Cry Wolf

(The Empire’s Corps – Book XV)

Christopher G. Nuttall

http://www.chrishanger.net
http://chrishanger.wordpress.com/
http://www.facebook.com/ChristopherGNuttall

Cover By Tan Ho Sim
https://www.artstation.com/alientan

All Comments Welcome!

Series Listing

Book One: The Empire’s Corps
Book Two: No Worse Enemy
Book Three: When The Bough Breaks
Book Four: Semper Fi
Book Five: The Outcast
Book Six: To The Shores
Book Seven: Reality Check
Book Eight: Retreat Hell
Book Nine: The Thin Blue Line 
Book Ten: Never Surrender
Book Eleven: First To Fight
Book Twelve: They Shall Not Pass
Book Thirteen: Culture Shock
Book Fourteen: Wolf’s Bane
Book Fifteen: Cry Wolf

Cover Blurb

They say democracy dies in darkness ...

Earth has fallen.  The Empire is no more.  Old certainties are collapsing everywhere.  Chaos is spreading across the stars, with war following in its wake ...

Tarsus, a world too close to Earth for comfort, is far from immune.

Clarence Esperanza, a reporter on Tarsus, thought he had the story of the century.  But, when he took the story to his bosses, he was unceremoniously fired.  Cut off from his former friends, abandoned by his wife isolated from the world around him, he thought all he could do was stagger onto the streets and wait to die.  But when an old friend offers him a job, with a new news outlet challenging the dominance of the planetary media networks, he finds himself on the front lines of a struggle for control of the planet ...

... And fighting for the freedom of an entire world.

Dear Readers,

I must apologise for the long delay between this book being announced as a forthcoming project and its appearance.  However, as I’m sure you’ll agree, I have a good excuse.

As you may know, if you follow my blog, my health began to deteriorate in November 2017 and, after a brief period when I thought the problem was behind me, started to collapse again in April 2018.  The doctors tried several possible approaches before discovering, thanks to a private MRI/CT scan my wife insisted I take, that I had lymphoma.  Chemotherapy was prescribed.  This may just have been in time to save my life.  I collapsed when I went for the first set of treatments, allowing the doctors to realise that I also had a nasty chest infection.  

I ended up spending three weeks in the hospital, having antibiotics fed into my system and my lung drained of fluid.  This was not a pleasant experience and I found myself being moved between the haematology ward and the high-dependency care unit, depending on my exact condition.  Eventually, they gave me the first treatment in two sections and - after my health started to improve - allowed me to go home.  I was not, however, in a good condition for some time afterwards.  The side effects made it hard to eat, at first, and then I caught a cold because my immune system had been badly weakened by the treatments.  It was some time before I was able to muster the energy to finish this book.

Obviously, I hope to regain full health once the treatments have been finished.  I have a backlog of story ideas I want to write, including the start of a new The Zero Enigma arc and a couple of completely new universes that need developing.  (I spent a lot of time thinking of ideas while lying in that hospital bed.)  If you want to pray for me, please do.

I hope to finish the Invincible trilogy sooner rather than later, too, but I cannot guarantee anything.  Please bear with me.  

Thank you.

Christopher G. Nuttall
Edinburgh, January 2019

PS - If you liked this book, please write a review.  It’s growing harder to make a living as an indie author these days and every little helps.

CGN

Prologue I

From: The Death Agonies of Empire.  Professor Leo Caesius, Avalon University, 46PE.

As we have seen in previous volumes, the Fall of Earth managed to surprise nearly everyone within the Core Worlds, save for a handful of far-sighted visionaries.  Earth had been the centre of human civilisation for centuries, the cradle of the human race and the heart of the Empire itself, for so long that there was a permanence about Earth that seemed ... well, permanent.  It was almost impossible to grasp the fact, intellectually as well as emotionally, that Earth was gone.  The core of the Empire could not be gone.

But it was.

Earth’s significance did not just lie in sentiment alone.  Earth was the home of the Grand Senate and, thanks to the presence of hundreds of interstellar corporations, the heart of the Empire’s economy.  It is literally impossible to estimate just how many billions of credits passed through the Solar System each day, nor how many trillions had been spent on the system’s vast industrial base.  Nor was Earth insignificant in other ways.  The naval presence alone - and its support system - cost millions of credits every year.  Every element of the Empire’s military might had its HQ on Earth - even the Imperial Marines were formally based on Earth - and no officer could be truly said to be going places unless he’d served a term on the homeworld.  And, of course, the endless stream of immigrants to newly-settled colony worlds came, by and large, from Earth.  

And now it was gone.

It took time, perhaps longer than many people realise, for word to spread.  When it did, when it reached the rest of the Core Worlds, people were disbelieving.  Earth could not be gone, they told themselves.  It took time for understanding to arrive and, when it did, it brought terror in its wake.  Love it or hate it, Earth was gone.  And it had taken the core of the Empire with it.  Planetary governments - and governors - awoke to the fact that they were on their own, corporations realised that vast amounts of money and assets had simply vanished, naval units realised they would never get orders from home - they would never get orders again - and independence movements across what had once been the Empire took heart.  Their prospects for gaining their freedom had never been better.

The chaos was not long in following.  A handful of unpopular governors fell, only to be replaced by governors who could no more handle the crisis and calm the chaos than their predecessors.  A handful of ambitious naval officers declared themselves warlords, only to discover that ruling a vest-pocket empire was nowhere near as easy as they’d believed.  And others, seeking stability, found that there was none to be found in the ruins of empire.  It truly seemed like the end of times.  It was no surprise that radical religious factions, some old and some new, spread like wildfire.  The people wanted hope.  It was hard to find as the madness gripped the remnants of a once-great civilisation.  

But, even during the darkest days of the Fall, there were some who were trying to bring back the light ...

Prologue II

Tarsus was dying.

It was not, the man in the dark suit mused, a quick death.  There was no fleet of angry starships preparing to scorch the entire planet, no giant asteroid on its way to strike the surface with the force of a million nukes, no dread disease steadily working its way through the population and killing everyone it touched ... no, it was the slow death of economic collapse.  The men and women below didn’t realise it, not yet, but the Fall of Earth had done immense harm to Tarsus and the remainder of the sector.  They simply couldn’t grasp that things had changed.  How could they?  There had been economic downturns before - the man in the dark suit owed his position to the previous downturn - but nothing so drastic.  The Empire had seemed immortal ...

... Until it was gone.

He stood at the window and peered at the streets below.  It was near midnight, but the city was still humming with life.  The men and women hurrying up and down the streets didn’t understand the new reality, not yet.  They didn’t believe what had happened.  Earth was hundreds of light years away.  They didn’t understand that Earth was - that Earth had been - the core of an economic system that covered thousands of light years, nor did they realise that its absence meant utter chaos.  The man had seen the reports, the ones his political enemies had tried to hush up.  No one really knew what would happen when reality finally hit the population. It was so utterly unprecedented.

And yet, there was a twinge of fear running through the air.  People knew that something was wrong, even if they couldn’t put a name to it.  The smarter ones were already hoarding food and fuel, something that was technically illegal ... the dumber ones were flocking to the entertainment complexes, trying to forget about the shadow looming over the city.  They tried to close their eyes to the steadily-growing signs of decline - businesses closing, banks calling in loans, hundreds of thousands already out of work as the economy contracted - even though it was an exercise in futility.  If a rising tide lifted all boats, as the finest economic theorists asserted, what happened when the tide was receding?  The man didn’t want to admit it, not even in the privacy of his own head, but he knew the truth.  There was nothing to be gained by trying to hide from it.  The wealthy and powerful would be the last to fall, perhaps ... but they would fall.  It was the end of the world.

He turned his eyes towards the distant Government House, where the First Speaker and his cronies were trying to find something - anything - that would save their bacon when the population realised just how thoroughly screwed they were.  The man admired their determination to blind themselves to inconvenient facts, even as he held them in utter contempt for their failure.  They’d built their system on the assumption that nothing would ever change, although everyone knew that change was the only universal constant.  They simply didn’t have the determination to do what needed to be done.  They were weak when they needed to be strong and strong when they needed to be weak.  The man rolled his eyes in disgust.  The First Speaker gave the population what they wanted, but not what they needed.

His eyes sought out the distant spaceport, half-hidden in the darkness.  The police and security forces were already rounding up the Forsakers, preparing to deport them to ... the man didn’t know where they were going, let alone when.  No one did.  All that mattered was getting rid of them.  But the man knew it was an exercise in populist pointlessness.  The Forsakers might be a drain on society, but deporting them wouldn’t solve anything.  They weren’t that big a drain on society.  The whole thing was nothing more than a desperate bid to win approval from a population that was about to discover that it had bigger things to worry about than the wretched Forsakers.  The government might see a blip in its approval ratings, for a day or two, and then reality would assert itself once again.  And Tarsus would continue her slow slide into chaos.

But chaos brings opportunities, the man thought.  Who knows what the future may hold?

He smiled, coldly.  He was a popular man - and his party was a popular party - but they had been deprived of real power.  They’d won enough of the popular vote to be included in government, yet the governing coalition had successfully blocked any of their proposed legislation.  It was maddening - the man knew his party would share the blame for mistakes that were none of their doing - but it could not be helped.  The party structure that had governed Tarsus for over two thousand years was almost impossible to change.  And yet, it was based on an economic system that no longer existed.  It was dead.  It just didn’t know it.

Not yet, the man told himself.  In some ways, the government’s refusal to face up to facts worked in his favour.  Let them exchange worthless favours for a few more weeks.  Let their promises be exposed as worthless.  Let them thoroughly discredit themselves.  And then, we can take over and put the world to rights.

He poured himself a drink, then turned back to the window.  A shuttle was taking off from the spaceport, the twinkling lights vanishing in the cloudy skies.  A storm was brewing.  The man could feel it in his bones.  He raised his glass in a silent toast to the future and took a single sip.  The wine was worth savouring.  He had a handful of bottles, locked away for special occasions, but once they were gone they were gone.  There would be no more Rose Picard from Marseilles or scotch from New Aberdeen until someone rebuilt the interstellar economy from scratch.  The man doubted he’d live to see it.  His projected lifespan was over two hundred years, but rebuilding the Empire would take thousands.

But I can start the process, he thought.  Tarsus wasn’t a bad place to be, if one happened to have ambition.  The planet was close enough to Earth to maintain valuable links, both with the homeworld and the other important worlds, yet far enough from the centre of power to be relatively safe.  There is opportunity here, for the man who dares to reach out and take it.

His intercom pinged.  “Mr. Secretary, the First Speaker requests your presence at the cabinet meeting tomorrow.”

The man smiled.  “Does he indeed?  How nice of him.”

It was not, he knew, a request.  He’d be expected to rubber-stamp a decision made by the First Speaker’s inner circle.  There was no point in trying to object, not now.  But - in time - he would avenge every humiliation the wretched ruling class had inflicted upon him and his supporters.  The rulers had thought their position unchallengeable.  They’d certainly sealed up all the normal avenues to power.  But the Empire was gone.  Who knew how far an ambitious man could go?

He took another sip of his wine.  “Inform the First Speaker that I would be deeply honoured to attend his meeting,” he ordered, dryly.  “And tell my wife I will be leaving the house early tomorrow.”

“Yes, sir.”

The man finished his drink, then took one last look at the streets below.  They were still brightly lit ... that was going to change.  The man had no illusions about just what would happen when the truth finally slammed home.  Tarsus, one of the most stable worlds in the sector, was about to undergo a massive shock.  The wildfire sweeping over the once-great Empire would burn the planet to ashes.

But we will rise from the ashes, he told himself.  He silently catalogued his plans and preparations, reassuring himself that he’d covered all the bases.  There was a certain element of risk, of course, but he’d minimised it as much as possible.  And we will build a better world.

Chapter One

It will come as no surprise that the single most distrusted entity within the Empire, from the moment the decline began to Earth’s final collapse into madness, was the media.  It is difficult to say for sure, but it seems unlikely that many people believed what they were being told.
- Professor Leo Caesius.  Crying Wolf: The Media and the Fall of the Empire.  

It was a dark and stormy night, Clarence Esperanza narrated to himself, as he surveyed the chain-link fence between him and the dark industrial estate.  It was a dark and stormy night, damn it!

He smiled - white teeth flashing in a dark face - as he looked for an easy way to get over the fence.  He’d always enjoyed adding little flourishes to his work, even if half of them were gleefully stolen from ancient writers hardly anyone - and certainly none of his readers - had heard of.  It wasn’t theft, not really.  It was ... all right, maybe it was a kind of theft, but it was in a good cause.  Clarence knew, without false modesty, that he was no writer.  He lacked the skill to string words together in a manner that would comfort the powerless and afflict the powerful.  Whatever skill he’d had in writing, once upon a time, had been ground out of him by a creative writing course and ten years as a reporter.  It was no comfort to know that everyone else had the same problem.

An aircar flew overhead, heading north towards the spaceport.  Clarence glanced up at it, then returned his attention to the fence.  The estate had been abandoned two years ago, according to the city files, but someone had taken precautions to make sure that no one could get in or out of the massive complex without going through the gates.  Clarence had expected to find a whole string of holes in the wire - cut by the homeless, looking desperately for somewhere to sleep that wasn’t damp and cold - but there was nothing.  Gritting his teeth, he checked his gloves and started to scramble over the fence.  It was harder than it looked and he nearly fell twice before he got over the wire and landed on the far side.  The sound of his feet hitting the ground was terrifyingly loud in the silent night air.  He ducked down, expecting to see a night-watchman heading towards him.  The estate was certainly large enough to merit someone on duty at all times.

And my press pass probably won’t be enough to spare me a night in jail, Clarence thought, as he listened for the sound of approaching footsteps.  The watchman might show him the door or he might call the cops.  There was no way to know how the cops would react.  They wouldn’t risk abusing a journalist, but a night in the cells was hardly abuse.  And the editor will give me hell for being caught.

He smiled at the thought.  The tip-off had been vague, but it had come from a trustworthy source.  Something was going to happen tonight, in the vast industrial estate.  Clarence would have preferred more details, particularly a clear idea of precisely what was going to happen, but his source had gone silent.  That wasn’t uncommon, in a world where talking to the media could get a source fired and blacklisted ... he shook his head.  The risk of getting caught was high - press pass or no press pass - but it had been a long time since he’d done anything worthy of the great reporters of the distant past.  He’d spent the last five years taking official statements and trying, desperately, to put his own spin on bland pap.  One might as well add spice to fried mush.  No matter how much spice one used, it was still mush.

His smile grew wider as he stood and slipped further into the industrial estate.  A chunk of it, according to the files, had been turned into living space for the Forsakers, but the remainder was still empty and cold.  He glanced into a giant warehouse as he passed the door, seeing absolutely nothing inside.  The building itself was designed to survive everything the planet could throw at it, but the owners had declined to turn it into a homeless shelter.  Clarence snorted in disgust as he took a quick snap of the interior, then resumed his walk into the estate.  It hadn’t escaped his notice that the number of homeless camps - and beggars on the streets - had been increasing recently.  There was probably a good human interest story in there, somewhere.  And perhaps a story asking precisely why the estate had been abandoned when it could be turned into a homeless shelter.

He walked around another warehouse and stopped, dead, as he saw the second fence.  The owners might have deeded part of their territory to the Forsakers, willingly or not, but they’d clearly been determined that the Forsakers would not leave the handful of warehouses that had been put aside for them.  This fence was even newer than the last one, with barbed wire on the top.  Clarence wouldn’t have cared to bet that it hadn’t been electrified, if not alarmed.  The owners looked to be selfish bastards.  They probably wouldn’t give a damn if some poor hobo touched the fence and got a nasty shock ...

Wankers, Clarence thought.

He put the thought aside as he peered into the semi-darkness.  Nothing was happening, as far as he could tell.  A small fire burned merrily outside one of the closer warehouses - a handful of people clearly visible in the light - but little else.  It looked like a homeless camp, not ... he tried to decide what it looked like, then gave up.  It didn’t matter.  It didn’t look as if anything important was happening within the darkness, certainly nothing demanding his attention.  Shaking his head, he walked over to the nearest abandoned warehouse and scrambled up a ladder onto the roof.  The air felt colder, somehow, as he lay on the rooftop and looked towards the Forsaker camp.  Nothing was happening.

Waste of time, he thought, as the cold started to seep into his bones.  I should have stayed in bed with my wife.

He allowed himself a moment of irritation, then reminded himself to be patient.  The really great reporters didn’t sit in their offices and wait for someone to bring them the news.  No, they went out and got the news.  Sometimes, it went badly wrong and then they were the news ... Clarence shook his head, again.  Nothing was going to go wrong.  He was just going to wait a few hours and see what happened, then sneak back over the fence, call a hovercab and go home.  His editor would have a few nasty things to say if Clarence turned up at the office without a story - or hopped up on stims - but he’d understand.  It wouldn’t be the first time a tip had turned into a giant waste of time.  Clarence reached into his pocket, produced his recording spectacles and placed them on his nose.  They were a pain in the ass to wear, but their recordings had saved his bacon more than once.  If nothing else, they’d prove he hadn’t been doing nothing in the dead of night.

Although I am doing nothing, he thought, silently starting to compose his latest story for the newspaper.  I’m lying on my chest on a freezing cold rooftop when I could be having naked time with my wife.

