“Ready?” asked Steve.
“Ready,” Shaun confirmed, and we piled into the car, where blessed air conditioning washed over us. Steve glanced in the rearview mirror to be sure we were wearing our seat belts before turning on the flashers and pulling away from the curb.
I raised an eyebrow, and Shaun, taking his cue like a pro, asked, “We expecting trouble, sport?”
“There are a great many politicians in town,” Steve said.
I knew what that meant: It meant Senator Ryman was concerned that whoever had been responsible for the attacks on his campaign was here in the city and would try to take care of unfinished business. They only got Buffy on their first try, after all. I forced the jet of fury rising in my chest down, refusing to let myself get riled. He didn’t know the snake was in his camp; he didn’t know it was Tate he needed to be watching out for. So why the fuck did he let us fly commercial?
Shaun put his hand on my arm, seeing my sudden tension. “Easy,” he murmured.
“Hard,” I said, and subsided.
In the carrier Rick was clutching, Lois yowled. I knew exactly how she felt.
Our diminutive convoy cut through the airport traffic in a bubble of open space created by the flashers, heading for the outskirts of town. Once, Sacramento was known for hosting the state fair, along with various rodeos, horse shows, and other large outdoor gatherings. After the Rising made those impractical, the city found itself missing a lot of vital revenue and it started looking for another way to make money. Several local taxes, a few private donations, and several major security contracts later, the fairgrounds reopened, given new life as the Sacramento Secure Assembly Center. Open-air, with standing structures and mobile home hookups for traveling convoys, a four-star hotel, a conference center… and the country’s largest outdoor space certified as safe for public assembly. If you wanted to see a candidate speak outside, looking heroic and all-American against a blue summer sky, you did it in Sacramento. Presidencies were made there; no matter what your politics were or how clean a campaign you ran, it all came down to how the people reacted when they saw your silhouette against that sky.
According to the itinerary, Senator Ryman and Governor Tate were going to be spending the next seven days in Sacramento, giving speeches, meeting the press, and getting endorsements from California’s political leaders. Not just the Republicans. My notes indicated that several prominent Democrats and Independents would be coming to have their pictures taken with the man many were beginning to suspect would be our next president. Assuming the scandal when we outed Tate didn’t kill his career, of course.
“Jesus,” said Rick, whistling as the fence around the Center came into view. “You people don’t do anything small, do you?”
“Welcome to California,” I said, rolling up my sleeves. Shaun was doing the same. Rick glanced at us, wincing, and I smiled. “Don’t worry. They’ll leave you a little bit.”
After four blood tests and a call to the CDC databases to confirm that my retinal KA was legitimately registered and not a recent affliction, we were permitted to move into the Center. From here, blood tests would be required if we wished to enter a standing structure or leave the grounds; we’d also be subject to random testing by the Center’s staff, which could happen as often as twice an hour or as rarely as once a week. Shaun made a game of pointing out the security cameras and motion detectors as we drove toward the spot assigned to the convoy.
“Start moving like a dead thing and they’ll be on you in less than a minute,” he said, with some satisfaction.
“Please tell me you’re not speaking from experience,” Rick said.
“I’m smarter than that.” Shaun tried to sound affronted. He failed.
“Someone else got there first,” I said. “How long did he get in state prison?”
“Two years, but it was for science,” said Shaun.
“Uh-huh,” I said. I might have gone on, but the car was turning, pulling down a narrow drive whose signpost identified it as “Convoy Parking #11.” I sat up straighter, resettling my sunglasses. “We’re here.”
“Thank God,” said Rick.
The Sacramento sun hadn’t gotten any cooler during our drive. I shed my jacket and grabbed my laptop bag, scanning the assembled vehicles and trailers until I spotted my objective. A slow smile spread across my face.
“Van sweet van,” murmured Shaun.
“Exactly.” I started walking, trusting the security detail to bring the rest of our things. Our vehicles and the majority of our equipment were already in place.
“In a hurry?” Rick asked, trotting to catch up with me. Shaun gave him a look. He ignored it.
“I want to see if the boys have made any progress,” I said, pressing my palm against the pressure pad on the van door. Needles bit into my hand. The door unloaded a few seconds later. Looking back over my shoulder, I asked, “Steve, which trailer are we?”
“The one on the far left with your name over the door. Mr. Cousins is in the trailer next to it,” Steve said. “I assume you’re anxious to get to work?”
“Yes, actually—crap.” I paused, dismayed. “The keynote speech.”
“I’ve got it,” said Shaun. I must have looked stunned, because he shrugged. “I can wear a monkey suit and take notes like a Newsie. They’ll never know the difference, and I bet the invite just says ‘Mason.’ Steve?”
“Yes…” said Steve, looking perplexed.
“It’s settled. C’mon, Rick. Let’s let George get some work done.” My brother grabbed the startled Newsie by the arm and hauled him away. Steve smirked and followed, leaving me standing at the entrance to the van, wondering what had just happened. Then, not being one to look a bit of gift productivity in the mouth, I stepped inside.
We removed a few vital system components before letting them ship the van, like the backup drives, our files, and—most important—the data sticks that would unlock the servers. I made my way around the interior, taking my time as I brought each system up and online, ending with the perimeter cameras. There was a certain feeling of homecoming as the screens Buffy had worked so long to get installed began flickering on, showing rotating camera views of the outside. Nothing was happening. That’s the way I like it. Once everything was stable, I flipped on the security systems. They would generate enough static to block any outside surveillance less sophisticated than the CIA’s, and if we were being monitored by the CIA, we’d have been dead already. Sitting down at my console, I opened a chat window.
Most online networking is done via message boards—totally text, not quite real-time—or streaming video these days. Very few people remember the old chat relays that used to dominate the Internet. That’s good. That means that if both sides of the chat are on servers you control, you can fly so far under the radar that you’re essentially invisible.
Luck was with me. Dave was waiting when I connected.
What’s the story? I typed. My words appeared white against the black command window.
Georgia? Confirm.
Password is ‘tintinnabulation.’
Confirmed. Have you checked your e-mail?
Not yet. We just got in.
Log off. Go read. I don’t want to waste your time with a reframe.
I paused, staring at those stark white words for a long moment before I typed, How bad?
Bad enough. Go.
I went.
Reading the files Dave and Alaric provided took the better part of an hour. Getting myself to stop hyperventilating took another twenty minutes. When my lungs stopped burning and I was sure I could control myself, I shut down my laptop, returned it to its case, and rose. I needed to get myself dressed; it was time to crash a party.