Ruppert sat
at the glossy green desk and faced a smooth, blank wall of the same color.A single glossy shade of green covered every
surface from floor to ceiling.Video
technicians would add graphics around and behind him, and they would fill in
this month's look for his studio.Black
concave lenses protruded from each wall, capturing a 360-degree view that
editors could slice into dynamic visuals, sweeps and pans to keep the eyes of a
jaded audience interested.
Sullivan Stone took the green chair
several feet to Ruppert's left, his blond hair cropped in a tight jarhead cut (Sully
had never served in the Marines, or any branch of the military). Animated
holograms on his tie depicted clips from the previous night's Dodgers game, the
big story he'd be reporting for most of the news hour. Twenty-two minutes of
the program were devoted to sports, thirty to commercials, two to weather and
three to Ruppert's beat, national and international news. As the more "serious"
reporter, he wore his usual severe blue suit embellished by the New America
flag at his lapel.
Amanda
Greene ("with the weather," his brain filled in automatically) sat off to his
right.
"Daniel!"
Stone punched Ruppert's arm with his usual ludicrous enthusiasm. "What do you
say?Catch those Snipes?"
Ruppert
hadn't seen it--he'd been busy watching illegal data.He mentally kicked himself for not checking
the score this morning.
"Yeah,"
Ruppert said. "Crazy, huh?"
"You said
it, brah.That triple in the top of the
ninth?Who saw that coming, am I right?"
"Your
department, Sully."
"I know.God forbid I do my own research.No offense there, Amanda."
Amanda
looked up from the digital weather report scrolling across her desk long enough
to give him a scowl.Her data came
prepackaged from the Central Weather Authority.
"Video up,"
a tech's voice spoke from overhead. "Audio's good enough, who cares?Everybody ready?"
"Ready and
willing," Stone said, with a wink at Amanda, who answered him with a sharp
look, lips pressed into a tight line. Ruppert frowned automatically; it was
always safest to feign disapproval at any indiscretion.He was always being watched and evaluated.
"Great,"
the tech said. "Ruppert, here's the count."
Ruppert
drew himself up in his chair and cleared his throat.The flashing blue-and-chrome sphere of the
GlobeNet logo materialized in the air before him, and he heard the swooshing
chords and chimes of the nightly news theme music.Floating holographic numbers counted down
from five to one.
"Good
evening," Ruppert said. The logo disappeared and his script appeared in tall
floating letters in front of him, one line at a time. "And welcome to
GlobeNet-L.A.'s nightly news.I'm Daniel
Ruppert.
"The
citizens of San Juan, Argentina held a spontaneous rally
today celebrating the arrival of democracy in their city.Old and young alike gathered to thank us
for..." Ruppert stumbled.He'd just seen
last night that San Juan
was a war zone, but he was used to reporting untrue stories.What caused him to stumble was the video
played to document the event--crowds of Latinos cheering and waving thousands of
tiny New America flags.He recognized
the footage.They'd used the exact same
video a year and a half ago to illustrate the gratitude of Venezuelans in Caracas following American
victory there.He doubted whether the
original footage had even been shot in Venezuela, for that matter.Would nobody at home notice?
"...for
liberating them from the brutal oppression of left-wing Mercosur forces that
had seized control of their country," he continued. "It was a stunning victory
for freedom.Final score: three hundred
leftists dead, two hundred twelve captured.For more, we go to our South America
correspondent Robert Maxwell."
The video
flicked angles, and now tall, pale Maxwell stood among a cluster of Latino
children waving flags and pushing forward to be caught on camera.Ruppert was impressed--Maxwell had been
digitally dropped into the old footage.
"As you
said, Ruppert, a stunning victory for freedom indeed.People are flooding the streets to celebrate
the arrival of Hartwell Security Services. As you know, I've been here for the
last six months, and I can tell you that it's never been a more exciting time
for the people of Colombia."
"He said Colombia,"
Ruppert said.
"Thanks,
Ruppert," a techie's voice replied from the ceiling. "We'll fix it in
post.Get ready for your next load."
The image
of the Latin crowd--Argentinean, Venezuelan, or other--vanished, replaced by a
new stream of bright words.
"Vice
President Hartwell," Ruppert read aloud, "Whose Hartwell Services contractors brought
home the victory, said our soldiers fought with unrelenting courage and valor.