Another aircar flew overhead, lights flickering in the darkness.  Clarence did his best to ignore it, telling himself that the aircar wasn’t looking for him.  It wouldn’t take military-grade sensors to pick him out on the rooftop, but who would give a damn?  He looked like a hobo himself - he’d been careful to dress as a dockyard worker, rather than a flashy reporter - and it was unlikely that anyone would care about a hobo in an abandoned estate.  It wasn’t as if there was anything worth stealing ... not really.  The only thing of any value within the estate was the buildings themselves.  It wasn’t as if a small army of hobos could pick them up and carry them away.  

Which won’t stop the police chasing the hobos out if someone makes a fuss, he thought, grimly.  There was another human interest story there, he was sure.  The homeless simply want a roof over their heads when they sleep, just like the rest of us.

It was nearly an hour - and he was on the verge of giving up - when he heard the faint sound of engines.  He tensed, peering into the darkness.  A small handful of trucks were pulling up at the distant gate.  Were they coming for him?  He silently calculated a handful of ways to get out of the estate in a hurry, although - as policemen started spilling out of the trucks - he had a nasty feeling that there would be no way out.  It looked as if the police had arrived in force, ready for war.  He could see men wearing helmets and body armour, carrying shockrods and neural whips in the foreground, while others - armed with real weapons - hung back.  They looked ready to intervene at any moment.

His blood ran cold.  This was wrong.  The police did not come in the dead of night, certainly not to a harmless estate.  It was hard enough to get them to come out when one lived in a middle-class estate in the heart of the city, let alone the homeless camps and ghettos along the edge.  But now ... a shiver ran down his spine as the policemen moved forward in eerie silence.  He tapped his spectacles, making sure they were recording the scene.  The policemen moved through the gates and straight towards the warehouses ...

Someone shouted.  A handful of men appeared, carrying makeshift weapons.  Clarence winced, unsure if he should laugh or cry.  The Forsakers were carrying baseball bats and iron rods, nothing really dangerous to a man in body armour.  They didn’t even have a chance to try before a flurry of stun bolts left them lying on the ground, twitching helplessly.  The policemen marched over them, abandoning all pretence at stealth.  Clarence covered his eyes as the policemen turned on the lights.  The estate was suddenly bathed in brilliant white light.

“ATTENTION,” a voice boomed.  The warehouse seemed to shake with every word.  “COME OUT WITH YOUR HANDS IN THE AIR!”

Clarence covered his ears, a fraction of a second too late.  He couldn’t help thinking, as he turned his head to capture as many details as possible, that half the city had been awoken by the racket.  The warehouse district was large, but it wasn’t that large.  He watched, feeling a twinge of sympathy, as dazed Forsakers stumbled out of the warehouses.  The policemen grabbed them, male and female alike, and snapped on the cuffs before forcing them to lie on the ground and wait.  Clarence made sure to record it all.  The public wouldn’t be sorry for the Forsakers unless they saw the poor bastards being made to suffer.

And it is so pointless, he thought, as a crying child was made to sit next to her mother.  What does it matter?

He shuddered, helplessly.  The Forsakers had a bad reputation.  They were lazy and arrogant beggars, walking around in their traditional clothes as if the world owed them a living, utterly unwilling to abandon their primitive culture and join the mainstream.  Everyone knew the Forsakers were a drain on the planet’s public funds ... until they actually ran the figures for themselves.  Clarence had, more out of curiosity than anything else.  The Forsakers weren’t draining the planet dry.  They weren’t even claiming a percentage point of a percentage point of the government’s budget.  The government spent more on bureaucracy than it did on public aid.

A scream rent the night air.  Clarence scanned the scene before him, then zoomed in on a young girl who was being harassed by two policemen.  One of them was holding her, the other had his hand up her dress ... Clarence shuddered again, as a senior officer marched over and rebuked the two coppers, who didn’t look remotely repentant.  Clarence wasn’t really surprised.  The news file in the office contained lots of stories about policemen who abused their powers, stories that the editor had killed on the grounds they’d incite social unrest.  And some of the stories had been a little hard to believe ... Clarence swallowed.  It was clear, now, that the stories had some basis in truth.

But that doesn’t mean they’re true, he thought.  The poor girl, crying silently, had been dumped with her fellows.  Just that they could have happened.

The dreadful night wore on.  Clarence watched, helplessly, as the policemen stripped everything out of the warehouses and piled it up in the trucks, then marched the prisoners to the gate.  He filmed everything, from the crying children to the broken spindles and other primitive tools that were part of the Forsaker heritage.  The policemen seemed to take an unholy delight in breaking things, although it was nothing but spite.  There was certainly nothing to be gained by smashing tools the Forsakers would need ...

It hit him in a moment of insight.  Dear God, he thought.  They’re deporting the bastards!

Clarence swallowed, hard.  It couldn’t be true, could it?  There was nothing to be gained by shoving the Forsakers on a starship and tell them never to come back.  He ran the calculations in his head and scowled.  It would probably cost the government more, in the long run, to deport the Forsakers than to keep them.  Hell, there was no reason the Forsakers couldn’t be given land and told to farm it if they wanted to stay alive.  But they’d already been evicted from lands they’d held for generations.  The big farming corporations had wanted the land for themselves and the government hadn’t had the will to say no.  Who cared about a bunch of weirdoes in outdated clothes when there was money to be made?

Not that the price of food went down, Clarence thought, coldly.  He made a decent living, but even he had noticed that the cost of living was steadily inching upwards.  God alone knew what was really happening in the countryside.  The Forsakers were evicted for nothing.

He looked towards the spaceport in the distance as the rest of the pieces fell into place.  The Forsakers were easy targets.  Harmless, by and large; unarmed, certainly.  And easily demonised by radical politicians.  The pressure to do something about them was overwhelming ... no, had been overwhelming.  It was clear the government had decided that deporting the Forsakers was a concession they could afford to make, although it was pointless.  Clarence hoped, in a moment of naked horror, that the government actually was deporting the Forsakers.  There were nastier things that could happen ...

This will not stand, he promised himself, as the police started to drive away with their prisoners.  They were heading towards the spaceport, at least, although he knew that proved nothing.  There was plenty of room for a mass grave in the wastelands beyond the spaceport complex.  I’ll tell the world.

Clarence rolled over and stood, hurrying back towards the ladder.  The show was over, as far as he could tell.  He had to get his story out before the Forsakers were actually loaded onto a starship - or sold into slavery or whatever other horrible fate the government might have in mind for them - and deported forever.  He’d make sure the people knew what was being done in their name.  He silently reviewed the footage he’d recorded as he slipped down the ladder and ran towards the fence.  The Forsakers weren’t popular, but the right footage - carefully chosen - would change that.  He’d have the entire population shouting in outrage by the time he was done.

Scrambling over the fence, he fled into the darkness.  There was no sign of anyone on the streets, not even a handful of homeless or a patrolling police car.  It was easy to believe that he’d imagined everything, he thought, as he reached a diner and called a hovercab.  If he hadn’t had the footage, it would have been hard to convince anyone that it had really happened.  It was so unthinkable that ... it was unthinkable.  The government was harsh, at times, but it wasn’t monstrous ...

Hard times make people do monstrous things, he thought, as the hovercab dropped him off outside his apartment.  And people who think they cannot be called to account can be the worst of all.

Clarence allowed himself a tight smile as he sat down in front of his terminal - his wife had long since gone to bed - and started to review the footage and write the story.  It would make his career, he was sure.  Every reporter yearned for something that would make him famous, something that would change the world.  The truly great reporters had been household names, once upon a time.  They’d exposed corruption, they’d caught criminals ... a couple had even had flicks made of their lives.  Clarence wanted that kind of fame for himself.  And he would have it ...

He finished writing the story, uploading it and the footage to the newspaper’s server, then went to bed.  His wife shifted uncomfortably as he climbed under the sheets, but otherwise didn’t move.  Clarence didn’t really blame her.  She’d been up for most of the day, first taking their son to nursery and then handling her job.  Clarence would have liked to be the sole breadwinner - he didn’t like the tired look in his wife’s eyes - but there was no alternative.  He simply didn’t bring in enough money to ensure a good start in life for his son.

Things will be different, he silently promised his wife.  And they start from tomorrow.

And he was right.  The following morning, he received an email that told him he’d been fired. 

Chapter Two

That, too, should be no surprise.  The difference between what the general public was being told and reality, what they were actually seeing, was too great to be wished away.  People refused to believe - and quite rightly too - that their eyes and ears were lying to them.
- Professor Leo Caesius.  Crying Wolf: The Media and the Fall of the Empire.  

Clarence stared at the email in shock.

It was hard, so hard, to process what he was actually seeing.  He’d expected praise, not ... he hadn’t expected to be fired.  His thoughts ran in circles as he read the email again and again, trying to make some sense out of it.  He’d been fired.  He’d been fired.  He’d been ...

He swallowed hard, unable to believe what he was seeing.  He’d been fired ... it was the end of the world.  He was jobless ... he’d never get another job, not if he’d been fired.  His heartbeat was suddenly very loud, pounding in his ears.  He’d been fired.  There was no hope of finding another job, not in the cutthroat world of the reporter.  Every news service on Tarsus would blacklist a reporter who’d been fired.  And even if they didn’t ... he was all too aware of just how few jobs there actually were.  A reporter - a man who wasn’t qualified to be anything else - had no hope of finding another job.  He wouldn’t even have a hope of becoming a street-sweeper.  The union would make sure of that.  He didn’t even have the right qualifications.

Clarence’s fingers shook as he made himself a cup of coffee, his head spinning.  It was the end of the world.  He found himself looking around the apartment numbly, silently cataloguing just how many things had been bought on account.  It wouldn’t be long before the bank started talking tough, demanding to know how he intended to pay his mortgage, let alone his credit chip debts.  They’d be right, too.  Clarence didn’t have that much in his savings account.  It wouldn’t be long before he couldn’t pay his debts and everything would be repossessed.  What little he owned that was his would be taken away and sold to offset the debts ...

He took a long breath, forcing himself to calm down.  Perhaps it wasn’t as bad as it looked, he told himself.  Perhaps ... he sat down in front of the terminal and tapped a key, bringing up the email again.  It was hard, so hard, to concentrate.  How long would it be before they cancelled his datanet account?  It didn’t cost much, in the grand scheme of things, to have access to the datanet, but if he’d been fired ... he tried to imagine life without the datanet and shuddered.  He wouldn’t even be able to file stories to the media networks without datanet access ... if, of course, the networks accepted them.  The union would bitch and moan about an independent reporter trying to make a honest living.  And no one would risk speaking up in his favour.

The email stubbornly refused to change, no matter how he stared at it.  Clarence sipped his coffee, forcing himself to read through it once more.  It was a masterful piece of bureaucratese, he had to admit, claiming that he’d been fired for a handful of unspecified offences ... he cursed, savagely, as the truth dawned on him.  Whoever had fired him had set out to do him a favour ... no, it just looked as if whoever had fired him had set out to do him a favour.  In reality, they’d stuck a knife in his back.  There was no way he could disprove the claims against him, no way he could defend himself from charges that were maddeningly undefined ... there was no way anyone would hire him, when they didn’t know what he’d done.  Clarence found himself shaking in horror.  His life was over.  A petty thief had a better chance of getting another job than him, now.  He was going to starve to death.  His wife and son were going to starve to death beside him.

A surge of helpless anger ran through him.  He’d been screwed.  He’d been thoroughly screwed ... and why?  What had he done?  He couldn’t understand it.  He’d been a good reporter, damn it!  He’d written stories covering everything from politics to flower arranging, as his bosses had decreed.  And now he’d been fired.  He stood, pacing the room as he tried to understand what had happened.  Why had he been fired?  And why had he been fired in such a manner?  He’d never heard of anyone being fired in a manner that made it impossible for them to get another job!

He grabbed his coat out of habit, keying his terminal to call a hovercab before remembering - too late - that he could no longer afford to waste money on indulgences.  His finger hovered over the cancel button before he decided that there was no point in trying to claw back half the taxi fare.  It was only ten credits ... he shook his head as he pulled on his coat and snapped his terminal into his belt.  He couldn’t take the time to walk to the office, not when he needed to see Alistair Allrianne before the man’s daily routine of meetings began.  The Chief Editor would understand, surely, when Clarence explained that he needed his job.  He’d tell Clarence that he hadn’t been fired ... wouldn’t he?  Clarence knew he was clutching at straws, but ... he had to try to get his job back, somehow.  He’d do anything to get his job back.

The terminal bleeped, informing him that the hovercab was waiting downstairs.  Clarence took one last look at the apartment, wondering just how long it would be before he and his family would have to move out, then hurried downstairs to the door.  The hovercab driver waved cheerfully at him as he clambered into the vehicle.  Clarence barely heard the man’s attempts to chat, even though normally he would have enjoyed bandying words with the driver.  The man wouldn’t be so friendly if he knew Clarence had been fired.  An unemployed man had no friends or family, for fear that unemployment might be catching ... somehow.  Clarence felt his heart sink as he remembered a handful of his fellow students who’d never managed to find good jobs.  He hadn’t shunned them, not really ...

You did, his thoughts mocked them.  You could have stayed in touch.  But you didn’t.

He sagged into the seat as the hovercab passed a pair of aircars and headed north, towards the bustling heart of the city.  The sight normally took Clarence’s breath away, but now ... he could hardly think straight.  He wondered, morbidly, just how hard it was to live on the streets ... it wasn’t a pleasant thought.  There were already hundreds of thousands of homeless people on the planet.  Would he and his family be allowed to join them?  Or ... he shivered helplessly.  How could he do anything for his family without a job?

His terminal bleeped.  He glanced at it in sudden hope, then felt his heart sink - again - as he realised it was just a piece of spam advertising a fancy aircar he wouldn’t have been able to afford even when he’d had a job.  That was going to stop, he told himself, once the spammers realised he was unemployed.  There was no point in trying to get money out of an unemployed man.  Clarence had never had that much money in his life.  And when he was cut off from the datanet ... a bleak vista opened up in front of him, dragging him down into the depths of despair.  If he wasn’t a reporter, what was he?  He didn’t know.

Useless, he thought.  I’m a useless bastard without my job.

He touched the terminal, one finger lingering over Minnie’s icon.  He could call his wife ... he should call his wife.  And yet, the thought was somehow unbearable.  He couldn’t tell his wife that he’d been fired, not yet.  She’d be shocked, then horrified, then finally angry at him for losing his job.  She didn’t bring in enough money to keep them off the streets, if she managed to keep her job.  Clarence cursed his boss under his breath as he realised that Minnie might get fired too.  Her boss wouldn’t know what her husband had done to get fired either.

Go to work, he thought, desperately.  Get your job back.  Somehow ...

“Here we are,” the driver said, with maddening cheer.  “The front entrance, sir?”

“Yes, please,” Clarence said.  

He pressed his credit chip against the reader as the hovercab landed, half-expecting the transaction to be declined.  God knew what he’d do if it was declined.  He didn’t carry much cash on him, no one did.  Easier and safer to carry a credit chip, unless one had been fired and one’s creditors were breathing down one’s neck.  The bank might place a hold on all transactions until he worked out a new payment plan ... if he could work out a new payment plan.  He hadn’t realised just how tense he was until the machine bleeped, informing him that the transaction had been accepted.  The door clicked open.  Clarence wondered, as he scrambled out of the hovercab, just what would have happened if it had been declined.  The driver might have flown him straight to the nearest police station.

Which would have been the perfect end to the day, he thought, sourly.  Lose one’s job, get arrested ... all in the space of a few hours.

The Daily Truth lived in a colossal building, a steel and iron monstrosity that had been the height of architectural fashion a few hundred years ago.  Clarence had admired the design hugely when he’d first started to work for the newspaper; it had, he’d felt, the right attitude for a media company that prided itself on asking the tough questions and giving answers to the public.  Fifteen years as an employee, from cub to senior reporter, had soured him somewhat on the ideals of journalism, but ... he still admired the building.  Now ... he sucked in his breath and marched towards the door, steeling himself to face the stares of his former colleagues.  They’d been his friends, once upon a time.  Now ... he told himself that he had to keep going, somehow.  He tried not to think, as he stepped into the lobby, that once upon a time had been only yesterday.

He passed through the lobby, silently grateful that it was almost empty.  The thought of being seen as he came to plead with his boss - for his job, for answers, for ... he wasn’t sure any longer - was horrifying.  And yet ... when he pressed his fingers against the inner door, it bleeped in warning.  His access to the upper floors, where the actual work was done, had been cancelled.  He wondered, as he turned to look around the lobby, just why it surprised him.  There was no shortage of horror stories about disgruntled former employees turning up at their former jobs and opening fire.  It had never occurred to Clarence that he might, one day, be one of those poor bastards.

The secretary looked up at him, her eyes widening - slightly - as she saw his face.  Clarence felt a surge of sudden hatred that surprised him in its intensity, even though the poor girl had done nothing to him.  She was just window dressing, chosen more for her looks than any actual competency ... she had a job.  It wasn’t much - there was no shortage of young women willing to sit at a desk and look pretty - but it was a job.  Clarence gritted his teeth, telling himself to calm down.  The secretary was powerless.  There was nothing she could do to help or hurt him.  And yet, she had a job.  She was a cut above him, now.

And perhaps we shouldn’t have mocked the wretched girls so badly, he thought, with a twinge of shame.  If this one remembers me ...

