"Mayor Kellerman, do you have anything to say to the friends and 'family' of the victims?" - "..sures are being taken to prevent future attacks?" - "How do you see this most recent attack affecting the city's relationship with the occupying force of Terminal City?"
Mayor Brian William Kellerman was a tall, hawk-eyed man who, despite having lost his commanding Marine Corps physique since taking public office, still managed to instantly take control of any crowd simply by standing motionless and staring above all of their heads until all fell silent. He never had to wait more than a few seconds, even with the press.
The instant the reporters quietened, he set his gaze on the man immediately in front of him on the steps of City Hall, whose nametag identified him as being from New World Weekly. "I'm getting a little tired of repeating myself, Mr. Mitchell. The Transgenics currently residing in Terminal City are not considered by this office, State, or the current Administration, to be an Occupying Force," he announced sternly. "Given recent developments such as the siege at the Jam Pony premises, and the mountain of evidence of corruption by the former agent in command of our efforts against Transgenics, the government has been forced to rethink its stance on matters such as the civil rights, if any, of the Manticore escapees."
"Sir, is it true you just came from an emergency meeting with Senator McKinley and Governor Hallet?" The speaker was a short, stiff little woman the Mayor recognised from a local network, but whose name he couldn't quite recall. Apparently she was well-known enough not to bother with a visible Press Pass, but damned if I can remember her name, he thought.
"Given the untested waters we've all found ourselves treading as of late, it is the unfortunate responsibility of local and State officials to hammer out policy regarding Transgenics and their presence in Seattle," the Mayor responded. "Today's attack made it necessary for Senator McKinley, Governor Hallet and myself to convene an emergency meeting to discuss the defence of Terminal City, and the rights of those within to defend themselves." He paused a moment, hoping that his expression didn't betray his hesitance at what was to come next. "Effective immediately, anyone attempting to enter Terminal City will be met with immediate deadly force. Additional soldiers of the National Guard will be placed in key positions around the perimeter fences, with permission to fire upon anyone who tries to breach that perimeter. There – will – be – no – warning – shots."
As soon as the words were out of his mouth, the expected clamour of dozens of questions being fired from every direction arose, but again died the instant he continued to speak. "This for the residents of Terminal City. In the event that anyone does manage to breach entry into Sector Seven, you are authorised to take whatever necessary action to prevent possible attacks, with no fear of reprisals from Police, Military, or Governmental forces."
"Mr Mayor?" Mitchell loudly cut across all other voices. "What about the Transgenics confinement in Terminal City? Some groups have been asking that they be allowed to come and go as they please." Mitchell's opinion of this suggestion was clear in his tone, earning him a couple of glares from his assembled colleagues.
"At this time," Kellerman told him, "the previous restrictions remain in place. I have to ask that all those within Terminal City remain within. We're working on a safe way to set up a supply chain in order to provide the Terminal City with essential goods and equipment, and hope to have it set up within the next couple of days. That will be all for now. Excuse me."
He pushed his way past the crowd and made his way towards his car. Mitchell was the only reporter who didn't follow him, yelling more questions. Instead, he removed his New World Weekly nametag from his jacket, and pinned another in its place as he entered the building.
As soon as he was in the door he found who he was looking for. McKinley was engaged in conversation with the Governor, so Mitchell kept his distance and waited for them to finish. Out of curiosity, he turned his head slightly, and his enhanced hearing picked up their exchange.
"Why bother setting up supplies for them at all?" Hallet asked. "Why not just let 'em try sneaking around Seattle for their own supplies, and let the lynch mobs have them?"
"Oh, wonderful," McKinley sneered at him. "So they get picked off one at a time on the rare occasions when they actually get recognised for what they are? It's a great idea if you think you can wait ten years or so. We can't. What I have in mind will take long enough as is. Stupid crap like that bombing this morning, while it may have given me a warm fuzzy feeling all over, does nothing to help us."
"It might help if you told us what it is you're up to."
