by Mira Grant
“Of course.” A second car pulled up behind the first, Carlos getting out and joining in the collection of luggage. Our keepers—the unfortunate Andres and a blank-faced woman named Heidi, who I suspected had only been assigned to accompany us because my eyes meant I would have to go for a private security screening, and they didn’t want “private” to mean “away from our guards”—joined him, first in moving the luggage, then in his car. I suppose a night at the airport with the three of us had rather soured them on our company.
“Ready?” asked Steve.
“Ready,” Shaun confirmed, and we piled into the car, where blessed air conditioning washed over us. Steve glanced in the rearview mirror to be sure we were wearing our seat belts before turning on the flashers and pulling away from the curb.
I raised an eyebrow, and Shaun, taking his cue like a pro, asked, “We expecting trouble, sport?”
“There are a great many politicians in town,” Steve said.
I knew what that meant: It meant Senator Ryman was concerned that whoever had been responsible for the attacks on his campaign was here in the city and would try to take care of unfinished business. They only got Buffy on their first try, after all. I forced the jet of fury rising in my chest down, refusing to let myself get riled. He didn’t know the snake was in his camp; he didn’t know it was Tate he needed to be watching out for. So why the fuck did he let us fly commercial?
Shaun put his hand on my arm, seeing my sudden tension. “Easy,” he murmured.
“Hard,” I said, and subsided.
In the carrier Rick was clutching, Lois yowled. I knew exactly how she felt.
Our diminutive convoy cut through the airport traffic in a bubble of open space created by the flashers, heading for the outskirts of town. Once, Sacramento was known for hosting the state fair, along with various rodeos, horse shows, and other large outdoor gatherings. After the Rising made those impractical, the city found itself missing a lot of vital revenue and it started looking for another way to make money. Several local taxes, a few private donations, and several major security contracts later, the fairgrounds reopened, given new life as the Sacramento Secure Assembly Center. Open-air, with standing structures and mobile home hookups for traveling convoys, a four-star hotel, a conference center… and the country’s largest outdoor space certified as safe for public assembly. If you wanted to see a candidate speak outside, looking heroic and all-American against a blue summer sky, you did it in Sacramento. Presidencies were made there; no matter what your politics were or how clean a campaign you ran, it all came down to how the people reacted when they saw your silhouette against that sky.
According to the itinerary, Senator Ryman and Governor Tate were going to be spending the next seven days in Sacramento, giving speeches, meeting the press, and getting endorsements from California’s political leaders. Not just the Republicans. My notes indicated that several prominent Democrats and Independents would be coming to have their pictures taken with the man many were beginning to suspect would be our next president. Assuming the scandal when we outed Tate didn’t kill his career, of course.
“Jesus,” said Rick, whistling as the fence around the Center came into view. “You people don’t do anything small, do you?”
“Welcome to California,” I said, rolling up my sleeves. Shaun was doing the same. Rick glanced at us, wincing, and I smiled. “Don’t worry. They’ll leave you a little bit.”
After four blood tests and a call to the CDC databases to confirm that my retinal KA was legitimately registered and not a recent affliction, we were permitted to move into the Center. From here, blood tests would be required if we wished to enter a standing structure or leave the grounds; we’d also be subject to random testing by the Center’s staff, which could happen as often as twice an hour or as rarely as once a week. Shaun made a game of pointing out the security cameras and motion detectors as we drove toward the spot assigned to the convoy.
“Start moving like a dead thing and they’ll be on you in less than a minute,” he said, with some satisfaction.
“Please tell me you’re not speaking from experience,” Rick said.
“I’m smarter than that.” Shaun tried to sound affronted. He failed.
“Someone else got there first,” I said. “How long did he get in state prison?”
“Two years, but it was for science,” said Shaun.
“Uh-huh,” I said. I might have gone on, but the car was turning, pulling down a narrow drive whose signpost identified it as “Convoy Parking #11.” I sat up straighter, resettling my sunglasses. “We’re here.”
“Thank God,” said Rick.
The Sacramento sun hadn’t gotten any cooler during our drive. I shed my jacket and grabbed my laptop bag, scanning the assembled vehicles and trailers until I spotted my objective. A slow smile spread across my face.
“Van sweet van,” murmured Shaun.
“Exactly.” I started walking, trusting the security detail to bring the rest of our things. Our vehicles and the majority of our equipment were already in place.
“In a hurry?” Rick asked, trotting to catch up with me. Shaun gave him a look. He ignored it.
“I want to see if the boys have made any progress,” I said, pressing my palm against the pressure pad on the van door. Needles bit into my hand. The door unloaded a few seconds later. Looking back over my shoulder, I asked, “Steve, which trailer are we?”
“The one on the far left with your name over the door. Mr. Cousins is in the trailer next to it,” Steve said. “I assume you’re anxious to get to work?”
“Yes, actually—crap.” I paused, dismayed. “The keynote speech.”
“I’ve got it,” said Shaun. I must have looked stunned, because he shrugged. “I can wear a monkey suit and take notes like a Newsie. They’ll never know the difference, and I bet the invite just says ‘Mason.’ Steve?”
“Yes…” said Steve, looking perplexed.
