story?”
“Journalist,” I say, figuring that's the answer he's looking for.
He nods and sticks out a hand. “I'm Ted.”
“Silas.” His hand is calloused, rough from the nets and a fishing knife. “You want to tell me something about that boat out there?”
He grins. We both know which boat I'm referring to. “Aye,” he says, “I can tell you a story or two.” He takes a long pull from his glass, moistening his tongue and making me wait a few seconds. Ted is a garrulous local, pre-greased by the media, and a bit of a drunk; he knows the routine and is happy to play along. I'm a good listener, and I have a pocket full of money taken from the caretaker's wallet.
We're going to be good friends.
* * *
Ted takes me back about two and a half weeks when stories began circulating among the fishing boats out of Adelaide that something had happened out on the water. A few days later the Cetacean Liberty was found, adrift, in the Great Australian Bight. She had suffered a fire, and all of her life boats were gone. The Royal Australian Navy flooded the Bight with ships and found a few drifting life boats. What survivors were in them were suffering from burns in addition to exposure and dehydration.
Ted doesn't know how many survived, but it doesn't sound like many.
The Cetacean Liberty was towed back to Adelaide and wrapped up tight. Prime Earth's management—back in San Diego and quick to point out that they are miles and miles from any sort of altercation in the Southern Ocean—stuffed their fingers in their ears and pretended nothing had happened other than an unfortunate galley fire.
Ted tries to milk me for a few drinks, but once I establish that he knows nothing about the whaling fleet, it's clear he isn't quite the fount of knowledge that he thinks he is, which makes sense, given the lack of ongoing speculation I hadn't seen in the local papers. The media did their routine of scrounging for scraps, looking for some morsel that they can worry long enough to show an upward trend in their readership metrics at their next quarterly shareholder meeting. But without some immediate scandal to keep their audiences' attention, their corporate overlords will simply can the stories. The story is lacking a champion, someone like Meredith Vanderhaven, to keep it alive. It dies with a whimper, a final update buried on the back page of the local news section, and the conspiracy community wanders off, looking for something with a bit more meat on it.
No one cares.
Much like this crowd's attitude toward the Lakers' game.
The world is a big place. It's easy to get lost.
* * *
I go to ground at a cheap hotel, spending half of what remains from the money I took from the caretaker's wallet. I had gotten to Adelaide too late to visit Callis's bank, and after spending most of a day and part of the previous night in wait mode, I had gone down to the docks. I had to do something; the night was too precious a time to waste.
Wasting time. It's an odd thing to worry about. To be concerned that I might not have enough.
I get a room on the north-facing side of the hotel, put out the Do Not Disturb sign, and hang the comforter over the curtain rod for the windows. I am restless, but I force myself to lie down. Hurry up and wait: all soldiers know how to do it. Sleep when you can. Eat when you can. Keep your weapons ready. The violence will come later.
After a thirst-inducing nightmare of knocking over a blood bank, I get up, shower, and try to find some enthusiasm for going out. Adelaide's smog index isn't as high as many cities in the United States, but it is high enough that I can't be in the sun too long—my skin will have even worse reactions than it did during my idle days on the life boat. I find a coffee shop with computer rentals in the back, where I can spend a few hours. On the Internet and as far away as possible from the sun-warmed air that lies over Adelaide like a heavy blanket.
After a cursory search for
“Journalist,” I say, figuring that's the answer he's looking for.
He nods and sticks out a hand. “I'm Ted.”
“Silas.” His hand is calloused, rough from the nets and a fishing knife. “You want to tell me something about that boat out there?”
He grins. We both know which boat I'm referring to. “Aye,” he says, “I can tell you a story or two.” He takes a long pull from his glass, moistening his tongue and making me wait a few seconds. Ted is a garrulous local, pre-greased by the media, and a bit of a drunk; he knows the routine and is happy to play along. I'm a good listener, and I have a pocket full of money taken from the caretaker's wallet.
We're going to be good friends.
* * *
Ted takes me back about two and a half weeks when stories began circulating among the fishing boats out of Adelaide that something had happened out on the water. A few days later the Cetacean Liberty was found, adrift, in the Great Australian Bight. She had suffered a fire, and all of her life boats were gone. The Royal Australian Navy flooded the Bight with ships and found a few drifting life boats. What survivors were in them were suffering from burns in addition to exposure and dehydration.
Ted doesn't know how many survived, but it doesn't sound like many.
The Cetacean Liberty was towed back to Adelaide and wrapped up tight. Prime Earth's management—back in San Diego and quick to point out that they are miles and miles from any sort of altercation in the Southern Ocean—stuffed their fingers in their ears and pretended nothing had happened other than an unfortunate galley fire.
Ted tries to milk me for a few drinks, but once I establish that he knows nothing about the whaling fleet, it's clear he isn't quite the fount of knowledge that he thinks he is, which makes sense, given the lack of ongoing speculation I hadn't seen in the local papers. The media did their routine of scrounging for scraps, looking for some morsel that they can worry long enough to show an upward trend in their readership metrics at their next quarterly shareholder meeting. But without some immediate scandal to keep their audiences' attention, their corporate overlords will simply can the stories. The story is lacking a champion, someone like Meredith Vanderhaven, to keep it alive. It dies with a whimper, a final update buried on the back page of the local news section, and the conspiracy community wanders off, looking for something with a bit more meat on it.
No one cares.
Much like this crowd's attitude toward the Lakers' game.
The world is a big place. It's easy to get lost.
* * *
I go to ground at a cheap hotel, spending half of what remains from the money I took from the caretaker's wallet. I had gotten to Adelaide too late to visit Callis's bank, and after spending most of a day and part of the previous night in wait mode, I had gone down to the docks. I had to do something; the night was too precious a time to waste.
Wasting time. It's an odd thing to worry about. To be concerned that I might not have enough.
I get a room on the north-facing side of the hotel, put out the Do Not Disturb sign, and hang the comforter over the curtain rod for the windows. I am restless, but I force myself to lie down. Hurry up and wait: all soldiers know how to do it. Sleep when you can. Eat when you can. Keep your weapons ready. The violence will come later.
After a thirst-inducing nightmare of knocking over a blood bank, I get up, shower, and try to find some enthusiasm for going out. Adelaide's smog index isn't as high as many cities in the United States, but it is high enough that I can't be in the sun too long—my skin will have even worse reactions than it did during my idle days on the life boat. I find a coffee shop with computer rentals in the back, where I can spend a few hours. On the Internet and as far away as possible from the sun-warmed air that lies over Adelaide like a heavy blanket.
After a cursory search for
Similar Books
![Morganville Vampires [01] Glass Houses](https://fs.dianahicksbooks.com/587959/thumbs/152x264/morganville-vampires-01-glass-houses.jpg)
