"From Serenity Valley, this is John Simmons, ISN News." The reporter kept his expression level until after the cameraman had turned off and lowered his equipment. "All done," he assured him, and he sighed in relief.
"Thanks," he replied, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Another quality broadcast of 'nothing at all worth paying attention to'," he muttered. Dan raised an eyebrow, and he gave him an apologetic shrug. "Sorry. It's been a long week."
He didn't say, given that Danny already knew, that it had been a week of handling the assignments no one else wanted. From a political session on Island One, to a Flying Dutchman sighting near Neptune, he'd been thrown all over the system, writing and filming news broadcasts that, if he was lucky, were cut down to thirty second snippets on the ISN evening news.
"Keep an eye on the doors," he told him with a tired smile. "I'm going to go get a drink."
"I'll call if anything happens," Dan assured him.
"Now that'd be a nice change," he replied, heading back over to the van. Climbing in, he closed the door and knelt down next to the small fridge he'd installed, retrieving a half empty bottle of cola. Dropping into his chair, he unscrewed the lid and took a mouthful of the half-flat soda, swallowed, and sighed in frustration.
Almost three years. Almost three years since his career had turned from one of promise and glory, to a black hole of humiliation and failure. When Great Justice had ruined the story of a lifetime and made him look like a fool to the entire system. Even ISN's expansion from radio to full television broadcasting hadn't saved his career from being crippled.
Cursing Mal Fnord for the N+1th time, he looked at the bottle of cola, and considered mixing it with the whiskey they kept on hand. Deciding it was too early in the day to drink, even if it was earned, she stuck to just the cola.
It wasn't fair, dammit. He'd made mistakes, sure, but hadn't he paid for them? Years of performing the scutwork, enduring the scorn and mockery from hiscolleagues (He still remembered the look in Walter Cronkites eyes the time they'd run into each other). And now, here he was on Ganymede again, the planet that had turned him into a laughing stock, that remembered that incident better than anyone else. It had been sheer luck that he had been the closest ISN reporter when the news broke that the Professor had finally gone over the deep end, and he'd jumped at the chance to be the man on the scene before any of his 'co-workers' could get out here.
But it seemed this part of the story was already going cold. Serenity's government weren't saying anything new to the press since their initial press release, and the idiot that had gone and gotten skewered by the Mads sexaroid killbot was in the hospital, behind armed guard, and no one in the hospital was willing to tell the media anything about his condition.
The news now seemed to be about everyone else's reactions. The French Prime Minister had made a statement to the Earth press that essentially said 'we told you so'. Stellvia and Grover's Cornershad banned the Sol Bianca from their space, with a number of other stations following in their wake. The usual loud electronic screaming matches between the Professors fan club and his long term critics seemed to be escalating into a small cyber-war. Demands were coming in from across the system for an emergency Convention to resolve the 'Mad Crisis'. (That one at least appeared to be hitting a brick wall, with the Convention Authority calmly reminding everyone that Bubblecon was only a month away, and there were always official panels on the Proper Feeding and Care of Mads anyway).
Once again, it seemed John Simmons was in the worst place to get the story of his career.
He was still cursing his fate when his attention was grabbed by the sudden buzzing of her phone. Digging it out of his pocket, he raised an eyebrow at the unfamiliar phone number. Tapping the answer key, he put the phone against his ear. "Simmons, ISN."
"Hello John," replied the voice of a woman he didn't recognize. "How are you enjoying your hospital watch?" He scowled, but before he could answer, she contined. "I'm afraid that you're wasting your time there. Captain Wood left the building about half an hour ago."
Leaning forward, John's expression shifted from a scowl to curiousity. "You have my attention Miss...?"
"Just someone with an interest in ISNs willingness to compensate their sources," she replied smoothly. Your employers have me on their regular contacts file as Jupiter-71, nickname Evelyn."
"I see," he said, nodding to himself, even as he reached over to a specially waved laptop and logging in, checking the list of contacts. "Well then Evelyn, what do you have for me?" he asked a moment later.
