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  "How's the bird?" Kim thought as she ran down a mental checklist.

  "Comsat DN476 is in geosynchronous orbit over North America and reports all systems in the green," Val replied softly. "Correspondent Corvan is feeding bars and tone."

  "Good. Let's see 'em."

  A row of vertical color bars suddenly appeared on the holo screens above her head. By comparing Corvan's color bars with a similar set generated by her own equipment, Kim could assure a perfect alignment between the two sets of gear.

  The fact that Corvan had two cameras at his disposal—the eye cam and a robo cam—which looked like a cross between a bat and a TV camera—made her task more difficult.

  The robo cam was useful, but incorporated a lot of low-quality components. That made it hard to match the robot's video output with Corvan's top-of-the-line eye cam. Since Kim couldn't increase the quality of the robo cam's output, she had to pull Corvan's down and that went against her grain. Still, a match was better than switching back and forth between two disparate video sources, so Kim was forced to accept it.

  The steady tone signified that the audio was A-okay, starting with Corvan's implants and running through the uplink, the downlink, and her own equipment. It reminded her of the slogan over the door at T-school. "This TV is some complicated shit."

  It was time to get things rolling. "Val, tell DN476 that we're going live at 0600 straight up. That's five minutes from now and counting."

  "Roger," Val said smoothly. "Four fifty-nine and counting."

  Kim sighed. "All right, give me Corvan."

  As Val opened the two-way intercom, Kim heard a soft tone inside her head and knew that Corvan heard it too. His reply was bored. "Yeah?"

  "Seattle here. We have systems lockup and we're four-thirty from air."

  "Roger that," Corvan replied. "Lockup with four-thirty to go."

  The conversation was so normal. Where was the dreaded Cyclops? Kim felt disappointed somehow. She directed her thoughts to Val. "Okay, give me the studio."

  Two seconds later a shot of the News Network 56 studio in New York popped onto the center program monitor. These were the lucrative morning hours when the news junkies got their first fix of the day. And news junkies were an important factor in network profitability. VCRs had driven the nets out of the entertainment business some twenty years before and forced them to concentrate on news, sports, and cultural events.

  As usual, Ken Whitworth and Barbara Lansing were at their well-groomed best. Whitworth had prematurely gray hair and the finest features money could buy. Lansing was younger, thin almost to the point of emaciation, and beautifully dressed. Television critics referred to them as Ken and Barbie.

  A rather laconic male voice came on the intercom. "Yeah?"

  "Seattle bureau," Kim answered. "We have Comsat lockup for the 0600 special. Bars and tone on the way."

  Val could've transmitted bars and tone to New York in a number of different ways, but chose a fiber-optic cable as the least expensive.

  "I have your bars and tone, Seattle," the male voice said.

  "Stand by. Give me program audio," Kim thought, and Val turned it up.

  Ken Whitworth had decided to deliver the lead with what his staff referred to as "expression number three," a straight face with overtones of profound concern.

  A 3-D Mercator projection appeared behind him and began to rotate. Pirate radio stations were represented by red dots and a series of radiating lines. There were quite a few of them.

  "For some time now authorities have been increasingly concerned about the number of pirate radio and TV stations cropping up all over the world. Over the last hundred years there have been a number of pirate stations, but due to the bulk of the equipment required to run them, they were easy to find. Now the necessary equipment fits into a suitcase or backpack, making the task a good deal harder."

  At this point Whitworth frowned to emphasize the severity of the problem.

  "Some of these stations are run by harmless eccentrics, while others are used to make money or promote a particular point of view. Whatever the reason, their unlicensed transmitters often interfere with the signals broadcast by legitimate stations."

  At this point the relevant section of the Mercator projection zoomed out to fill the screen and transformed itself into a 3-D topographical map of western Canada.

  "In this case both the United States and Canada allege that an organization calling itself the Exodus Underground has been operating a pirate radio station from the Canadian wilderness.

  "In a joint statement released last night, the two governments claimed, 'The station airs nationalistic propaganda and interferes with signals from licensed broadcasters.'