He kept his face impassive, silently grateful that his dark face hid his feelings.  The secretaries, receptionists and interns came and went, sometimes so quickly that no one outside Human Resources knew their names.  They were terrifyingly vulnerable to predators in the office, Clarence knew.  He hadn’t taken advantage of any of the young girls himself, but he hadn’t stopped any of his friends from doing it themselves.  Journalism’s dirty little secret was that it was easy to exploit people for personal gain.  And not just sexually.  He’d intended to turn the Forsaker tragedy into his personal story, the expose that would transform him into a celebrity and catapult him into the major leagues.  He’d thought it would secure his place in the history of journalism.

“I need to speak to Mr. Allrianne,” he said, suddenly unsure what to say.  Allrianne had always insisted his reporters call him by his first name, but ... now, Clarence wasn’t one of his reporters.  “Please could you buzz me through the doors.”

The receptionist gave him a bland smile, but he could see the tension in her eyes.  “I’m afraid Mr. Allrianne is busy, sir,” she said.  “If you leave your name, address and contact details, he’ll get back in touch with you as soon as possible.”

Clarence felt his temper fray.  “You know damn well who I am,” he said, sharply.  “You can call him and ...”

He caught himself, knowing it was already too late.  The receptionist was young, barely out of her teens.  She didn’t deserve to be shouted at by ... by what?  What was he, now he was unemployed?  There was nothing to be gained by shouting at her.  She couldn’t do anything, up to and including going to the toilet, without permission from her superiors.  She could no more buzz him through the security doors than she could wear something that actually made her look like a respectable employee.  He found it impossible to believe she actually wanted to wear a ridiculously over-sexualised dress.

“I’m afraid Mr. Allrianne is busy,” the receptionist repeated.  “If you leave you ...”

“He knows who I am,” Clarence said.  He felt as though he was bullying a child, but he couldn’t stop himself.  “Call him.  Tell him that ...”

He heard someone behind him, too late.  A strong arm slammed into his back, forcing him over the desk.  Clarence barely had any time to react before his arms were yanked back and cuffed behind his back.  He twisted, but he couldn’t break free.  The security guard - he kicked himself, silently, for looking down on the security guards too - searched him roughly, then pulled him to his feet.  Clarence knew he’d seen the man before, but ... he didn’t know the man’s name.  He really should have learnt their names before he needed their help.  They might have been more willing to help him.

“I’ll take care of him,” the guard growled.  “You don’t worry about a thing.”

The receptionist gave him a brilliant smile.  “My hero.”

Clarence tugged against the cuffs, even though it was futile.  “Let me go!”

“Quiet, or I’ll use the shockrod.”  The guard sounded as though he wanted to use the shockrod.  “You’re under arrest.”

“I need to see the editor,” Clarence protested.  “Let me go and ...”

The guard hefted his shockrod.  Clarence shut up.  The guard smirked, then half-dragged him to the elevators and shoved him inside.  Clarence swallowed, hard, as the elevator headed downwards.  He’d heard whispered rumours of ... things ... under the building, but it had never occurred to him that the newspaper might have a jail.  A shopping mall might have a holding cell for shoplifters to hold them until the police arrived, yet ... he found it hard to believe there was a jail under the building.  It was far more likely that any miscreants would be summarily fired.  

Like you, he thought, as the guard shoved him into a small office.  His own thoughts came back to mock him.  You got fired and now you got arrested.

“Sit,” the guard grunted, shoving Clarence onto a bench.  “Stay.”

“Woof,” Clarence said, sarcastically.  “I know my rights and ...”

The guard shrugged.  Clarence wondered, suddenly, what his rights actually were.  His press ID was in his pocket, but it had probably been cancelled by now.  The police weren’t likely to be gentle with a former reporter, not when they realised he’d fallen from grace.  The only people who hated reporters more than the police were soldiers ... Clarence cursed under his breath.  He had enemies, of course.  Every reporter had enemies, from people who thought they’d been slandered to people who’d been exposed by the press.  And now he was as naked and vulnerable as he’d been the day he was born.

He tried to force himself to relax, but it was futile.  He’d fucked himself.  The police were going to come and ... and he was going to go to jail.  There was no way he could afford bail, not now.  Minnie certainly couldn’t raise the money to get her husband out of the lockup, not when their savings were likely to be seized to pay their debts.  And the police probably wouldn’t offer him the chance, even if he could pay.  A former reporter in gen-pop ... the police could probably make money selling the recordings of him being shanked by an inmate who hated the press.  Clarence could name a dozen people who’d pay to see him humiliated.

And yesterday seemed such a great day, he thought.  Yesterday, he’d been at the top of his game.  Now, he was cuffed in a cell, waiting for the police.  He wondered, morbidly, if the police would bother to inform his wife.  They might walk him past a tame judge and sentence him to deportation without further ado.  What the hell do I do now?

Chapter Three

Indeed, to paraphrase an old saying, “they only pretend to tell us the truth and we only pretend to believe them.”
- Professor Leo Caesius.  Crying Wolf: The Media and the Fall of the Empire.  

It felt like hours before the door finally opened.

Clarence looked up, expecting to see a leering policeman or - perhaps - a security services officer.  Instead, Alistair Allrianne stepped into the office.  The Chief Editor of the Daily Truth looked tired, as if he hadn’t slept all night.  His eyes flickered from side to side, sweat shining on his brow as he nodded to the security guard.  The man touched his cap, stood and walked out of the office, leaving Clarence and his former boss alone.  Clarence wondered, sardonically, if Allrianne felt safe.  Clarence was cuffed and helpless - and the guard wouldn’t have gone very far - but the editor had never been renowned for his bravery.

“Clarence,” Allrianne said.  He sounded tired, too.  “I wish you hadn’t come here.”

Clarence studied him, thoughtfully.  Allrianne had always been overweight, his hair thinning because he couldn’t or wouldn’t pay for treatment, but it looked as though he’d put on considerably more weight in the past few hours.  He might well not have gone home last night, Clarence thought.  Normally, Allrianne was a great deal more dapper than this ... although it was hard for him to look handsome.  The older man had let himself go a long time ago.  Indeed, there was something faintly unpleasant about his jowly cheeks.  Clarence asked himself, sourly, if there had always been something wrong about his boss.  He just wasn’t used to being so ... so what?  Powerless?  In hindsight, he’d always been powerless.

He forced himself to think.  Was he really that powerless?  Allrianne hadn’t had to come see him.  No one would have questioned the Chief Editor ignoring a former reporter’s attempt to see him.  No one would wonder if Clarence was unceremoniously handed over to the police and unpersoned, completely wiped from the records.  And if they did, they wouldn’t dare to question.  Who knew who would be the next to be fired?

“What happened?”  His voice sounded more plaintive than he cared to hear.  “Alistair ... sir ... what happened?”

“You were fired,” Allrianne said.  There was no trace of vindictiveness in his tone, no gloating ... Clarence could almost believe that Allrianne hadn’t wanted to fire him.  “You were sent an email ...”

“An email full of lies,” Clarence snapped.  He rattled his cuffs, loudly.  “You didn’t have the nerve to come out and say why I was fired.”

A sense of bleak despondency overcame him.  “Why was I fired?”

Allrianne said nothing.  Clarence stared at him for a long moment, then lowered his eyes, finally giving in to despair.  If he’d been fired for insubordination, for disagreeing with his superiors, that would have been one thing.  The union would have defended him, even if they hated him.  They wouldn’t have had a choice.  There was no way they’d allow a reporter to be fired in a manner that set a precedent for firing other reporters without due process.  And if he’d been fired for criminal behaviour, he could have forced them to prove him guilty or ... he knew someone who’d won severance pay, even though he’d been caught stealing office supplies, because he’d threatened a lawsuit.  But Clarence?  The charges against him were so vague that they couldn’t be disproved.  He would never be able to find another job.

“I need my job,” he mumbled.  He was begging and he hated it, but he had no choice.  “Sir ... please.”

“I can’t,” Allrianne said, softly.  “Clarence, you were fired!”

“Why?”  Clarence knew he was shouting, knew the guards might burst in at any moment, but he didn’t give a damn.  “Why was I fucking fired!”

He lifted his head, glaring at his former boss.  “I did good work, you know it.  I was the one who exposed the sentencing racket in the manpower commission, I was the one who found proof that ...”

Allrianne held up a hand.  “Clarence, listen to me,” he said.  “You have to ...”

Clarence snorted.  “Do what?”  

He started to giggle, hysterically.  Oh, he had his enemies in the manpower commission all right.  Even the ones who hadn’t been involved in the sentencing racket itself hated his guts for the scrutiny they’d had to endure.  They were going to shit themselves laughing when they found out Clarence had been fired.  Who knew?  They might be glad of the chance for a little revenge.  No one would give a damn about a reporter who was accidentally sentenced to a hellworld.  Even a relatively decent stage-one colony world would be hard on its indentured labourers.  And his wife wouldn’t want to come with him.

“I did good work,” he repeated.  “I wrote a good story, didn’t I?”

“Yes,” Allrianne said, tonelessly.

“And now I’m fired,” Clarence said.  He looked down at the tiled floor.  “What am I doing to do?”

Allrianne’s voice didn’t change.  “I don’t know.”

“We’ll lose everything,” Clarence said.  He was starting to panic, again.  “Why?  Why did I get fired?”

A thought struck him.  “This is about the Forsakers, isn’t it?”

“Perhaps,” Allrianne said.  “Clarence ...”

“What?”  Clarence glared at him.  The older man didn’t meet his eyes.  “What can you do to me now?”

He rattled the cuffs, again.  “Perhaps I should go to the union anyway,” he snapped.  “They would take the case, even if they don’t know precisely why I was fired ...”

Allrianne stamped his foot.  “Clarence, listen to me.  Who do you think fired you?”

Clarence blinked.  The question had honestly never occurred to him.  Allrianne was the only one who could hire and fire, wasn’t he?  Sure, every prospective candidate had to jump through a dozen hoops crafted by Human Resources dickheads who needed to justify their salaries somehow, but Allrianne had the final word.  The man was a micromanager in the worst possible sense, when it came to hiring reporters.  He wouldn’t accept anyone he hadn’t interviewed personally.

“You,” he said, finally.

“No.”  Allrianne let out a heavy sigh.  “The orders came from high up.”

Clarence stared.  “The stockholders?”

“Higher than that,” Allrianne said.  He still wouldn’t meet Clarence’s eyes.  “The orders came all the way from Simon Goldwater himself.”

“What?”  Clarence couldn’t believe it.  He would sooner believe that water had been turned into wine.  “Goldwater?  The Goldwater?  Simon Goldwater fired me personally?”

“Him, or someone in his office,” Allrianne said.  “We got the orders within an hour of you filing the story.  The paperwork was already completed by the time they deigned to inform me.  And Clarence?  Rest assured that the union isn’t going to say anything about this particular firing.”

Clarence was still having problems with the concept of Simon Goldwater even knowing Clarence’s name.  The man was - perhaps - the richest person on Tarsus, owner of a tangled web of corporations so complex that it was hard to say where his power and influence truly ended.  Clarence hadn’t known that Goldwater owned the Daily Truth, but ... he had to admit it was possible.  He certainly owned a sizable media division of his own.  And it would be just like Goldwater to imply that Allrianne had a certain independence, even though it wasn’t remotely true.  What sort of idiot would bite the hand that fed him?

Me, apparently, Clarence thought.  

His thoughts ran in circles.  It made no sense.  He could understand the government getting pissy about the story - expelling the Forsakers was pointless and everyone knew it - but Goldwater?  What was his involvement?  Had someone from the government brought pressure to bear on Simon Goldwater?  That was hard to believe.  The man was so rich that everyone knew he had hundreds of representatives in his pocket.  Very few government officials would dare to try to bully him.  It was easier to believe that Goldwater had fired him personally.

“I can still go to the union,” he said, putting the thought to one side.  It didn’t matter right now, not when his entire life was at stake.  “Sir, if I go ...”

Allrianne cut him off.  “It will be rejected.  Clarence, I’ve seen the paperwork.  The union isn’t going to say anything about this firing.  If you go to the union, you’ll just get kicked out.”

“The union leadership might refuse to get involved,” Clarence said.  “But what about the actual members - what about them?”

“What about them?”  Allrianne echoed.  “Do you really think the union gives a damn about the rank and file?”

Clarence swallowed, hard.  The union leadership was composed of professional activists, not ... not the people they were supposed to represent.  It had been meant to make the union more efficient, if he recalled correctly.  Union membership was pretty much mandatory in journalistic circles.  But ... it also meant that the leadership had lost touch with the people below them.  There was a good chance that they’d be more concerned about ruining their personal relationships with the big bosses than defending their people.  Clarence had a nasty feeling that the fix was firmly in.  The union might be able to come up with a good case for not defending him.

“Fuck,” he managed.

“Quite,” Allrianne agreed.

He shook his head.  “I wasn’t given a choice.  I had to sign off on your termination.  If I hadn’t ...”

Clarence could guess.  If Allrianne balked, he would be fired too.  The stockholders would be furious if Allrianne put their investments in jeopardy.   Simon Goldwater - assuming it really was Simon Goldwater and not some underling trying to please the big boss - wouldn’t have to pull many strings to get rid of a particularly foolish editor.  In hindsight, Clarence wondered just how he’d ever thought that Allrianne enjoyed a certain degree of independence.  How quickly would he have folded if he’d thought his livelihood was at stake?

“I understand,” he said, softly.  “I need my job.”

“I can’t give it back to you,” Allrianne told him.  “I can’t even give you a reference, not now.”

“But it’s so fucking pointless,” Clarence said.  “How does anyone benefit from expelling the Forsakers?  Or by abusing them or ...?”

Allrianne let out another sigh.  “You should know by now that what someone believes to be true may not actually be true,” he pointed out.  “And you should also know that it doesn’t always matter if someone believes something that isn’t true.  The only thing that matters is that they believe it to be true.”

Clarence made a rude sound.  “They’ll find out soon enough,” he muttered.  “I’d bet good credits that it cost more to expel the Forsakers than it would have done to keep them in that estate for a hundred years.”

“You might be right.”  Allrianne looked as if he didn’t care.  “But it doesn’t matter.”

Clarence met his eyes.  “I need my job back,” he said.  “I ... I’ll do anything.  I’ll ...”

Allrianne looked away.  “I can’t!  Get that through your head.  I cannot employ you in any role.  There is nothing I can do to get you a job.”

“Fuck it,” Clarence said.  “I ... I don’t know what to do.”

“I know,” Allrianne said.  “And I’m sorry.”

“Yeah,” Clarence said.  “I bet you’re sorry.”

“There’s only one thing I can do for you,” Allrianne said.  Clarence looked up, hopefully.  “I can ensure that this little ... incident ... doesn’t get included in your file.  The guards will kick you out of the building, then wipe the recordings.  You won’t have to explain your stunt here to prospective employers.  That’s about the only thing I can do for you.”

“Gosh,” Clarence said, sarcastically.  “That is so generous of you.”

“Yes,” Allrianne agreed.  “It is.”

Clarence looked down.  The hell of it was that Allrianne was right.  It wouldn’t be easy to convince anyone to hire him, not now, but it would be impossible if prospective employers knew he’d gone straight to his former workplace and made a scene.  They wouldn’t want to take a chance on him when there was no shortage of others willing and able to work who didn’t have blots on their records.  Clarence knew he should be grateful, that he should be on his knees thanking his former boss.   And yet, it was hard to feel any gratitude.  When push came to shove, he’d been betrayed so rapidly that he still hadn’t come to terms with it.

“Thank you,” he managed.

“You’re welcome,” Allrianne said.  “Good luck.”

“Hah,” Clarence muttered.  

It was a bitter thought.  He didn’t have a hope of getting another job as a reporter.  That was as clear as day.  But what other job could he get?  A shopping mall wasn’t going to hire an older man when they could hire a young and pretty girl instead.  Besides, they’d think Clarence was overqualified for just about any post.  They wouldn’t realise that he desperately needed the money.  No, they would realise it.  They just wouldn’t care.

And that was my mistake, he thought.  I started to care.

He shivered, remembering the Forsakers who’d been abused and molested before they’d been unceremoniously deported to some godforsaken rocky planetoid on the edge of explored space.  They hadn’t deserved to be uprooted from their homes, they hadn’t deserved to become the playthings of corrupt police and security officers, they hadn’t deserved to be sent into an exile that would probably force them to either embrace technology or die ... they hadn’t deserved anything.  And if Clarence had realised that reporting on an atrocity would cost him everything, he knew - to his eternal shame - that he would have killed the story before it was even written.  What does it profit a man to expose injustice, he asked himself, if it costs him everything?

And the injustice hasn’t even been exposed, he told himself.  He hadn’t had a chance to look at the latest bulletins, but he’d bet every last credit in his savings account that his story hadn’t even reached the editors before being killed.   It had probably been replaced by a collection of lies about how much money had been saved by expelling the Forsakers, even though no one in their right mind would believe it.  No one knows what really happened last night.

Clarence looked at his former boss, feeling too tired and beaten to be angry.  How could he call Allrianne a coward when he knew, even if he didn’t want to admit it, that he would have killed the story in a heartbeat if he’d known what it would cost him?  It wouldn’t have been hard to write a puff piece about how wonderful a Forsaker-less world would be.  He would have written the story and ... and done his best to forget that real people had had their lives torn apart, for nothing.  It was true.  He didn’t want to admit it, but it was true.  He was just as much of a coward as everyone else.

And they’ll make sure everyone knows why I was fired, he thought.  It would keep them from rocking the boat themselves.

“I hope you find something,” Allrianne said.  “And if you don’t ... you can always emigrate.”

