The blogging community divided into its current branches within a few years of the Rising, reacting to swelling ranks and a changing society. You’ve got Newsies, who report fact as untainted by opinion as we can manage, and our cousins, the Stewarts, who report opinion informed by fact. The Irwins go out and harass danger to give the relatively housebound general populace a little thrill, while their more sedate counterparts, the Aunties, share stories of their lives, recipes, and other snippets to keep people happy and relaxed. And, of course, the Fictionals, who fill the online world with poetry, stories, and fantasy. They have a thousand branches, all with their own names and customs, none of them meaning a damn thing to anyone who isn’t a Fictional. We’re the all-purpose opiate of the new millennium: We report the news, we make the news, and we give you a way to escape when the news becomes too much to handle.
Four
Presidential campaigns have traditionally been attended by “pet journalists” selected to follow the campaign and report on everything from the bright beginning to the sometimes-bitter end. The Rising didn’t change that. Candidates announce their runs for the big chair, pick up their little flock of television, radio, and print reporters, and hit the road.
This year’s presidential election is different, largely because one of the lead candidates, Senator Peter Ryman—born, raised, and elected in Wisconsin—is the first man to run for office who was under eighteen during the summer of ’14. He remembers the feeling of being betrayed by the news, of watching people die because they trusted the media to tell them the truth. So when he announced his candidacy, he made it a point that he wouldn’t just be inviting the usual crew to follow his campaign; he’d also invite a group of bloggers to walk the campaign trail with him from before the first primary all the way to the election, assuming he made it that far.
It was a bold move. It was a huge strike for the legitimacy of Internet news. Maybe we’re licensed journalists now, with all the insurance costs and restrictions that implies, but we’re still sneered at by certain organizations, and we can have trouble getting to information from a lot of the “mainstream” agencies. Having a presidential candidate acknowledge us was an amazing step forward. Of course, he was only going to allow three bloggers to come along. All of them had to have their Class A-15 licenses before they could even apply; if you were in the process of qualifying, your application would be thrown out without any sort of review.
Most of the bloggers we know applied, either singly or in groups, and we wanted that posting so bad that we could taste it. It was our ticket to the big leagues. Buffy had been operating under a Class B-20 license for years; as a Fictional, she didn’t need the clearance for field work, political reporting, or biohazard zones, and so she’d never seen the point in paying the license fees or taking the tests. Shaun and I rushed her through her A-level tests and classifications so fast that she just looked sort of stunned when they handed her the upgraded license. We sent in our application the next day.
Shaun was sure we’d get it. I was sure we wouldn’t. Now, still staring at my monitor, Shaun said, “George?”
“Yeah?”
“You owe me twenty bucks.”
“Yeah,” I agreed, before standing and throwing my arms around his neck. Shaun responded by whooping, putting his arms around my waist, and lifting me off the ground in order to whirl me around the room.
“We got the job!” he shouted.
“We got the job!” I shouted back.
After that, we devolved to shouting the words together, Shaun still swinging me in a circle, until the bedroom intercom crackled on and Dad’s voice demanded, “Are you two making that racket for a reason?”
“We got the job!” we shouted, in unison.
“Which job?”
“The big job!” Shaun said, putting me down and grinning at the intercom like he thought it could see him. “The biggest big job in the history of big jobs!”
“The campaign,” I said, aware that the grin on my face was probably just as big and stupid as the grin on Shaun’s. “We got the posting for the presidential campaign.”
There was a long pause before the intercom crackled again and Dad said, “You kids get dressed. I’ll get your mother. We’re going out.”
“But dinner—”
“Can go into the fridge. If you two are going to go stalk politicians all over the country, we’re going out for dinner first. Call Buffy and see if she wants to come. And that’s an order.”
“Yes, sir,” said Shaun, saluting the intercom. It clicked off and he turned on me, holding out his right hand. “Pay up.”
I pointed to the door. “Get out. There’s about to be nudity, and you’ll just complicate things.”
“Finally, adult content! Should I turn the webcams on? We can have a front-page feed in less than five—” I grabbed my pocket recorder and flung it at his head. He ducked, grinning again. “—minutes. I’ll go get some nicer clothes on. You can call the Buff one.”
“Out,” I said again, lips twitching as I fought a smile.
He walked back to the door between our rooms, stepping through before he shot back, “Wear a skirt, and I’ll release you from your debts.”
He managed to close the door before I found anything else to throw.
Shaking my head, I moved to the dresser, saying, “Phone, dial Buffy Meissonier, home line. Keep dialing until she picks up.” Buffy has a tendency to leave her phone on vibrate and ignore it while she “follows her muse,” which is basically a fancy way of saying “screws around online, writes a really depressing poem or short story, posts it, and makes three times what I do in click-through revenue and T-shirt sales.” Not that I’m bitter or anything. The truth will make you free, but it won’t make you particularly wealthy. I knew that when I chose my profession.
Playing with dead things is a little more lucrative, but Shaun doesn’t make enough to support us both—not yet, anyway—and he isn’t willing to move out without me. A lifetime spent within arm’s reach and counting primarily on each other has left us a little dependent on one another’s company. In an earlier, zombie-free era, this would have been dubbed “co-dependence” and resulted in years of therapy, culminating in us hating each other’s guts. Adoptive siblings aren’t supposed to treat each other like they’re the center of the world.
Fortunately, or unfortunately, depending on your point of view, that was an attitude for a different world. Here and now, sticking with the people who know you best is the most guaranteed way of staying alive. Shaun won’t leave the house until I do, and when we go, we’ll be going together.
By the time Buffy picked up her phone, I had actually managed to find a dark gray tweed skirt that not only fit, but that I was willing to wear in a public place. I was digging for a top when the line clicked, and she said, peevishly, “I was writing.”
“You’re always writing, unless you’re reading, screwing with something mechanical, or masturbating,” I replied. “Are you wearing clothes?”
“Currently,” she said, irritation fading into confusion. “Georgia, is that you?”
“It ain’t Shaun.” I pulled on a white button-down shirt, jamming the hem under the waistband of my skirt. “We’ll be there to pick you up in fifteen. ‘We’ being me, Shaun, and the ’rents. They’re taking the whole crew to dinner. It’s just them trying to piggy-back on our publicity for some rating points, but right now, failing to care.”