The embarkation point was in chaos. Infantry carriers plowed through pale yellow mud on their way to the front. Standing up straight, Gerald flexed his knees to relieve the stress from the long ride. Shouldering his pack, he put on a pair of sunglasses. The battered little taxi that let him out pulled away, tires whining through the muck. Failing to dodge the spray, he ignored the clods that painted his back. Crossing the makeshift road through a gap in traffic, he made his way to the press tent. There was no line.

Stepping inside the canvas oven, Gerald presented his credentials to the sweaty woman in military fatigues who sat on a low campstool. Next to her, a backpack workstation squatted on the bare dirt floor. The brown-skinned sergeant did not appear happy to see the journalist as she pawed through his pile of permits, stamped papers, and government-issue pass cards.

"Aren't you a little too close to the action? The buffet is fifty kilometers back the way you came," she mumbled, bending to swipe his identity card through an optical reader on the portable computer. Inside the black plastic, a modem clicked as it made the high-speed data query.

"Old school." Gerald shuffled his feet and tried to grin disarmingly in the heat.

Despite the evolution of precision weaponry, close quarters combat remained a bloody business that often took the lives of noncombatants who could not flee from a fast-moving battlefield. Contemporary news organizations no longer sent their correspondents to the front lines to report. They relied on remotely piloted drones and a host of official and protected sources. An amendment to the Geneva Conventions now required that journalists with valid credentials be treated the same way as other prisoners.

"Stupid, if you ask me. Give me one good reason why I should activate your J-card." Her challenge was an opening for a bribe, and Gerald knew it. The J-card was a cartoonishly large plastic magchip that most military and civilian optronic scanners could read at a distance—the modern press pass. Sanctioned by the UN, most governments used it to indicate approved access. No savvy reporter would be caught on the front lines without one.

"Humor me." Gerald nodded at the fat pack of cards and papers in her hands. Deft fingers found the money to which he had alluded. The Public Affairs NCO said nothing as she pocketed the funds and retrieved Gerald's identity card.

"Knox," she said as she read from the tiny holographic display on her pack. "I heard of you."

"All good, I hope," he replied, trying his charm on her again as she gave back his credentials.

"My brother watches your stuff on the internet. Do you really come from Alaska?" With their business done, she tapped her authorization code into a handheld device that made Knox's Journalist card turn green.

"Sure." He went with the lie to keep things moving along. Gerald worked for Polar News Service, which had its headquarters in Anchorage, Alaska. It was a small company that had a one-percent footprint in the global news market.

The heat and suffocating humidity were making the sergeant sloppy. Knowing who he was had put her too much at ease. Gerald wanted to be on his way before she counted her money. Somebody further up the chain of command was bound to point out her "mistake" when it came time to divvy up the bribe money. Small companies paid small bribes. Small bribes weren't as good as large bribes.

"You're nuts." She shook her head and gave him his card.

"Talk to your brother. People have been relying on flying eyeballs and pampered fat boys who report from air-conditioned videodromes for more than ten years. When it comes to wars, half of what you see on the tube is sexed up with graphics and cut-ins from unrelated battles."

"That's only good for seventy-two hours."

Gerald nodded as he clipped the big card to his vest. She didn't care about his motivations, and he knew it. Tossing off a mock salute, he left the small tent and made his way to the motor pool.

The pool was a rough semicircle marked out with empty oil drums. Hard-packed earth reflected the sun's heat mercilessly as he surveyed the perimeter guards and mechanics. The condition of the two dozen vehicles inside the cordon told Gerald that fighting was constant in this part of the country. The vehicles being worked on showed small arms hits and other damage typical of moderate combat. Coupled with what he already knew about the conflict, he felt certain that he had come to the right place.

"Stop loitering." A nearby guard kept his battle rifle slung as he eyed Knox distrustfully.

"I'm looking for a ride." Gerald thumbed his J-card.

The swarthy man with the gun was large. The bronze pip on his uniform lapel showed that he had seen combat. "I don't see your network logo." The big man smiled at Knox as he took a step closer. "Polar News?"

Gerald nodded as he stuck one hand into a hip pocket. He wasn't wearing anything with his company's logo on it. Experience had taught him not to advertise.

"What do you want to see? Maybe I can fix it."

The man's offer didn't surprise Gerald. People in this part of the world accepted the nearly permanent state of conflict as a fact of life. Atrocities, like the one he was here to confirm, weren't news to them. He decided to throw the dice.

"I want to see Atumbo." All the major news organizations were dodging the massacre because their conventional methods were coming up short. Efforts to overfly the small town with remotely piloted drones had met with little success. Rebel troops shot the devices down with shoulder-fired missiles as fast as they could be sent. Only one news group had succeeded in getting a man-to-machine interview.