“Perhaps I can follow the Forsakers,” Clarence growled.  The government had no qualms about buying starship tickets for anyone who wanted to leave, provided they were heading to a stage-one colony world.  “Who knows where they’re going?”

“They might be better off than you think,” Allrianne pointed out.  “They’d know how to survive on a colony world, wouldn’t they?”

Clarence had to admit it made a certain kind of sense.  Stage-one colony worlds were almost always low-tech, at least for the first hundred years.  It was cheaper to give the colonists primitive gear, equipment they could repair or replace for themselves, rather than keep them supplied with modern technology that would cost a great deal to replace.  He wanted to believe his former boss was right.  It would be nice to think that the Forsakers had been exiled to a world they’d consider paradise.

And how long would that last, he asked himself, when they truly had to live without modern technology?

He shook his head.  It was hard to believe the government had bothered.  It was far more likely that the Forsakers had been sold into indentured slavery or simply dumped on the nearest world ... if they were lucky.  There were quite a few nearby worlds that depended on high tech to survive.  The Forsakers would hate them.  And ... he cursed, once again.  It didn’t matter.  He’d tried to help them and it had cost him everything.  There was nothing more he could do for anyone.  He didn’t even have the nerve to kill himself.

“Good luck,” Allrianne said.  The editor sounded sincere, although he’d sounded sincere when he’d been extolling the virtues of a free press too.  “The guards will escort you out.”

Clarence nodded - he wasn’t going to thank the man, even though he knew he should - and watched him leave the office.  His wrists were starting to ache uncomfortably.  The guard returned a moment later, his face grim.  Clarence said nothing as he was hoisted to his feet and marched down a long corridor to the rear entrance.  Thankfully, he wasn’t about to be taken through the lobby again.

“If I see you again, you’ll be taken straight to the police,” the guard growled as he unlocked the cuffs.  “Do you understand me?”

“Yes, sir,” Clarence grated.  There was no point in trying to say anything else.  No one would make a fuss if the guard zapped him with a shockrod.  He concentrated on trying to massage some feeling back into his wrists.  “I won’t see you again.”

“Good,” the guard said.  He opened the door and pushed Clarence into the alleyway.  It was bitterly cold outside, despite the coat.  “Fuck off.”

Chapter Four

It was, however, incredibly difficult for the average person to either get their hands on accurate information or, for that matter, to start their own media business.  The regulatory nightmare created by the Empire’s bureaucrats - all for the population’s own good, of course - bore down particularly hard on independent media producers.  
- Professor Leo Caesius.  Crying Wolf: The Media and the Fall of the Empire.

Clarence honestly wasn’t sure what to do with himself as he hightailed it away from the Daily Truth.

It was hard, so hard, to walk down the street and know he didn’t have a job.  The hundreds of suited professionals walking past him, heading to the shops for lunch or simply taking a break before they returned to the office ... they were all so secure in their lives.  They had jobs, they had lives ... he knew, intellectually, that their positions were no more secure than his had been, but he didn’t believe it.  He felt a surge of hatred as he passed a group of chattering women, bragging openly about their latest outfits ... didn’t they know they were wasting the money?  Didn’t they know they could lose their jobs at any moment?  But how could he blame them when he knew he hadn’t thought about it either?

I thought I was secure until I wasn’t, he told himself.  The grim awareness that he would have been a coward, if he’d realised that there was a reason to be scared, gnawed at him.  He didn’t want to look at himself in the mirror.  And now it’s too late.

He stopped outside a small cafe and had lunch, a sandwich, a drink and a packet of crisps.  It occurred to him, a moment too late, that he might not be able to afford it ... and, even if he could, perhaps he shouldn’t afford it.  The kind of meals he’d been allowed to put on his expense account were suddenly out of reach.  It was all he could do to force himself to put a tip on the table when the time came to pay.  God knew if he could afford a handful of credits for a girl who was probably trying to work her way through university.  He wanted to scream at her, to tell her that she would never be able to pay back her loans, but it was completely pointless.  He’d done his best for the Forsakers and look how that had ended up.

At least she’s not opening her legs for money, he thought, sourly.  Years ago, the Daily Truth had run a shocking expose on students who’d sold their virginity for the money to pay off their student loans.  He’d mocked and sneered, both at the girls themselves and the bastards who’d paid them, but now ... now he understood all too well.  Student loans just kept growing bigger and bigger with every passing year.  The poor bitches had no choice.

The girl thanked him as he left the cafe.  Clarence nodded in return, silently grateful that she didn’t know he was unemployed.  He’d have had to pay in advance if she’d known he was unemployed.  There was no shortage of stories about people being denied everything from a seat reservation to a banking loan because they were unemployed.  It carried a terrible stigma that no one wanted to face.  Clarence knew it was only a matter of time until the news leaked out.  None of his friends - his former friends - would want to know him once they knew the truth.  Unemployment might be catching.

Literally, in my case, Clarence thought.  Many of his friends worked at the Daily Truth.  They would be wise to avoid him, just in case Simon Goldwater noticed them too.  How can I blame them for pretending that I don’t exist?

He reached for his terminal, intending to call a hovercab, then forced himself to start walking home instead.  It wasn’t that long a walk.  Besides, he knew he might need ten credits for something more serious.  He thought hard as he made his way down the street, trying to plot out the future.  Minnie didn’t make anything like enough money to cover their expenses, let alone the interest on their loans but ... he could talk to the bank, try to work something out before it was too late.  Who knew?  Maybe he could get a job as a toilet cleaner or street-sweeper or something - anything - else.  And he did have his degree in journalism.  It might just give him a toehold somewhere else.

Unless I’ve been completely blacklisted, he thought.  He’d heard rumours about what happened to people who were unpersoned.  They couldn’t get a job anywhere, anywhere at all.  And, if the rumours were true, they never knew for sure what had happened.  They just kept applying for job after job, always being rejected.  And if I can’t get a job, what then?

He nodded politely to his neighbour as he entered the apartment block, trying to look as if nothing was wrong.  Mrs. Douglas was a gossip, plain and simple.  If she knew what had happened to him, everyone else would know within the day.  The tenant’s association would start demanding that they paid their dues within a week or ... or what?  Clarence wasn't sure quite what would happen, but he was certain it wouldn’t be pleasant.  He hadn’t liked anything that had happened over the last few hours and he was pretty sure the rest of the week would be worse.

Henry was sitting on the sofa when Clarence entered the apartment, looking scared.  “Dad?  What’s happening?”

Clarence stared at him in shock.  It was only three o’clock in the afternoon.  Henry should not be home, not yet.  The nursery should have kept him until five, when he should have been collected by Minnie on her way home from work.  He heard someone moving in the bedroom and felt his heart sink.  Minnie was home.  Minnie had come home early ... he swallowed, hard.  If Minnie had been fired too ...

“Stay there,” he said.  Minnie would have called him if she’d been fired, wouldn’t she?  He didn’t think she would have taken Henry out of nursery if she’d been fired.  She would have gone home and ... and what?  “I’ll be back in a moment.”

“But Dad ...”

Clarence ignored his son as he slipped into the bedroom.  Minnie was sorting through her drawers, tossing a handful of clothes towards a single suitcase sitting on the bed.  For a moment, Clarence just stared.  Minnie had been beautiful when he’d first met her, over ten years ago, and she was still beautiful.  She’d worked hard to regain her figure after they’d had a child - she’d refused to bear a second child - and it had paid off for her.  Clarence could easily believe she was younger than her real age.

Minnie straightened up and turned to face him.  Clarence felt breathless.  She was a dark-skinned vision of beauty, even when she was angry.  Her almond eyes sat within a heart-shaped face, her long dark hair framed her face ... she could have been a supermodel, Clarence thought.  He was still surprised, at times, that such a vision of beauty had agreed to marry him.  Minnie’s face darkened ... 

... And then she slapped him, hard.

Clarence stumbled backwards, more shocked than hurt.  They’d had arguments in the past, great screaming rows that had brought complaints from the neighbours, but she’d never hit him.  He found it hard to believe what had just happened.  She couldn’t slap him ... Minnie drew back her hand for another slap, lashing out at him as hard as she could.  Clarence caught her hand instinctively.

“Let go of me,” Minnie snapped.  She lifted her knee, ready to go for his groin.  “You bastard ...”

The red rage rose up.  Clarence shoved, hard.  Minnie fell back on the bed, her mouth going wide with shock.  He’d never hit her either, not even when they’d been struggling to make ends meet.  Those days ... he’d wanted to forget those days.  He’d thought they were over when they both finally had good jobs.  Anger surged through him.  How could she turn on him at the darkest hour?  The urge to hit her, to beat her into submission, was almost overwhelming.  He had his fist raised before his conscious mind caught up with what he was doing.  She was his wife!  He didn’t want to hurt her.  And yet, his cheek was a throbbing reminder that she’d hit him first.

Minnie sat upright and glared at him.  “What did you do?”

She knows, Clarence thought.  Minnie knew he’d been fired.  He’d hoped to get at least one or two interviews lined up - even for dirty underpaid jobs - before she came home and he had to tell her the truth.  But instead ... she knew.  Who’d told her?  They had friends in common, including some who worked at the Daily Truth, but he found it hard to believe that any of them had told her.  She knows and ...

He found his voice.  “I fucked up!”

“You’re damn right you fucked up,” Minnie snapped.  “What did you do?”

Clarence glared at her.  “Who told you?”

“I got an email saying you’d been fired,” Minnie said.  “No name.  No ID header.  Just an email saying that my fucking husband had been fired for some stupid shit and ...”

She leaned forward, glaring at him.  “What did you do?”

“I wrote a story,” Clarence said.  His head was starting to pound.  He knew, intellectually, that she had every right to be angry ... but, emotionally, he wanted her to shut up and support him.  It had been a bad day and he wanted, he needed, her comforting arms.  “And they gave me the sack.”

“For writing a story?”  Minnie crossed her arms under her breasts.  “Are you sure that’s the whole story?”

The rage boiled up again.  “Of course I’m fucking sure that’s the whole story,” Clarence snarled.  “That’s what I did.  I wrote a story and they fired me!”

“And you didn’t think,” Minnie demanded, “about what would happen to us?”

“I didn’t know anything would happen to us,” Clarence said.  It was true.  Journalists had been fired for a great many offences, ranging from stealing office supplies to sexual harassment, but he’d never heard of anyone fired merely for writing a story that had been killed before it could be published.  He’d certainly had stories killed in the past - without consequence - simply because he hadn’t been able to prove his assertions.  “Minnie ...”

“Don’t you talk to me,” Minnie snapped.  “I ... I would sooner come home to find you in bed with a fucking whore than get fired.  I ...”

She covered her eyes.  “Clarence, what are we going to do?”

“We have enough money to last a couple of months, if we’re careful,” Clarence said.  He made a mental note to check for severance pay.  The email had suggested that there wouldn’t be any, but he might be able to force something out of the Daily Truth in exchange for not going to the union.  Who knew?  It was certainly worth a try.  “And I can interview for other jobs ...”

“And when you go to the interviews,” Minnie snapped, “what then?  What are you going to tell them?”

“The truth, or as much of the truth as they can handle,” Clarence said.  If he told them about Simon Goldwater, they’d think he was mad.  Or had a persecution complex.  He rather suspected that would be preferable to them actually believing him.  “There aren’t any clear charges against me ...”

“Which means they won’t know what you did,” Minnie said.  She uncovered her eyes and glared at him.  “And why the fuck should they believe you?”

“It would be the truth,” Clarence said, weakly.

“And even if they did believe you, what then?”  Minnie stood and paced towards her dresser.  “Do you think they’d give you a decent job?”

Clarence said nothing.  His career had been long enough for him to apply for a senior reporter’s position at another newspaper, without working his way up the ranks, but ... he knew, all too well, that his application would be deleted unread.  Anywhere else ... he’d probably have to start at the bottom, assuming he got the job in the first place.  He forced himself to think how he could present his skills in a desperate bid to improve his standing, but nothing came to mind.  A reporter’s skills couldn’t be used outside the media, could they?

Perhaps I should become a private detective, he thought.  Or a stalker.

“Of course they won’t,” Minnie said.  “They’ll pay you minimum wage.  And then sack you when they discover you’re totally incompetent.”

Clarence balled his fists.  “I’m not incompetent!”

“You just got yourself fired,” Minnie thundered.  “What would you call yourself?”

“I can make money,” Clarence pleaded, although he wasn’t sure which of them he wanted to convince.  “Even if I get minimum wage ...”

“We’ll lose the apartment in two months,” Minnie said, remorselessly.  “That’s when our savings will run out.  Henry’s nursery will start talking tough about his fees in two months too ... you did have to send him to a fee-paying nursery, didn’t you?”

“That was your idea,” Clarence snapped.

Minnie ignored him.  “The banks will probably start calling tomorrow, demanding to know how we intend to repay our loans.  They’re our loans, aren’t they?  If you get paid minimum wage, our collective earnings will be too high and we’ll have to keep repaying the loans; if you get paid nothing, we won’t be able to afford the apartment and food and everything else we need anyway!  What are we going to do when Henry needs new clothes?  He’s not going to fit into your old trousers, is he?”

“No,” Clarence said.  “But ...”

“But what?”  Minnie resumed packing her suitcase.  “We are doomed.  Get that through your thick skull.  We.  Are.  Doomed.”

Clarence took a long breath, forcing himself to unclench his fists.  “What are you doing?”

“I’m packing a bag,” Minnie said.  She picked up a bra and hurled it into the suitcase.  “What does it look like I’m doing?”

Clarence sat down on the bed.  “You’re leaving me.”

“I don’t have a choice,” Minnie said.  “I’m taking Henry back to my mother’s house.  She can take care of him while I go to work and ... and try to earn enough to keep us both afloat.”

“We can get through this,” Clarence said.  “Minnie ...”

“How?”  Minnie’s voice rose until it was almost a scream of pain.  “You have destroyed our family!  What’s going to happen when we drown in debt?  What will happen to us when we don’t have any money left?  What will happen to us if I stay?”

She looked, just for a moment, if she wanted to slap him again.  “Do you expect me to go to the spaceport and spend my nights turning tricks for sailors?  Ten credits to go down on my knees and suck him?  Fifty credits for letting him bend me over a smelly rubbish bin and fuck me?  Hey!  Maybe he’d give me a hundred credits if I let him take me up the arse!  What do you expect me to do to clean up this awful fucking mess you have created?”

Clarence straightened.  “Don’t say that ...”

Minnie rested her hands on her hips.  “You know as well as I do what happens to women who become homeless,” she said.  “They don’t have many options left, do they?  What is it to be, Clarence?  Take a one-way ticket to a colony world I’ve never heard of and hope for the best?  Or spend the rest of my shortened life on the streets, begging for change?  Or selling the only thing I have left” - she grabbed her breasts - “in the hopes that I can earn enough money to stay alive one more day?  No.  I won’t.  I’ll leave now and I’ll take Henry and I’ll thank you to keep out of our lives in the future!”

Clarence stared at her.  “He’s my son!”

“What kind of father puts a fucking story ahead of his son?”  Minnie slammed the suitcase closed and clicked the lock.  “I don’t know what you were writing about, but tell me ... was it worth it?”

“... No,” Clarence said.  “I didn’t think ...”

“That could almost be the story of your life,” Minnie said, bitterly.  Tears glittered in her dark eyes.  “You’re not eighteen any longer, Clarence.  You’re not a single man with ... with the nerve to do whatever it takes to challenge the establishment.  You have a family, a family you have destroyed.  I won’t have Henry growing up with a whore for a mother and I won’t have him go into care while his father ... oh, fuck it.  Just get out of our lives and stay out.”

She picked up the suitcase and marched out of the room.  Clarence wanted to go after her, but something - despair, perhaps - kept him rooted to the bed.  He heard her snapping at Henry, telling him to pick up his bag and follow her down the stairs.  Clarence lay back on the bed, lost in his despair.  He had lost everything.  His wife and child had left him ...

... And, in truth, how could he blame her?  Minnie was right.  He’d destroyed their life.

He staggered to his feet and walked into the kitchen.  It looked homey, as if Minnie had only stepped out for a minute.  But he knew she would never come back.  Shaking his head, he opened a cupboard and found a bottle of expensive wine.  He’d intended to save it for his birthday, but now ... he doubted that birthday would ever come.

Lifting the bottle to his lips, he took a long swig.

Chapter Five

It was literally impossible for a media producer to exist without breaking at least a hundred different laws and regulations.  A producer that ran a story without - for example - getting written permission from everyone involved would technically be in breach of the law, although it was unlikely that such permission would be forthcoming.  Why would someone accused of a crime grant permission for their name to be mentioned in print?
- Professor Leo Caesius.  Crying Wolf: The Media and the Fall of the Empire.  

“Fucking colonials,” someone said, as he raised his glass high.  “Damnation to the bastards!”

“Damnation to the bastards,” Colin Simpson echoed.  He took a long swig of his beer, savouring the taste.  It was thinner than he liked, thinner than the beer one of his wretched stepfathers had brought home years ago, but it was alcoholic.  “And death to the shitters!”

“Death to the shitters,” the small group echoed.