"Video from a source in the JMC," Evelyn said. "I assume your company email account is acceptable?"
"It is," he confirmed, and almost immediately, his inbox pinged for attention. Checking the link, he found a video file waiting for him. It turned out to be camera phone footage, of several people. Two of them he recognised instantly as Jeph Antilles and Nene Romanova, the company founders and core minds. Another, who was in a conversation of some sort with Antilles was clearly some random employee. The fourth figure grabbed his attention though.
A small, but shockingly curvy Orion Slave Girl in a t-shirt and jeans stood next to Romanova, her expression suggesting she was waiting on Antilles. One hand idly played with a lock of green-black hair as she looked around the room. As John watched, Romanova leaned down and said something to her, gettling a giggle out of the girl. He studied the girl for a moment longer and considered what Evelyn was suggesting. "Okay, so Antilles has himself a new would-be secretary," he said dryly. "I'm not seeing a connection I can run with here."
That got an amused laugh, and a second email appeared. The video file in this one was taken from a security camera, showing as Antilles, Romanova and the green skinned girl stepped out of a hospital ward, one that had a militiaman standing guard next to the door. All three of them spoke briefly with the guard, who nodded politely and watched them leave, the Orion more than Antilles, before walking away himself. The time stamp on that was, as Evelyn had claimed, less then half an hour ago. Frowning, the reporter thought back, and realized he remembered a JMC delivery van departing from the hospitals delivery dock somewhere around that time.
As the story began to come together in his head, a smile began to form on his face. It grew even wider as a narrative began to form in his head. "Yes, I believe I can use this. Thank you very much Evelyn. I'll file for your compensation immediately," he told the woman. "Is there anything else you can give me?"
"A longer version of the phone footage," she replied. "I'm sure you'll find it very helpful. A pleasure doing business with you." And with that, the line went dead.
Opening up the third file, John leaned back, watching the very biomodded captain. This time, the video had audio as well, giving him the chance for a much more detailed look at her behaviour. Studying the Orion Slave Girl for several minutes, the smile became an outright grin. He had the story of the moment.
Sliding the van door open, he waved over his cameraman. "We're leaving," he told Dan, climbing into the drivers seat.
"And going where?" the other man asked. "Joel wanted us watching the hospital for when Wood wakes up." He raised an eyebrow. "Or have you got a lead on the Professor?"
"What I have is a lead on Chris Wood," John replied, starting the engine. "She snuck out of the hospital a while ago, with more than a little help with Captain Antilles."
"The JMC's involved? I thought they were staying out of this," Dan protested, buckling in.
Putting the car in gear, John laughed in anticipation. "So everyone claims, but come on, Antilles is a SMOF. He's the real authority on Ganymede, not that useless mayor. We've got a real story here, the one they're trying to hide." Slapping the younger man on the shoulder, he drove out of the parking lot. "This is going to be great!"
Back in front of the hospital, the ZNN crew watched the ISN truck leave, frowning. "Where the hell are they taking off to?" the camerawoman asked.
"Did you see Simmons face? The little jackal's got something," the reporter muttered, long elf ears twitching in consideration.
"Should we go after him?" the other woman asked, but she shook her head, expression scornful.
"Gods no. Let him stick his dick in the meatgrinder again." At her coworkers look, she grinned evilly. "You've never had to deal with the ass before, have you? Even if he's got something solid, and that's a big if? He's an idiot. He's got a few scraps of information, and he's going to build himself a nice, dramatic story out of them. Little issues like truth and accuracy?" She snorted, waving a hand dismissively. "Never even going to cross his mind." Adjusting her jacket, she stood up. "No, let Simmons go charging ahead to try and prove to everyone he's a real reporter after all, and not just a bad fiction writer. Maybe it'll finally get the little bullshit artist out of the industry. As for us, we've got that appointment with the hospital director in five minutes."
"Is he going to actually say anything?" her partner asked.
"Nothing that'll breach patient confidentiality, but we should be able to get enough to let us move on. We'll follow up with some 'man on the street' reactions, I think."