“It’s settled. C’mon, Rick. Let’s let George get some work done.” My brother grabbed the startled Newsie by the arm and hauled him away. Steve smirked and followed, leaving me standing at the entrance to the van, wondering what had just happened. Then, not being one to look a bit of gift productivity in the mouth, I stepped inside.
We removed a few vital system components before letting them ship the van, like the backup drives, our files, and—most important—the data sticks that would unlock the servers. I made my way around the interior, taking my time as I brought each system up and online, ending with the perimeter cameras. There was a certain feeling of homecoming as the screens Buffy had worked so long to get installed began flickering on, showing rotating camera views of the outside. Nothing was happening. That’s the way I like it. Once everything was stable, I flipped on the security systems. They would generate enough static to block any outside surveillance less sophisticated than the CIA’s, and if we were being monitored by the CIA, we’d have been dead already. Sitting down at my console, I opened a chat window.
Most online networking is done via message boards—totally text, not quite real-time—or streaming video these days. Very few people remember the old chat relays that used to dominate the Internet. That’s good. That means that if both sides of the chat are on servers you control, you can fly so far under the radar that you’re essentially invisible.
Luck was with me. Dave was waiting when I connected.
What’s the story? I typed. My words appeared white against the black command window.
Georgia? Confirm.
Password is ‘tintinnabulation.’
Confirmed. Have you checked your e-mail?
Not yet. We just got in.
Log off. Go read. I don’t want to waste your time with a reframe.
I paused, staring at those stark white words for a long moment before I typed, How bad?
Bad enough. Go.
I went.
Reading the files Dave and Alaric provided took the better part of an hour. Getting myself to
stop hyperventilating took another twenty minutes. When my lungs stopped burning and I was sure I could control myself, I shut down my laptop, returned it to its case, and rose. I needed to get myself dressed; it was time to crash a party.
* * *
I always knew I wanted to be a journalist. When I was a kid, I thought they were the next best thing to superheroes. They told the truth. They helped people. I wouldn’t find out about the other things journalists did—the lies and espionage and back-stabbing and bribes—for years, and by that point, it was too late. The news was in my blood. Like every junkie in the world, I needed my next hit too badly to give it up.
I’ve wanted nothing but the news and the truth and to make the world a better place since I was a little girl, and I never regretted it for a minute. Not until now. Because this is bigger than me, and it’s bigger than Shaun, and God, I’m scared. And I’m still a junkie. I still can’t walk away.
—From Postcards from the Wall, the unpublished files of Georgia Mason, June 19, 2040
Twenty-four
Unfortunately for my need to hurry, the instructions regarding the senator’s keynote speech and the dinner party to follow were clear: Formal attire was required for all attendees, even media representatives. Maybe especially media representatives—after all, everyone else paid fifteen hundred dollars for the privilege of eating rubber chicken and rubbing elbows with Senator Ryman, while we were getting in on that damned “freedom of the press” loophole. If they shut us out, we’d be free to start playing dirty. If they let us in, cosseted us, petted us, and put us in our places, they could maintain the semblance of control. Maybe it’s never stopped a real scandal from growing legs, but it’s done a lot to keep the little ones under the table where they belong.
The campaign staff had been careful with our luggage, placing mine and Shaun’s on our respective sides of the trailer we’d be living in for the duration of the Sacramento stop. That was, sadly, before Shaun tore through like a hurricane, looking for his own formalwear. My suitcases were buried beneath a thick layer of Shaun’s clothing, weaponry, paperwork, and other general debris. Locating them took the better part of ten minutes, and determining which case contained my own formalwear took another five. I cursed Shaun the whole time. It kept me distracted.
Men’s formal attire is sensible: pants, suit coats, cummerbunds. Even ties can be useful, since they work as makeshift tourniquets or garrotes. Women’s formal attire, on the other hand, hasn’t changed since the Rising; it still seems designed to get the people wearing it killed at the first possible opportunity. Screw that. My dress was custom-made. The skirt is breakaway, the bodice is fitted to allow me to carry a recorder and a gun, and there’s a pocket concealed at the waist for extra ammo. Even with all those alterations, it’s the most confining garment I own, and the situations that call for me to wear it almost invariably require hose and heels. At least modern pantyhose are made with a polymer weave that’s virtually puncture proof.
I’d wear the heels. I’d wear the hose. I’d even wear a layer of tinted lip gloss, since that would make it look like I’d applied makeup for the occasion. There was no way I was going to put my contacts in for what was, essentially, a snatch-and-grab to get me to the senator and my team, convince them I had news, and get them back to the compound. Still swearing, I yanked the shawl that went with the dress out of the side pocket of my garment bag, clipped my ID badge to the right side of my chest, and went storming back out of the trailer, heading for the motor pool.
Steve was on duty, standing at a relaxed sort of attention as he monitored the radio channels for security or vehicular needs. He straightened when he saw me coming, chin bobbing downward as he took in the way that I was dressed. It was impossible to see his eyes behind his sunglasses, but he took no pains to disguise the motion of his head, which rose again as he studied the tailoring of my dress, the shawl around my shoulders, and finally, with a quirk of one eyebrow, my sunglasses.
