Lisa Smedman - The Lucifer desk

“No they won’t,” Greer said quietly, staring at his soykaf as he swirled it gently around in its cup. Beside him, a wall-mounted monitor broadcast a super-heavyweight boxing match. The sound had been muted; the trolls on the monitor traded silent blows. Greer kept glancing at it. “Nobody’s going to-”

Carla was too wound up to listen. She rose to her feet, pointing her scanning stylus at her producer. “If KKRU won’t run the story, I know a station that will. NABS has promised me a reporter’s slot if I can prove my worth to them. I’ll jump ship this minute-and take the Mitsuhama story with me-if you won’t air it.”

That made Greer look up. He set his cup down as Carla stormed toward the door, and half-stood behind his desk. “Carla. Wait!”

Carla paused, one hand on the doorknob. “Well?”

Greer moved around the desk and laid a meaty hand on her shoulder. “I agree with you, Carla. One hundred per cent. It’s an excellent story-the best you’ve ever done. And Wayne’s done a brilliant job of editing. It really has punch. But I can’t run it, much as I’d like to, because-”

Carla didn’t wait to hear his excuse. “They got to you, didn’t they?” she whispered. She searched Greer’s eyes. “I don’t understand it, Greer. What could Mitsuhama possibly threaten you with? It’s not as though you have a family to worry about, or that you scare easily. You didn’t back down on doing that piece on organized crime in Puyallup, even though Jimmy Chin threatened to firebomb your car if it aired. What could Mitsuhama possibly have done to frighten you off?”

Greer’s hand fell away from Carla’s shoulder. His attention strayed once more to the monitor that was showing the boxing match. On the screen, one of the fighters fell heavily to the mat. Greer swore softly as the other boxer was declared the winner. Then he walked back to his desk and sat down heavily.

“They bought the station,” he answered at last. “The deal was closed this morning before you came in to work. Mitsuhama owns KKRU. They’re calling the shots now. And they don’t want the story to air.”

Carla frowned, a hot wave of anger rising inside her. “And you’re going to obey their orders?” she spat. “What have you turned into, some sort of corporate lap dog?”

Greer sighed heavily. “I know it stinks, Carla. But I can’t afford to lose my job. I’m due to retire in five years, and I’ll be relying upon the company pension when I do.”

“But you’re a trideo producer,” Carla said, unable to comprehend what she was hearing. “You make a good salary. Surely you don’t need the nuyen that badly.”

“Yes I do.” Greer’s wide cheeks flushed with embarrassment. “I…” He pursed his lips, unwilling to finish the sentence.

All at once, the pieces came together for Carla-Greer’s obsession with sports, his constant bumming of drinks from other staffers at the press lounge, the tiny dump of an apartment that he lived in. She glanced at the monitor, then back at Greer.

“You gamble, don’t you?” Carla asked softly. “What did Mitsuhama do, offer to wipe your debts? How much do you owe?”

“A lot,” Greer muttered. He looked up with a sad, self-deprecating smile. “I guess I never should have taken that first job as a sports reporter. That’s when it started-with bets of just a few nuyen between friends. I’ve been throwing my money down the toilet ever since.”

“Oh, Gil.” Carla sank down into the chair in front of the producer’s desk. Her anger had suddenly evaporated into pity. “No wonder you work so much overtime.”

“Yes.” Greer had returned his attention to his cold soykaf.

Carla had been taken aback by the bearish man’s confession. She was saddened by the fact that Mitsuhama had found his weak spot and forced him to dance to their tune. Giving in would be galling for any newscaster. It was especially so for Greer, who cherished his reputation as a tough, no-nonsense newshound. She wanted to reach out, to comfort him. But now was not the time.

“I’m sorry about what happened, Gil,” she said, rising to her feet. “But it leaves me no other option. I’m taking my story to NABS.”

He looked up. “I tried to tell you already, Carla. NABS won’t touch it. No one will. Not if your byline is on it.”

Carla had a sudden premonition of impending doom. Slowly, she sat down again. “Why not?”

Greer looked even more embarrassed as he opened a drawer in his desk. “Given our modem technology, when digitalized images can be edited with a few strokes of a stylus, a news station has only its reputation to fall back upon. The public has to have utter faith that the images they’re watching on their trideo sets are the pure, unaltered truth.”

“Ultimately, it comes down to the credibility of the station’s reporters. If the reporters are perceived to be honest, the station is believed to be credible. But if the reporters are perceived to have compromised themselves in any way, to have lied about their stories-or to have questionable personal lives…”

He paused, and shut the drawer. He focused his attention on the unlabeled optical memory chip he’d pulled from it, refusing to meet Carla’s eyes.

Carla was afraid to ask what was on that chip. The ice water in her gut meant that her subconscious mind already knew.

“Our new boss gave this to me this morning,” Greer said, punching a button on his desk that wiped the boxing match and switched the wall monitor over to a closed-circuit playback mode. Then he got up and closed the blinds in his office window, shutting out the curious faces of the other reporters who were peering up from their work stations, trying to catch a glimpse of Carla’s dressing down.

“I know it’s a lie, Carla, and you know it’s a lie. But when the public sees the images on this chip and hears about your ‘shadow career as a porn star’ and how you kept it in the closet all these years, your credibility will be zero. Nobody will ever take you seriously again.”

Sitting down, he put the chip in the editing unit that was built into his desk and hit the playback icon. He deliberately turned his back to the images that blazed across the monitor. He hadn’t bothered to deactivate the mute, and for this Carla was thankful. She watched in horrified fascination as trideo footage of herself, locked in a naked embrace with Enzo-Mr. November of the Men of Lone Star calendar-filled the flatscreen monitor. After a few moments, she buried her face in her hands. Not only had Mitsuhama found Greer’s weak spot, they’d found hers, too. In spades. She refused to feel guilt for having made the recordings of her romantic liaisons. But she couldn’t help feeling regret-and anguished rage-while watching the trid that could spell the end of her career.

Greer reached over and thumbed the editing unit off. He popped the memory chip and slid it across the desk to Carla. “Here,” he said. “Take it. Wipe it clean. I'm sorry I had to see that. I’m not even going to ask if it’s real or not.”

Numbly, Carla took the chip. She recognized it immediately as the original recording by the scuffs on its yellow plastic case. Wipe it? What good would that do? This was only one chip. The shadowrunners who broke into her apartment had taken dozens of her “personal recordings.” Mitsuhama could have made as many duplicates as they liked of the chip, could be holding back a copy, ready to torpedo her career whenever they wanted to. And she’d never…

“Wait a minute,” Carla said, her reporter’s instincts taking over. “Who, exactly, gave you this chip?”

“Our new boss. John Chang. Head of Mitsuhama Seattle.”

“But the shadowrunners who stole this were working for Renraku,” she said, leaning forward. “That means the two computer corporations are working together to bury this story. But why? They ought to be at each other’s throats, in fierce competition to be the first to develop this new form of magic. If they’re working together…”