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Page 114
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 youre anxious to get to work?
Yes, actuallycrap. I paused, dismayed. The keynote speech.
Ive got it, said Shaun. I must have looked stunned, because he shrugged. I can wear a monkey suit and take notes like a Newsie. Theyll never know the difference, and I bet the invite just says Mason. Steve?
Yes said Steve, looking perplexed.
Its settled. Cmon, Rick. Lets 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, andmost importantthe 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. Thats 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 CIAs, and if we were being monitored by the CIA, wed have been dead already. Sitting down at my console, I opened a chat window.
Most online networking is done via message boardstotally text, not quite real-timeor streaming video these days. Very few people remember the old chat relays that used to dominate the Internet. Thats good. That means that if both sides of the chat are on servers you control, you can fly so far under the radar that youre essentially invisible.
Luck was with me. Dave was waiting when I connected.
Whats 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 dont 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 wouldnt find out about the other things journalists didthe lies and espionage and back-stabbing and bribesfor 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.
Ive 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 its bigger than Shaun, and God, Im scared. And Im still a junkie. I still cant 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 senators keynote speech and the dinner party to follow were clear: Formal attire was required for all attendees, even media representatives. Maybe especially media representativesafter 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, wed 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 its never stopped a real scandal from growing legs, but its 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 Shauns on our respective sides of the trailer wed 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 Shauns 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.
Mens formal attire is sensible: pants, suit coats, cummerbunds. Even ties can be useful, since they work as makeshift tourniquets or garrotes. Womens formal attire, on the other hand, hasnt 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 theres a pocket concealed at the waist for extra ammo. Even with all those alterations, its 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 thats virtually puncture proof.
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 youre anxious to get to work?
Yes, actuallycrap. I paused, dismayed. The keynote speech.
Ive got it, said Shaun. I must have looked stunned, because he shrugged. I can wear a monkey suit and take notes like a Newsie. Theyll never know the difference, and I bet the invite just says Mason. Steve?
Yes said Steve, looking perplexed.
Its settled. Cmon, Rick. Lets 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, andmost importantthe 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. Thats 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 CIAs, and if we were being monitored by the CIA, wed have been dead already. Sitting down at my console, I opened a chat window.
Most online networking is done via message boardstotally text, not quite real-timeor streaming video these days. Very few people remember the old chat relays that used to dominate the Internet. Thats good. That means that if both sides of the chat are on servers you control, you can fly so far under the radar that youre essentially invisible.
Luck was with me. Dave was waiting when I connected.
Whats 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 dont 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 wouldnt find out about the other things journalists didthe lies and espionage and back-stabbing and bribesfor 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.
Ive 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 its bigger than Shaun, and God, Im scared. And Im still a junkie. I still cant 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 senators keynote speech and the dinner party to follow were clear: Formal attire was required for all attendees, even media representatives. Maybe especially media representativesafter 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, wed 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 its never stopped a real scandal from growing legs, but its 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 Shauns on our respective sides of the trailer wed 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 Shauns 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.
Mens formal attire is sensible: pants, suit coats, cummerbunds. Even ties can be useful, since they work as makeshift tourniquets or garrotes. Womens formal attire, on the other hand, hasnt 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 theres a pocket concealed at the waist for extra ammo. Even with all those alterations, its 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 thats virtually puncture proof.
