Ken Rand, page 11
It wasn't all he'd hoped for, but it was vengeance enough.
Secord had a few microseconds to appreciate his triumph before his brains fried.
* * * *
Pete had been expecting the call to Ivers new office for the past week, since the investigation officially ended. JAMES IVERS MANAGING EDITOR, the sign on the door to his office read. The door was opaqued, a bad sign. They always fire you in private.
He knocked, once.
“In."
Pete walked in and sat in the offered seat. He took the offered joestick and lit up.
“I won't mince words with you, Amundsen. We've passed you up for Meeks’ anchor chair. Connie Best got the nod. Sorry."
Pete almost choked on his joe. “But I thought—"
“What?"
“Nothing."
“You expected to be fired, am I right?"
“Something like that."
“It wasn't your fault. You had nothing to do with it."
“Yeah, right. I read the official report. ‘Malfunction of the beam dissipation device. Reflected the beam toward the gallery instead of absorbing it.’ And so on."
“There's nothing wrong with the official report."
Pete barked a mirthless laugh. If the director had chosen a live shot of Meeks or of Dorr, what would the official report have said? “Spontaneous human combustion, a rare and as yet unexplained phenomenon—” The director hadn't known what was at stake when she called the live shot at Ivers’ frantic demand and there was no time. But that wasn't where the blame lay. Pete just hadn't been fast enough in figuring out what Secord was plotting. That was the problem.
But surely, Ivers knew the official report was bullshit.
“I get to keep my job,” Pete said. “What was your price?"
Ivers refused to rise to the bait, eyes downcast. “You got a raise too, Pete. A big one.” He named the figure, tone reverent, and waited for Pete's response.
For a second, Pete was afraid to speak. “They want me to shut up that much?"
Ivers shook his head. “You're being paranoid, Amundsen. The raise is compensation for excellent work—"
Pete snorted.
“—and, yes, because with fifty newsies dead, every network front office is desperate to fill key desks and keep key people from jumping ship. TSIN wants to keep you."
Pete had thought of jumping to AuroraNet, where Andy had gone after the Rock disaster. A-Net had moved quickly, offering her a writing job, the job she'd always wanted, and she'd jumped without a second thought.
Their relationship had gone cold after the fact. Andy had understandably developed an antipathy toward the physical intimacy they'd shared before. She still saw a therapist regularly. Pete, blaming himself for the disaster—I should have known. I should have acted faster—let the relationship slip away, part of his self-punishment.
But some stubborn core of his psyche still controlled him, and Pete raged in his heart at the blatant effort by the front office to silence him. Sitting across a desk from Ivers, he fought to subdue his rage. His hands hurt from clenching.
“Any word on my tape? The interview?"
“Dorr apparently had it with her when she vaporized. It's gone. That's still the official word I get."
The official word. Pete took a deep breath and lit another joe to hide his shaking. “But the security tape of Secord's rampage. We did keep a copy. Didn't we?"
Ivers shook his head. “We've cooperated with the investigation, turned over the evidence, as requested."
Ivers refused to meet Pete's eyes. He cleared his throat and shoved several hardcopy sheets across the desk. “You'll need to sign these. There are certain stipulations associated with your new pay scale. You might want to read—"
Pete scrawled his signature at the indicated spots without looking. Ivers remained silent.
Pete snuffed out his joe and stood. “Anything else?"
Ivers shook his head.
“Do I get some plush assignments?” Pete asked, the sarcasm biting. “Lots of prime uplink gigs? Travel? Perks?"
“As much travel as you like. You can pretty much ignore the assignment desk, work on your own. You've been given your independence, Amundsen. I know you. That's what you wanted as a newsie. You got it. You should be happy but you look pissed off. I thought I understood you. Maybe I don't."
“Maybe you've changed, Ivers. I haven't. But no, I'm not pissed at getting my independence.” I'm pissed that somebody thinks they own it so they can give it to me. “I'm happy. Really. Very, very happy."
