United Earth NY City November, 2049 Ch2

=NY City November, 2049=

The NYT building at 229 West 43rd Street, like so many other buildings had seen better days. Maintenance was kept at a minimum. There was hardly any construction.

The city council fought for every Silver chit and gold penny with the interim government in Washington, until the new United Earth government was finally taking over things. There was more fighting and squabbling than any real progress so he felt. The old nation state governments in disarray or completely dissolved, with interim councils trying to keep things together, people simply didn’t know what to do or to expect.

Bruce took the old reliable Otis elevator to the fourth floor, where his desk was one of many. The newspaper business had changed and rebound and changed again in the last decades and especially in his lifetime.

First the paper editions were declared dead, and everything moved online. Then the dirt cheap foldable and roll up LCD screens were invented and newspapers and magazines took advantage of this invention and newspapers with multimedia content could be offered for cheap at newsstands. Online content moved back to the electronic print news paper editions. World War III ended all this, as cheap manufacturing in China, Korea and India had stopped supplying US and Western markets at the total collapse of the US dollar in 2077 just days before the Euro and the Yen lost all value. The burst of the biggest financial bubble ha always been foreseen and everyone in the know, knew it would happen wiped out the World Economy over night.

It caused mass rioting in virtually every country as most Western countries had stopped issuing real paper or coin money decades ago and consumer banking was soley done online. China sitting on a mountain of worthless zeros over night, basically started a war simply to control its rioting masses by projecting blame on others.

Emergency currencies were introduced and News Papers returned to paper, as no one trusted electronic media at all and the Lithium needed for the batteries that powered the roll up throw away screens was needed for the war effort. The war sold a lot of news papers.

Bruce walked past the white concrete support columns of this open space newsprint office to the sixth row of yellow marked desk cubicles and to desk marked Six Yellow-8, his desk.

There were framed front pages with big letter headlines on the walls and mounted to these support columns.

August 4th, 2079,

’WWIII!

China attacks the World!′

September 1st,2079

AFGHANISTAN NUKES WEST COAST CITIES

Seattle, Olympia, Eugene and Anchorage gone! Millions perrish!

March 21st, 2089,

‘THEY’RE HERE!’

Humanoid Aliens land in Washington DC!”

March 22nd, 2089,

‘SARAN DELEGATION MEETS WITH PRESIDENT’

World history is made as President Bobo Joeline meets with Commandrix Aseptoth of the Saran Empire’

December 6th,2089

′ SHROUDED APPARITION APPEARS TO EVERYONE’

entity claiming to be the guardian of the Earth appears as projection to every adult’

December 7th, 2089

‘GUARDIAN OF EARTH DECLARES NATION STATES AS OBSOLETE’

Over 200 unexplainable deaths among religious and political leaders of the world’

February 17th,2090

CALIFORNIA GONE

11.8 Quake flattens Los Angeles, San Francisco and San Diego

These and other headlines marked perhaps the most tumultuous era in human history, nothing remained untouched by these events.

Bruce hung his coat on the back of his chair and made some rom on the cluttered desktop. Somewhere in that mess was the old thumb drive with a list of names that the old vet --David-- had passed on to him. He’d look for it, soon enough, but for now he had a deadline to meet, and quick. he opened his note file on his smartphone and activated the old, pre war laptop and initiated the speech recognition APP. He used the phones built in projector to display his bullet type notes and began to dictate. The APP reproduced what he said into typed words.

GRUESOME SUICIDE - EAST MANHATTAN

NYPD is investigating the apparent murder of David Putnam, 58 of XYZ street, East Side, a US Army veteran of the Chinese land war, was found in his bed with a gorey wound to the back of his head! Alien weapon suspected!

Police reports neighbours heard noise in the apartment early Wednesday morning, and one neighbour called police when Putnam did not show up for their for their usual lunch together.

Bruce paused. It was pretty thin, he could not add actual images of the body because that would screw up his relationship with detective Connors. he added a picture of the apartment building and of the open apartment door with the police and ME personnel milling around. Nothing really, but this what happened when there were posting deadlines looming. He cleared his throat and resumed dictating. “While no suspects have been identified, police are investigating whether Putnam was killed during a home invasion robbery. The apartment appeared to be ransacked and investigating officers are checking to see what might have been stolen.”