"You just want to go somewhere nice for lunch instead of snacking in the van," she teased, following her up the hospital steps.
***
"Thanks," he replied, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Another quality broadcast of 'nothing at all worth paying attention to'," he muttered. Dan raised an eyebrow, and he gave him an apologetic shrug. "Sorry. It's been a long week."
He didn't say, given that Danny already knew, that it had been a week of handling the assignments no one else wanted. From a political session on Island One, to a Flying Dutchman sighting near Neptune, he'd been thrown all over the system, writing and filming news broadcasts that, if he was lucky, were cut down to thirty second snippets on the ISN evening news.
"Keep an eye on the doors," he told him with a tired smile. "I'm going to go get a drink."
"I'll call if anything happens," Dan assured him.
"Now that'd be a nice change," he replied, heading back over to the van. Climbing in, he closed the door and knelt down next to the small fridge he'd installed, retrieving a half empty bottle of cola. Dropping into his chair, he unscrewed the lid and took a mouthful of the half-flat soda, swallowed, and sighed in frustration.
Almost three years. Almost three years since his career had turned from one of promise and glory, to a black hole of humiliation and failure. When Great Justice had ruined the story of a lifetime and made him look like a fool to the entire system. Even ISN's expansion from radio to full television broadcasting hadn't saved his career from being crippled.
Cursing Mal Fnord for the N+1th time, he looked at the bottle of cola, and considered mixing it with the whiskey they kept on hand. Deciding it was too early in the day to drink, even if it was earned, she stuck to just the cola.
It wasn't fair, dammit. He'd made mistakes, sure, but hadn't he paid for them? Years of performing the scutwork, enduring the scorn and mockery from hiscolleagues (He still remembered the look in Walter Cronkites eyes the time they'd run into each other). And now, here he was on Ganymede again, the planet that had turned him into a laughing stock, that remembered that incident better than anyone else. It had been sheer luck that he had been the closest ISN reporter when the news broke that the Professor had finally gone over the deep end, and he'd jumped at the chance to be the man on the scene before any of his 'co-workers' could get out here.
But it seemed this part of the story was already going cold. Serenity's government weren't saying anything new to the press since their initial press release, and the idiot that had gone and gotten skewered by the Mads sexaroid killbot was in the hospital, behind armed guard, and no one in the hospital was willing to tell the media anything about his condition.
The news now seemed to be about everyone else's reactions. The French Prime Minister had made a statement to the Earth press that essentially said 'we told you so'. Stellvia and Grover's Cornershad banned the Sol Bianca from their space, with a number of other stations following in their wake. The usual loud electronic screaming matches between the Professors fan club and his long term critics seemed to be escalating into a small cyber-war. Demands were coming in from across the system for an emergency Convention to resolve the 'Mad Crisis'. (That one at least appeared to be hitting a brick wall, with the Convention Authority calmly reminding everyone that Bubblecon was only a month away, and there were always official panels on the Proper Feeding and Care of Mads anyway).
Once again, it seemed John Simmons was in the worst place to get the story of his career.
He was still cursing his fate when his attention was grabbed by the sudden buzzing of her phone. Digging it out of his pocket, he raised an eyebrow at the unfamiliar phone number. Tapping the answer key, he put the phone against his ear. "Simmons, ISN."
"Hello John," replied the voice of a woman he didn't recognize. "How are you enjoying your hospital watch?" He scowled, but before he could answer, she contined. "I'm afraid that you're wasting your time there. Captain Wood left the building about half an hour ago."
Leaning forward, John's expression shifted from a scowl to curiousity. "You have my attention Miss...?"
"Just someone with an interest in ISNs willingness to compensate their sources," she replied smoothly. Your employers have me on their regular contacts file as Jupiter-71, nickname Evelyn."
"I see," he said, nodding to himself, even as he reached over to a specially waved laptop and logging in, checking the list of contacts. "Well then Evelyn, what do you have for me?" he asked a moment later.
"Video from a source in the JMC," Evelyn said. "I assume your company email account is acceptable?"