Pete forced a smile, congratulated himself on how genuine it probably looked. He shook hands with Ivers and left.
At his desk, Pete keyed his files to access the tape he'd taken at the hospital weeks earlier and minutes before boarding the shuttle to the Rock. On a hunch, he'd refrained from turning over the tape to the investigators. Just a hunch. He watched again on his holly monitor as a man on the gurney with a pulped, bloody face was rolled in. He caught audio as a nurse dictated into the admissions record. “Doctor Jose Santiago, BereCorp Security, Medical Consultant—"
“Independent,” Pete muttered to himself as he keyed in the name, search mode. “The price of my silence, huh?"
He lit a joe and studied the file. The latest word on Dr. Jose Santiago had the injured man transferred under a tight security wrap to a military hospital out in the Beltway after the Rock incident. He'd be hard to reach, but not impossible.
Pete keyed the library into Santiago's background. Family, education, employment, financial, credit, residence, medical, travel, criminal records. He'd check it all.
Then he'd tap his contacts in the field, public and clandestine, corporate and personal, and use the many other resources he had to find out what he could. Then he'd reach Santiago. Somehow.
And that security grunt that smuggled out the tape from the Rock. He wanted it to go public. Might be an ally. Pete would find him too.
Pete visualized his final story, released anonymously—perhaps he'd give it to Andy—on AuroraNet.
“We'll see,” he muttered. “We'll see.”
* * *
The Joy of Jumping
The newsie stood in front of the Waeferer's Siding, looking like he expected company. He glanced at his wrist chrono, not yet accustomed to using his new company implant, which would have been evident in a slight flutter of his eyeball. He stood back to the wall, watching the anonymous crowd surge past on the runway.
In itself, his mask told me little. The mask was paisley swirls, a design currently in fashion on the One. It looked neither too ostentatious nor too austere.
His stance said it. Feet apart, shoulders back, arms loose at his side, head high: pickpockets and muggers beware.
Inside the Wafaerer, I eyed my new colleague on a small flatscreen security monitor behind the bar over the hunched shoulders of Stamper Clyme, tavern owner-operator.
“How do you know he's your boy?” Stamper grunted without looking away from the screen.
“It wouldn't be any fun if I told you all my secrets."
“You're pulling my tail. Five says he walks away."
“You're on."
In a moment, the figure outside turned his back to the runway and faced the door, nose a few centimeters from the peephole. He stood as if expecting the door to open any second.
“See?” I said.
“Five says he—"
“You already lost five, Stamper. Open the door."
He muttered, flipped a five-mark chip in the air near me, and stalked away. With a practiced overhand grab, I snatched the chip out of the air, pocketed it. As he walked away, Stamper reminded me of a bear in trousers and an apron, bulky and graceless. Broad shoulders and arms, too much hair, and he smelled like what I imagined bear grease would smell.
There was a time, years ago, when I'd suspected Stamper was the Collector. That was then. I'm older, now. Who knows?
I watched on the flatscreen as Stamper entered the cloakroom alcove that separated the outer door from the tavern proper. The small foyer is used as a place where arriving customers can be discretely monitored for suspicious behavior, screened for weapons, and, if necessary, directed toward the gift shop next door, or a more suitable hangout, without disturbing the regulars in the process. A mask and cloak closet stood off to one side. A simple barstool sat near the inner door which Stamper's bouncer occupied during oddtime rushes. Even unoccupied as now, the stool subtly advertised the Wafaerer as off limits to petty thieves, pickpockets, and stim peddlers. But they still came. The Wafaerer had a reputation.
I watched as Stamper opened the peephole to speak to the new newsie. I couldn't hear them. I fumbled at the control panel just below the monitor looking for the audio pickup. The switches had no labels. I selected one switch at random, flipped it, and turned off the monitor. Damn.
No matter. Just before the flickering blue image winked out, I saw Stamper opening the outer door.
In the second or two before Stamper opened the inner door to admit our guest, I stepped around the bar and adopted a pose of casual indifference.