He clicked on the stop recording button, rubbed his chin, adjusting his wireless headset and the attached microphone and resumed dictating.

“The death of Putnam marks the 128th homicide this year in the borough of Manhattan, just twelve behind the record year of 2091.”

He read over it to make sure ‘Siri’ understood everything and then he hit the send button. His piece and the associated hi-res images and a ten second clip of him walking into the apartment now was in the inbox of the metro desk editor.

He followed his electronically and instantly transferred data package physically by walking over to the editor’s desk.

“Here you are Bill,” he said.“One minute and twelve seconds to spare before the daily afternoon page goes life.”

“Well there you go.“Bill said.“This is why we shelling out these silver chits. Do you want some Rat Jerky or somethin’?”

“How about a raise?”

“How about leavin’ me alone, Bruce?” Bill pointed at his screen.“This is weak garbage. Could you not have some pictures with gore and stuff?”

“I rather produce more garbage, than risk pissing of my contact at the NYPD for one pic of gore. I get you some of the ME’s pictures in the follow up.”

“Get out of here! I got a deadline too.”

He went back to his desk and after some digging he found the thumb drive with David Putnam’s list of names and he put it in the writing utensil tray so he would find it easier next time. He was tired and he had been up on his feet since the dawn of the day. Tomorrow he would dig some more online, maybe trying to combine the names in new searches. The names had to have some sort of meaning. Why waste all that storage space just for a handful of names on a document you could print out on a single sheet of paper? Maybe he was just crazy and he came up with this names randomly. The war and the recent events did the strangest things to people, like a AI engineer who lived like a recluse in a smudgy apartment drinking Substi with not a piece of electronics to be seen.

The story didn’t cause Bill to ask for more meat or more material. So it seemed it was good as it was.

A few minutes after he had transferred the piece to Bill, the glass door of the Supervising editor opened and a tall dark skinned woman came out wearing a Saran inspired white, gold seamed cotton suit, Beth Swanson, the current supervising editor and one of the first humans married to a Saran male.

She stopped at each of the editorial desks. exchanged a few words here and there and picked up her copy of the film display edition of the evening edition and then with a lofty smile and trailing a scent of expensive perfume she went back into her glass cubicle office.

Bruce looked around. everybody was studiously ignoring Beth Swanson’s and there was a general sigh of relief when she went back into her office, unknown to her often called the ‘Bitch Tank’.

Usually she only came out to talk to the section editors about the next edition’s stories, but on very rare occasions, she chatted with a reporter. Once in a blue moon she would invite a reporter back to her glass walled office, set the walls to opaque and close the door. That experience was known on the news floor as the Golden Hissy fit; which meant she was steaming and hissing about something or another and it usually ended up with a pink slip and the end of one’s career. The end of employment in a city with over two million homeless and twice as many unemployed. eventually forced by necessity to travel west and accept a fall out clean up job.

Beth Swanson had the cloud to end anyone’s chance of employment anywhere in the media business. Her connections made sure of that.

Two month ago a feature writer; Raul Major, if Bruce recalled correctly; had emerged from Swanson’s tank in tears, hands trembling. He was escorted out of the building by security and HR packed up whatever private thing he had on his desk into a brown file box.

Despite earlier suggestions to mellow his harsh editorial stance  against the Sarans, he kept on submitting stories about the helpful cousins from outer space. It was of course the declared stance of the NYT and all news media to turn a blind eye to any and all things that would shed light to the darker sides of the Aliens.

There were quite a few who believed the Sarans were invaders and the that strange almost god like entity, calling himself Guardian of Earth was just a tool of these aliens to subdue Earth into slavery and servitude.

A month after Raul Major’s departure the newsfloor had received a postcard from a decontamination work camp outside of Seattle, and that was the last anyone heard of Raul.