The guard scanned the area to see if Knox had any confederates. "Where's your eyeball?"

"No eyeballs. Just me. I want to go there and shoot the video myself."

The small, maneuverable drones known as "eyeballs" carried enough all-weather electronics to conduct interviews with anyone who cared to stand close enough to be imaged. Most were unobtrusive enough to enter buildings or vehicles. The most expensive and modern of these devices could fit into a shirt pocket.

"If you go to Atumbo, the only thing that will get shot is you. Take my advice. It's free."

"People have questions. I'm not here to judge. I'm just here to get some answers."

"People are stupid. They only believe what they want."

"They believe what they are told," Gerald countered.

"What are you going to tell them? If you survive Atumbo." The big soldier's stance changed to one of confrontation.

"I'm just going to show them what I find. If I can find anyone who will talk to me, I'll get them to tell me their side of the story."

"Why?"

Gerald took his hand out of his pocket as he watched another guard start to take interest in his conversation.

The big media consortia had long since dissected the information market. There was a news channel for every bias known to market research. Print media didn't diversify so completely because of profitability issues. Most people no longer cared about what truth actually was. They could subscribe to their own worldview for just pennies a day.

"Were you there? Did you see what went on in Atumbo?" He sidestepped the soldier's indifference by resorting to one of the oldest tricks in his profession.

"No. Even if I was, I wouldn't tell you," the guard replied, visibly annoyed.

"Fair enough. If you show me to somebody who can get me to Atumbo, I'll make it worth your while." Reaching back into his pocket, Gerald took out a small roll of local currency.

"I wouldn't blow my nose with that. You'll pay me in dollars. Fifty. Half now, half when you get your ride." Talking about money improved the sentry's mood. He smiled as he pointed to a large white tent near the motor pool. One hour and two hundred dollars later, Gerald found himself alone in the back of an open-topped supply truck bound for the garrison at Atumbo.

"Phone. Call Amy." He stuck the tiny bud into his ear as he went through the equipment in his pack. Road dust began to coat him as he paused to drink from a small water bottle. The tiny phone in his ear responded to his voice command.

"Jerry?" Amy's voice was garbled.

"It's me. I'm in country, and it's looking good. You'd better be right about Atumbo."

"Yeah. I've got an update on that. My source says the rebels did the deed. We aren't getting squat from the government because they're afraid the Western media will pin this on them." Despite his already considerable tan, the skin on the back of his neck was beginning to prickle.

He nodded and spat to clear his mouth. "Do we know why Z News dropped the story?"

"Yeah. I was kinda hoping to save that for later." She sounded unhappy.

"Give." He counted battery packs and put them away.

"Z News canned their coverage on the massacre because one of their guys paid the rebels to let him watch. You know what our lawyers would say about that. Since they have more to lose than we do, it was only natural for them to cover their multi-billion-Euro butts."

"Where does that leave us?" Gerald checked the last of his gear.

"Stick to the massacre. Don't do anything on video that you'll have to edit later. We should get you on the air today so that our claim to the story sticks. I don't want to share content on this one if I don't have to." Polar News was technically hers. She had used her trust fund to start the small news agency.

"I've hitched a ride. I'm on a supply truck that's going direct to Atumbo." He fumbled with his helmet cam as the truck hit a bump. "The driver said it was a three-hour drive. That puts me there at three or four, local time. Give me another three hours to smoke 'em and joke 'em, and I'll get back to you for the windup."

The helmet cam was a large, bulbous piece of headgear that could be used as a remote broadcast and editing station. Optronic connectors allowed a laptop computer to be interfaced, further enhancing the capabilities of the reporter in the field. This model was older, painted slate grey. Purchased secondhand, it could be tossed or lost at a moment's notice without angering Amy's fiscal sensibilities.

"Three hours. Timer's running. Say, is this a bad time to mention that I had to cancel your KNR insurance?"

Gerald laughed, despite his dry throat. "You insured me? I'm touched," he finally came back after another drink.

Kidnapping and ransom insurance was a necessary evil in their line of work. The few journalists like Knox who dared to report from the front lines had no other backup. They jokingly called the KNR insurance their money shield.

"Come back alive with a story in the can and I'll give you a cookie." Amy hung up.

Shaking his head, Gerald tried on the helmet to check the optics and other systems. The Atumbo assignment was a piece of cake. On more difficult assignments, he would work with as many as three other people whose skills would vary—camera operator, electronics troubleshooter, bodyguards, and even fixers of all sorts.