Colin allowed himself a cold smile as he looked around the bar.  It was heaving with young men like him - women and older men knew to give the bar a wide berth - all angry at the lack of anything meaningful in their lives.  Or even a hope of supporting themselves.  Colin had graduated from college with a decent degree, and excellent prospects, but the jobs he’d been promised had been nowhere to be found.  He’d hoped to be a starship pilot, once upon a time; he’d discovered, rapidly, that there was no hope of turning his degree into a practical high-paying job.  He hadn’t even been able to switch to the technical schools when he’d realised the scale of the problem.  Instead, he was competing with immigrants and worthless countrymen for jobs that didn’t require any education, but didn’t pay very well.  The handful of credits in his pocket was all he had.  And his mother was nagging him to get a better job.

Stupid bitch, he thought, as he took another mouthful of beer.  It had been easier in her time, if she was to be believed.  Young men had walked out of school and straight into jobs.  Good jobs.  Colin’s never-to-be-sufficiently-damned stepfather had a very good job, although Colin had a sneaking suspicion that it wasn’t as good as the bastard claimed.  It isn’t easy to get a job any longer.

He felt a surge of bitter anger.  It wasn’t fair!  He’d worked his ass off in school, struggling desperately to keep his grades up ... he’d known, they’d all known, that high grades were their only hope of getting somewhere in life.  But it had grown harder and harder as the classes had grown bigger and bigger, as children and teenagers from the countryside or orbital settlements crowded the classrooms.  Colin gritted his teeth, remembering how little time the overworked teachers had had for the locals.  They’d spent so long trying to help the country boys - the shitters - that Colin and his peers had been left alone.  It just wasn’t fair!

Why couldn’t they have stayed home?  He’d asked that question once, which had earned him a detention and a nasty slap from his stepfather.  But it was a fair question, wasn’t it?  Why was Tarsus being flooded with outsiders when there was little enough for the locals?  They’re taking everything from us!

The hatred had started to curdle as he’d grown older, as he’d watched their once-nice district of the city go downhill.  He’d been told that it wasn’t the fault of the newcomers, that they were fleeing problems back home, but ... they weren’t his problems.  Why did they have to disrupt and destroy his life?  The streets were dirty, the schools were crammed, there were fewer jobs ... Colin’s sister didn’t dare go out after dark for fear of being attacked.  Colin hated it, hated it.  He wanted to have a decent life, the sort of life he saw on the viewer every day.  But he couldn’t climb the ladder when he couldn’t even get on the first stair!

He glanced at his friends and nodded to himself.  They’d grown up together.  They’d played together in the park, when they were younger; they’d chased girls together, when they were older.  And they were all in the same sinking boat.  They knew, all too well, that they didn’t have a hope of climbing the ladder.  There was no chance of moving to a better area.  The costs were too high, even for Colin’s stepfather.  The only hope was finding a way to fight back before it was too late.

“It’s time,” he said, quietly.

The alcohol felt warm in his belly as they slipped out of the bar and onto the darkened streets, heading down towards the edge of the estate.  There were supposed to be streetlights driving back the darkness, but they’d failed long ago.  Some had been broken by vandals - immigrant vandals, Colin was sure - while others had simply failed and never been replaced.  Colin gritted his teeth as they stopped at Parker’s shed to pick up their supplies.  There had been a time when it had been safe to walk the streets.  He’d had no qualms about walking from one end of the estate to the other when he’d been a child.  Now, even a lone man would hesitate to go out after dark.  He looked up, feeling a stab of envy when he saw the gleaming towers in the centre of the city.  The people who lived there didn’t give a damn about people like him, did they?  They kept mindlessly babbling on about duty and honour and obligation while - somehow - never having to sacrifice their peace and security to appease the nagging crowds.

If they wanted to house the shitters in their towers, he thought, no one would say a word of complaint.

He cursed under his breath as he saw the small cluster of houses at the edge of the estate.  They’d belonged to his people, once upon a time, but the banks had foreclosed and the owners - the rightful owners - had been evicted.  And then they’d been given to the intruders, as casually as someone might throw meat to a dog.  Colin had no idea just how many immigrants lived in those houses - he’d been told there were five or six families living in each of the buildings - but it didn’t matter.  There were plenty of other people on the estate who owed the bank money.  It was just a matter of time before the wretched bastards started talking tough to them too.  Colin had heard the stories.  The locals would be evicted to make room for the newcomers unless they took a stand.

Not that anyone listens to us, he thought, savagely.  The handful of people who’d dared protest had been destroyed.  They’d lost their jobs, they’d lost their homes ... they’d been ripped to shreds by the media, painted as irredeemable monsters rather than men and women who’d been trying to defend their homes.  We have to make them listen.

They stopped in the shadows and opened their bags.  It hadn’t been easy to get their hands on a canister of gas, then use it to produce a handful of makeshift grenades.  He’d looked around for contacts who might be able to help them get their hands on real weapons, but even the drug dealers were reluctant to use anything more dangerous than baseball bats and kitchen knives.  The police would come down on anyone with firearms like the hammer of God Himself ... Colin suspected, and he knew others who felt the same, that the government was more concerned with keeping the population under control than allowing them a chance to defend themselves.  How many people would be evicted if they were armed and able to shoot the bankers when they came to claim the house?

“One each,” he muttered, as he passed out the bottles.  It hadn’t been easy to design a trigger either.  His education had been lacking in anything practical.  He was uncomfortably aware that he’d come far too close to blowing himself up several times when he’d been filling the bottles with gas.  The slightest spark would have been enough to set off an explosion.  “When I throw mine, throw yours.”

He watched his friends hurry down to their positions, then surveyed the houses.  They’d been nice once, when their owners had felt pride in their estate.  Colin remembered a friend from his younger days who’d lived there, before he’d been evicted and gone ... gone where?  No one asked what happened to people who lost their jobs and their homes, as if the mere act of asking would bring bad luck down on their heads.  Colin couldn’t even remember the boy’s name.  The poor boy had had an older sister, if Colin recalled correctly.  She’d been pretty enough to draw attention from all over the estate, before she’d been evicted.  Was she selling herself to survive?

Hatred surged in his breast as he braced himself.  His friends had lost the houses they’d worked to earn, while the newcomers merely had to arrive to be given houses.  He lifted the bottle, took aim at the nearest window and threw it with all the strength he could muster.  The window shattered as the bottle struck home, smashing through the glass.  A second later, the gas exploded.  Colin heard someone scream - and remembered the story about five or six families crammed into each house - as the flames spread rapidly.  The houses hadn’t been very well designed.  It was quite possible that they’d burn to the ground before the fire department arrived.

Or before they can put the fire out themselves, he thought, as he turned and ran down the street.  Flames were coming from all six houses now, crackling merrily as they devoured the stolen buildings.  He could hear people shouting inside, trying to get out ... he grinned, savagely, as he picked up speed.  They won’t have anywhere to go now.

He wished, suddenly, that he’d dared recruit more friends.  They could have lurked in the darkness and attacked the bastards as they ran out of their home, striking a far harder blow for freedom.  But that was folly.  It had taken weeks to sound out his closest friends, knowing that even one traitor would be enough to nip his plan in the bud before it even got off the ground.  He’d just have to hope that others decided to emulate him, now the first blow had been struck.  They’d have no choice.  The newcomers would form gangs of their own and start pushing back.  

He heard a crashing sound behind him, but didn’t look back.  Instead, he nodded to his gang and commanded them to head home.  It was unlikely that anyone would call the police - no one on the estate liked or trusted the police - but the firemen would probably take care of that when they arrived.  Fire was a real threat, particularly if it spread to the other houses.  Colin wondered, suddenly, just how careful he’d actually been.  The dramas on the viewer had shown the police effortlessly solving an endless series of crimes, arresting the masterminds and evicting the foot soldiers within half an hour.  But if the police were really that good, why were so many criminals still on the streets?  Colin knew drug dealers, petty thieves and drug dealers - everyone knew them - who could have been rounded up in less than an hour, if the police had wanted to do it.  Everyone knew who they were.

The police in the dramas have a friendly scriptwriter, he thought, as he reached his apartment block and hurried through the rear entrance.  The security system was broken at the back, although no one cared enough to try to fix it.  For once, the estate’s condition worked in his favour.  There’d be no record of him leaving the apartment and returning.  The police in real life don’t have anything like as many advantages.

He snorted to himself, despite the cold lump in his stomach.  No one gave a damn if an oldster was mugged, or a woman was raped, or a child was snatched off the streets ... but he was sure it would be different now.  The government had been resettling immigrants for months now, driving out the locals and replacing them with strangers.  Colin couldn’t imagine them turning a blind eye to open violence.  The government was no different to a street gang.  It couldn’t allow its authority to be challenged openly or it would lose it.

It will lose it, Colin told himself.  No one in the estate will betray me.

He hoped - as he stepped into the apartment - that that was true.  There were hundreds of poor and desperate people on the estate.  One of them might be tempted by a reward, particularly if it included a transfer to a better estate on the other side of the city.  A person who spoke to the police would be lucky if they were merely beaten up, but ... Colin shook his head.  There wasn’t a person on the estate who wouldn’t approve of what he’d done.

“You’re back early,” Angelina said.  His sister was sitting on the crumbling sofa, watching a romance drama.  “Did you have enough beer?”

Colin winced at the resentment in her voice.  His sister, three years younger than him, was already a beauty.  He’d drawn a knife on a boy who’d whistled at Angelina once, threatening to cut off his penis if he ever so much as looked at Colin’s sister again.  But he was all too aware that he couldn’t protect her forever.  The wolves were already gathering.  What would happen if the estate were to be overwhelmed with newcomers?  Or if Colin’s stepfather lost his oh-so-important job?

“I couldn’t afford to stay,” he said.  He couldn’t risk telling Angelina the truth.  He trusted her, but ... she was a girl and girls gossiped.  “And the beer really should have been poured back into the horse.”

Angelina scowled.  She didn’t want to go to the bar and get drunk, he thought, but she resented not having the freedoms he took for granted.  Colin didn’t blame her for wanting to go out at night, rather than sharing the apartment with their mother and stepfather.  Their stepfather wasn’t that bad, he supposed, but he wasn’t good company either.  Angelina would be a great deal happier if she could go out of the building - and out of the estate - every so often.  But it wasn’t an option.

And the swimming pool was closed down months ago, he thought.  He wasn’t quite sure of the details, but he was certain it had something to do with the newcomers.  And people would ask questions if we went out of the estate.

Colin nodded to her and walked into their bedroom.  Having to share with his sister was a minor indignity - they’d spent hours rigging up blankets so they could each have some privacy - but one he’d learnt to endure.  It wasn’t as if he’d be bringing anyone back home in a hurry.  His mother would start cooing at the merest hint her son was getting married ... Colin shook his head as he undressed and climbed under the sheets.  He couldn’t afford a wife.  There was certainly no way he could afford to get married.  They’d have to share an apartment with their parents ...

And it isn’t fair, Colin thought, as he closed his eyes.  There’s no way out of the trap.

The next thing he knew, Angelina was shaking him.  “Colin?  Colin, wake up!”

Colin jerked awake, unsure of what was happening.  Last night ... had it been a dream?  Or ... he forced himself to sit upright.  “What ... what happened?”

Angelina looked away, granting him what little privacy she could.  “There’s a man here to see you,” she said.  She didn’t sound as if she believed her own words.  “He says he’s a head-hunter.”

A cold lump settled in Colin’s chest.  The police?  Could they have tracked him down already?  No, the police would have crashed into the apartment and handcuffed everyone inside before he had a chance to shake off his slumbers and run for his life.  But a head-hunter?  It sounded like something out of one of Angelina’s stupider dramas.  People with degrees, experience and connections got headhunted.  Colin was all too aware that he was utterly worthless, easily replaceable.  No one would bother to hunt him.

He stumbled to his feet, glanced at the clock and dressed rapidly.  Ten o’clock.  His stepfather would be at work, his mother would be drinking tea and washing clothes with her friends.  Angelina ... he told her to stay in the bedroom and walked into the living room.  A tall dark-skinned man was standing there, wearing a black suit.  He looked completely out of place, as if he’d stepped out of a drama and into the real world.

“Colin Simpson,” he said, calmly.  There wasn’t even a hint of doubt in his voice.  “Last night, you and your friends burnt down three buildings on the edge of this estate.  Fifteen people were killed, nine more were badly wounded.”

Colin felt cold.  “I was here all night,” he said, quickly.  He hadn’t expected to be caught this quickly.  And he’d killed ... it hadn’t really dawned on him that people would be killed, even though he’d prepared the gas grenades himself.  But ... who was this man?  “You can’t prove otherwise ...”

The man smiled.  “You misunderstand,” he said.  “I’m not with the police.  I’m here to offer you a job.”

“A job?”  Colin repeated, stupidly.  He felt completely off-balance.  “You’re offering me a job?”

“You could say I’m with the resistance,” the man said.  His smile sharpened.  Colin couldn’t help thinking of a tiger advancing towards its prey.  “And you joined us last night.”

Chapter Six

This was not - perish the thought! - done out of any intent to suppress the freedom of the press.  Indeed, every media-related law and regulation existed to defend the rights of the individual over the media juggernaut.  Each and every one of them - and the bureaucrats could cite case law to prove it - had come into existence after the media overstepped itself.
- Professor Leo Caesius.  Crying Wolf: The Media and the Fall of the Empire.

Someone was knocking at the door.

Clarence lay on the sofa, barely caring.  It didn’t matter who was at the door.  They could wait.  He wasn’t sure how long he’d been in a drunken stupor, but he didn’t care.  The last week had been an utter nightmare.  He’d gone to the bank, only to be told that there was no way they could renegotiate his loans; he’d gone to the job centre, only to discover that there were no jobs that would allow him to salvage something from his life.  And then the creditor notices had started pouring in.  They wanted their money back or else.  Clarence had no idea what the ‘or else’ was, but he didn’t care about that either.  He’d simply started to pour alcohol down his throat until he’d started to lose track of time.

The knocking came again, louder.  A bailiff, Clarence thought.  Someone who thought he could pick up a few items from the apartment to pay Clarence’s debts.  Or ... someone who wanted to evict him.  No, they’d have been sent by the apartment’s owners.  They would have had a keycard.  Clarence coughed loudly, his fingers searching for the bottle.  Whoever it was could wait.  There was very little in the apartment that was worth anything, save perhaps for the viewer and Clarence’s terminal.  The thought of losing that gave him a pang.  He would be completely isolated from the rest of the world ...

He shook his head, bitterly.  He was isolated.  Everyone knew what had happened to him, how he’d been fired, how his wife had left him ... he’d felt eyes following him every time he’d left the apartment.  People on the streets knew he’d been fired.  None of his old friends, damn them to hell, had bothered to reach out to him.  Clarence wondered, bitterly, if any of his friends had truly been friendly, back when he’d had a job.  Or had they merely been tolerating him?  He wanted to scream in frustration.  It was only a matter of time before the bank evicted him and ... and then what?  There was no one who would give him a place to crash, even for a night or two.  Unless ... he wanted to scream.  His mother-in-law wouldn’t give him a place, not when he might bring misfortune on her head.  She’d always felt that Minnie had married beneath herself.

Bitch, he thought, nastily.  The knocking grew louder.  Go away, whoever you are.

He blinked, shocked out of his daze, as he heard the outer door open and someone step into the apartment.  They had a keycard?  He felt, just for a second, a flash of hope.  Minnie?  She’d come back to him? The footsteps sounded feminine ... no, there was something hesitant about them.  Minnie wasn’t hesitant.  Besides, her mother would have been chewing her ear off about getting a divorce before the remainder of Clarence’s life crashed and burnt.  She wouldn’t come back to him if it meant picking a fight with her mother.

“Well,” a voice said.  “You do look a mess.”

Clarence twisted his head and blinked in surprise.  A redheaded woman was standing in the door, looking down at him.  Her body looked oddly fragile, a sign that her parents had been born on a low-gravity world.  Clarence swallowed hard, remembering her.  Claudia Sorenson was not the kind of person it was easy to forget.

“Claudia,” he managed.  It had been nearly eight years since they’d last seen each other - and ten since they’d been lovers - but she hadn’t changed much, if at all.  Her face looked just as he remembered.  “What ... what are you doing here?”

“I heard you could use a job,” Claudia said.  She wrinkled her nose at him.  “But first I think you need a shower and a change of clothes.”

Clarence felt a flash of shame.  He’d always been a dapper dresser, even when he’d been a student struggling to make ends meet.  His father had always told him that the key to being treated as a respectable man was looking like a respectable man.  Now ... he lifted his head and looked down at himself.  His shirt was stained with beer and vomit and he’d lost his trousers sometime during the last bender.  Claudia could see his pants ... the nasty part of his mind insisted that she’d seen them before, but not like this!  He forced himself to sit upright, despite the alcohol flowing through his system.  He hadn’t drunk himself so senseless since he’d been a student!

And I was senseless back then anyway, he thought, as he rubbed his forehead.  He could feel a headache coming on.  How many stupid things did I do when I was an idiot who thought he knew everything?

“You need a sober-up,” Claudia said, mercilessly.  “Do you have one in the apartment or do I need to fetch one?”

Clarence had to think hard before remembering the answer.  “There should be one in the kitchen cupboards,” he managed.  He thought there was a small bottle of sober-up pills in the kitchen cupboards.  Neither he nor Minnie had ever drunk enough to make them more than slightly tipsy.  “Look at the back.”

He tried to stand as Claudia hurried into the kitchen, looking around frantically for his trousers.  They were nowhere to be seen.  His legs refused to work properly, forcing him to sit back down again.  He swallowed a number of very nasty words as another wave of dizziness overcame him.  He’d drunk far too much for his own good.

