A young man with thick glasses and wearing a plaid shirt pulled a batch of loosely organized papers from a folder and offered a checklist of sorts. “Um, well, we’ve got the page one story on Raleigh and a sub-head working the over-extended angle. Then there’s directional headers that will lead people to the nuclear reactor waste issue at Three Mile Island then-”
“What’s the Raleigh story? What’s the angle?”
An older man with broad shoulders dressed in an Oxford University polo replied, “It’s a two-pronged story that interviews a couple of soldiers who complain about the lack of front line supplies, that forces are stretched too thin-that sort of thing. Then we got a witness who says it was a human artillery shell that hit the slave camp on the northeast side and killed ten people. The military claims it was a Hivvan Battlebarge, but they’re lying.”
“Wait, just wait,” Evan held a hand aloft. “Exactly what is it this article is going to imply? Is it slanted against the war? Is that what I’m hearing?”
The guy with the glasses and the guy in the Oxford shirt both nodded.
“No, no that’s not right. How the Hell can anyone be against this? How can anyone sitting here be against the idea of freeing human slaves? Of saving our fellow human beings?”
Like most at the table, the Oxford-shirt-wearing-man cocked his head in confusion and said, “I thought, well, I thought we were against the war.”
“Jesus, we are not against liberating humans. We’re not against freeing slaves. That’s ridiculous. You start running blanket criticisms against the war and people will throw our paper away and dismiss us as a bunch of crazies. I have not worked this hard for this long to get thrown away. Not when we’re primed to really make a difference.”
A middle-aged woman with long strawberry blonde hair and a deep scar across her face where a Devilbat had slashed her years before spoke for everyone else at the table: “I don’t get it. We ran the story in the last issue about mayoral appointments and how a couple of those bozos managed to really screw things up. We also had the piece on the supplies lifted from the orphanage in Albany and sent to 2 ^ nd Mech and how that left a bunch of underweight kids starving. So how are we not against this war?”
“We aren’t against this war,” Evan insisted. “Anyone here who is against the idea of freeing slaves and saving human lives can get off their ass and leave my newspaper now.”
No one dared move.
Evan carried on, “What we’re against is how this war is fought. We’re against people being freed without enough thought given to how we are going to take care of those people. We’re against these massive offensive operations if they take food and heating fuel and medicines away from the civilian population. Most of all, we’re against the fact that none of us has a say in what is happening and why.”
Evan, in a move he learned from watching Trevor, made eye contact with his entire editorial board, one at a time. Some nodded in agreement; others looked away.
“Paul,” Evan spoke directly to a skinny thirty-something fellow with a pencil stuck behind his ear and a bushy mustache above his lip. “I don’t ever want to see another one of your cartoons linking Trevor with Hitler. I know why you did it and it was funny but we have to remember that most of the people out there feel they owe a debt to Trevor Stone. They see him as sort of a King Arthur; sure, he’s a dictator but he’s tough in the way people like their leaders to be tough. We need to back off the personal attacks and focus on his tactics and the mistakes his underlings make. When we attack him, we’re attacking the guy who saved mankind. Instead, let’s attack the goofs he handpicks to make decisions. Let’s start asking questions there.”
A mumble of agreement circled the table.
“Questions like, why didn’t anyone negotiate with the Hivvans before attacking Raleigh? What if we could have found a way to free those people without losing so many soldiers? What if we hadn’t assassinated the regional governor last year and instead opened a dialogue with him? Or it. Whatever. You get the point.”
“What about the nuke story?” the young man with thick glasses and the plaid shirt asked.
“That’s good. That’s exactly what we want. We want to show that some of these decisions are not thought through. Where is the waste going to be stored? Are there enough skilled technicians to run the plant? Is the plant in good shape? That’s a great story.”
The Oxford-shirt guy volunteered, “You know, we still have that story about the lack of vaccinations and shortages in antibiotics. We didn’t have the space to run that one last time.”
Evan remembered Dr. Maple’s good news about increased production and recently-discovered stockpiles of vaccinations, antibiotics, and other medicines.
“Um,” Evan stumbled. A voice in the back of his mind whispered that he should run that story and detail how many lives would be saved by this development. But another voice- the one in the front of his mind — reminded him that his newspaper was not in the good news business. Good news did not serve his purpose. Not yet, at least.
“Let’s shelve that one for now.”
The strawberry blonde girl asked, “Do you want us to do a piece on the people freed in Raleigh?”
“No. Not yet. Give it six months. By then, the time those people spent in bondage will be a fading memory, but blackouts, shortages, and all of the problems here will be on the tips of their tongues. In the meantime, I have another story brewing. This one is big. Jamie,” he caught the attention of a young girl with curly red hair and one of the largest chests in the brave new world. “Start pulling records. I want hard stats and a timeline on military deaths during the last year as well as Internal Security and food distribution deaths.”
“What is it you’re looking for?” the Oxford-shirted man inquired.
“It may be that we’re losing more people behind the front lines than we are on the battlefield. That makes the perfect point; we’re expanding too quickly without enough thought given to infrastructure, food, health care, and all that.”
Jamie nodded as she scribbled notes.
“What about your editorial?” The woman with the scar asked. “Is it done?”
“I had one done. It was about the need for a modern constitution and congress. I think I’m going to shelve it until Jamie gets me those stats. That might be the best way to go.”
The thick-glasses-wearing man broke in, “Hey, that gal from the TV station will be here any minute. You’ve got an interview.”
“Oh yeah,” Evan remembered. “How do I look?”
“Butt ugly,” the scar-faced woman said.
Laughter erupted around the table.
“Is this good?” Evan asked as he adjusted his tie, ran a hand through his brown hair, and wiggled his chair a little to the left as per the cameraman’s directions.
The cubicles, tables, and desks of the paper’s newsroom served as backdrop with the staff firmly instructed to appear busy but avoid any noise that might reach the microphone.
In a chair next to Evan sat Angela West, a woman-like Evan-in her early thirties. The dark roots hinted her blond hair might not be natural and the thick make-up surrounding her smile suggested she remembered a few tricks from the news business of old.
While giving his tie and hair another good straightening, Evan made small talk.
“How long have you been with the National Broadcast Network?”
“I’ve been with NTN since we started in Harrisburg last year.”
He knew the answer but asked anyway, “You have outlets in Pittsburgh and Baltimore now, don’t you?”
“Yes. Baltimore is still at low power though, not much of a signal. We have couriers, though, who run tapes to the independent stations that are popping up all over the place. Our interview today will probably be seen by at least half the free population.”
“That’s great,” he finally found satisfaction with the knot in his tie. “I’m just surprised you wanted to talk to me.”
“Mr. Godfrey, you’re a member of the governing council and at the same time run what could fairly be called an ‘opposition’ newspaper. If that’s not an interesting interview, I don’t know what is.”
“Please, call me Evan.”
“Are we ready yet?” she asked the cameraman.
“I’m rolling in three…two…one…”