After the glass door snapped into its lock, the noise level on the floor rose and there were looks cast Bruce’s way, even though he had never been officially engaged and the relationship to Ammona had long been over, some people still thought he and Beth Swanson worked together somehow, though he had shared less than a hundred words with the supervising editor during his time with the NYT. Irrational, he knew, but still it made for a lot of solidary lunches, muttered greetings on the floor and water cooler conversations that suddenly went quiet whenever he went fo a cup of Substi or some water.

He checked his watch. It was twenty minutes past five in the afternoon. His stomach grumbled and he was in the process of putting on his coat and wondering where in hell he was going to eat dinner when Michael ‘Mikey’ Brown came over to him, pulling a patched syntho leather coat over his bony shoulders, Mikey was a few years younger than Bruce, wore loud T-shirts with baggy sweatpants, and was the Art Scene and music section guy of the NYT. His hair twirled in dozens of short braids that stood on end, someone once described Mikey’s hair style with someone experimenting with a life power outlet. This style of hair was popular with hip hop, a cultural and musical expression that went out of style long before the war, but remained somewhat relevant with the colored youth of the inner cities; where Mikey had grown up. Bruce never got over the fact that someone could write about music and pop life and get paid for it. Of course he kept that opinion for himself. he knew that the masses wanted to be entertained no matter the times or because of it.

Mikey was a good guy and one of the few people on the news foor who treated him normal.

“Some of us are going across the street to the Blue Thumb for a news floor meeting meeting.“Mikey said, zipping his coat shut.“Want to join us?”

“News floor meeting? Isn’t that just another excuse for getting drunk?”

Mikey smiled.“Who needs an excuse? Besides, it gives you a chance to see the others drooling, mumbling and make drunk ass fool out of themselves. Makes a good weeks worth of teasing and gossip. So are you in?”

Going home, which was an apartment, meant dinner from a can or something greasy called in. The alternative was overpriced beer, cheeseburgers and marijuana smoke conversation at the Blue Thumb.

“In.” Bruce said.“I’m in I guess.”

Mikey smiled again.“Of course you are!”

A real Cheeseburger and real fries later, he was working on his second beer and doing fine. He had a corner stool at the bar and could keep an eye on most everything that was going on in the tavern, which gave him a bit of a warm feeling. Something from his military past, he realized, about assessing the environment and keeping your options open. The fries had been quite tasty and most likely came from one of the cities own potato farms and the burger was a good sign thing slowly turned back to normal. Even just a year ago, hamburgers were made of all kinds of meats and fillers- the wise customer never asked to many questions about the source of the meat; but tonight’s had tasted like one hundred percent real beef. He wasn’t so sure the cheese ws made of cow milk but it tasted like cheese.

Someone with a taste for real old classics had selected a selection of last centuries rock tunes. Almost everyone knew the lyrics to the ancient AC DC and Metallica tunes and he had shared his meal time with Michael Brown. Mikey talked about rumors of an upcoming Shakira Memory tour of the former United States and Bruce talked about the murder of David Putnam.

After a while Mikey shook his head at him.“Damn Bruce, I want to talk about the wonders of rock and pop music, and all you talk about is som old geezer, capped in his crib.”

“Because it is news.”

“Shit, that ain’t news.” Mikey raised his glass.“My stories, now that is what everyone want to read about. It’s the bright colors of entertainment that gets their minds of that drab situation. Not another sad story about an old man who bit the dust because he wouldn’t give the home invaders what he had hidden under a floor board or something. Heck that that dead Saran businessman found dead in bed with a hooker a couple of weeks ago, even that only made a few headlines in the media. Who cares about a dead old nobody?”

“I do.” Bruce said, remembering the old man standing in front of him in an old parka, with shaking hands,“And so should you.”

Mikey laughed.“You should hear yourself. That old fashioned righteousness has been out of fashion for a century or more.”

Bruce sighed and Mikey laughed again and wandered off.The Blue Thumb was not far from the NYT building across the street and usually filled with people who worked at the times. Mikey was now with some of his friends of the Arts & Entertainment section. Even here in the bar, the people of the NYT segregated themselves into groups. Some of the ad sales people were over in a corner, overdressed and laughing hard, while some of the clean room technicians of the plastic film edition still in their lab coats at the other end of the bar.