“Swallow this,” Claudia said, holding out an innocuous white pill and a glass of water.  “And then drink all the water.”

“Thanks,” Clarence said, sourly.  He’d taken enough sober-up pills, in his student life, to know that they were thoroughly unpleasant.  “Bottoms up.”

He swallowed the pill, then chased it down with the water.  Moments later, he felt his entire body begin to sweat as the alcohol was forcibly purged from his bloodstream.  He stumbled to his feet and staggered into the bathroom, shutting the door behind him a moment before he vomited into the toilet.  Claudia made no attempt to follow him into the bathroom, for which he was uncommonly grateful.  He didn’t want her to see him in such an awful state.  She deserved better.

“Go for a shower,” Claudia called, from the other side of the door.  “And then get dressed.”

As if you’d want to see me naked now, Clarence thought.  His body was shaking, but - thankfully - the effects of the alcohol were gone.  He pulled off his remaining clothes and dumped them in the sink, wondering how the hell he was meant to wash them.  It wasn’t as if he had the money to use a laundry.  I’ve made a right mess of my life.

He clambered into the shower and turned on the water, silently grateful that it hadn’t been cut off yet.  He’d paid the last water bill, if he remembered correctly; there was at least a month before he had to tell the water board that he couldn’t afford to pay them.  Unless they already knew ... he’d discovered, time and time again, that nothing moved faster than names on an electronic blacklist.  The water board might send someone round to demand payment at any moment if they thought there would come a time when he couldn’t pay.

“Better hurry,” Claudia called.

Clarence sighed, then washed and dried himself before donning a dressing gown.  He could change into something more suitable if she convinced him to leave the apartment.  He didn’t think she’d try to trick him, but he’d heard horror stories of people going out and coming home to discover that the locks had been changed.  God alone knew what would happen to his possessions.  Sold off to recover what little they could, he supposed.  Feeling marginally human again, he opened the door and returned to the living room.  Claudia was seated on a chair, her hands resting in her lap.  Clarence hesitated, remembering when they’d been lovers, then sat facing her.  She really hadn’t changed all that much.

“So,” he said, finally.  “What happened?  The last I heard, you were with the Solarian.”

“They wanted someone to shake her tits in front of the camera, not a serious reporter,” Claudia said, tartly.  “And the editor was a perverted ... bastard.  I would have quit on the spot if I hadn’t needed to line up another job first.”

She shook her head.  “Clarence, I need to know.  What - exactly - happened?”

“It’s a long story,” Clarence said.  He explained about the Forsakers, and about the story he’d written, and about how he’d been fired.  “And now I don’t have a hope of finding another job.”

“So it would seem,” Claudia said.  “You don’t have anything to lose, do you?”

Clarence looked around the apartment.  It wasn’t his, not really.  Nor were most of the furnishings.  Only a tiny handful of things could be said to be truly his and none of them, absolutely none of them, were immune to being seized in lieu of debts.  He doubted he’d be allowed to keep even a handful of clothes when the bailiffs finally appeared.  His wife had gone, taking their child with her.  What did he have to lose?

“Not really,” he said.  “Are we going to rob banks?”

Claudia had to smile at his weak joke.  “Since I left the Solarian, I’ve been having trouble moving up the ladder.  The editor didn’t do anything obvious to my record, but I was more of a freelance reporter than someone with an actual job.  I’m pretty sure the bastard badmouthed me to all and sundry.”

“Bastard,” Clarence agreed.  “What did he want you to do?”

“You don’t want to know,” Claudia said.  “I’ve done a lot of things to pay the bills, but there are limits.”

She met his eyes.  “And then I got a rather unusual job offer.  A group of people are setting up a new media ... organisation.  They were looking for experienced reporters.”

Clarence frowned.  Claudia wasn’t an experienced reporter, not if her story was true.  He certainly couldn’t recall seeing her by-line at any point since they’d lost touch.  And yet, she’d been hired on the strength of her experience?  Something about the story didn’t quite add up.  Her new employers would know how inexperienced she was, wouldn’t they?  She would have problems showing them a portfolio of work if she didn’t have one.

“They were rather desperate,” Claudia admitted.  “They hired me.”

“I see,” Clarence lied.  That still didn’t make sense.  Claudia was hardly the only freelance journalist.  There were thousands of them, all with stronger portfolios than hers.  “Why did they hire you?”

It struck him, a moment later, that that was the wrong question.  “Who are they?”

“Students,” Claudia said.  “They’re setting up a new media organisation from scratch.”

Clarence blinked in shock.  “Students?”

“Students,” Claudia repeated.  “They don’t want to go to work for the Solarian or the Daily Truth or even the Blabbermouth.  They want to work for themselves.  They’ve actually got a workable business model.”

“A student newspaper,” Clarence said.  He shook his head.  He’d worked on the student newspaper when he’d been a student - it was where he’d met Claudia - but it hadn’t been very exciting.  There were so many rules and regulations about what the reporters could and couldn’t say that practically every interesting story had been cancelled before it could even be written.  “And they can afford to hire us?”

“It isn’t a student newspaper.”  Claudia sounded as though she’d given the same explanation time and time again.  “It’s a newspaper run by students.”

She held up a hand before Clarence could say a word.  “They’ve practically established themselves already, as a workable business.  Their business model is relatively healthy, even in these times.  They certainly should be able to make money.  Hell, they don’t have the massive overhead of running a big institution like the Blabbermouth.”

“Or the celebrity access of the Blabbermouth,” Clarence said.  Everyone read the Blabbermouth, particularly the people who said they didn’t.  It had taken him longer than it should to realise that nine-tenths of the celebrity newspaper’s scoops were not dug up by its reporters, but deliberately handed out by publicity agents.  Very few of the scoops actually hurt a celebrity’s career.  “They’re going to have problems getting off the ground.”

“That’s why they need us,” Claudia said.  “They have a technological base, Clarence, but not experienced reporters.”

Clarence sucked in his breath.  “And this is real?  They’re actually going to do it?”

“They’re determined,” Claudia said.

“They’ll have to be more than just determined,” Clarence pointed out.  “This could go spectacularly wrong.”

He looked down at his hands.  There was no law against starting a new media organisation, any more than there were laws against writing blogs or founding datanet sites.  But only a large organisation could afford the compliance and legal departments that were required to keep the newspaper from running afoul of the law.  It would be very easy to step on a legal landmine and get blown up, if one didn’t have money and connections.  Clarence remembered Simon Goldwater’s intervention and shuddered.  The students might wind up in very deep shit indeed.

“Yes, it could,” Claudia said.  “But do you have anywhere else to go?”

“... No,” Clarence said.  “Do you think they can pull it off?”

“Perhaps,” Claudia said.  “They’re certainly going to try.”

Clarence frowned.  The students would face a hell of a lot of problems.  The Daily Truth had hundreds of reporters under its banner, from senior journalists to junior muckrakers and interns who would only be hired permanently if they brought the editor a story.  The Solarian and the Blabbermouth weren’t that different, even if they relied more on connections than a nose for stories.  But a small student-run newspaper wouldn’t be able to field hundreds of reporters, let alone cover every story that demanded media attention.  The students would have real troubles building up something that could challenge the big guys.

“Look,” Claudia said.  “Come with me.  Meet the students.  See what they’ve got and ... and get some money.  Maybe it will be enough for you to live on.”

“I doubt it,” Clarence said.  “I’ll be kicked out of this apartment by the end of the month, if I’m lucky.”

“Exactly,” Claudia said.  “What do you have to lose?”

Clarence had to smile.  “Nothing,” he said.  “But will they want me?”

“They’re ready to give you a chance,” Claudia said.  “And if you do well, they’ll be delighted.”

“I see,” Clarence said.  “And now ...”

“Money?”  Claudia smiled.  “You’ll draw a salary of roughly two thousand credits a month, plus a number of stock options.  If the business does well, you’ll do well too.”

“And if it goes bust, I go bust too,” Clarence muttered.  “And if someone brings pressure to bear against them, how long will it be until I get fired?”

Claudia snorted.  “What happened to the demon boy reporter I met at journalism school?”

“He grew up and had a kid.”  Clarence remembered some of the things he’d done at journalism school and shuddered.  What had he been thinking?  He should have known he wasn’t really immortal.  “I think ...”

He froze as he heard something rattling though the letterbox and falling to the ground.  “What was that?”

Claudia gave him an odd look.  “The postman?”

“The postman comes in the morning,” Clarence said.  Ice congealed around his heart.  “I think ...”

He stood and paced towards the door.  A simple brown envelope, marked with the renting agency’s sigil, lay on the mat.  Clarence didn’t want to open it - he already knew what it was - but he had no choice.  He opened the letter and read it twice.  The legal jargon was deliberately designed to be confusing, but the intent was all too clear.

Claudia cleared her throat.  “What does it say?”

Clarence glanced back at her.  “I have to pay six weeks rent, more or less, within the week or be evicted.  I’m fucked.”

“Then you can come work for us,” Claudia said, briskly.  “We can probably work out something about housing, if you do.”

“Thanks,” Clarence said.  Would he share an apartment with Claudia?  It had been a long time since they’d been so close together.  Or ... or would he have to sleep on the floor?  He told himself, firmly, that he was being stupid.  He should be grateful not to have to sleep on the streets.  “I suppose you’re right.”

“Always,” Claudia said, with a wink.

“I don’t have anything to lose,” Clarence said.  “So I might as well take a gamble.”

He went back into his bedroom, changed into a working outfit and packed a small bag.  It wouldn’t keep him going forever, but at least he’d have something outside the apartment if the bailiffs came early.  There was no way he could meet the demand for money in advance and he suspected the landlord company knew it.  It wouldn’t be long before they foreclosed and he wouldn’t have a hope of winning in court.  Hell, he didn’t have the money for a lawyer.  The state certainly wouldn’t allow him to speak for himself.

Isn’t it funny, he reflected, how something meant to help can become a hindrance in the right - or wrong - circumstances?

Taking one last look around the apartment, and promising himself that he’d come pick up the rest as soon as possible, he followed Claudia out the door.

Chapter Seven

Individually, each and every regulation was justified.  It was true enough that a person’s reputation might be ruined beyond repair if a false story was run in the media, even if that person could prove that the story was nothing more than a tissue of lies from start to finish.  However, the net result of all of the regulations was to put a serious dampener on press freedom. 
- Professor Leo Caesius.  Crying Wolf: The Media and the Fall of the Empire.

“I haven’t been to Imperial University,” Clarence said, as the hovercab banked towards the landing pad.  “I wouldn’t have expected a new business to be born here.”

“Technically speaking, none of the students here have been to Imperial University either,” Claudia commented.  “This is an offshoot of the real Imperial University, on Earth.  A degree from here isn’t worth quite as much as a degree from Earth.”

“Assuming it is worth anything at all,” Clarence muttered.  He’d once read an article that claimed the only advantage that came from an Imperial University degree was that you knew not to be impressed with an Imperial University degree.  “And your ... employers live here?”

“In the student accommodation block,” Claudia said.  The hovercab landed with a dull thump.  Claudia paid the driver, then hopped out.  “They’re working on opening offices off-campus.”

Clarence kept his thoughts to himself as he looked around.  The campus was a whole different world from the grimy towers and grim students of journalism school.  The students - two-thirds of whom looked young enough to be his children - seemed happy and contented, running around the campus as if they didn’t have a care in the world.  His eyes lingered on a redheaded girl in a tight top for a long moment - few girls would have dared to wear something so revealing on his former estate - before he looked away, torn between embarrassment and envy.  She was so free, so unconcerned about the world.  He told himself, firmly, not to be silly as Claudia led him down the grassy path.  A journalist had better reason than most to know that the face someone presented to the world might not be their real face.

Everyone lives a life of quiet desperation, he reminded himself, dryly.  For all he knew, the girl was struggling to pay off her student loans.  Imperial University - even a satellite campus - was not cheap.  And no one wants to admit they have a problem for fear the sharks will start to gather.

And yet, it was hard to believe that the students had problems.  Dozens of young students - it was hard not to think of them as boys and girls - sat in the park, chatting happily or eating ice cream.  A handful were sitting by the lakeside, fishing with more enthusiasm than success; he felt a twinge of nostalgia as he saw a pair of young lovers kissing under a tree.  It had been a long time since he’d been allowed to be romantic, since he’d dared broadcast his emotions to the world.  But then, he was nearly twice as old as the young students in front of him.  He found it hard to believe that they’d ever faced any problems in their lives.

“Earth is gone,” he muttered.  “And they’re eating ice cream.”

“They don’t grasp what it really means,” Claudia commented.  “Do you?”

Clarence shrugged.  He’d never really given much thought to Earth.  Humanity’s homeworld was the centre of civilisation, the birthplace of the sole intelligent race in the cosmos ... but it had never really impinged upon his life.  He had never really comprehended, at an intellectual level, just how important Earth actually was until the planet had collapsed into chaos.  It was so great a loss that everyone was struggling to comprehend what it meant.  Everyone was pretending that everything was normal because they didn’t want to face up to the truth.

We’re stunned, he thought, as Claudia stopped in front of a midsized frat house.  We’re too stunned to understand what’s happened.

“This building is technically part of the university, but it’s also technically not part of the university,” Claudia explained.  She pressed her fingertips against a scanner, which bleeped and opened the door.  “The donor who endowed it was very clear on that point.  He would only give the university a shitload of money if the university agreed to respect the frat’s rights for the rest of time.  One of them is the right to set up their own businesses without university oversight.”

She grinned as she pushed the door open.  “The university has plenty of legal ways to manipulate student newsletters, but here?  They’d lose the endowment if the students complained to the donor’s estate.  The students can do pretty much anything as long as it isn’t outright illegal.”

It didn’t strike Clarence as being very secure - he was all too aware how rules and regulations could be manipulated to make something impossible without ever quite forbidding it - but he reserved judgement.  A cunning donor might have been able to manipulate the terms of the donation to ensure the safety of future students, although Clarence had no idea what would happen after the donor was dead.  The frat house was in good state, but it didn’t look that new.  He could easily believe that the donor had died hundreds of years ago.

He lifted an eyebrow as they passed a handful of earnest-looking students, but kept his thoughts to himself.  They were dressed surprisingly conservatively, for students; the men wearing loose trousers and shirts while the women wore long dresses and shirts that didn’t draw attention to their breasts.  Clarence was surprised they were dressed like that in public, although he had to admit that they looked old enough to attend job interviews.  Student fashion might be to show as much flesh as possible, the men as well as the women, but it was hard to take someone seriously if they were barely covering their genitals.  They might get the job, the cynic in him thought, yet ... he doubted they’d enjoy it.

But everyone is desperate for a job these days, he reminded himself.  He wouldn’t be in the frat house if he didn’t want a job himself.  I’d go to an interview wearing nothing more than shorts if I thought it would get me the job.

Claudia led him up the stairs, then stopped in a small waiting room.  “I’ll be back in a second,” she said, as she pointed to a comfortable chair.  “Wait here.”

“Understood,” Clarence said.

He sat down and leafed through the magazines - paper magazines - as Claudia headed into the next room.  The students seemed to have focused on serious publications rather than anything else - there wasn’t a single magazine devoted to fashion or pornography - although there was something odd about the selection.  Each and every one of them was an upper-class magazine, with an upper-class take on the world and the universe at large.  He thumbed though a report of riots on Terra Nova, rolling his eyes at the conceit that anyone on Tarsus would care about Terra Nova.  It was the first world humanity had settled, when the Phase Drive had been developed and the stars had opened, but it wasn’t that important.  But then, he supposed the magazine’s editors knew their audience.  They weren’t trying to market to the proles.

And they’re wasting vast amounts of money on putting out a paper edition, Clarence noted, as he returned the magazine to the rack.  The Daily Truth was one of the oldest newspapers on Tarsus and it had never put out a paper edition.  Clarence knew, even if he had never been able to articulate it, why that was true.  It was a great deal easier to hide inconvenient facts and shove embarrassing mistakes down the memory hole if there was no hard copy.  How many stories were corrected before they were ever seen?

Claudia returned, looking mischievous.  “They’re ready to see you now, Clarence.  Good luck.”

Clarence glanced at her, then stood, smoothed down his shirt and walked through the door into the next room.  It looked like a standard interview chamber, with a handful of chairs, desks and jugs of water in strategic positions.  Three people sat behind one of the desks - a young man who couldn't be older than twenty and two young women - and another man stood by the far door.  Clarence glanced at him, wondering why he was there.  A security officer?  A bodyguard?  It wasn’t uncommon for job interviewers to be protected by security goons, but he’d seen nothing to suggest that anyone on campus feared for their lives.  Did they think they had to have a security officer?  Or was he something else altogether?

“Thank you for coming,” the young man said.  He had an upper-class accent that grated, faintly, on Clarence’s sensibilities.  “Please, take a seat.”

“Thank you.”  

Clarence sat, reminding himself - sharply - that this was a job interview.  The three youngsters facing him had the power to give him a job - or refuse him.  He had to take it seriously, even though it was hard to accept that they wielded so much power.  He wanted - he needed - a job.  He’d crawl over broken glass if there was a promise of a job at the far side.

“I’m Jack Jackson, the lead editor and publisher of Seeing Eye,” the young man said.  He indicated the young women.  “This is Elle Hartington, one of our top reporters, and Jessica Pierce, one of our administrators.  We are, to all intents and purposes, the steering committee.”

