waste, and the adaptive programming recognized the unlikeliness of this event, but the proper dialog had been given. CRS-492 performed its function, and the signal bounced to the neighboring satellites.
Like water from a faucet, it spread. Like a stream from a fire hose, it swelled. Like a river, it flowed. Like an ocean, it rolled.
Jackie Carter, trauma nurse, saw the broadcast start on her beach house viewer. She had long ago realized the Authority was septic, but she'd never found the cause. By now, she was ready to listen.
Daniel Crawford, EMT, had long ago given up. He was going through the motions. He’d tried to save as many as he could, but every night, all he could dream about was the day human rain fell into a boiling seas. That memory, and question that followed, never let him rest. Why? He’d given up on knowing. Now, he froze in the clinic, as the answer knocked on his door.
Karl Vonner, ISA, watched the EBS wrench out from under his control. He panicked. He tried to contain it. But man could not contain the tide. He stood his post in the rising waters, and called in the army.
Teddy Mullens, private security guard, was trying to explain to the police that he was assaulted by 'unknown commandos'. That’s when the viewer popped to life. He jumped up, pointed, and cried out, “That’s them!” The officers turned, and within moments, the interview was on hold, as the entire room sat and watched.
Miranda Owens, Vice President of the Mirror, stood in her control room, lying to Karl Vonner on the phone, as anchor Richard Walden read a carefully prepared speech into the camera. She'd requested him for his gravitas, and after reading the Durandal file, he'd agreed. She'd asked for volunteers only, mere hours before, knowing full well it was a matter of time before the police kicked in the doors. The entire crew had stepped up, even after she explained. They would man their posts, and shepherd the broadcast in real time, for as long as they could.
Lieutenant George Tully, Terran Provisional Authority Marines, was the man who got the call to take down the signal. A good soldier, he'd received his orders via land line, and deployed his men. As they sped through a paralyzed city, every billboard, every radio, played the same message. War in the Waste, and the shadow of Durandal. By the time they'd reached the GIN building, Tully couldn’t look his men in the eyes, but he had his orders. They would breach the building and take down the transmission.
Sitting in her home, alone, Teresa Halstead sat upright in her chair. She’d seen the man on the screen before, at the funeral. She hadn't trusted him then, she didn't trust him now, but he had promised. He'd promised an end to her children's suffering, a return of her husband's honor, a return of her life. She didn't trust him, not yet, but she listened, and of anyone in the world, she was the first who understood.
#
The broadcast began simply. At first, it only showed Berenson, speaking deliberately into the camera. He introduced himself, and said, “My name is Antonius Berenson. I bring the answers to the questions you have not dared to ask. Normally, I would warn you to send your children to bed, but they need to see this, most of all. Tonight, I will show you your shadow, and how it bleeds.” It started with those words, and then unfolded. It spread, to linked camera feeds, TACNET helmet-cam footage, guncam photography, biosigns, and security recordings tapped from MacPhereson, all available for on-demand and interactive review.
Berenson continued, “Even as we speak, men and women are dying in the Waste, in your name, and without your trust. These are live cameras, mounted on the soldiers and placed in secure rooms. The video you are watching is real, but delayed by a matter of moments, to prevent the enemy from predicting us. The young citizens you see fighting, and dying, are real. The enemy, Striker, is just as real.
“Your questions are growing, I know this. Who am I? Why am I showing you this? What is my angle? My name is Antonius Berenson. I am a former Faction operative, designated 'Striker'. My brother is Tiberius Berenson, of the same designation. He is my oldest friend. This is a recording of me talking, because if you look, you will see that I am carrying camera number seventeen, and I am going to murder the only person who ever understood me. I do this, for you.
“Why am I showing you this? Because Tiberius is Striker, and he has a terrible plan for all of you, and it relies on your ignorance. He has bombs, and gas, and guns. He has built Mind Blade to corrupt you, produced propaganda to deceive you, and now intends to use the Authority's failures to destroy you.
“This broadcast is a hijacking of the EBS system, performed by Grant Firenze, who you will note is carrying camera fourteen. The men and women with me were part of the Authority Special Operations Command, NORCOM, under Colonel William Halstead. You will know them from the trial. I assure you, they were framed, and the evidence is posted here to prove it. You scorned them, cursed them, and defiled them, but tonight, they will die to save you. Watch. Understand. What you are about to see is real. You have been sleeping for too long, and it is time to wake.”
The feed cut, swapped over to the Mirror newsroom, where Richard Walden, eminence grise of the netcast circuit, picked up the broadcast. “This is Richard Walden, reporting live from The Mirror World Headquarters here in New York. What you are seeing is very real. The Mirror has come into possession of irrefutable evidence that exposes governmental transgressions, up to and including state sanctioned murder from the highest offices of the Internal Security Agency. These crimes appear to be linked to a conspiracy referred to as “Durandal”, and their consequences range from the framing of Colonel William Halstead's unit to the utter annihilation of over two billion lives at the end of the Second War.” Walden stopped, drew a heavy breath, and then pressed on, “You did not mishear me. Two billion lives. The blast that created the Waste was a weapon, devised by our government, and concealed from the public for three decades. Hundreds more lives have been destroyed to conceal these facts. Tonight, we are exposing these secrets.”
