Autumn Belfontaine swirled the last bit of her coffee around in the bottom of the mug. When she’d first gotten into broadcast journalism, it had seemed like a straightforward occupation. Yes, there were many ways a reporter might use to ferret out information, but it all boiled down to covering the news.
She’d never imagined that being a radio station’s news director could put her in the position of having to locate technical information for old friends who were just trying to stay on the air as best they could amidst infrastructure breakdowns. She’d never imagined that it would involve trying to hold together a team who were becoming increasingly worried about the safety of friends and family at the bottom of a gravity well while sitting at its top with no way to give them material help. And she’d certainly never imagined that she could be watching a civilization-wide catastrophe unfolding 1.5 light-seconds away, hardly an eyeblink in network times, yet a well-nigh unbridgeable distance in physical terms.
But now there was nothing for her to do but deal with the situation as best she could. At least Ken Redmond’s people had managed to put together a new main board, so Shepardsport Pirate Radio once again had a clean, professional sound. Now they had to put the location rig through a full maintenance cycle to ensure it would be ready to go when they could broadcast on location once again.
However, finding good solutions for Dan’s ongoing trouble with keeping his radio station powered up had proven far more elusive. Engineering had offered her several, but every last one of them had presupposed certain elements of the lunar environment that simply wouldn’t be available on Earth.
And then there was the stuff that was just disturbing enough that she really felt that she ought to get the word out, but without independent confirmation, she was hesitant to even put together a story and run it past the appropriate people. Like the business about the eco-fanatic cult whose lair had been found in smoking ruins, who might or might not have some connection with the diablovirus — except that it had first appeared in poverty-stricken villages of Central Asia, not staid and proper Central Europe. Or the rumor Brenda had heard about a gang leader in the south side of Chicago turning warlord and stealing groceries and other vital goods to be distributed to his people.
Not to mention just what Spruance Del Curtin might be up to right now. On the surface, it seemed like he had suddenly become very good, very conscientious, very helpful. Except it really felt like he was trying to hide something.
No, she’d never imagined that a news director could end up bearing so many burdens, all at once. But these were her people, and she couldn’t help but care about them.