Feed

Satisfied that I’d done everything I could be reasonably expected to do in order to find my second, I bowed my head, set my fingers to the keys, and went to work.

There’s something deeply reassuring about doing a factual report. You have every bit of information you need at your fingertips waiting to be smoothed out and turned into something that makes sense. Take the facts, take the faces, take the facets of the truth, polish them until they gleam, and put them on paper—or, in my case, put them in pixels—as an exercise for the reader. I set my feed for a live page-by-page, with a license confirmation on the upload. Anyone who really thought this was some sort of cover-up for my death could report the site to the licensing committee for abuse of my number, and that would cancel the rumors faster than anything else I could do. It’d make good news, too.

The e-mail started coming in as soon as my first page was uploaded. Most of it was positive, congratulating me on my survival and assuring me that my readers had known all along that I’d get out alive. A few letters were less friendly, including one I tagged for upload with the op-ed piece I was planning to write; it said Shaun and I deserved to die at the hands of the living dead, since sinners like us were about as ethically advanced. It would fit perfectly with the reality of how Buffy had been bought.

Page six had just gone up when Shaun called, “Becks says she’s cross-checking the IPs now. Most of them look to be scrambled.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning she can’t follow them.”

Damn. “How about the time stamps?”

“They prove it wasn’t any of us, or the senator, but not too much other than that. Just going by the times, it could even be Mrs. Ryman.”

Double damn. “Got any good news for me?”

Shaun looked up from his screen, grinning. “How does access codes on all Buffy’s bugs sound?”

“Like good news,” I said. I would have said more, but my computer beeped, flashing an urgent message light at the bottom of the screen. I double-clicked the prompt.

Mahir’s face appeared in a video window, his hair unkempt and his eyes wild as he demanded, “What’s going on? What’s wrong?”

“You weren’t answering your phone!” I said, embarrassed even as the words left my mouth. He was on the other side of the world; there was no way this situation could hold the same urgency for him.

“The local Fictionals were holding a wake and poetry reading in Buffy’s honor.” He brushed his hair out of his face. “I attended to report on it, and I’m afraid I had a bit too much to drink.” Now he sounded sheepish. “I fell asleep as soon as I got home.”

“That explains how you slept through the screamer,” I said. Twisting in my seat, I asked, “Shaun, we have a local copy of those files?”

“In the local group directory,” he confirmed.

“Good.” I turned back to my computer. “Mahir, I’m going to upload some files to your directory. I want you to save them locally. Make at least two physical copies. I recommend storing one of them off-site.”

“Should I delete them from the server once I’ve finished reading?”

His tone was light, attempting to joke with me. Mine wasn’t light at all. “Yes. That would be a good idea. If you can pull the rest of your files long enough to reformat your sector, that wouldn’t be a bad idea, either.”

“Georgia ” He hesitated. “Is there something I should be aware of?”

I bit back the urge to start laughing. Buffy was dead; we’d been reported dead to the CDC; someone had tried to use us to undermine the United States government. There was a lot going on that he needed to be aware of. “Please,” I said, “download the files, read them, and give me your honest opinion.”

“You want my honest opinion?” His expression was filled with naked concern. “Get out of that country, Georgia. Come here before something happens that you can’t bounce back from.”

“England wouldn’t want me.”

“We’d find a way.”

“Entertaining as political exile might be, Shaun would go crazy if I forced him to move, and I wouldn’t go without him.” Impulsively, I removed my sunglasses and offered Mahir’s image a smile. “I’m sorry I may never get to meet you.”

Mahir looked alarmed. “Don’t talk that way.”

“Just read the files. Tell me how to talk after you do that.”

“All right,” he said. “Be safe.”

“I’ll try.” I tapped the keys to start the upload and his image winked out, replaced by a status bar.

“Georgia?”

Shaun’s voice; the wrong name. I turned toward him, a cold spot forming in my stomach as I registered the fact that he hadn’t called me “George.” “What?”

“Becks has one of the bugs online.”

“And?”

“And I think you ought to hear this.” Reaching over, he pulled his headset jack out of the speakers. The crackle and hiss of a live transmission promptly blared into the room, seeming all the louder in the sudden silence. Even Lois, crouched next to Rick’s monitor, was silent and still, her ears slicked back and her eyes stretched wide.

“—hear me?” Tate’s voice was almost impossibly loud, amplified by the bug’s internal pickups and Shaun’s speakers. “We are going to solve this problem, and we’re going to solve it now, before things get any worse.”

Another voice, this one indistinguishable. Shaun caught my eye and nodded. He’d have Becks running it through a filter as soon as we finished listening, trying to clean it up enough to determine the speaker. That was all we could really do.

“And I’m telling you, they’re getting too close. With the Meissonier girl gone, we can’t steer them anymore. There’s no telling how many of those damn bugs she planted around the offices. I told you we couldn’t trust a spook.”

I caught my breath as Rick started swearing under his. Only Shaun was completely silent, his lips pressed into a tight line. Unaware that he was being listened to, Tate continued: “I’m in her little boyfriend’s portable office. If there was any spot she wouldn’t bug, it’d be the one where she was doing her own share of the sinning.”