Walden continued, and the feed expanded. Data files, video records, drafts of the fictitious Hodges Report, wire taps and fabrications from Senate hearings, all linked and displayed, suddenly spewed onto the net, simulcasted with write-ups, analysis, and commentary. The battle for MacPhereson raged in minimized windows as the first soldiers began to die, their feeds falling to the ground and halting, their audio cutting into screams and moans and pleas.
“This is Richard Walden, for the Mirror, reminding you that we will continue to broadcast for as long as possible. Already, there are soldiers outside our building, threatening force. We will maintain this feed as long as possible, to get the truth to you, and to keep you informed of the fate of those brave young people, dying in the Waste to save us from these lies.”
In the live TACNET sections, there were biographies, video logs, home recordings.
“My name is Brian Clausen, born in Alvarez-”
“My name is Grant Firenze-”
“-Aaron Hill-”
“-Charlie Rutman-”
“-Oswalt Jennings-
“-Luis Diaz-”
More and more data spilled into the net, snatched and backed up, first by the fringes, and then by the center, as the world plunged down the rabbit hole. It was fuel on a fire, but it was delivered so suddenly, the gas couldn't ignite. The masses locked onto their sets, or stopped on the street. For a few brief moments, the entire world watched. For a few brief moments, Antonius Berenson had t
he whole world thinking what he wanted, when he wanted, feeling what he wanted, the way he wanted.
He drove his message home, coated over every word, oozing through every video, “Do not let Striker win.”
The world listened. They had no choice.
#
Miranda Owens, Vice President of Programming for the Mirror, found herself midwifing a madman's revolution.
She stood in the corner of her studio, mouthed along with the script as Richard read her words. Her eyes darted from cameraman to sound technician to floor tech. Social upheaval had sounded so much more fun when she was a child, fresh out of the university and burning her registration cards. Maybe it was age catching up to her, but there was little fire in her belly right now, just a tightness married to steely resolve.
As a young woman, she'd wanted to change the world. She'd wanted to shove her finger into the eye of the Provisional Authority and demand that they become something better, or stand aside. She'd had fury, she'd had righteousness, and she'd been willing to throw everything away for a cause. Mentors and colleagues had pulled her down a different path, turned her from proud would-be rebel to respectable citizen. She'd never ripped apart the Internal Security Agency's black programs. She'd never stopped the draft. But she had exposed graft in the auditing service. She'd worked to enfranchise voters in dronetowns. She told herself it was enough, while the last flickers of the fire inside had screamed for more. She'd had a career by then, and family, and responsibilities. There wasn't room for revolution.
Now she was on the masthead, torch in hand, leading the charge towards what-may-come, and that fire was gone. All she could do was watch Danni Olsen, the floor director, fresh out of the university and filling in as a part-timer, and worry. All she could do was glance to the staff clustered in the wings, and fret. They were kids, with so much to lose. She and Walden, they were old hands. They'd made their mark, made their choices. She'd sent her children away years ago, set them free and missed the noise in the empty house. She'd never really been there that much. Her passion had always been her work, and they knew it, even if they didn't always understand. Frank understood, he encouraged her in her moments of doubt. 'Go out there, ‘Randa. Change the world.' he'd said. 'I'll hold down the fort.'
Age was a hell of a thing.
She had to do this. The files had left no doubt. All the fears and fury of her youth were vindicated, her buried passions set alight – and she could feel none of it, except a cold resolve to see this story through to its end, to serve as the fourth estate. The media must serve the truth, to deliver uncomfortable and comfortable alike. She should have been excited. Instead, she watched in horror, as she the soldiers died in the Waste. She waited, anxious, as the clamor climbed inexorably up the stairwell. Here comes my moment of truth.
The crews were all volunteer. She'd insisted on that. The marines will storm the building. She'd made it quite plain, and shown the files to any who'd asked, mere hours before. Only three of thirty-five had left, talking about family and responsibilities. She'd understood, and let them go. That path was not hers.
Eddie the doorman had asked about weapons, but she'd shot him down. No violence. This was a call to civil revolt, not anarchy. They would not give the Authority the excuse it needed to react with force. They would not give Striker the match he needed to burn down the world.
They'd barricaded the door, pulled the fuses to the elevator, filled the stairwells with furniture. They'd locked the doors and broken the fire escapes. They'd turned the entire complex into a vertical bunker, and run the broadcast from a remote studio they'd built on the executive floors, high above. Crenshaw had done some time in the reserves, and he'd recommended covering the landing pad with debris to prevent a vertol from coming in high. They were a good team.
They were good people.
She wished she could have sent them home, made them bunker up with their families, to wait out the storm, while the old guard ran the broadcast. She couldn't make them leave, though, no more than any of them could have told her to walk. A good boss never gave a request that couldn't be followed, so she'd accepted each volunteer in turn.