The look McKinley gave him would have melted a glacier. "The mere fact that you're stupid enough to keep asking when I specifically told you to drop it proves that you don't deserve to know." Each word dropped with the force of a meteor. Governor Hallet knew their talk was over. He regarded his colleague somewhat apprehensively for a moment, then strode away a little too quickly to look dignified doing so. Mitchell, watching him leaving, thought he looked like a child who'd just been spanked and was trying to show how big a boy he was by not crying while there were still grown-ups about.
Mitchell approached the Senator as he set off down a corridor towards the temporary office that had been arranged for him on the premises. "Senator McKinley? Sir, my name is Ben Mitchell, I'm with Local Public Information," he told him, naming one of the dozen or so government-sponsored publications available in Seattle. "I was wondering if I could speak to you about today's attack and the response Mayor Kellerman just announced."
McKinley continued walking but glanced sideways at Mitchell, his expression betraying no hint of recognition. "I can only spare a few minutes, if you'd care to accompany me." he said. "What exactly is it you want to know about?"
"The military response, sir. How can you guarantee that the extra Guardsmen will be able to prevent future breaches of the Terminal City perimeter?"
They passed swiftly through the anteroom outside the Senators office, where McKinley afforded his secretary a brief nod by way of greeting. "Well, obviously, for security reasons I can't go into much detail," he responded as he opened the door, allowing Mitchell to enter before him, "but I can assure you we're doing more than just posting a few extra sentries." The door clicked quietly shut.
"I just got your message when I came out of the meeting with those two idiots," McKinley informed. "How much was in the file?"
"Not too much. It was like the teaser trailer before the full one. It starts at the beginning, cites a few of the ancient homes, and discusses the legend from the Kiloma."
"That's not very much," McKinley noted. "I take it he's promised more?"
"Apparently he's still working on some of the finer details himself. He has a drop point for the kid to pick it up from."
"He wants to see how we'll react," McKinley suggested. "Assuming it is actually Cale, he doesn't need any help from a tabloid to bring this or any other story into the open."
"Then why not just broadcast the whole thing himself?" Mitchell queried. "He's got a lot more supporters among the throwbacks than New World Weekly or anyone else could dream of. They believe almost everything he says."
"Because this way he gets to watch the results from afar, with less risk to himself. If we let the story run, the things he may wind up revealing could be very dangerous. If we block it, you can be pretty much guaranteed the rumours will spread just as quickly as if he'd broadcast them. It's a clever move."
McKinley filled a cup of coffee each for himself and his guest. It had been brewed a while ago, and tasted quite stale despite being kept hot, but neither man really minded. "There are a couple of things about this that might help us out," the Senator continued. "This reporter, Theodore; do you think you can gain his trust?"
Mitchell shook his head "Doubtful. He's not about to blow Cale's cover for him, and he's being pretty protective of how he gets his information. And like you said before, if Cale is exposed he'll just slip deeper underground, which doesn't go a long way towards helping us shut him down. Low profile is what he does best."
"Then it'll have to be a tail."
"We'll need someone who won't be recognised. I tried following him this morning. Tactical error on my part. It was stupid not to assume Eyes Only would be having him watched." He took a sip of his coffee. "I couldn't spot his guard, but there definitely was one. Theodore got a call. I don't know if it was from Cale directly, but the kid changed course from wherever he was headed and went to Jam Pony instead."
"I doubt there are many throwbacks that could have gotten around you like that," McKinley told him. It was a simple statement of fact, not a compliment or an attempt to charm the other man. Mitchell's past triumphs were all people needed to look at if they wanted to know just how good he was at what he did without ever being noticed or failing to miss a detail.
In the summer of 2009, Ben Mitchell, barely into his twenties at the time, had been placed in charge of a small group of Phalanx trained youths like himself, and a pair of Intel experts, and tasked with the economic destruction of the world's last superpower, and the escalation of the occupation in Iraq into World War Three. Unfortunately things hadn't gone quite to plan. The attack worked perfectly, as did Mitchell's plan to frame an Al-Queda splinter-group with connections to the Iranian government, deposed Taliban leaders, and even an aspiring war-profiteer within the Shin-Bet. The world was all but ready to be set aflame in a war the newly crippled Roman Empire couldn't possibly have hoped to win.
