confirm that the spirit that killed your husband was conjured as part of a Mitsuhama research project?"
"The Samji family thanks you for stopping by." an automated voice replied. "Unfortunately, we are not receiving visitors at this time. Please call again."
The pills Carla had taken earlier were starting to wear off. She blinked, trying to fight off a sudden rush of exhaustion. She’d been so close to confirming the link between the spell on the memory chip and Mitsuhama. If only the lion-headed dog hadn’t. . .
Then it struck her. The doglike spirit had acted in a sophisticated manner. What if it had been providing a direct, telepathic feed to Mitsuhama? The corporation certainly had the resources to have someone on the scene immediately, possibly even the corporate goons who’d tried to gun down Pita last night. And given the knowledge that Carla had just displayed about the contents of the datachip, they might be ready to take measures to keep her quiet. Measures like those they’d taken against the pirate reporter. Measures that could kill both the story—and Carla.
Carla sprinted for her taxi. This story was getting hot. It was time to get back to the station and its nice, bullet-and spell-proof glass.
9
Pita rolled over in her sleep. She knew she was dreaming, but was unable to shake the terrifying images from her mind. She was being chased by people whose tattooed skins were made of thick dabs of water-soluble paint. They followed her through the rain, their skins melting from their bodies, revealing skeletons beneath. The click-click of their bony feet was growing closer, closer . . . "Hey, kid, wake up."
A hand shook Pita’s shoulder. She awoke instantly, her heart pounding.
Wayne , from the editing department, looked down at her. He was a red-haired man in his thirties with a slight pot belly. Tucked under one arm was a miniature decks whose flatscreen displayed a freeze-framed image of an oil rig going up in flames. Wayne smiled and jerked a thumb at the door. "There’s someone at the front desk asking for you, kid."
"There is?" Pita was immediately wary. "Who?" She swung her legs over the edge of the plastifoam cot that was tucked into a storeroom just off the newsroom. Through the partially open door, Pita could hear the buzz of voices and the sound samples that were being mixed in the studio.
"Some guy with goofy-looking hair. He wouldn’t tell the receptionist his name. All he would say was to tell you he wants to talk to you about ‘little pork dumpling.’ " Pita jumped to her feet. "Yao’s here?" Her streetwise skepticism warred with hope and relief. "But I thought he was dead."
"Doesn’t look like it to me." Wayne pushed the door open. "Come and see for yourself. I’ve got the guy’s image on the monitor that’s patched into the surveillance camera in the lobby. Maybe you should scan it, just in case."
Pita followed Wayne into the studio. It was laid out in an open plan, with glass-doored editing booths along one wall, work stations at the center of the room, and banks of telecom equipment and computer terminals. An entire wall was devoted to hundreds of flat-screen monitors. Each displayed a different trideo channel. On several of the monitors, large letters that spelled out the word "RECORDING" were flashing.
"Which monitor?" Pita asked.
Just as Wayne was about to answer, his wrist began to beep. He glanced at the watch implanted into his skin. "Uh, oh. Thirty minutes to air. I’d better get back if I’m going to finish editing the interview Masaki did with you." He pointed toward the left-hand side of the bank of monitors. "It’s the one just over there. Between the satellite feeds and the foreign language channels."
One of the reporters called out urgently from across the room. "Hey, Wayne! You added that take to the Quetzalcoatl story yet? We’re running out of time!"
"It’s nearly done!" Wayne shouted, then hurried away.
Pita glanced at the monitors, but their sheer
"The Samji family thanks you for stopping by." an automated voice replied. "Unfortunately, we are not receiving visitors at this time. Please call again."
The pills Carla had taken earlier were starting to wear off. She blinked, trying to fight off a sudden rush of exhaustion. She’d been so close to confirming the link between the spell on the memory chip and Mitsuhama. If only the lion-headed dog hadn’t. . .
Then it struck her. The doglike spirit had acted in a sophisticated manner. What if it had been providing a direct, telepathic feed to Mitsuhama? The corporation certainly had the resources to have someone on the scene immediately, possibly even the corporate goons who’d tried to gun down Pita last night. And given the knowledge that Carla had just displayed about the contents of the datachip, they might be ready to take measures to keep her quiet. Measures like those they’d taken against the pirate reporter. Measures that could kill both the story—and Carla.
Carla sprinted for her taxi. This story was getting hot. It was time to get back to the station and its nice, bullet-and spell-proof glass.
9
Pita rolled over in her sleep. She knew she was dreaming, but was unable to shake the terrifying images from her mind. She was being chased by people whose tattooed skins were made of thick dabs of water-soluble paint. They followed her through the rain, their skins melting from their bodies, revealing skeletons beneath. The click-click of their bony feet was growing closer, closer . . . "Hey, kid, wake up."
A hand shook Pita’s shoulder. She awoke instantly, her heart pounding.
Wayne , from the editing department, looked down at her. He was a red-haired man in his thirties with a slight pot belly. Tucked under one arm was a miniature decks whose flatscreen displayed a freeze-framed image of an oil rig going up in flames. Wayne smiled and jerked a thumb at the door. "There’s someone at the front desk asking for you, kid."
"There is?" Pita was immediately wary. "Who?" She swung her legs over the edge of the plastifoam cot that was tucked into a storeroom just off the newsroom. Through the partially open door, Pita could hear the buzz of voices and the sound samples that were being mixed in the studio.
"Some guy with goofy-looking hair. He wouldn’t tell the receptionist his name. All he would say was to tell you he wants to talk to you about ‘little pork dumpling.’ " Pita jumped to her feet. "Yao’s here?" Her streetwise skepticism warred with hope and relief. "But I thought he was dead."
"Doesn’t look like it to me." Wayne pushed the door open. "Come and see for yourself. I’ve got the guy’s image on the monitor that’s patched into the surveillance camera in the lobby. Maybe you should scan it, just in case."
Pita followed Wayne into the studio. It was laid out in an open plan, with glass-doored editing booths along one wall, work stations at the center of the room, and banks of telecom equipment and computer terminals. An entire wall was devoted to hundreds of flat-screen monitors. Each displayed a different trideo channel. On several of the monitors, large letters that spelled out the word "RECORDING" were flashing.
"Which monitor?" Pita asked.
Just as Wayne was about to answer, his wrist began to beep. He glanced at the watch implanted into his skin. "Uh, oh. Thirty minutes to air. I’d better get back if I’m going to finish editing the interview Masaki did with you." He pointed toward the left-hand side of the bank of monitors. "It’s the one just over there. Between the satellite feeds and the foreign language channels."
One of the reporters called out urgently from across the room. "Hey, Wayne! You added that take to the Quetzalcoatl story yet? We’re running out of time!"
"It’s nearly done!" Wayne shouted, then hurried away.
Pita glanced at the monitors, but their sheer
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