Previously on Joy City Blues…
The Beacon Building sprang from a point far on the east side of the city, seated on a patch of artificial land that stretched into the ocean upon which the city had been constructed.
It was a massive, spiraling spear driving itself high into the sky with an eternally blazing blue flame at the very tip. The Flame of Truth.
Arnst Beckford-Joy had conceived of this architectural marvel in a fit of manic creativity that so often defined his life. He’d built it as a temple to the idea of Truth. And, within its vaunted halls of gleaming steel and shining glass, he’d built perhaps the greatest news organization in all of history, The Joy City Times.
He believed the truth was a sacrosanct thing. He believed there was no hope for a functioning society without it. He believed in shining the brightest lights in the darkest spaces.
And so it was that, for years, the Times had acted as that shining light. Its fame grew throughout the world. It was the news source of record. It was the premier Joy City institution.
Alas, Arnst had many beliefs. Including the belief that he could master the art of autoerotic asphyxiation and make it as safe as brushing one’s teeth.
When this belief proved less successful than his others, the board of Beckford-Joy Media Partners brought in a CEO who was, perhaps, somewhat less visionary, but also somewhat less likely to be found in his office dangling from a complex rig with no pants on.
The first order of business had been to maximize the profitability of the Beacon Building while also trimming the fat of the news organization that, while profitable, failed to reach ideal quarterly earnings.
And thus, years later, the Beacon Building was a cathedral to the most unexceptional investment firms in the city and The Times was clinging desperately to a suite of offices roughly seven stories below ground, where the light could never reach.
Virgil mostly avoided the building whenever possible. His beat, he insisted, was the streets. Or more like the suites. The domains of the good and powerful. The glistening, golden towers of Hightop.
Mostly, though, the place just depressed him.
There was also the small matter of access. Due to a series of misunderstandings, Virgil was technically listed in the Beacon’s security logs as a “Domestic Terrorist.”
And while Virgil would go to his grave believing the whole thing was a gross overreaction by some unreasonable people who lacked humor or imagination, he hadn’t been overly worried. Because he’d already had a workaround.
He got this workaround the way he got so many others- by paying attention. Specifically, by paying attention to people that no one else did. In any organization, he knew, there was an army of people working somewhere deep in the bowels who, ultimately, made all the things work. They were often ignored. They were always underappreciated. And they usually threw the weirdest parties you could imagine.
With this in mind, he’d long since gotten to know the IT department. He talked to them, listened to them, showed an interest. And, above all, he actually meant it. That was the key point so many people missed. He didn’t approach them with any motive save to get to know them. As such, one day a back door to the Beacon Building appeared in his hand without him ever even thinking about it.
Entering the building was a simple matter. He needed only crawl through a thick stand of bushes, find a strategic gap in the fencing, weave through a maze of humming outbuildings, crawl for just a bit through an abandoned service tunnel and voila, he’d arrived at a short, narrow door with a simple keypad. The code changed weekly, through a randomized system spitting out multi-level decryptions. The keypad was unbeatable.
Or you could simply enter 80085 and you were in. The system would even erase any record of your entrance. The IT department used it to sneak in their friends for game nights and the like.
Once inside, Virgil quickly traversed the service corridors until he came upon the battered, rusted entrance to the newsroom. He really had to put his back into it, but the rust shook loose and the door reluctantly inched forward with an agonized squeal.
For a moment, Virgil was blinded by the pure, almost violent, sterile whiteness. He staggered backward, shielding his eyes until his specs adjusted to compensate. He peered through the doorway, frowning in confusion.
Despite everything, Virgil had always felt a warm comfort in the office. It was buried deep, with all the hallmarks of a truly abandoned sub-sub-basement. It was stuffy and sweaty and dripping from the pipes that seemed to be everywhere. IT was, above all else, grim. It just seemed right.
But since his last excursion, that had all gone away. Now he was greeted by pure white walls and bright white lights. The room was empty save for a bank of quantum computers lining one of the walls. They hummed and blinked mildly as they ran.
Virgil crept inside, feeling for the first time truly like an intruder. His ears perked, but he heard no sounds. He slowly made his way to the door to the back hallway. He couldn’t help holding his breath as he peered around the corner.
“Can I help you?”
Virgil yelped and spun around toward the source of the voice. The narrow-faced guy in a perfectly tailored suit stood across the room looking amused.
“Jesus, man,” Virgil barked, “what kind of maniac sneaks up on a man like that?!?”
“Ah,” the man said. “You must be the elusive Virgil Wolfe.”
Still rattled, Virgil went for full indignation. “Elusive?!? How dare you?!? I’ve never been more insulted in my life!”
The man tilted his head. “I find that hard to believe, Mister Wolfe.”
Virgil scowled. “What sort of bespoke Morlock are you, anyway? I can spot a newsman from a mile away, and you don’t have the right kind of unsavory for it.”
“Regardless of your intention, I think I’ll take that as a compliment.”
“Take it how you like,” Virgil said, “as long as you take it somewhere else.”
The man sighed. “My name is Harrison Prescott, Mister Wolfe. I am the current Editor-in-chief of this newsfeed. I expect you wouldn’t know; I don’t feel as though you keep up.”
Virgil balked. “Editor in whatnow?!? What about Philo?!?”
For the first time, Prescott’s smooth forehead creased. “Who?”
“Don’t you play dumb with me,” Virgil said, jabbing a finger toward the other man. “You know who I mean. Bald guy, unhinged, yells a lot. Obsessed with deadlines”
“Ah, I think you mean Reginald. He’s still employed here as managing editor.”