But then, in an act of desperate appeasement unheard of since the British betrayal of the Cossacks, the Israelis and Iranians had worked together to round up every man and woman suspected of having been involved in the Pulse, or had offered aid of any kind to the suspects. Within six months, over seventeen hundred were captured and handed over to US forces in Iraq. The Israelis had even handed over their high-ranking, highly-informed traitor. In typical Shin-bet superspy fashion, the man was not about to let himself be interrogated by foreign agents, and lacking any appropriate tools – even his shoelaces had been taken – opted to swallow his tongue. But that wasn't a great blow, considering the show of brutal force the United States Marine Corps got to display by publicly executing all the others.
In the turmoil following the Pulse, few Americans could be found to care when the prisoners were summarily executed, most without trial and none with a fair trial. Indeed, the executions were merely a more organised version of what had been happening all over America. Entire families of Middle-Eastern descent – or who just looked like they were of Middle-Eastern descent - were being driven out of their homes, beaten, run off, or killed, left, right and centre. The popular neo-Nazi creed of 'America for Americans' became very popular for a time, spray-painted onto peoples homes, carved onto victims front doors, and in the case of one particularly vicious gang in California, carved into the victims themselves.
The downside to this kind of chaos was that it eventually proved that sometimes even the worst kind of bloodlust could be sated. America didn't quite destroy itself with violence, nor did the hoped-for war with the entire Middle-East ever come. There was, of course, a fall-back plan. During the mayhem of the two years immediately following the Pulse, politicians were shuffled in and out of the fold faster than most people could keep up. Such upheaval had paved the way for people like McKinley and quite a few of his colleagues, and even a few useful throwbacks too stupid to know they were being manipulated for the ends of a power that had been planning their destruction for centuries.
"A transgenic?" Mitchell suggested.
"I'll get you a copy of the Manticore database," McKinley told him. "Study the pictures, and keep a close eye out whenever you're with the reporter. You should be able to recognise the guard. I imagine there'll only be the one."
"Will do. What about the story?"
"Let it run," the Senator ordered, "for now. I'll contact the Conclave and explain the situation. I doubt they'll disagree, though obviously some damage control will be called for."
Mitchell wasn't all that surprised to hear this. "You think this can help us get to Cale?"
"I imagine so." McKinley drained the last of his coffee and smiled as he put the mug down. "Besides," he said, "there's not much Cale or anyone else can say or do at this point that will make the slightest difference. Their time is almost up. Pretty soon, we won't have to hide anymore. In fact, there are some throwbacks whose deaths I'd like to watch personally. By the time they realise what we've done to them, it won't matter what they know or who they tell. There won't be anyone left to try and avenge them."
"The Transgenics could still be a problem," Mitchell pointed out.
"How? They're boxed into Terminal City. All they can do is watch the throwbacks die out. And when they're gone, we fall on that rat hole and exterminate them. They can't hope to put up any kind of fight."
This prediction seemed to satisfy Mitchell, who set down his own empty mug and made for the door, where he paused and turned. "Has there been an update on Alain Sandeman?"
McKinley regarded him crossly. "He gave up that name a long time ago. To us he's still Ames White."
"He's a disgrace," Mitchell spat.
"The Conclave disagrees with you. Of course if he's captured he'll be punished for abandoning his mission. He should have known to come to us; his use as an agent may have expired, but he's still one of us. The Conclave intends to remind him of this."
Mitchell made to leave, disgusted at the thought of Sandeman's son returning to the fold.
"We tracked him to London, since you asked," McKinley told him. "From there we don't know yet, but we have people looking for him. We don't think he's left Europe. If he shows his face, he'll be found. And if it's the will of the Conclave to welcome him back among his people, that is what will happen."
Mitchell knew it was pointless to argue. "The Manticore database?"
"You'll have it tonight. And we'll have a constant watch over this Theodore by tomorrow morning."
"Very well. I'll report as soon as I have anything new. Fe'nos tol."
"Fe'nos tol."