And you wouldn’t have said that unless you were a little unsure of yourself, Clarence thought, wryly.  He felt a flicker of warmth.  Jack Jackson - the name was as upper class as the voice - was clearly less arrogant than most people of his class.  You wanted to make it clear that you were in charge, when no one should even have to question that you were in charge.

“We heard about you from Claudia,” Jackson said.  He gave Clarence a warm smile that showed brilliant white teeth.  “Why were you fired from the Daily Truth?”

“I told the truth,” Clarence said.  The question stung, more than he cared to admit.  He could have saved himself a lot of trouble if he’d spoken to his boss before writing and publishing the story.  “And that cost me my career.”

Elle leaned forward.  “We know the story,” she said.  “Why did you write it?  Why did you take the risk of publishing it?”

Clarence found it hard to articulate his reasons.  They seemed so weak and frail in the light of everything that had happened.  If he could go back in time and change what he’d done, he knew he would without hesitation.  He was ashamed of himself, but he knew it was true.  But he had to try to put his reasons into words.  He had the feeling that the question was more important than it seemed.

“It was wrong,” he said, finally.  “What happened to the Forsakers ... it was wrong.  They didn’t deserve to be rounded up and shipped off to some godforsaken hellhole in the middle of nowhere.  Even if one believes they would be happier on a stage-one colony world, they still didn’t deserve to be uprooted and cast into outer darkness.  Deporting them was a terrible thing to do.  Abusing them as they were deported was even worse.”

He took a long breath.  “And even if one isn’t concerned about the morality of deporting the Forsakers, even if one thinks it was the best decision for all concerned, it was still utterly pointless.  Deporting the Forsakers probably cost the government more than keeping them.  It will not solve any of the planet’s problems.  The economy will not magically get better because the Forsakers are gone.  It is nothing more than a sop to public opinion that will produce a slight uptick in the polls, an uptick that will last only as long as it takes the people to realise that things have not gotten better.”

“And you think they won’t,” Jackson said.

“I know they won’t,” Clarence said.  He took a moment to put his thoughts into words.  “From the point of view of the average citizen, someone who barely earns two thousand credits a month, the million or so credits spent on the Forsakers seemed a vast sum of money that could be better spent elsewhere.  On him, for example.  But, from the point of view of a government that has a gross income of trillions of credits, a million or two is nothing more than small change.  We lose more in accounting errors and cost overruns than we spent on the Forsakers.”

He shrugged.  “Maybe we save a couple of million.  But we lose more than that elsewhere.”

“Interesting argument,” Jackson said.  “And not one I’ve heard elsewhere.”

“No,” Clarence agreed.  “The government doesn’t want to admit that it has made an expensive and completely useless gesture.”

Jackson shrugged, then started firing off questions about Clarence’s career.  Clarence replied, silently wishing he’d had more time to prepare for the interview.  But then, he suspected it wouldn’t have helped as much as he might have hoped.  Some of the questions were reasonable, and fairly typical of routine job interviews, but others were completely out of left-field.  It was impossible to tell if the questions were intended to make him think or if it was a sign that Jackson and his friends didn’t really know what they were doing.  He reminded himself, again, that he had to take it seriously.  There was an earnestness about the students that he found a little appealing.

“Very good,” Jackson said, after Clarence had fielded a question about his relationship with his former editor.  “I believe that Claudia has told you a little about us, correct?”

“Just a little,” Clarence said.

Jackson nodded.  “We’ll make sure you have a chance to read our business statement - we really should have given you a copy while you were waiting - but the basic outline is that we’re creating a newspaper that will concentrate on real news.  We want to tell people what happened, like all the other newspapers, but we also want to tell people why it happened; we want to encourage people to think about what they’re being told, we want to put forward the pros and cons and ...”

“He’s making a speech,” Elle said, with a wink.

An idealistic speech, Clarence thought.  He liked the ideals, but he’d worked as a journalist long enough to know that ideals rarely survived contact with the real world.  Seeing Eye was tiny, compared to the Daily Truth.  The idea that the student newsletter could compete with the Daily Truth was absurd.  He says the right things, but does he mean them?

“Yes, I am,” Jackson said.  He gave Clarence another smile.  “There is no way we can compete with the big boys, at least when it comes to grabbing scoops, but we can try to put our own spin on them.  Your article about the Forsakers, explaining why deporting them is useless as well as immoral, will offer valuable depth to our readers.”

“I see,” Clarence said.  He had his doubts, but ... the idealist in him liked the ideals, while the more practical side noted - again - that he needed a job.  “And you want me to put that spin on it?”

“Yes,” Jackson said.

His face tightened.  “We do have some other advantages,” he added.  “We won’t be producing eReaders of our own.  There’s no way we can afford to produce an eReader dedicated to a specific newsletter.  But we will be putting our material online for anyone to view through the datanet.  Subscribers will receive some bonus content, but not as much as they might hope.”

Clarence frowned.  The Daily Truth had produced and marketed its own eReader, hoping to lock its readers into a single newsletter.  Very few readers wanted to buy a dozen different eReaders, something that had caused a great deal of discontent over the years.  He’d never considered it before - it was just the way things were - but he could see very definite advantages in the plan.  Seeing Eye would have problems protecting its content - they wouldn’t be able to keep readers from sharing their material - yet ... in some ways, that would work in their favour.  The only thing worse than having their articles pirated was not having their articles pirated.

And it will boost customer confidence if it’s harder to rewrite an article after it’s published, he told himself.  The Daily Truth had never told its readers when an article was edited after publication.  It had never had to tell its readers.  They’d have to be honest about their mistakes.

“It sounds workable,” he said, finally.

“Thank you,” Jackson said.  He glanced at his co-workers, who nodded.  “I understand you need accommodation?”

Clarence blinked, then nodded.

“We’ll put a room aside for you, if you want to live on campus,” Jackson said.  “If not ... we can advance you a small sum towards your living expenses.”

“Ah ... thank you,” Clarence said, honestly surprised.  It normally took weeks for an interview committee to extend a job offer.  The idea of someone extending an offer on the spot was utterly alien.  “I ...”

Jackson smiled and stood, holding out a hand.  “Jessica will give you a copy of our employment contract,” he said.  “I think you will find it suitable.  If so, welcome to the team.”

“Thank you,” Clarence said.  He already knew he was going to take the job, unless the contract was truly appalling.  “I look forward to working with you.”

“And we look forward to publishing your article on the Forsakers.”  Jackson’s eyes burned with passion.  “It’s time the people knew the truth.”

Chapter Eight

It was also impossible for any such producer to survive the sort of fines that might be levied on them without powerful political patrons - and political patronage was not forthcoming without, effectively, selling the business’s soul.  Indeed, cynics referred to Interstellar News as Ingram News, because it was owned by Ingram Interstellar - a powerful corporation - and spent  much of its time shilling for its corporate masters.
- Professor Leo Caesius.  Crying Wolf: The Media and the Fall of the Empire.

“So,” Patricia Miller said.  “What do you think of your room?”

“I think I went to the wrong university,” Clarence said.  “This room is a dream.”

Patricia gave him a sharp look, as if he’d started speaking in tongues.  Clarence concealed his amusement with an effort.  Patricia didn’t have a very upper-class accent, but it was clear that she was used to far better accommodation than the tiny student bedsit.  Clarence, on the other hand, thought it was wonderful.  A room to himself, a comfortable bed, a desk for his terminal, a kitchen kept stocked by the staff ... it was small, true, but heavenly.  He would have sold his soul for a room to himself at journalism school.  His roommate in first year had snored so loudly that Clarence hadn’t been able to sleep comfortably.

“If you say so,” Patricia said, doubtfully.  She looked older than the rest of the students, although she was still considerably younger than Clarence himself.  She was pretty, with short dark hair and a pale face, but there was a sharpness in her eyes that suggested she had some experience of the real world.  “There are worse places to be.”

“Yeah,” Clarence agreed.  He’d gone back to his apartment with Claudia, packed a couple of suitcases and left everything else for the landlord.  There was no point in saving everything, even if he’d had the space to store it.  The landlord could sell the remainder of Clarence’s possessions if he wished.  “You could be on the streets, selling yourself.”

“True,” Patricia agreed.  “Have you come up with your next story yet?”

Clarence shook his head.  His instructions, once he’d moved into the bedsit, had been clear enough.  He had to find something that had happened fairly recently, then come up with his own spin on it.  But little had happened, certainly little that had made the news.  The media was doing its best to downplay the growing economic crisis - that was clear - but Clarence wasn’t sure he wanted to write about it.  He was no economist - he had his doubts about the economists who were regularly trotted out to reassure the public that everything was going to be fine - and he didn’t think he could write a story that people would read.  And even if he did ... what then?  It might start a panic at the worst possible time.

“There was an incident a few days ago on a ghastly estate on the other side of the river,” Patricia said.   She sat on the bed, swinging her long legs.  “A group of thugs burnt down a handful of buildings, killing at least a hundred economic migrants.  So far, none of them have been arrested.”

“That’s no surprise,” Clarence said.  “Anyone who grew up on an estate would learn the value of keeping their mouth shut, when the police start asking questions.  If, indeed, the police even bother to ask questions.”

Patricia cocked her head.  “Why wouldn’t they tell the police who to arrest?”

Clarence grinned.  “You didn’t grow up on an estate, did you?”

“No.”  Patricia eyed him, narrowly.  “What does that matter?”

“An estate is usually dominated by a group of shitheads,” Clarence said.  He had grown up on an estate.  “Most of them are no better than parasites, even the ones who are clever enough not to kill the goose that lays the golden eggs, but you know what?  They’re insiders and the police are outsiders, people who come in, shake everything up and then go away again, leaving the people who live there to cope with the consequences.  The shitheads may be shitheads, but they’re still part of the estate.”

He scowled as he remembered his early life.  “And even when the shitheads are real shitheads, what happens?  What do the police do to them?”

“They get jailed,” Patricia said.  “Right?”

“Right, for a year or two,” Clarence said.  “And then they get released from prison and they come back, looking to kill the person who betrayed them.  No one actually wants them around, but ... what does it profit them to report the shitheads to the police when the shitheads will come back in a year or so, with blood in their eyes?  Whoever killed those migrants is probably safe, because no one will dare betray them.”

“I tried to investigate the story,” Patricia said.  “I got nowhere.”

“I’m not surprised,” Clarence said.

He glanced at Patricia, trying to see her as an estate-dweller would see her.  It wouldn’t be a flattering first impression.  Too many people would see her as a remarkably secure young woman, safe and comfortable, even if they saw the hardness in her eyes.  And others would see her as nothing more than a sex object, a vision of beauty walking down the street.  They would find it hard to take her seriously.  He was surprised Patricia had ventured into the estate.  She would draw entirely the wrong sort of attention.

“Thanks,” Patricia said, sourly.  “Does the great and powerful and wondrously wise super-journalist have any advice for getting the story?”

“You’d have to interview people under strict conditions of secrecy,” Clarence said.  “And that would not be easy, because no one there will trust you to keep your word.”

Patricia glared.  “I would not betray my sources!”

“And the police can bring a lot of pressure to bear on you,” Clarence said.  “How long will you keep your mouth shut when they start threatening to jail you for withholding information?”

“I wouldn’t talk,” Patricia insisted.

Clarence shrugged.  He had no doubt that Patricia meant what she said.  But he doubted she could stick to it, when the police started turning the screws.  She had grown up in a community where the police were polite and friendly, not in a place where the police were often as much a threat as the gangbangers.  Her bravery might melt like new-fallen snow when she was hurled into prison and told she’d be staying there until she talked.  And while the Daily Truth had a lot of influence it could bring to bear on the police, Seeing Eye didn’t have anything like as much.  It was unlikely that Jack Jackson could convince an overzealous policeman’s superiors to call him off.

Although Jackson is clearly well-connected, Clarence thought.  Perhaps he can bring some influence to bear.

He considered the incident for a moment, then dismissed it as a potential story.  Incidents like it happened all the time, although the media generally ignored them or whined about hapless migrants being abused by xenophobic bigots.  There was no room for nuance, no room for understanding the threat migrants posed to people who were already struggling for survival ... Clarence had no doubt that Patricia would not understand, even if he tried to explain it.  She simply could not comprehend the estate he’d - somehow - managed to leave behind.  It was totally alien to her.

There was a knock at the door, which opened a moment later.  “Hey, Patricia,” Jennifer Turner said.  She was another reporter, in fact if not in name.  She’d certainly never gone to journalism school.  “Do you have time to help me with my story?”

“Sure,” Patricia said.  She rose, brushing down her skirt.  “Clarence, you’d better come up with something special, soon.”

Clarence nodded, stiffly.  A reporter was only as good as his last story.  The comments on the Forsaker story - which he’d cunningly rewritten to ensure that the Daily Truth couldn’t lay claim to it - suggested that it had made an impact, but that wouldn’t last.  The Daily Truth could afford to keep reporters on the payroll, even when they hadn’t tracked down a good story in months; Seeing Eye didn’t have that luxury.  He watched the girls go, then locked the door and turned his attention back to his terminal.  A handful of new story headings had already popped up in his inbox.

I’ll need an eReader to read most of them, he thought.  It was annoying to see something he wanted to read, but to be unable to read it without investing in an expensive piece of technology.  There was no technical reason why the bigger newspapers couldn’t put their material on the datanet for all to see.  But at least I can see what they’re talking about.

He scanned through the headings, one by one.  There was no mention of an attack on economic migrants, suggesting that someone in the government had decided that it was better to cover it up than condemn it.  Clarence wasn’t too surprised.  The government - and the well-heeled - might decry the attacks, but the people who were suffering as a result of economic migration were more likely to see the attacks as encouragement to engage in attacks of their own.  It was as pointless, in its own way, as deporting the Forsakers - driving out migrants wouldn’t solve the economic crisis - yet it didn’t matter.  People who were desperate would clutch at any straws.

And besides, it’s her story, he thought.  It would be easy enough to take her to the estate, after cautioning her to dress appropriately, but he doubted they’d dig up very much.  Whoever had carried out the attack would be protected by the code of silence.  And it isn’t one that will go very far.

He shrugged and continued to skim through the headings.  Thomas Wycliffe, the First Speaker of Tarsus, had announced a new economic summit to solve the sector’s problems.  It looked as if the Empire Loyalists - the current ruling party - was starting to realise that there wasn’t much of an empire left to be loyal to, although there was no way to be sure.  Earth was gone and the Core Worlds were starting to fragment.  The Corporatists and the Rebirth Parties had announced their support, although in such vague terms that Clarence found it impossible to tell if they expected the summit to do any good or if they were merely humouring the Empire Loyalists.  It was quite possible that they were trying to do both.  If the summit actually produced an economic upswing, they would share in the reward; if the summit failed, no one would be able to blame them.  But would it work?

They’ve been pretending that everything is normal ever since we heard about Earth, Clarence thought, coldly.  But there’s no way they can keep the pretence up forever.

He sucked in his breath.  Tarsus had been remarkable stable, politically speaking, for well over a thousand years, but the government had never been designed to cope with a disaster that threatened to tear the Empire apart.  Hell, it had rarely mattered who had sat in the big chair.  The political establishment was designed to make it difficult for anyone to change things, no matter who they claimed to represent.  Rebirth was the only party that preached reform and even it couldn’t change things.  But now ...

Clarence shook his head.  There was no point in writing speculative articles on the summit when so little information had been released.  He doubted he’d be allowed to attend the summit, even as an observer.  And even if he somehow managed to get his hands on a press pass, there was no way he’d be able to attend the real meetings.  The public conferences would be nothing more than window-dressing.  The real decisions would be taken well out of the public eye.  He wondered, morbidly, just what those decisions would be.  There was no easy solution to the planet’s problems.  He found it hard to imagine any kind of solution that might preserve something of the planet’s former greatness.

Perhaps that’s why they deported the Forsakers, even though they had to know it was useless, he thought, sourly.  They wanted to do something, but they didn’t know what.

He shrugged, then returned his attention to the terminal and resumed flipping through the article headings.  A young girl had been crowned Queen Bee of her school’s beauty pageant ... he shook his head in disgust and moved on.  Several popular designers were having a spat over who actually had exclusive rights to design for a handful of power couples ... Clarence found it impossible to believe that anyone actually found it important when the planet was on the verge of complete chaos.  An entertainment star in a poly-marriage had been caught cheating on her partners ... pathetic.  Clarence wondered, sourly, if he should grab his coat and go onto the streets.  Perhaps he’d see something worth turning into a story if he walked a mile or two ...

An article blinked up in front of him, one cleared for public access.  Clarence clicked on it automatically and read it, line by line.  It was a gushing piece about the planned redevelopment of an estate on the near side of the river, talking about how Maxima Corporation had purchased every house in the estate, paying enough money to allow every single inhabitant to move up in the world.  The article was so sweet that he felt his teeth starting to ache.  Clarence read it twice, feeling his instincts starting to twitch.  There wasn’t a single negative point, not one.  Even by the standards of corporate boilerplate, press releases written by PR specialists and distributed without challenge, it was embarrassing.  It had to be hiding something.

And Maxima Corporation has some excellent PR specialists, Clarence thought.  His lips thinned as he remembered that Simon Goldwater, the CEO of Maxima Corporation, was the person who’d gotten him fired.  He was very tempted to go see what he could dig up.  But why do they want to redevelop an entire estate now?

