Journal TuckerEstron's Journal: Cephalopod News Network (incomplete) 2
Karen is sleeping restlessly in her rocky cave. Slow, sinuous waves of green roll over her exquisite body. Every so often a flurry of red flashes and a twitch of her eight shapely arms show that her dreams have become troubled; then the green pulsing returns to her smooth grey skin.
Karen is not enthused about tomorrow. Back when she was just beginning her newscasting career she would have grabbed at the chance to interview the President, but not any more. The current President, besides being from the party Karen despises, is widely known to be a complete boob. In Karen's other interviews with him, she had discovered to her horror that he couldn't cope with even simple questions unless one of his aides supplied him with an answer. And this one was going to be live--what on earth were his handlers thinking, sending him onto a live show?
Karen wakes from a dream in which the entire country hates her for asking the President a question that he can't answer, something like, "What did you have for breakfast?" That's the thing, he's the most popular President in twenty years and the public won't stand for anyone being harsh on him. I should have just refused to do it, Karen thinks--but no, that would leave the opportunity open for that bitchy Lispeth Emerson.
Karen can't get back to sleep, so she decides to do something she hasn't done since her college days. She is going to a bar.
Pi-R-Squared is a small, rather upscale bar across town from Karen's condo. It's been getting good reviews and she really could use the exercise. Karen flows out of her cave and jets through the dark water. When she enters the bar, it's almost empty. Only a few late-night types are still here, drunk on intoxicating jellyfish. Karen orders a couple of by-the-wind sailors and sits at the bar.
While Karen is waiting for her jellies, she idly scans the room with her beautiful dinnerplate-sized eyes. The décor is tasteful, relying heavily on opulent anemones and even live coral. Small alcoves allow privacy for patrons there on dates. Karen notices that each alcove has one real live-coral wall; that has to be expensive to maintain. A flash of orange catches her eye from deep inside an alcove. Two guys are in there talking. "...so we can't tell him," the older, larger one says with an irritated puff of ink.
"Why not? The voters deserve--"
"The voters? Get real! They didn't elect him, they elected his ad campaign. He couldn't wipe his own ass without a script," the older male flashes rather loudly.
They're talking about the President, Karen realizes. They must be off-duty staffers! She pays more attention. You never know what you might learn in passing.
"Look, we tell him, he won't be able to keep his skin blank about it. Remember the fiasco at West Point? And what about the Summit? We can't have him doing that with the cameras rolling," the older male says. "This is just the kind of B-movie crap he loves. He'd be all over it and when it turns out to be nothing but volcano gas bubbles he'll look like an idiot. Again."
Gas bubbles? Karen wonders. What the heck?
"Sir, more than fifty percent of the public already accepts--"
Karen's eavesdropping is interrupted by the bartender arriving with her jellies. They're very high-quality. Karen isn't a connoisseur, but even she can tell these jellyfish are primo. Imported, probably from Guam. She bites through the outer membrane and starts to eat the strong pulp inside.
After a few minutes, the President's staffers get ready to leave. Karen waits until they are on their way, then quietly slips out of the bar to follow them.
Maybe this is crazy, but Karen senses there's a story in the current. Damping the glowing spots above her eyes and using her ability to blend with the surrounding rocks, Karen follows the President's aides. She can catch a word or two of their conversation as they make their way through the darkness, but what they're saying makes no sense. They keep talking about the volcanoes in the Deep Rift like there's something important about them. But sheesh, the Rift volcanoes are always grumbling, sending up gas and stuff, and besides the protective barrier this gives the country against the Soviets, they're of interest only to science geeks.
Unless...Karen almost flashes out in surprise. Have the Soviets come up with some weapon that can shoot across the Rift? Maybe that above-water torpedo there have been rumors about? Holy shit, that would be the biggest story she's ever seen.
Karen jets ahead to keep up with the Presidential aides.
Chapter Two
On the northern edge of the Deep Rift, mussels are opening. Fish begin to sing, scallops fan their way through the water. It's morning; the tide's coming in strong, and for the tiny town of Parker, that means good business. Parker's a little, old-fashioned town, founded on the rift-combing industry, and that is still the town's main source of income. It's tough, dirty, dangerous work; the men perch on the edge of the rift bank to grab whatever comes up with the tide. Problem is, sometimes what comes up is a cloud of dangerous gases, and the alert system doesn't always work. Every year a few rift-combers die in accidents, but for the ones who manage to snag something really valuable it can be a decent living, and this is what keeps Parker and the surrounding scattered towns in business.
Inside a small room in a run-down neighborhood in Parker, Faith is lying in bed. She shimmers green in the slow rhythm of someone enjoying very restful, deep sleep; between the pulses her skin is pearly gray, and you would have to look very closely to notice that it isn't exactly blank. Undertones of pink and yellow chase each other just under the featureless gray, displaying the secret: she isn't asleep at all.
Faith has done this so many times that she's mastered the art of appearing. Deep in the hidden part of her mind, she is aware of everything going on around her, her sister's genuine sleep-rhythms, the clatter of the alarm, her mother awakening to get her ready for school, and the fading scent of the night's adventure still hanging around her arm. She breathes it in again, the summery, fresh-bloom smell of distant warm places, and nearly yellows with delight. This had been one of the best nights yet.
Chapter Three
Karen shuffles through the stack of approved questions the President's aides have given her. All nice, scripted questions sure to be met with scripted answers. They certainly aren't taking any chances today, she thinks as the President enters the studio accompanied by some of his many handlers.
"Here?" he asks, pointing at a chair.
"Yes, Mr. President, that one's your seat," Karen says. "Welcome to American Morning. The cameras will be on us in a few minutes, so you have a chance to get comfortable."
The President arranges himself in his chair facing the cameras. One of his aides, a tired-looking guy, hands him his answers--today's script. The make-up guy dusts the President's glow-spots and applies concealer to a tiny colorless patch of skin near his beak.
Interesting idea... (Score:2)
MT.
Re:Interesting idea... (Score:1)
Tucker