"It is," he confirmed, and almost immediately, his inbox pinged for attention. Checking the link, he found a video file waiting for him. It turned out to be camera phone footage, of several people. Two of them he recognised instantly as Jeph Antilles and Nene Romanova, the company founders and core minds. Another, who was in a conversation of some sort with Antilles was clearly some random employee. The fourth figure grabbed his attention though.
A small, but shockingly curvy Orion Slave Girl in a t-shirt and jeans stood next to Romanova, her expression suggesting she was waiting on Antilles. One hand idly played with a lock of green-black hair as she looked around the room. As John watched, Romanova leaned down and said something to her, gettling a giggle out of the girl. He studied the girl for a moment longer and considered what Evelyn was suggesting. "Okay, so Antilles has himself a new would-be secretary," he said dryly. "I'm not seeing a connection I can run with here."
That got an amused laugh, and a second email appeared. The video file in this one was taken from a security camera, showing as Antilles, Romanova and the green skinned girl stepped out of a hospital ward, one that had a militiaman standing guard next to the door. All three of them spoke briefly with the guard, who nodded politely and watched them leave, the Orion more than Antilles, before walking away himself. The time stamp on that was, as Evelyn had claimed, less then half an hour ago. Frowning, the reporter thought back, and realized he remembered a JMC delivery van departing from the hospitals delivery dock somewhere around that time.
As the story began to come together in his head, a smile began to form on his face. It grew even wider as a narrative began to form in his head. "Yes, I believe I can use this. Thank you very much Evelyn. I'll file for your compensation immediately," he told the woman. "Is there anything else you can give me?"
"A longer version of the phone footage," she replied. "I'm sure you'll find it very helpful. A pleasure doing business with you." And with that, the line went dead.
Opening up the third file, John leaned back, watching the very biomodded captain. This time, the video had audio as well, giving him the chance for a much more detailed look at her behaviour. Studying the Orion Slave Girl for several minutes, the smile became an outright grin. He had the story of the moment.
Sliding the van door open, he waved over his cameraman. "We're leaving," he told Dan, climbing into the drivers seat.
"And going where?" the other man asked. "Joel wanted us watching the hospital for when Wood wakes up." He raised an eyebrow. "Or have you got a lead on the Professor?"
"What I have is a lead on Chris Wood," John replied, starting the engine. "She snuck out of the hospital a while ago, with more than a little help with Captain Antilles."
"The JMC's involved? I thought they were staying out of this," Dan protested, buckling in.
Putting the car in gear, John laughed in anticipation. "So everyone claims, but come on, Antilles is a SMOF. He's the real authority on Ganymede, not that useless mayor. We've got a real story here, the one they're trying to hide." Slapping the younger man on the shoulder, he drove out of the parking lot. "This is going to be great!"
Back in front of the hospital, the ZNN crew watched the ISN truck leave, frowning. "Where the hell are they taking off to?" the camerawoman asked.
"Did you see Simmons face? The little jackal's got something," the reporter muttered, long elf ears twitching in consideration.
"Should we go after him?" the other woman asked, but she shook her head, expression scornful.
"Gods no. Let him stick his dick in the meatgrinder again." At her coworkers look, she grinned evilly. "You've never had to deal with the ass before, have you? Even if he's got something solid, and that's a big if? He's an idiot. He's got a few scraps of information, and he's going to build himself a nice, dramatic story out of them. Little issues like truth and accuracy?" She snorted, waving a hand dismissively. "Never even going to cross his mind." Adjusting her jacket, she stood up. "No, let Simmons go charging ahead to try and prove to everyone he's a real reporter after all, and not just a bad fiction writer. Maybe it'll finally get the little bullshit artist out of the industry. As for us, we've got that appointment with the hospital director in five minutes."
"Is he going to actually say anything?" her partner asked.
"Nothing that'll breach patient confidentiality, but we should be able to get enough to let us move on. We'll follow up with some 'man on the street' reactions, I think."
"You just want to go somewhere nice for lunch instead of snacking in the van," she teased, following her up the hospital steps.
***