It was an odd thought.  The chances were good that the estate needed redeveloping - if it was anything like the estate Clarence had known as a kid, knocking it down would be doing the inhabitants a favour - but now?  Why now?  Maxima Corporation was unimaginably rich, but starting out on a redevelopment project when the economy was so fragile struck Clarence as dangerously absurd.  Was it a make-work project?  Clarence found it hard to imagine that redeveloping an estate would mean jobs for the unemployed.  Maxima couldn’t possibly employ enough people to make a difference, could they?  The more he looked at it, the more unlikely it seemed.

He flipped through a string of articles, trying to find one - just one - that questioned the corporation’s decision.  But there were none.  He wasn’t too surprised.  If Simon Goldwater had enough clout to get a reporter fired, he certainly had enough clout to keep negative stories from appearing in the mainstream media.  Still, Clarence doubted that everyone supported the project.  There had to be some people who thought it was a bad idea.

And everyone is talking about how generous Maxima is being to the people who are being relocated, Clarence thought.  That struck him as odd.  Corporations were not renowned for being generous.  It might be worth checking on that, just to see what they’re hiding.

He closed the terminal and stood, grabbing his coat and pulling it on.  Jackson had hinted - and Clarence suspected that it was actually an order - that Clarence should try to include one of the student reporters when he went chasing a story.  Clarence wasn’t sure what he made of that - he couldn’t help feeling that he was being asked to train his replacements - but there was nothing to be gained from picking a fight over it.  He would have preferred to take Claudia, or someone with more experience, yet ... he shrugged as he left the room, locking the door behind him.  He would just have to put up with it.

I’ll take whoever I see first, he thought, as he stepped into the common room.  Seeing Eye’s offices felt surprisingly informal, for the heart of a media operation.  But then, they were in a frat house.  I wonder ...

He frowned, inwardly, as he saw Patricia sitting in a chair, drinking coffee and reading a datapad.  She wasn’t the person he wanted to take to the estate - he had a feeling that she wouldn’t listen to him - but she was the first person he’d seen.  And ... he considered it for a moment, then shrugged.  The only way to learn was by doing.  Patricia would just have to learn from experience.

“I think I have something,” he said, as Patricia looked up.  “Interested?”

“Sure,” Patricia said.  She put the datapad aside and stood.  “Where are we going?”

“Hellebore Estate,” Clarence said.  “There might just be a story there.”

And even if there isn’t, he added silently, it will give us both some much-needed experience.

“Sounds awful,” Patricia said.

“Hellebore is a flower,” Clarence said.  He’d looked it up when he’d seen the name of the estate, more out of curiosity than anything else.  “Get changed into something more suitable and we can go.”

Patricia frowned.  “What’s wrong with my clothes?”

“You have to look professional,” Clarence said, simply.  “If you don’t, people won’t take you seriously.  And then they won’t talk to you.”

He’d expected an argument, but Patricia simply nodded.  “Fine.  I’ll do as you say.”

“I’ll call us an aircar,” Clarence said.  “Be ready to go in twenty or I’ll go without you.”

“A terrible fate,” Patricia said.  She headed for the door.  “I’ll be there, believe me.  And I hope this will lead to something good.”

“So do I,” Clarence said.  “So do I.”

Chapter Nine

The core of the problem, therefore, was two-fold.  The interstellar media corporations - themselves often subsections of far larger conglomerates, which had close ties to the Grand Senate - had a very strong interest in not rocking the boat.  Stories that were unfavourable to their corporate masters - indeed, to the Grand Senate as a whole - were often killed before they could be published. It wasn’t uncommon for a promising and idealistic young reporter to discover that his scoop had led him straight to the unemployment line.  The smarter reporters wised up and focused their attentions on the party line.
- Professor Leo Caesius.  Crying Wolf: The Media and the Fall of the Empire.

“You said you grew up on an estate,” Patricia said, as the aircar dropped into Hellebore Estate.  “Was it anything like this?”

“No,” Clarence said.  The aircar touched down with a bump.  “It was worse.”

Patricia looked as if she didn’t believe him.  Clarence didn’t really blame her.  Hellebore Estate was grey, utterly grey.  The towering apartment blocks looked ancient, as if they should have been condemned years ago; the handful of shops looked deserted, as if no one had the money to spend to keep them alive.  There were only a handful of people on the streets and they looked listless, as if they knew their lives were already over.  The estate was a concrete nightmare ... and yet, it was better than his birthplace.  There were no visible signs of crime, prostitution or drug abuse.

He paid the aircar driver and looked around, trying to decide where to begin.  There was always a housing office in an estate, but there was no point in starting there.  The people who worked at the office would always toe the party line, knowing that they’d be fired in a heartbeat if they upset their superiors.  He saw a tiny cafe, apparently deserted, and nodded to himself.  It was as good a place to start as any.  He glanced at Patricia, making sure that she was ok, then led the way towards the building.  The dirt and grime on the shopfront wasn’t remotely reassuring.

Patricia coughed.  “They’re watching us.”

“We’re strangers,” Clarence reminded her.  “Everyone on the estate probably knows everyone else.  They don’t know us.”

He stopped in front of a streetlight, mildly surprised that it hadn’t been vandalised and destroyed long ago.  Another sign, if he’d wanted it, that this estate was better than his birthplace.  A large poster had been wrapped around the streetlight, warning the locals that they had to be out of the estate in two weeks.  The legal warnings at the bottom were far from reassuring too.   Anyone found in the estate afterwards would be assumed to be a trespasser and treated accordingly.

If they’re found at all, Clarence thought.  He’d seen the immense vehicles that were used to knock down apartment blocks.  They were intimidating even when compared to military tanks.  There was a good chance that anyone hiding out in his former apartment would be killed when the building was knocked down, with his killers unaware of what they’d done until they found the body in the rubble.  The demolition squads might not bother to search the buildings before they knock them down.

He put the thought to one side as he pushed open the door and stepped into the cafe.  It had clearly started life as a diner, complete with colourful pictures and plastic furniture, but somewhere along the line it had turned into a cafe.  An old man sat at one table, drinking a mug of tea; a couple of youngsters who really should be at school were sitting at another, looking bored in a way that made Clarence roll his eyes in annoyance.  They were skiving from school and yet they looked bored?  But then, there were worse places to be.  The cafe might be ancient - and Clarence suspected that the food would be thoroughly unsafe - but at least it wasn’t a gang.  Or ... the kids weren’t that young.  There were definitely worse places to be.

“Take a seat,” the waitress said.  She was sitting behind a counter, leafing through a magazine.  Clarence didn’t have to read any of the articles to know it was a fashion magazine.  “I’ll be over in a minute.”

Patricia caught Clarence’s eye as they sat down.  “Shouldn’t we be asking her questions?”

“Later,” Clarence said.  He picked up a menu and scanned it thoughtfully.  “What do you want to drink?”

The waitress bustled over, her face somehow managing to convey the impression that she wasn’t pleased to see them.  Clarence studied her, thoughtfully.  She couldn’t be much older than him, he thought, but she looked older.  A lifetime spent trying to keep a failing business afloat would put immense wear and tear on anyone.   The cafe would be one missed payment away from failing.  He understood, all too well, how she might feel.

“What can I get you?”  The waitress’s voice was rough, as if she’d smoked too many cigarettes.  “Coffee or tea?  Or hot chocolate?”

“Tea, for both of us,” Clarence said.  He suspected it would be the safest thing on the menu.  “And we were hoping we could have a chat.”

The waitress eyed him, sharply.  “About what?”

“We’re reporters,” Patricia said.  “We come in peace.”

“Hah.”  The waitress didn’t even smile at Patricia’s weak joke.  “Let me get your tea and then I’ll be right with you.”

Clarence shook his head wryly as the waitress hurried away.  “You probably shouldn’t tell everyone that you’re a reporter,” he said.  “There are people here who regard reporters as their natural enemies.”

“But we’re on their side,” Patricia protested, quietly.  “Clarence ...”

“They don’t know that,” Clarence said.  He kept his voice low.  “And you’re not really meant to be on anyone’s side.  You’re meant to serve the truth.”

“Yes, sir,” Patricia said.

The waitress returned, carrying two mugs of tea.  “My name’s Cindy,” she said, as she sat down facing them.  “What do you want to chat about?”

Clarence took a sip of his tea.  It was unpleasantly weak, more like milky water than tea.  But it was drinkable.  He’d had worse.

“We read the stories about the estate being demolished,” he said, after he keyed his terminal to record the conversation.  It struck him, suddenly, that most of the estate’s population might have already left.  “We wanted to find out if they were true.”

Cindy eyed him.  “And what will you do if you discover that they are lies?”

“Tell the truth,” Clarence said.

“Hah,” Cindy said.  “You know this place?  It’s been in my family for the last three generations.  Granddaddy bought the entire building when the estate was built, then daddy turned it into a cafe when people stopped eating here.  He left it to me when he shuffled off this mortal coil.  It’s mine.  I own it.”

“I understand,” Clarence said.

“And now I’ve been told to leave,” Cindy said.  “This place is being taken from me, if I like it or not.  And where am I meant to go?”

Patricia leaned forward.  “I thought you were being rehoused?  And compensated ...”

“Hah.”  Cindy laughed, bitterly.  “I’ve just been told to get out of my house and fuck off, bugger off, don’t bother to write ... a new house?  They haven’t given me anything!”

“But if you own the house,” Patricia said, “surely ...”

“I do own the house,” Cindy said.  She waved a hand in the air.  “I own the entire block.  And you know what?  It’s just been taken from me.  Where the hell will I go?”

“You weren’t paid anything,” Clarence said.  He kept his feelings under tight control.  “On what grounds?”

“Some legal bullshit.”  The bitterness in Cindy’s voice was palatable.  “I own the building, you see.  But I don’t own the land.  They’ll be quite happy for me to take the building somewhere else, it seems, but how am I meant to do that?”

Clarence sucked in his breath.  He’d heard of similar tricks, but nothing quite so blatant - certainly, nothing on so big a scale.  Someone could reasonably ask the owner of an aircar to move it, if it had landed on private property, yet ... how could someone move an entire apartment block?  It was impossible.  There was no way it could be dismantled and rebuilt elsewhere, not easily.  How could Cindy even afford to ... he shook his head, dismissing the thought.  It was absurd.

“That’s not what it said in the articles,” Patricia said.  She sounded honestly outraged, even though no one with any sense should have expected the writers to confess to something most of the population would consider a thoroughly dirty trick.  It was technically legal, but outrageous.  “They said you were being compensated.”

“Well, I’m not being compensated,” Cindy snapped.  “And even if I was, I wouldn’t want to go.”

Clarence nodded in understanding.  Cindy’s cafe might not look impressive, to him, but it gave her a life above the ordinary.  She was her own boss, something he almost envied even though he knew there were downsides.  Would she want to go work for someone else?  Could she go work for someone else?  If she had no savings, and it was unlikely she had anything, she might not be able to find somewhere to stay, let alone a new job.  The more Clarence thought about it, the more he knew Cindy had been screwed.  How could she sell the apartment block when it was going to be knocked down in two weeks?

“I’ve lived here all my life,” a gruff voice said.  Clarence looked up to see the old man inching towards them.  “And now I’ve been told to go ... go where?”

Patricia moved aside to allow the man to sit down.  “Can we quote you on that?”

“Why not?”  The old man snorted, rudely.  “I’m Ted, by the way.  You’d better spell my name right.”

Clarence had to smile, although he knew it wasn’t really funny.  It wouldn’t be the first time the editor had thought he’d known better than the writer, even when the writer had been the person to take the interview.  Having his spelling corrected was irritating, but understandable; having it uncorrected was impossible to stomach.  And there had never been anything to gain by arguing with the editors.  Their fancy degrees made them utterly secure in their own intellectual superiority.

“We’ll be happy to mention your name,” Clarence said.  “And yours too, Cindy.”

Cindy laughed, humourlessly.  “What do I have to lose?”

Quite a bit, perhaps, Clarence thought.  Long experience had taught him that anyone who spoke out of turn - anyone who could be proven as having spoke out of turn - could be crushed by the corporate juggernaut.  But you really have nothing to lose.

He listened to Ted’s story, occasionally dropping a question into the mix.  The estate had hovered on the brink of anarchy for years, but - somehow - it had never quite turned into a gangbanger’s paradise.  Ted claimed that Hellebore Estate had a personality of its own, an understanding that there were lines one did not cross ... Clarence found it hard to believe, but he made a note of them anyway.  It would help sell the story if the people looked like harmless victims of corporate tyranny, rather than sinners who deserved to be driven out of their homes and onto the streets.  No matter what they said publicly, very few citizens would shed a tear if one of the really bad housing estates was to be knocked down, along with its inhabitants.  The gangbangers were not good neighbours.

“Do you think anyone will listen?”  Cindy asked, when they’d finished recording the stories.  “Do you think anyone will care?”

“Of course they will,” Patricia said.  “What’s been done to you is ... is unjust!”

Cindy looked at Clarence.  “Is that true?”

“Perhaps,” Clarence said.  The blunt truth, he suspected, was that the vast majority of people wouldn’t care.  They had too many other problems.  And they had too many reasons to despise people who lived on poor estates.  The nastier stereotypes about estate-dwellers were about as accurate as the stereotypes about reporters, but it hardly mattered.  All that mattered was that people believed them.  “But I can tell you that people won’t care if they don’t know they should care.”

“Hah,” Cindy said.  “Good luck.  And I’ll keep on making preparations to move out anyway, because I don’t think things will change.”

“We shall see,” Clarence said.

He finished his tea, paid the bill and led Patricia back onto the streets.  There were more people visible now - a glance at his watch told him that school had finished for the day - and he made silent estimates of how many were still living on the estate as they walked down the road.  A cluster of abandoned factories and warehouses sat at the rear of the estate, mute testament to the days when everyone living on the estate had the prospect of good jobs and a living wage.  It was quite likely, Clarence thought, that whoever had owned the estate - or at least the ground under his feet - had gone out of business long ago, their assets passed through a number of hands until Maxima Corporation had picked them up for a song.  He could see the logic and yet ... the more he thought about it, the less sense it made.  There was no way Maxima Corporation would ever be able to recoup its expenses.

Perhaps that’s why they’re stiffing the inhabitants, Clarence thought.  It did make a certain kind of sense, but no matter how he ran the figures through his head it still seemed as though Maxima had no hope of making a profit.  He’d seen the condos on the far side of the city that sat empty, for lack of anyone willing to pay the cost of moving in.  But very few people are evil for the sake of being evil.

He put the thought to one side as he spotted a mother with seven kids and waved to her.  The mother eyed him suspiciously and only relaxed, slightly, when he showed her his Daily Truth press card.  Technically, he should have returned it to his former boss - he was entirely sure it would show up as cancelled if someone ran a check - but no one had bothered to send a demand for its return.  He couldn’t help wondering if that was an oversight or someone trying to give him a hand.  Very few people bothered to run the card through a processor unless they were trying to buy time.

“You’re a reporter,” the woman said.  “What do you want?”

Clarence let Patricia ask the questions - he had a feeling the mother would be happier with another woman asking the questions - and listened, quietly.  The story was the same, more or less.  The mother didn’t own her house, and her landlord didn’t want to kick her out, but she was being forced to leave anyway.  She didn't know where she and her children - the oldest was twelve - would go.  Their father lived in Gamma Estate, on the other side of the river; she didn’t think they’d be welcome there.  Clarence had a nasty feeling they would be all too welcome.  The oldest son was just the right age to join the gangs.  He didn’t want to think about what could happen to the daughter.

“Thank you for your time,” Patricia said, finally.  “I’ll be in touch.”

“And I want paid,” the mother said.  “I gave you some good stuff.”

Clarence slipped her a handful of credits, then led Patricia down the street.  “Not bad,” he said, once they were out of earshot.  “That will help put a human face on the tragedy.”

“I thought the government had to provide housing for mothers,” Patricia said.  “It’s a human right.  I heard about it in school.”

“Perhaps, technically,” Clarence said.  “But there’s no rule stipulating where they have to be housed.  They might be denied housing if there is a prospect of them living with their father ... and there is a chance they could live with him.  But they won’t want to live with him.”

“Why?”  Patricia looked puzzled.  “She didn’t say he was a monster ...”

“He lives in Gamma Estate,” Clarence reminded her.  “That’s one of the worst estates in the city.  The police don’t go there unless there’s a small army at their backs.  I wouldn’t give a bent credit for their chances once they move into their father’s house.”

“You don’t know he’ll mistreat them,” Patricia protested.  “He might be a good man.”

“A good man living in a cesspit will still smell,” Clarence said.  He shook his head as he spied another interview candidate.  “You don’t get to live in a place like that unless you’re tough or prepared to knuckle under to the gangs.  That daughter, the twelve-year-old girl?  What’s her father going to do when the local thugs come sniffing around her?”

“She’s twelve,” Patricia said, horrified.

“Do you think it matters?”  Clarence met her eyes.  “The gangs won’t care.  And you know what?  No one else will care either.”

“You should write about it,” Patricia said.  “Make them care.”

Clarence laughed, humourlessly.  “Back when I was writing for the Daily Truth, there were ladies who would write endlessly about social issues.  They said we should care about ... well, everyone who was different from us.  Everyone was just the same, under the skin; everyone could be understood, if you tried.  And you know what?”

He nodded at the grey buildings.  “None of them would have walked through this estate after dark.  Or Gamma Estate.  They knew, even if they didn’t want to admit it, that it would be suicidal.  All they were doing was making excuses for people who were caught in a bind.”

Patricia looked pale.  “Really?”

“Oh, yes,” Clarence said.  He shrugged.  “Let’s do a few more interviews and go home.”

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