“Going somewhere?” he asked.
“I was planning on doing a little gate-crashing,” I said. “Give a girl a ride?”
“Didn’t you send your brother in your place?”
“Something came up. It’s important that I get over there.”
Steve studied me for a moment, his expression implacable. I looked back at him, keeping my own expression just as composed. We both had a lot of practice, but I was the one who had more to lose if I slipped up. It was Steve who gave in, nodding marginally before he said, “This got something to do with Eakly, Georgia?”
His partner died there. We knew there was a conspiracy. How likely was it that we’d still be alive if our security detail was a part of it? There might be listening devices. There was nothing I could do about that, and we were in the end game. It was time to go all-in. “This has everything to do with Eakly, and with the ranch, and with why Chuck and Buffy died. Please. I need you to get me to that dinner.”
Steve remained still for a moment more, mulling over what I’d said. He was a big man, and people often assume big men must be slow. I never assumed that about Steve, and I didn’t assume it now. He was getting his first real look at a situation my team and I had been living with for months, and it took some getting used to. When he did start to move, he moved quickly and with no hesitation. “Mike, Heidi, you cover this gate. Anybody radios for me, you say I’m in the can and I’ll radio back when I’m done. Tell them I had franks and beans for dinner, if you think it’ll keep them from asking more.”
Heidi tittered, a high, nervous sound entirely out of keeping with her professional exterior. Mike frowned, expression betraying a slow confusion. “Yeah, we can do that,” he said. “But why…?”
“We hired you after the ranch, so I’m not going to smack you for asking that question. There’s reasons.” Steve glanced at me. “I’m guessing that if it was safe to give those reasons in a place as open as this one, they’d have already been given.”
I nodded. I wouldn’t have said as much as I had if he hadn’t invoked the specter of Eakly first, but I wasn’t going to lie to the man when I was asking for his help. Even if I thought I could pull it off, which I didn’t, it would have been wrong.
“Just do it, Mike,” said Heidi, aiming an elbow at the unfortunate Mike’s side. He bore the blow stoically, only allowing a slight grunt to escape. Heidi withdrew her elbow. “We got it, Steve. Watch the gate, monitor the radio, don’t tell anybody you’re gone.”
“Good. Miss Mason? This way.” Steve turned, his legs eating ground with frightening efficiency as he led me to one of the motor pool’s smaller vehicles. It was a modified Jeep with a hard black exterior that made it look like nothing so much as a strange new type of beetle. He produced the keys from one pocket and hit a button; the doors unlocked with a beep. “You’ll forgive me if I don’t open the door for you.”
“Of course,” I said. In a two-person vehicle this new, there would be blood test units built into the door handles to prevent some unfortunate driver from ending up sealed in an enclosed space with one of the infected. Chivalry wasn’t dead. Chivalry just wanted to be certain I wasn’t a zombie before I got into the car.
Even when concerned enough to abandon his post—and that’s what he was doing, given that he hadn’t radioed our whereabouts to base—Steve remained a careful, cautious driver. He sped down the roads back toward town at precisely the speed limit, without turning the flashers on. They would have attracted too much attention, especially from any members of our own camp who might start to wonder what he was doing out there. Our departure from the compound had been recorded, but those records were legally secured, save in the instance of an outbreak causing privacy laws to be suspended.
The hall where Senator Ryman’s keynote speech and the associated dinner party were being hosted was downtown, in one of the areas that was rebuilt after the Rising. Shaun and I did a series of articles on the “bad” parts of Sacramento a few years ago, taking cameras past the cordons and into the areas that were
never reapproved for human habitation. Burnt-out husks of buildings stare out on cracking asphalt, the biohazard tape still gleaming across their doors and windows. In the white marble and clean chrome paradise of the government assembly hall, you’d never know that side of Sacramento existed. Not unless you’d been there.
It took three blood tests to reach the foyer. The first was at the entrance to the underground parking garage, where valets in plastic gloves brought the test panels, clearly expecting us to allow the polite fiction that there weren’t guards with automatic weapons flanking the booth. Those men stood there like statues, sending goose bumps marching across my arms. It wasn’t the security; it was how blatantly it was displayed. No one would argue if they gunned us down. I had my recorders running, but without a security schematic, I couldn’t afford to transmit across what might be compromised airspace, and without Buffy, I didn’t have a security schematic I could trust. We needed her so badly. We always had.
Steve stayed behind in the garage, standing silent guard over the car; without my press pass and invitation, he’d never make it into the party without making a scene, and we didn’t want to do that. Not yet. I was pretty sure there were a lot of scenes in my future. Assuming the senator listened long enough that we could keep on having a future.
It took a second blood test to get out of the garage and into the elevator. The third blood test came as a bit of a surprise; it was required to get out of the elevator. How they expected me to have been exposed to the virus during the ten seconds I’d spent between floors was a mystery to me, but they wouldn’t have spent the money on a testing unit if it hadn’t happened at least once. The elevator doors didn’t open until the light over the door went green, and I spared a moment to wonder what happened when more than one person took the elevator at a time. Then I stepped out into the foyer and into a world that had never known the Rising.