  "Government spokespeople also allege that a man calling himself Captain Video has used these broadcasts to make 'false and misleading statements impugning the WPO and other properly constituted public authorities.' "

  Whitworth allowed himself the barest hint of a cynical smile. "Just moments ago you heard Exodus Society officials in Washington, D.C., deny any connection between their group and the pirate radio station. In spite of their statements to the contrary there is considerable similarity between the rhetoric employed by the Exodus Society and the Exodus Underground. Both are pro-space, fervently nationalistic, and often critical of the WPO."

  The director cut to a two-shot just as Whitworth let expression number three slip in favor of a modified five. A five conveyed patient exasperation with just a touch of cynical disbelief.

  "Meanwhile, our News Network 56 special correspondent Rex Corvan has joined members of the World Peace Organization as they try to learn the truth of the matter. Barbara?"

  Barbara Lansing flashed a set of perfect teeth and turned to camera three. "That's right, Ken. We’ve purposely delayed mention of this mission until the very last possible moment so that our broadcast won't compromise the WPO mission.

  "So, with that in mind, let's join special correspondent Rex Corvan somewhere above the Canadian wilderness. Rex is one of the few reops equipped with a so called bod-mod, a tiny camera which replaces his right eye and makes it possible for us to see what he sees and to hear what he hears.

  "He's also equipped with a flying robo cam, which will allow us to see Rex in action. Remember, when you watch News Network 56, you get the news from the inside out."

  "Bullshit," Kim thought to herself as the man in New York finished his five-second countdown and said, "Take the feed."

  Kim opened the intercom channel and said, "You're on, Corvan." Then she pushed a mental button, and millions of people suddenly found themselves inside a Boeing V-73 alt-rotor aircraft sharing a Corvan-eye view of a spectacular sunrise.

  Corvan stood just inside the open hatch and looked out. The sun had just poked its orange-red head up over the eastern horizon and the foreground was black. It was one of the rare moments when he missed his right eye and wished it was still there. Yes, he could see through the camera, but it wasn't the same somehow. At moments like this, it felt as though the plastic and metal separated him from the real world.

  As Kim's voice intruded on his thoughts, Corvan directed his mind to the task at hand and ordered the robo cam into the air. It left his shoulder and flew halfway down the length of the aircraft. Normally the robo cam was quite loud, but the sound of the aircraft's twin engines drowned it out.

  Kim took control and cut to the robo cam just as Corvan began to speak. The audience saw a big man with a lens protruding from his right eye socket. He had brown hair, one blue eye, and a metal guard which fit over his left shoulder. It had a six-inch antenna, a flat place for the robo cam to land, and two battery packs front and back, which helped hold the guard in place and balanced each other out. His military flight suit was black and equipped with a lot of zippers. When Corvan spoke, his voice was calm and slightly gravelly.

  "At the moment we're flying along the edge of the Banff National Park. Unlike other Canadian parks that have been released for residential development, this
one has been kept as a wilderness."

  Kim cut to Corvan's eye cam as he turned away from the hatch. There was a momentary shift in video level as his auto-iris struggled to make the change from bright sun to dark interior.

  The shot showed a utilitarian aircraft interior with two opposing rows of heavily armed troops. Their uniforms fluttered slightly in the breeze from the open hatch. The scene was lit by a number of evenly spaced red lights and gave the impression of crowded efficiency.

  "This is what it looks like inside an assault craft going into action. The World Peace Troopers don't know whether they'll run into armed resistance or not, but as you can see, they're ready for anything."

  Corvan turned his head to the left and zoomed in on a youngish man dressed in a set of carefully tailored cammies. He wore a command helmet with the visor tilted back. A black wire connected the helmet to an olive drab plug in his right temple. The audience got a glimpse of blue eyes, a slightly flattened nose, and a boyish grin. The man's white teeth made a stark contrast to his deeply tanned face.

