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complex patterns. This wasn’t a field op, and odds were that Senator Ryman would request a privacy screen on anything we recorded, but that didn’t matter. Leaving the hotel without our cameras and recorders set and primed to go would have been like leaving naked, and neither of us was up for that.

Some of my cameras were starting to show signs of misalignment, and the memory in my watch was almost full. Making a note to have Buffy take a look at things, I stepped out into the lobby with Shaun half a beat behind.

“Thank you for choosing the Parrish Weston Suites as your home away from home,” the hotel chirped as we approached the air lock. “We know you have many choices, and we are grateful for your business. Please place your right hand—”

“That’s enough,” I said, slamming my palm down on the test panel as soon as it finished opening. Getting out of the hotel requires nothing but a clean blood test. They don’t care if you want to go into massive viral amplification as long as you have the common courtesy to do it outside, preferably after you’ve paid your bills.

Shaun and I checked clean and the outer doors slid open, allowing us to exit while the automated voice of the hotel chirped pleasantries to an empty antechamber. It was cold and bright outside; a perfect Wisconsin day. There was only one car idling in the passenger pickup lane.

“Think that’s us?” asked Shaun.

“That, or there’s a pro-wrestling convention in town,” I said. We started toward it.

When the senator sends a car, he doesn’t screw around. Our intended transport was a solid-looking black SUV. The windows were tinted, and I would have placed bets on their being bulletproof. Possessing a personal fortune has its perks. Shaun nudged me and whistled, pointing to the inset gunner’s windows on the back windshield.

“Even Mom doesn’t have those,” he murmured.

“I’m sure she’ll be jealous,” I said.

Steve was standing by the rear passenger door, holding it open for us—as much, I’m sure, as a reminder that we weren’t allowed to ride up front as a gesture of civility. His eyebrows rose when he saw my contacts. To his credit, he didn’t comment on them; he just held the door open a little wider. “Shaun. Georgia.”

“I see you drew the short straw this morning,” I said, hoisting myself into the SUV and scooting over to make room for Shaun. Rick was already inside. I offered him a small wave, which he dolefully returned.

“The senator prefers this meeting be conducted in a more secure location and thought you might appreciate the chance to take a break from driving.” Steve glanced toward the parking garage and tapped his earpiece. I frowned. They thought our van had been bugged? It was possible—without Buffy running a full diagnostic on our systems, there was no way to tell—but it seemed a little paranoid.

I stopped that line of thought. Rebecca Ryman was murdered by someone who was willing to use live-state Kellis-Amberlee in an uncontrolled situation to achieve their goals, whatever they happened to be. There was no such thing as paranoia anymore.

“Looking good, Steve-o,” said Shaun, slapping the security agent a high five as he slid into the car.

“One day you’re going to call me that, and I’m going to punch your head clean off,” said Steve, and slammed the door. Shaun laughed. The sound of Steve’s footsteps moved around the car, where the driver’s-side door opened and closed again. A sheet of one-way glass separated the front seat from the passenger compartment. He could see us, but we couldn’t see him. How encouraging.

“He probably means that, you know,” said Rick.

“As long as I get it on film, I’ll be happy,” said Shaun. Folding his hands behind his head, he stretched out on the seat and propped his feet in my lap. “This is awesome. We’re being driven to a clandestine meeting with a man who wants to be president. Anybody else feel like James Bond right now?”

“Too female,” I said.

“Too aware of the fact that I’m not immortal,” said Rick.

“You realize you’re both wimps, right?” scolded Shaun.

“Yes, but we’re wimps with a life expectancy, and I have to respect that,” I replied.

“I’ll trade my life expectancy for a cup of coffee and a nice dark room,” said Rick.

I craned my head to look at him. He was rubbing his eyes. He looked groggy, and I wasn’t entirely sure he’d changed his shirt. “Didn’t sleep well?”

“Cat kept me up all night,” he said. Dropping his hands from his face, he did a classic double-take, eyes going wide. “Georgia? What’s wrong with your eyes?”

“Contacts,” I said. “They irritate the shit out of my eyes, but at least this way, I can’t have some hopped-up asshole with a megaphone take my sunglasses away.”

He tilted his head, studying me. “That really upset you, didn’t it?”

“What, you mean the part where the nice guys with the big guns demonstrated over a live feed that I can be incapacitated by taking my glasses away? That didn’t bother me a bit.” I shoved Shaun’s feet off my lap. “Sit up. This isn’t a cruise.”

“Behold the bitchiness of George when she hasn’t had her beauty sleep,” said Shaun, pushing himself upright. Twisting around to face Rick, he said, “So, Ricky-boy, you seen your ratings? Because I have some ideas to spice things up. Let’s start with nudity—” And he was off and running, offering a plethora of insane suggestions as my overwhelmed fellow Newsie looked on in dismay.

Grateful for the save, I pulled out my PDA and started scrolling through the headlines. There’d been another outbreak in San Diego; that city hasn’t had a break since the Rising, when bad timing and worse luck caused amplification to occur during the annual International Comic Convention, an event that drew over a hundred and twenty thousand attendees. The results were less than pleasant. In other news, Congresswoman Wagman had been asked to leave the floor for showing up in an outfit more suitable for a Vegas showgirl. Another nutcase in Hong Kong was claiming that Kellis-Amberlee had been engineered specifically to undermine those religions that depended on ancestor worship. In other words, a pretty quiet day… if you cut out the headlines that directly referenced or connected back to our expedition to the Ryman family ranch. At a rough glance, I estimated that sixty to seventy percent of the news sites were carrying us as their top story. Us.

I tapped my ear cuff. There was a pause as the connection was made; then Buffy was on the line, sounding irritated from her first curt “Go.”

“Buffy, I need numbers. We’re everywhere, and I have to know whether I’m hauling Mahir’s ass out of bed to start manning the walls.”

“Sec.” We all have live feeds, but Buffy’s are the most up-to-date. I need special equipment to get the data she pulls as a matter of course. That’s why she’s the techie, while I’m just in charge.

There was a long pause. Longer than I’m used to; Buffy can normally give me numbers in a matter of seconds. “Buffy?” Shaun stopped talking as both he and Rick turned toward me. I held up my hand, signaling for quiet. “Are you still there?”

“I’m here. I, uh… I think I’m here, anyway.” She sounded a little bit scared. “Georgia? We’re number one, Georgia. We have more current hits, references, link-backs, and quotations than any other news site on the planet.”

My entire body seemed to go numb. I licked my lips. “Say that again.”

“Number one, Georgia.”

“You’re sure?”

“I’m positive.” There was a pause before she said, plaintively, “What do we do now?”

“What do we do now? What do we do now? Wake them up, Buffy! Call your people and wake them up!”

“Senator Ryman—”

“We’re on our way! Ignore him! Get your people on the phone, and get them on the damn site!” I hit my ear cuff to kill the connection and twisted to face the others. “Shaun, start dialing. I want your entire team updating, ten minutes ago, and that means Dave, too. They have phones in Alaska. Rick, check your in-box, start clearing out any merchandise queries that got routed to you by mistake.”

“George, what—”

“We have the ratings, Shaun. We have the top slot.” I nodded at his stunned expression. “Yeah. Now get them on the phone.”