“—usually don't allow customers in during downtime,” Stamper spoke over his shoulder to the newsie tagging along behind him, “which this new law requires we now observe regularly, but—"
“But,” I interrupted, “Stamper owes and this is the payoff."
“And you ain't a customer,” Stamper said, expressionless. He went back behind the bar to putter with glasses and bottles.
I took a step away from the bar on which I'd been leaning and extended a hand to shake in the old Earthome greeting ritual with the new guy. They still use the ritual on the New Denver Station J School on Mars, as I recall.
“I'm Pete Amundsen,” I said, “TSIN newsie and tour guide. Sorry I missed you at the shuttle bay. Deadlines. And you're—"
“Phil deGroot, New Denver Station School of Journalism, class of ‘364.” He extended his hand, the grip firm, dry, confident.
The kid had taken off his mask and tucked it in an inner fold of his cloak. In person and unmasked, he looked stouter than me but not as big as Stamper. His face was ruddy and fresh-scrubbed. Full lips and a pulpy nose flanked a new mustache. Intelligent, serious eyes peered from under pale brows.
“Top of your class, I hear.” I gave him my best smile.
“Yeah.” He nodded, didn't blush.
“So, welcome to Berenson Corporation Station Number One—which we locals call the One,—to TransSystem InterNews—which folks call TSIN, we'll be working together for a while—and to the Waeferer's Siding—"
“Which we call the Waeferer's Siding,” Stamper muttered.
deGroot gave me a questioning look.
“He doesn't bite,” I said. “He just growls. Let's sit."
He nodded, silent, and let me steer him toward the back. I watched him from the corner of my eye as he looked around.
The Wafaerer is wedge-shaped, like a slice of pie. The back wall is dozens of meters wider than the anteroom at the front of the place. In places, you can almost touch the low ceiling, if you want to. Not recommended—occasional stains of unknown origin spot the tiles among rattling vent fans, faded and flickering light panels, and fire suppression nozzles. Tiny electronic things poke from the ceiling here and there, but that's another story.
As we walked to the tables in the back, deGroot took it all in. When open for business, the place is dark. It was now well lit, closed for an hour a day, per the new law, chairs and tables stark and shabby in the grainy overhead glare.
We sat, Stamper produced a pitcher of house brew and two glasses, deGroot declined to drink, and I just sipped.
“So this is where Adrien ‘Doc’ Kennedy killed Outlaw Percy Diego,” deGroot said.
“Over there by the dance pit.” I pointed to where Sila the Bod wiggled, live, five oddtimes a week.
“The Tilt of the Century, too,” deGroot said. “And the Horiuchi interview. You did that...” He looked at me expectantly. I still had the tattoo, although the style had faded years ago.
“You're sitting where the hero himself sat."
He nodded, lips pursed. I could see him struggling to not show how impressed he was.
“Look,” I said, leaning across the table, “you did your homework. Good. And you graduated from J school with honors and so on, enough to get you on with TSIN. Great."
I tapped a finger on the table between us. “Now, right here, is where your real education begins."
“I know it's different in the field compared to school."
“That's why they try to pair old farts like me with new guys like you. Teach you the ropes, see you don't get hurt, earn your keep and so on."
“I appreciate that, Mr. Amundsen—"
“Pete. My friends call me Tiger."
“Okay. Tiger. Friends call me The Rooter. Root for short."
“Root. A newsie name.” I sighed and got to it.
“Being a newsie is the most boring job in the world,” I said. “I think security guard would be more exciting. We spend weeks on end waiting for something to happen. Then—bang—you're up to your chin in trouble. You can't afford to panic, no matter how sticky it gets. You have a job to do, people depend on you and you have to come through."
“If you don't,” I said, drawing a thumb across my throat, “you're finished."
His eyes dilated and I knew I had his attention. I exchanged a glance with Stamper across the room. I'll bet he had our table wired for audio and was monitoring. He usually did.
“I'm ready,” Root said. “I can take the boredom because I know the big story is waiting for me."