Nearby a couple of sports reporters were talking excited about NFL football and the league, for the first since the destruction of Seattle, the Seahawks were playing again and had won their first games. The Patriots were doing well in the Eastern conference. There was little else that reminded Americans these days of the good old days than national football. Their recent tagline, “Unapologetic American, the proud singing of the American anthem and the flag waving caused more than a few tight throats.

Bruce paid little attention, unless the NY Giants were part of it and the NY Giants had not been part of the Super Bowl winning teams since ’76 or a lifetime ago.

At the far end of the bar, a few reporters laughing and talking about the upcoming first Antarctica meeting of the new World government. There was Kate Jackson, an Assembly reporter and Don Blake who knew the City council in and out and Fred Gordon, a general assignment reporter just like him who was currently working the cities courts. Every handful of minutes, Fred would shout, “Pup Trivia!“and bet a drink he could outsmart anyone at the bar; and for the most part he did , with Kate and Don groaning and forking over silver chits.

For a while Bruce quietly observed, letting the beer wash away the taste of the second burger and fries. Except for Mikey, he never really connected to everyone else at work, of course he understood why. He’d gotten this job through his Saran connection. On his very first day on the job, someone had put a little Egyptian god figurine on his desk with a sticky note on his computer screen that read ‘Saran Asskisser’. He kept his mouth shut and instead of running to HR and demanding an investigation, he threw the sticky note and the figurine in the garbage - he knew someone on the news floor, maybe all of them - hated him for this.

He kept doing his job and kept to himself just like tonight.

Office politics - who was on the way up, on the way out, who was brown nosing - bored him. He liked talking about things that mattered and so many things that mattered, happened to humankind right now. Like the emergence of city and state governments and how long they would last. Or the stories about farm and ranch barons getting filthy rich, while there still was real hunger and people died because they did not have any gold or silver to trade, or jobs in the few industries that still remained. And of course the rumors about the Sarans and the other aliens. Now that would be stories to report. No one really believed the benevolent motives of the Saran queen. Last week he had listened to two newsmen of the NYT TV studio talking in line at the cafeteria, guys who were at the Saran embassy and just come back from the construction site at Antarctica. They had seen a lot of Sarans. “I tell you it is like Central Station down there, with all these Saran space ships coming in. Makes one think what they are really up to.” And the other said.” maybe it is just more relief supplies for all the starving masses world wide.” and the other replied.“Not hardly, those ships were carrying Saran soldiers in and our bright and able young out, that’s what. The officers and UN officials I talked to, they don’t believe that cock and bull story about a world wide evacuation, or them helping us defend ourselves against the Xunx.”

The other responded.“I don’t believe that story about soon to invade insects anyway.”

But stories like these would never get reported.

He had about drained his beer and was considering calling it a day when Fred raised his right hand again and shouted a challenge.“Bar trivia!” Kate raised her hands mockingly to her face and said, “Enough already,” and Don said. “Good gosh. Give it a rest.I hoped you’ve bugged us enough!”

Fred waved his hand. His brown hair was combed back and even when he smiled he looked like an asshole, he was a reporter because he could be a nosy bastard, did up trash and dirt on people and get paid for it.

“Oh, guys. One more.” He insisted and said.“Winner of this one gets a free drink from me for a whole week and I throw in a free choice from the bar menu, starting today. All right? Okay here it comes.”

While there were some moans and groans, everyone listened because this was a generous offer for sure and Fred went ahead.“Okay here it is, last trivia question of the night. All you have to do is name, the first US president who was aware of the alien menace and did something about it.”

“Reagan, Ronald Reagan. He knew what was going on and started the SDI program. it wasn’t meant to defeat the already economically defeated Russians.It was to stop them aliens. Abductions were real after all!”

Bruce could not help himself and said.“Eisenhower,1948 initiated Project Armadillo that later became AXIOM.”

Fred never liked to lose and he especially hated to lose to Bruce. In his beer induced bravado he had leaned to far out the window and made a bet he could not back out of, in front of everyone now.

The barman handed him Bruce’s tab.“That be 2 gold pennies and a chit. Bruce indulged himself with the Cattleman’s dream tonight.”