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Carson turned and activated the wall screen to await the news cascade from the PWN network. As the screen came online and the BBC news homepage flickered into view, Carson felt the world spin around him. The coffee cup dropped from his nerveless fingers and smashed at his feet. “What have they done?” Carson said, reaching for the remote to increase the volume. “What have the stupid bastards done?” “Early this morning Government forces launched a pre-emptive strike against the Citywide Internment Camps. The Prime Minister was reported to have ordered the launch late last night to counter the unparalleled rise in insurgent terrorist activity and in retaliation to the recent unprovoked attack on the fact-finding mission into the BCI. The task force, run by Commander Delaware Coombs, was the first such incursion into the camps in over five years, and suffered heavy casualties, including the Commander himself, at the hands of the infected Insurgents. “Details have yet to be confirmed on the exact nature of the pre-emptive strike, although sources within to the Department of Defence have revealed to the BBC that they believe Biomek warheads have been used in order to minimise property damage and limit the chance of radiation drift to the GenTrue populace. “Secretary of State for Defence, David Chadbourn, refused to comment on the attack, though he did state that full disclosure would be made available as soon as the situation had been stabilised.” Numb, Carson switched the feed off and sat down. His article was supposed to prevent just such an atrocity from being committed. All his manoeuvring had been for nothing. He felt sick. How could he have fucked up this badly? Carson grabbed the screen remote and called up the contact menu. “Dial Grafton, Mallory. Planet Wide News,” he commanded. The line buzzed and connected. “Grafton.” “Mallory, have you seen the fucking news?” “Just got the feed. Jesus, Sam, what happened? You said you’d got a handle on this shit.” “I thought I had. It wasn’t supposed to go down like this.” The whole house of cards had hinged upon the Government holding off any official reprisals until his story, or at least the story they thought Carson was writing, had been published. Then, he had assumed, they would use it as the catalyst to stir up all the populaces’ ill-informed prejudices, intolerance and xenophobia. Once the TGP’s patented jingoism had the masses baying for blood, the Government would have been free and clear to give the people what they thought they wanted. There’d be no blame and no repercussions. “We got played by experts, Sam. We’re burnt. Story’s dead.” “No way. It can still play. We can still get payback.” “Is it on the farm?” “Just waiting your code for release.” “You sure you want to do this? Given all the shit it’ll bring down on you?” “I don’t think I’ve a choice, Mall,” Carson said. “You still got my back?” “Always,” Mallory said, her voice softening with their history. “Let’s do it.” **** In the six months since the initial story had broken, Carson had written over a dozen follow-ups. He was still in semi seclusion, as not everyone named and shamed had been brought up on charges of genocide and corruption. His good friend and chief interrogator, Mr. Knoll, head of the Government’s Secret Intelligence Service, had, so far, escaped justice, although Carson was working on that. The riots and demonstrations following the story’s release had shocked Carson. The eventual vote of no confidence and the subsequent dissolution of parliament had stunned him. The public had demanded change and change they’d certainly got. The General Election was due in another month. Carson was still haunted by all the deaths. There was no way he could shirk his share of the blame. It had been his arrogance and no one else’s that had made him believe he could play and win with such high stakes. The buzz of his mobile pulled Carson away from his Tablet and yet another article on the camps. The display showed Mallory looking hassled, but then that was her usual look these days. Carson accepted the call. “Where’s my story, Carson?” Mallory yelled. “What’s eating you?” Carson asked. “It’s the idiots running the Sharp Enquiry. They’re still jumping up and down about you coming forward and testifying at the tribunal next week.” “Damn,” Carson said. He rubbed his brow. He knew he would have to face the music sooner or later, but he’d have liked it to be later. Much later. He looked around the café. Only a young married couple and a group of three out of season surfers occupied the terrace. “What did you tell them?” He asked. “What’d you think I told them?” “Shit, Mall, I’m not going to be able to dodge this for much longer, am I?” “I don’t know, but I still don’t trust them. Not a single SIS operative has been charged, Sam. John Bartley is still pleading ignorance, and that’s not even counting all the True Gen throwbacks out there with a hard-on for you.” “If I don’t show?” “This time around, nothing. They might slap you with a contempt charge, but it won’t hurt the case any. Just enjoy the seaside a bit longer.” Carson smiled. “If only.” Across the way, the young couple were packing up. Carson nodded at them as the passed his table. “You know,” he said to Mallory, “it would be more fun if you were here.” “Yeah
right,” Mall said with a laugh. “You know damn well
the expense account wouldn’t stretch to my extravagant tastes.
Now get me that story, slacker, before I fire your sorry ass.” |