There was another bang in the stairwell, another crash of furniture being slammed aside. The marines were drawing closer. Eddie's last check-in had been minutes ago, but it felt like hours. He'd reported marines at the door, breaking glass, and then had fallen silent. She hoped he wasn't hurt. She hoped they hadn't killed him. She hoped there was still something of this state worth saving.
Walden kept reading. There was nothing she could do at this point. The files given to her were executing, the programming she'd tailored was rolling. The stage was set, the pieces were moving. She could only watch, and fret, and listen to tide rising up the stairways. She'd already burned her bridge with Vonner, and she knew what was coming.
But, there was one thing she could do. She could buy her people a little more time. She could face the assault head on, from the front, and give one last warning, if it came to that.
She nodded to Walden, and saw his tiny acknowledgment, the slight tilt of his head. It's been fun, Rich. For all the good times, and the bad. She gave slight smiles to the gathered crew, noted white knuckles that gripped railings just-too-tightly, saw the nervous grins they flashed back. Stay strong. She tried to will them confidence. She tried to will herself confidence.
Her feet carried her from the makeshift studio, to the stairwell access, in the pastel hallway beyond. The exit sign glared down at her, burning red. The metal door loomed against the peach walls. Beyond, the noise rose, sounded through the door like distant war-drums, ever closer.
She checked the barricade, the pile of furniture and zip-tied door. It would buy them a few moments.
She could buy them a few more.
There was only one access from this stairway towards the executive floor, down the hallway behind her. Barricades would slow them down, but things could be pushed aside, blown apart, or cut asunder. They could use force there, and rush through. A person was a different matter.
She hoped.
Miranda Owens made a bet, and staked her life on the idea that the marines still believed in the Charter. She cuffed her left hand to the guardrail. Eddie had loaned her a set of his cuffs. They were good, solid. Police grade. She closed the outer cuff around her right hand, then spun it towards the opposite edge of the hall, slapped it over the door handle on Wister's office, let the momentum spin the frame into a lock. She was stuck now, one last human roadblock between her people and whatever was coming up the stairs.
Committed, she could do little but watch the door tremble, with each resonant boom, and listen to the broadcast echoing through the building. Well, you did it now. She would have shrugged, but the cuffs were far too tight. Haven't done anything this stupid since college. She glanced to the monitors in the hall, to the broadcast. She glanced to the window, to the high-rise skyline beyond, to the advertising boards and multi-story screens over the cityscape, all playing her signal. Haven't done something this stupid, ever.
For a moment, she let herself worry. What if the madman was a fraud? What if she was enabling something worse? She forced those doubts down. The truth would liberate. The truth would out. She’d seen truth. Every micrometer of her instinct screamed ‘fact’. She’d tried doubting. She'd checked the piles of references, used every trick she knew to cover her tracks. The more she'd looked, the deeper the hole had grown. A madman he may be, but he'd possessed a terrible truth - and he had entrusted it to her. There was only ever one way forward.
The stairwell door shook, and she saw the slim fibers slide around the frame, a single whisker-like thread that slid under the door, flashed side to side. It was time.
The thread retreated, and a voice boomed through the frame, “Stand clear!” She braced against her manacles.
BANG!
There was a tremendous crash of metal on metal, and the door buckled, snapped from its hinges, folded as it fell into the rubble, the single str
ike of the battering ram defeating her first line of defense. The door slid back, into the darkness of the stairwell, pulled in by the hidden figures.
They stood there, in the swirling dust and blackened stairway, pressed against the walls and guardrail in snaking lines, outlines of helmets and goggles and rifles. Lights flashed from that cavern, the stuttering flicker of neon green dazzlers and the blaze of blue-white flashlights, and the forms rushed forward, as one.
The green light struck her in the face, and she twisted away. The world warped, and she wanted to vomit. She couldn’t see. She couldn’t think. It was like she was falling through a tunnel while the world spun around her, buckled beneath her-
She fell against the manacles. She hung, suspended, while she wretched, tried to hold down her lunch and make the spinning green light stop-
It was gone.
She opened her eyes, and found herself staring into the face of a young man. His goggles were atop his helmet, his wide blue eyes exposed. Those are not killer's eyes. Beside him, another soldier set bolt cutters over her manacles. Behind them, the squad covered in the hallway, the barricade shoved aside. The marines produced no slackers, apparently.
She fought through nausea, forced her body to move, forced her voice to function. “No.” She declared. She yanked her manacled hand back, forced the cutters out of alignment. “No!” She cried again. “I can't let you through!”
The boy in the lead, with the bars on his shoulders, waved his man aside. His eyes flicked up, then down, and she knew he was calling up some database in his helmet. After a moment, he said, “Miss Owens, I'm going to have to cut you free. Please, no sudden movements.” He waved his man forward, again.
Every moment is vital. She stared at the young Lieutenant, and said, “I may bite.”
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