AfterLife™

Chapter 3

None of my journalist colleagues want to touch this story. Not even my friends outside the Greater Boston area. Even though the police have finally conceded to filing a missing person's report for Stella.

After three weeks.

This is my twelfth meeting with a respectable journalist. I've traveled cross country to find anyone willing to listen, meeting them in person to protect both sides. If I mention one word about AlphaGalaxy, they clam up tighter than a shaved penguin's butt.

Even Paul Steiner, my mentor from New York who inspired me to get into investigative journalism, refuses to bite. Like the others, he can't write about Stella's disappearance at all. Not even on neutral footing.

"Look, I don't want anyone to get hurt." Paul downs his second ristretto like it's a shot of vodka. "Especially you."

We're sitting at a fancy marble table in a high-end Seven establishment. The scent of fresh bagels and muffins wafts through the air, almost luring me back to the counter. Paul's just gulped his third espresso while I nurse my mochaccino latte with a fluffy cloud of whipped cream.

"But AlphaGalaxy is your regional competitor," I insist. "Surely MicroBook will jump at this story?"

Paul chuckles. "Look, Tara, you're what? Still twenty-something?"

"Twenty-eight."

This dreamy gaze crosses his features, the one middle-aged people get when they reminisce about their college years. "Yeah, I remember being that age. Naïve...idealistic."

All of my friends give me the same shtick: the pitying expression and the empathetic nod followed by the regretful tone. These same newscasters leap at the tiniest piece of news I can find about Guardian terrorists.

Any lead about the Viper kidnapping? Here's our VR address! Shit, there's a million holocoin reward for her safe return. Ten thousand for a lead to her body.

If I crack a peep about AG's crimes, they back away quicker than a squirrel from a fox. I'm sick of it. Even though Stella has headed up a respectable company, no one gives the tiniest crapola.

This is some major-league bullshit!

"Paul, please. This is Stella we're talking about."

"I love you both almost as much as my own son," he says fervently. "But AG? One of the biggest tech companies in the world? Ya gotta be joking."

"You're saying MicroBook wouldn't want some dirt on them?"

"That's not how this works, Tara." Taking an old-fashioned ink pen out of his shirt pocket, Paul draws a diagram on a napkin. It's old-school but safer than using a device. "Complex monopolies...we don't fight against each other. It's bad for business. They turn a blind eye. We turn a blind eye. If I expose AG, they rain shit down on MicroBook."

"And you lose your job," I say, finishing his thoughts for him.

Paul gives me a helpless gesture. "In this day and age, I'm lucky to have a job. If I lose this one, I won't find another. Not when I'm pushing sixty."

He has the courtesy not to tell me losing his job means kissing his high-Seven status good-bye. This guy used to be a Niner like me, but he's written too many articles arguing against the establishment. Taken too many risks that have chipped away at his reputation bit by bit.

But not anymore.

Not when only ten percent of the population can find gainful employment.

If his social rating drops too low, his family will lose the fancy house with the pool and the personal gym. The hovercab. The private vintage cinema with over a thousand antique films. And his kid's free university education?