"In other
news, the Chinese navy continues its blockade of the Korean peninsula,
interfering with supply lines to American bases there." Stock footage of
battleships and aircraft carriers emblazoned with red stars appeared in front
of Ruppert, reflecting what viewers would see at home.Ruppert changed his facial expression
accordingly, from enthusiastic to grim. "President Winthrop was attending the
Masters Tournament in Augusta,
Georgia, and
unavailable for comment.However, the
Secretary of Defense issued the following statement."
The pasty,
obese Secretary appeared at a flag-draped podium and read in a flat monotone:
"Once
again, we warn the prime minister of China that the Atlantic alliance
possesses a full-spectrum, first-strike capability against Chinese cities and
installations.Our Skyfire orbital
weapons system is online and fully operational.If this unwarranted aggression continues, China will find itself incapable of
wielding its nuclear arsenal against the American people, because that arsenal
will no longer exist."
"Strong
words from the Secretary of Defense," Ruppert said. "And speaking of strong
words, imagine what Del Ray Snipers head coach Richard 'Rusty' Keyes must have
said to his team after their brutal, bloody defeat by the Dodgers.Am I right, Sully?" "Absolutely, Daniel," Sully
said. "Last night's game was a steel-toed kick in the head for Rusty..."
Ruppert and
Stone took a late lunch at the Soyballs Bistro, a small, dirty nook of a restaurant
far enough from the studio to avoid their co-workers, though still within the
concrete walls of the Westwood Secured Zone (Sealed for Your Protection by
Hartwell Security Services, as the billboards said).Soyballs was a good place to escape their
co-workers.The dingy restaurant
specialized in meatlike dishes from its own secret soy recipe, which was of
uneven quality and had been known to cause constipation, or the opposite.As a result, their co-workers treated
Soyballs like a leper colony, naturally preferring the high-end spots on the
other side of Westwood.Ruppert felt
more comfortable talking among the janitors and day laborers who ate here.
The
waitress arrived, but said nothing, just thumped her pencil nub against a
stained notepad.Ruppert ordered the soy
patty with cabbage, and raised an eyebrow when Sully asked for the Soy-Ton
salad. The waitress nodded her head and jotted these down, and left without
having spoken a single word.
"Chinese
themed food?" Ruppert asked Sully, with a slight grin."Not exactly patriotic these days,
Sully.You should watch out."
Sully
poured hot tea from the table top dispenser.At Soyballs, you didn't have a choice.You drank whatever was supplied at your table that day, or nothing at all.
"It's
not as if Chinese food really represents what they eat in China," Sully said. "It's
more of a satire."
"What do
you think about China?"
Ruppert asked. "Do you think it'll be war?"
"I think
their new president exhibits a horrendous sense of fashion."
"Does that
matter?" "A great deal.It's a crime for a man to rule two billion
while dressed that poorly.That
should raise alarm bells all on its own."
Ruppert poured
his own tea.It was pale and green and
tasted like boiled tree bark.
"What are
we doing, Sully?"
"You mean
like on the planet?Whether we have a
driving purpose, like the Warrenites are always screaming on the street
corners?Or whether life is just stupid
noise, as the punk bands teach us?"
"I mean our
jobs.The network."
"We inform
the public."
"It's
easier for you," Ruppert said.
"How?My segment's much longer than yours."
Sully smirked as his Soy-Ton salad arrived.He looked down at the three pale, membranous, vaguely won-ton-shaped
lumps on top of his green salad, then began picking them off.
"But
you just report scores and injuries," Ruppert said. "It's easy.What you report is always true."
Sully's blue eyes flared and he
leaned back.
"You should
watch what you say, Ruppert.In a time
of war, you know."
"It's
always a time of war."
"Listen."
Sully whispered through his teeth, his boyish face suddenly taut and hard.He sounded to Ruppert like a snake that had
been backed into a corner. "I know what you think.You know what I think.Just leave it, okay?I do not want to get picked up and questioned
right now."
"Sully, I'm
not trying to bait you.I'm not with
Terror."
"I know
that."
"Why are
you so paranoid today?" Ruppert looked at the only other customers remaining,
a table of three Mexican men in stained, threadbare coveralls."I don't think they're with Terror,
either."
"How
can you know that?" Sully whispered.
"Jesus
Christ, Sully." Ruppert shook his head and jabbed a fork at the fried black
lump of soy patty.He wasn't hungry.
"Things used to be different, didn't they?"
"I can
hardly remember," Sully said. "It's like the bomb stopped time.Now every day is just the day after the
bomb."
