“It’s not intended to,” I said.

“Well, then, what is it intended to do?”

“It’s intended to give you time to download everything off the server, burn it to disk, and run for Ireland,” I said. Ireland has never had an extradition treaty with the United States. It still doesn’t. “If you can get across the border, you can probably lie low for years.”

“And do what? Hope they forget that I’m an international terrorist?”

“Make sure the world finds out the truth.”

The pause this time was even longer. When Mahir spoke again, his voice was quiet and very distant. “I’m not sure whether I should be flattered that you trust me this much, or disturbed that you’ve just informed me that my life is your contingency plan.”

“Does that mean you won’t do it?”

“Are you mad? Of course I’ll do it. I’d have done it if you’d asked me upfront, and if you’d asked me in a month. It’s the only way.” He hesitated before adding, wistfully, “I just wish I were better with the notion of you doing this unsupported. Rick’s a good fellow, but I’ve not worked with him long enough to feel like I’m leaving you in competent hands.”

“What he can’t manage, Shaun will,” I said. “I’m going to cut off your official server access at midnight. I’ll be mirroring all our findings on the old server address. You remember the old server?” The “old server” was a box we rented from Talking Points when we were all part of Bridge Supporters. We’d used it to back up our files when we were on the road, since Bridge Supporters wouldn’t post anything that hadn’t been through full validation and didn’t store anything uploaded by a beta blogger for more than twenty-four hours. We hadn’t used it since well before the campaign trail began, and almost no one outside the clerical staff at Talking Points knew I still had the lease. It wasn’t entirely secure, but it wasn’t ours, either. Mahir could access it without leaving a trail that would prove he was still a part of our group.

“I do,” he said. “I suppose I shouldn’t call you after this.”

“Not a good idea. I’ll contact you when I can.”

“Right.” He chuckled. “Cloak and dagger, that’s us.”

“Welcome to journalism.”

“Indeed. I do wish I’d met you in the flesh, Georgia Mason. I truly do. It’s been an honor and a privilege working with you.”

“You may still get the chance, Mahir; I’m not ready to count us out yet.” I slid my sunglasses back on. “Be good, be careful, and be alert. Your name is still connected to After the End Times. I can’t change that.”

“I wouldn’t want you to. You do the same, won’t you?”

“I’ll try. Good night, Mahir.”

“Good night, Georgia and good luck.”

The click of the call disconnecting sounded more final than it had any right to. Snapping my phone closed, I straightened, sighed, and reached for the door. It was time to get back to my team.

We had an awful lot of work to do.

It is with regret but without shame that I must announce my resignation from this site. We part, not over differences of politics or religion, but merely over a desire to explore different things. I wish the Masons the best in their future projects, and I look forward to seeing what they will accomplish.

I am sure it will be something spectacular.

—From Fish and Clips,

the blog of Mahir Gowda, April 9, 2040

Twenty-three

Six weeks is a long time in the news, even when you’re not working on a big project. Following a political campaign is a big project, one that’s capable of taking up the resources of an entire team of dedicated bloggers. Training a new division head is also a big project. The Fictionals tend to require the least amount of hand-holding, being largely content to sit around, tell each other stories, and look surprised when other people want to read them, but the person in charge of keeping them on-task needs to be more focused than the rest of the breed. There were contracts to sign and review, permissions to change, files to transfer, and a thousand little administrative things to handle that none of us wanted to deal with. Not with Buffy’s blood still fresh in our minds.

Buffy caused her share of problems during those six weeks. Maybe she was gone, but she was still very much a part of the team—and not a productive one. Becks spent the bulk of her time hunting through our code and communications feeds looking for bugs and back doors. I’d clearly never realized how paranoid Buffy really was, because the number of confirmed recording devices hidden internally was over three digits, and Becks was still finding feeds for wireless listening devices hidden in just about every office, public gathering place, and conference center we’d been to since this whole thing started. “If she’d wanted to go CIA, she could have owned the place,” Shaun muttered on the day Becks confirmed that there were still bugs running in Eakly.

“But would they have put up with her fixation on sappy purple poetry?”

“Guess not.”

Alaric and Dave followed Becks through our systems, rebuilding the mess she made as she rooted out Buffy’s worms. Together they were almost up to the task of remaking the things Buffy had built alone, although it was starting to wear on them; they’d signed on as journalists, not computer technicians. “Hire new field systems maintainer” was near the top of my to-do list, right under “uncover massive political conspiracy,” “avenge Buffy’s death,” and “don’t die.”

And even with all of this going on, we still had a job to do. Multiple jobs, really. Not only did we need to keep following the Ryman-Tate Campaign—which continued to gather steam, now buoyed by not one, not two, but three major tragedies, earning us a lot of extra news cycles in the traditional media outlets, as well as online—we needed to keep our beta bloggers on-task and updating the rest of the site. The news marches on, whether you’re walking wounded or not. That’s one of the beautiful things about the news. It’s also one of the most frustrating.