“Good. But what if you get a big story and you can't do anything with it? Are you prepared for that?"
“I don't get you."
“Let me tell you a story."
* * * *
I didn't want to cover the new art exhibit opening. Not my people. Pretentious stuffed cloaks. But what the hell. As dull as I expected it to be, it was still the most exciting thing that had crossed my desk on the FashionWatch beat in weeks.
The display was in a gallery called Montpelier's House. I'd never been there before, but then, more than two million people lived in the One's thirty cubic kilometers and there were many places I'd never seen. I took an express slideway. I wanted to get it over with.
A snooty waiter-type in an oddtime formal suit took my cloak and mask in the entry foyer. He tipped his head toward the room, his way of ushering me in and showing disdain for my presence.
As soon as I saw all the rich well-dressed and be-jeweled people milling about the room, I felt out of place. I'd put on my best suit, borrowed a clean tie from Benning at the sports desk and got some etiquette tips from Marks, whose father used to rent oddtime prom formals to high school kids.
It wasn't enough. I was a seed in a joestick, a fart in an airlock. And the way people looked down their noses at me before resuming their banal chitchat made me check to see if my fly was open. Somebody muttered something about tradesmen forgetting themselves among their betters.
My host arrived. Lane Montpelier, arts patron and among the richest people on the One, bowed with bubbling vigor. He produced a glass of something from a passing waiter and bestowed it on me. The man looked like his holly image, I'd seen it a few times. Short, fat, rosy-cheeked happy.
And rich. Independently. Not employed by or contracted to BereCorp in any way except to sell art to rich executives. And no links to the Collector and his mob either.
He introduced me to his featured artist.
“Josep d'Angelo,” Montpelier said, “is into spontaneous electronic environment concepts."
“Pleased to meet you, Mr. Amundsen,” d'Angelo said, voice windy, high-pitched. His formal bow displaying the bald spot spreading through short-cropped black hair on his egg-shaped head. An artist, of course, too poor to afford a hair replant. Small, thin-framed man. He had darting, weasel eyes under wispy brows. He looked nervous and I couldn't help wonder where his probation officer was.
That thought, born in cynicism, got me wondering. Had I seen this guy before?
We exchanged polite chatter for a while, Montpelier dominating the conversation, d'Angelo offering occasional agreement that sounded sincere, me trying to remember what Marks had told me about polite conversation.
It didn't last. In mid-sentence, Montpelier looked across the room, his eyebrows arched, smile widened, he excused himself, saying something about host duties, and disappeared. I was left alone with the person I'd come to interview. The artist himself.
I blinked my eyeball hollycam on, activated audio, and began taping.
“So, tell me, Mr. d'Angelo, what exactly is spontaneous electronic environment concepts?"
Noticing the blinking telltale inside my eye that showed I was taping, the little man turned gravely formal. It's a typical reaction among people who aren't used to being taped for the holly. We could edit his stuttering stiffness, but I'd have to get more tape, ask some redundant questions, to get good copy.
Something about d'Angelo seemed familiar, but I couldn't put my finger on it. I subvocalized several overlay programs into my tape that would give me non-visual readings our forensics people could analyze later.
“—didn't notice,” d'Angelo was saying, “any hangings on the walls when you entered?” My attention had wandered, puzzling over the little man's odd behavior and my inability to identify it.
“Uh, no,” I said. “Mr. Montpelier brought me straight to you and I didn't notice, I didn't look—"
d'Angelo gestured toward the walls. From what I could see around the milling bodies in the big room, they were unadorned.
“So it's not a physical display, as such,” I said. “Your art work isn't something a person can buy, take home, and hang on their wall? It's performance art?"
“In a way.” He seemed to be warming up to the holly, forgetting the tape. Good. Forensics would get better readings for their analysis. “I bypass the physical. Art is in the perceiver's mind, and that's where I work. No two people see the same work of art, such as a painting, and respond alike. One will experience disgust and anger at the same visual stimulus that provides another intense joy, even ecstasy."