  "This is Captain Hans Dietrich. He's a graduate of N.Y.U., a commissioned officer in the reunified German army, and I'm told that he plays a mean saxophone."

  The officer in question laughed and waved to the camera.

  Now Corvan turned to give the audience a look at the other side of the aircraft's interior. The troopers were loaded down with body armor, assault packs, and extra ammunition. Each carried a quick-release combat knife, two grenades, and a rotary breech H&K G-40 assault rifle.

  Having served with the Green Beanies just before they were merged into the WPO, Corvan knew the weapons consumed 4.7-mm caseless ammo at the rate of two thousand rounds a minute. Heavy hardware indeed for a raid on a two-bit pirate radio station.

  So they took a few shots at the World Peace Organization, so what? Or was it this Captain Video character that they were really after? If so, that might make more sense, although Captain Video seemed harmless enough. From what Corvan had heard, the guy specialized in long, rambling speeches. They all had one recurring theme: "You can't always believe what the government tells you." Not bad advice, in Corvan's opinion. Was that the real reason for the raid? It would fit with what he saw as an increasing level of governmental paranoia. As the WPO assumed more and more authority, it seemed to tolerate less and less criticism.

  And there was something else as well—a feeling that he'd heard Captain Video's voice before, although he couldn't remember when or where. Interesting thoughts which he would revisit later.

  As Corvan panned the length of the aircraft, some troopers ignored him, but most met the camera with a smile or a cheerful thumbs-up. "The rest of Dietrich's team have similar experience and represent elite military organizations from all over the world."

  Guessing what Corvan would say next, Kim cut to the robo cam and used it to execute a flying dolly down the left side of the passageway.

  "Before we took off, I was introduced to men and women from Great Britain, Russia, Argentina, the United States, China, Unified Africa, and a dozen more. All brought together into what President Hawkins calls 'a noble experiment.' If the members of these different nationalities can work together on a mission like this, then who knows, maybe the nations they represent could do likewise."

  "He's smooth," Kim thought grudgingly as she cut back to Corvan's eye cam. "He's real smooth."

  The assault craft hit an air pocket, which caused Corvan to stagger. The shot wobbled over the troopers' faces and gave the audience a taste of what it felt like.

  "All right, people," Dietrich said, his voice coming in over Corvan's military commset. "We're three from the LZ and five from the ground. Check your gear and remember your orders. Secure the area and don't fire unless fired upon."

  The words had a formal, almost rehearsed quality which reminded Corvan of all the suits he'd interviewed. But since Dietrich was military, and military uniforms had given birth to business suits, he decided that the whole thing made sense.

  Corvan took a seat, allowing the natural sound and pictures to tell the story for him.

  Kim nodded in agreement: finally a reop who knew when to let the story tell itself. The audience isn't stupid. They can see the tense faces, the nervous gestures, the way that one guy checks his weapon over and over again.

  Outside the two tilt-rotor engines did what they were designed to do and swiveled upward. This turned what had been a plane into a helicopter. Three minutes later the aircraft touched down with a soft thump. Hans Dietrich was the first one out the door.

  The troopers followed two at a time as Corvan resumed his narration and Kim positioned the robo cam for a tight shot of his face.

  "Consistent with Captain Dietrich's orders, I'll be the last one off the aircraft. As soon as I'm off, the ship will lift off and hover over the LZ. In a full-scale military operation the aircraft would return for more troops or provide fire support. In this case, however, it will provide Captain Dietrich with a bird's-eye view of what's going on."

  Kim knew that the last part was filler, something for Corvan to say while the last troopers jumped out of the ship. Nonetheless, it was skillfully done and Kim admired the way he'd slipped it in. The truth was that the cameras were trapped inside the aircraft when they should have been outside providing viewers with shots of the action. However, thanks to Corvan's aside, few if any viewers would be aware of that fact.

  Suddenly there was the cloth-ripping sound of automatic-weapons fire, and Kim cut back to Corvan's eye cam. The shot swayed from side to side as Corvan rushed for the door and bumped into the last trooper out.

