The Lucifer Deck Read Free

born meta? Babies with ‘impure thoughts’? Gimme a break."
    Behind him, Carla laughed. "The public doesn’t want logic." she answered. "Just infotainment."
    The screen dissolved to a close-up of Carla’s face. The on-screen image asked a question: "And what does the Humanis Policlub advocate as the solution to the ‘problem’ of metahumans? More brain-bashings?" Wayne’s fingers flicked across the keyboard, pulling in a series of one-second clips of some of the recent bash victims. Then he froze the screen.
    Carla studied it a moment. "Toss in the ‘bash back’ quote from the Ore Rights Committee piece we aired yesterday, and wrap the piece up with a five-second clip of the Los Angeles Meta Madness concert. The part where the lead singer leans into the lens and spits on it, then screams, ‘Frag the securi-goons. Madness must rule.’ That ought to stir something up."
    Wayne looked uneasily over his shoulder. "You sure you want to do that?"
    Carla smiled. "The only way I’ll ever get noticed by the majors is if I get down ’n’ dirty and prove I can muckrake with the best of them."
    As her editor worked, she watched her image on the second monitor. Long black hair pulled back in a single braid, dark hungry eyes. The right eye tracked a fraction of a second faster than the left; hidden behind its iris was a miniaturized cyberoptic camera. Subdermal fiber-optic cables one-tenth the diameter of a human hair carried the images it recorded to a data display link implanted behind her right ear, next to an audio recorder. A datajack just below it had allowed her to download the images that Wayne was manipulating. The shots of herself, repeating the questions she’d asked earlier, had been mixed in later.
    Two years after her surgery, Carla was still getting used to her new face. Wider cheekbones, a slightly flared nose, and melanin boosting had shaped her into a passable replica of an Indian. The Native American Broadcasting System actively denied any racial bias in its hiring practices, but one look at its anchors told the story. Someday soon, Carla hoped to leave KKRU’s nuyen-pinching behind and move up to NABS. Their producer had promised her a slot if she could demonstrate to him that she had what it took to "play hardball with the big boys." By that, he’d meant the ability to do tough, investigative pieces—the kind that probed deep into the dark underbelly of the corporate beast. "Show me something worthy of NABS, and I’ll give serious consideration to your application." he’d said.
    Carla was determined to do just that. And soon. Her exclusive interview with the leader of the local Humanis Policlub chapter was a good start. But it would take a bigger story than that to prove herself.
    On the trideo screen, the Humanis Policlub leader was droning on. "We do not advocate violence." He favored the camera with a sickly smile. "Just segregation. Metahumans belong with their own kind. They’re not happy in the general society. Those of us of pure stock make them feel inferior. And we don’t want them mixing with us. Can you imagine one of those rabid, hulking orks, dating your daughter?" His mouth curled as if he’d eaten a spoonful of warm drek. "Or your son? Do you really want a goblinized grandchild?"
    "And cut." Carla said, stabbing a finger against the on-screen menu. "Add a clip of those three ork kids that were bashed the other night, and fade with some Meta Madness music. Then patch in my usual sign-off and the station call letters and it’s a wrap."
    Stretching, she looked around the editing booth. Someone was tapping on the glass window. Opening the door beside it, Carla stepped out into the studio. "Yes?"
    Masaki, one of the other reporters, jerked a thumb at the monitors that lined one end of the newsroom. One of the screens showed a view of the front entrance of the KKRU building. A young ork sat on one of the synthleather lobby chairs, hands clenching the fabric of his jeans. The kid’s eyes