“Reginald?” Virgil snapped. “No. That can’t be right. The hell kind of name is Reginald?”
“Wolfe,” another voice said from behind him. Virgil spun around like a wild animal, feeling cornered.
“Jesus, what is it with you people?!? My heart can’t take this kind of treatment!”
Philo stood before him looking tired. He waved Virgil toward the hallway. “C’mon back.”
Virgil didn’t like the man’s voice. It held a distinct lack of righteous fury. The world felt unbalanced.
One thing was certain, though, he’d never be calling the man “Reginald.”
He followed Philo down the hallway, which had also been converted into a white, sterile space, until they reached the bullpen.
Or, rather, where the bullpen had been. Because now it was the same glaring white as everything else. And where there’d been desks piled high with old food containers and ashtrays there were two spotless workstations manned by two sallow men that screamed corporate tech.
Virgil froze and stared at the scene. There were inspirational posters on the wall. A digital display ran updates on the stock market. Another, smaller one, showed the newsfeed, as well as a few others.
“My god, man,” Virgil whispered in a voice that was almost awed, “what have you done?”
“Save it,” Philo said. “My office.”
Where once there was a door custom built to be unwelcoming, even terrifying, there was a wall of glass showing a meticulous workspace.
Virgil followed him in, spinning in perpetual disorientation. He felt as though all his higher functions were essentially frozen. Like he was just another buffering deck.
Philo sat at his desk, folding his hands in front of him. “So? You have my footage?”
And, finally, the logjam broke in Virgil’s head. “You maniac, what have you done?!?”
“Easy, Wolfe,” Philo warned.
“You let the ratfucks in! You opened the gates and let the ratfucks in! I can feel their stink all over this…this…I don’t even know what this is anymore!”
“This is a business, Mister Wolfe,” Prescott said from behind him.
Virgil jumped and spun around, red-faced and sputtering. “You! You goddamn viper! Stop slithering around everywhere! Shouldn’t you be in your crypt, man?”
Prescott seemed unfazed. He tilted his head, that same calm smile just sitting there on his face, taunting Virgil. “Mister Wolfe, I realize change can be difficult for…certain kinds of people. And so, I’m inclined to be rather more forgiving than I might otherwise. But I must say, your behavior is quite unprofessional. I wish I could say I was surprised.”
Virgil glared. “Oh, of course, ‘unprofessional.’ Your type loves professionalism. Gotta make sure you use just the right fork to stab a guy in the neck, eh?”
“Wolfe,” Philo said from behind him. There was that cautionary tone again.
Virgil grunted, then took a breath. He’d never say the words out loud, but Philo was right. He was getting too worked up. He was letting this officious ratfuck get under his skin. That wasn’t like him. He blamed the hangover. And the murder.
“Fine,” he said. “I’m just here to drop off what I promised. And I need to talk to Bo. Where the hell did you finks stow Bo away?”
Bo was The Times’ police reporter. He knew all the goings on. He’d have some idea of what was happening with the case. And, hopefully, if there’d been any word of Jada.
Virgil had never been that close with the girl, but he’d known her. And he knew the way the city worked. There would be an army of cops cracking skulls to find Morozov’s killer. But not a one would be asking about someone like the girl.
Prescott looked past Virgil to Philo. “Bo?”
Philo sighed. “Bo Ramkin. Used to work the metro desk, crime beat mostly.”
“Ah,” Prescott replied. He looked back at Virgil. “Mister Ramkin took what I would say was a rather generous retirement package earlier in the year. I imagine he’s gone off to enjoy his golden years.”
“Retirement package?!?” Virgil wailed. “You’d need a goddamn nuke to blow that man out of his chair! He lived for this!”
“I think he ended up going to work for his brother-in-law,” Philo said. “Deep sea fishing. I guess he liked the idea of being on a boat.”
Virgil growled. “The hell you say! When would Bo have ever even seen a boat?!? Guy was Joy City all the way!”
Philo sighed. “You know this city is built in the middle of the ocean, right? This isn’t new to you?”
Virgil waved it off. “Fine, whatever. Bo’s a boatman now. Sure. Point me to his replacement then. I’ve got questions.”
Prescott seemed to find this amusing. “His replacement? Well, I suppose you already met his replacement when you walked in, Mister Wolfe.”
Virgil stared at the besuited prick blankly. And then it hit him.
The servers.
“You didn’t.” His voice was hushed, almost awed.
“Virgil,” Philo said. He sounded like he knew how close to the edge they all were standing now.
Virgil swallowed hard. His brain swirled and frothed. It was making him dizzy and ill. He realized he was either going to vomit everywhere or strangle the life from someone. It wouldn’t take much to push him either way.
“We’re having quite a bit of success with the new algorithm, actually,” Prescott said, not acknowledging Virgil’s obvious distress. “Our quarterly earnings have been steadily increasing, with barely any noticeable change in the feed’s quality. Indeed, we’ve managed to increase subscriptions fourteen percent as the system is significantly more responsive to our audience’s core interests.”
“Wolfe,” Philo warned. He sounded close to panic. Virgil stood rigidly still. His face was blank, his body ramrod straight. There was a rushing sound filling his ears.
“It is the future of newsfeeds, Mister Wolfe,” Prescott continued. “The end goal, what we’ve been working for. Perfect efficiency. Perfect productivity. Perfect profitability.
“We stand at the cusp of the new world.”
Virgil nodded. He looked almost sad for a moment. He sighed as his shoulders slumped.
And then he leapt.
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