  The aircraft had landed on a gravel bar where two small rivers came together. The rocks had been smoothed by a millennium of swiftly flowing water and crunched underfoot. Corvan found them hard to run on, and his eye cam wobbled over driftwood, evergreen trees, and the snow-capped mountains beyond.

  Kim sent the robo cam skimming along behind. She couldn't send the camera out ahead because it would appear in Corvan's shot, and besides, its low-powered transmitter wouldn't reach beyond fifty feet or so.

  There was another burst of gunfire up ahead, and Corvan remembered his concerns about the soldiers' weapons. He'd been right, but right about what?

  Corvan heard the dull thump of a grenade and saw smoke billow up to the right. He cleared the beach and followed a well-worn path toward the smoke.

  His words came out in short spurts as he tried to run and talk at the same time: "The action's up ahead . . . It's not clear what's going on . . . but you can hear more shooting."

  Then there were three loud bangs, followed by more automatic-weapons fire. "There," Corvan said, "that sounds like a high-powered hunting rifle . . . Wait a minute, a trooper's down."

  What had been a vague something on the ground up ahead quickly became a trooper with a sucking chest wound. The blood shot up in little spurts each time she took a breath. She looked up at the camera with-a pale, moonlike face.

  Corvan shouted, "Medic!" and kept on running.

  Suddenly Kim was on her feet. "Why, you cold-blooded bastard!"

  Corvan heard her voice via his implant but kept on running.

  A cluster of uniforms blocked the way up ahead. A trooper moved to intercept him, but Corvan went around him and came to a sudden halt.

  What he saw—and what the world saw with him— was a pathetic huddle of shelters and tents. They shivered in the stiff down draft from the aircraft's twin rotors and leaked streamers of gray and black smoke from a hundred bullet holes.

  Ten or twelve adults along with a handful of grubby children stood holding hands and singing. It was a sad song about leaving earth and traveling to distant stars.

  In the foreground, almost at Corvan's feet, lay three bodies, two men and a woman.

  Captain Dietrich stepped forward and pointed toward the ground. "As you can see, this is the woman who shot Trooper Horowitz.”

  Once again Dietrich's voice had the hard, aggressive quality of someone wh
o's speaking for the record.

  Corvan looked down, saw the hunting rifle clutched in the woman's hands, and looked back up. Dietrich shook his head sadly and a single tear trickled down his face. For a split second Corvan almost bought it. Dietrich looked the very essence of the professional peacekeeper, violent when necessary but with a heart of gold. But the tear was too much. It didn't fit the rest of Dietrich's personality, and Corvan knew that he'd been had. The bastard was acting and the whole story had been stage-managed right from the start.

  Before he could take the matter any further, Corvan heard a man moan and call his name. He looked down and saw one of the bodies move.

  Corvan dropped to his knees and found himself face to face with an old friend. He zoomed in tight. Frank Neely had changed. A tangled beard covered his face and the eyes which had once danced with merriment were filled with pain. The spreading stain on Neely's stomach told Corvan why.

  They'd been friends once, fellow rebels at old Earth Net, baiting the suits and watching them freak. Now Neely was dying in front of millions of people and Corvan didn't know what to say.

  "Rex ..." Neely's voice was a low whisper, and as Corvan listened, he knew where he'd heard Captain Video before. Frank Neely and Captain Video were one and the same.

  "Yeah, Frank, I'm here."

  "Are you still the insubordinate son of a bitch you used to be?"

  Corvan smiled. "Yeah, Frank, I guess I am."

  Neely's face seemed to light up and his right hand found Corvan's. "Good. Then give them hell forme."

  And with that, a spasm ran through Neely's hand and he died.

  As Corvan let go, he realized there was something in the palm of his hand—a square of paper wrapped around something hard, a video disk approximately the size of an old-fashioned quarter.

  When Corvan stood, he managed to slip the disk into a pocket while he pretended to wipe his hands. Suddenly he realized that he was still on, that millions of people were waiting for him to say something, to bring the piece to a close.