The supply truck arrived in the small town of Atumbo after a bone-jarring three hours and fifteen minutes. Unable to walk properly, Knox rolled out of the truck bed. Caked in dirt from head to toe, he looked less like a field reporter than a refugee. Shouldering his pack, he surveyed his surroundings. The bivouac was of platoon size. The supply dump was smaller than he expected. This told him that the new garrison was still setting up their camp.

"Stop!"

Gerald raised empty palms as the guard challenged him. Seated on a sandbag wall, the wiry little man hefted his battle rifle as if he intended to use it. "I have a pass. I'm a reporter."

"Who sent you?" The guard was short, which made his rifle look bigger than it was.

"Your government." Experience had taught Gerald that using small words and short sentences when dealing with certain people would make him less likely to be rifle-butted. Unlike other countries in the region, this one had a government that went out of its way to make nice with its army.

"You come to see the massacre?" The little man hopped down from the sandbags.

"Yeah, that's right." Gerald reached up to touch his J-card. Things could still go wrong. The guard was cautious. The safety on his rifle was off, and he wasn't approaching.

"You want to see the captain, then."

Gerald nodded and lowered his hands. The guard kept eye contact with him and whistled loudly to summon help. Five minutes later, Knox found himself being escorted through the camp. He was searched, then led into an air-conditioned tent surrounded by infantry carriers.

A big man came in only seconds after Knox was led in. Two guards loitered nearby. "I am Captain Atawayo."

A pair of enormous sideburns, which Gerald knew were meant to be a vain fashion statement, framed Atawayo's chiseled features. The man's uniform was wrinkled. That told Knox that he was looking at a working soldier, not the preener he appeared to be.

"Knox, Gerald Knox. Polar News."

Atawayo's handshake was powerful. Accepting the challenge, Gerald bore down with his own grip. The captain smiled his acceptance by releasing his hand and slapping Gerald on the shoulder, hard.

"So. The stink of our killing fields has brought out another rodent." Atawayo's words were meant for his guards, to put them at ease. "I was told that there was a man here from Z News. If you are here, I assume that he did not make it out of our country alive."

Gerald accepted the blow with a nod and a smirk. "He made it out, all right. His network decided to kill the story." There was no point in taking Atawayo for granted. He didn't seem to be the kind of man who would accept anything less than full truth.

"Which is why you are here."

"Yes." Gerald accepted the campstool that one of the guards offered him.

"You don't look like a journalist."

The statement had a lot behind it. For the right price, anyone could buy or fake the tag that hung on Knox's vest. He knew it. Atawayo knew it. Mercenaries and agents of all sorts often posed as media.

"Your people took my stuff before I came in here. If none of that is enough to convince you that I'm real, you can visit my company's web site and call my editor. I don't suppose there's any chance that you've heard of me?"

Atawayo's eyes glittered with mirth as he kept a straight face. Something about this was amusing to him. "Yes, Mr. Knox, I know who you are. The man who drove you here called ahead to tell me that you were part of his load. My country is poor, and we don't have a lot of things. Lucky for us that we do have radios and high-speed internet connections, eh? Otherwise, I might have had you shot. Just to be safe."

For the second time, Gerald accepted the fun at his expense. Atawayo remained standing as he chuckled. Whatever the test was, he had clearly failed it.

"What can you tell me about the massacre?"

"Ah, yes. That." His tone indicated that Gerald had just been reevaluated. "This is a strange conflict. When the rebels first started acting out, we didn't take them seriously. Racial hate should be a thing of the past for us. My great-grandfather told me stories when I was a little boy. My father never saw it, and I never saw it. Until now."

Gerald waited for him to continue. This was not the first hate-motivated conflict he had seen.

"The rebels culled the people of this town like they were screening for diseased cattle." The captain's anger became visible as he spoke. "They took them out to the football pitch, and they shot them. Then they left. End of story."

"No." Gerald risked speaking up. "No, it's not the end of the story. If you let this go without telling anyone, the rebels will think they have more support than they really do. They will kill again."

"Millions of people die unfairly every day," Atawayo said cynically. "If this little slice of injustice is not worth air time to Z News, what makes you think that you can make a difference here? I've seen your web site. I use more bandwidth when I phone home."

"Ever heard of the mouse that roared?"

"Excuse me?" Atawayo plainly didn't get the reference.

"Book. Print." Gerald waved away his allusion. "Never mind. Look, I'm here. If that's not enough for you, send me packing. I'm going to document what happened here. I'm not going to tell anyone what to think about it. I'm just going to vid the facts, and let my subscribers decide."

Some hatreds were hard for generations who grew up without them to grasp. By his own admission, Captain Atawayo was having just such a crisis. Gerald knew that he wasn't qualified to offer counsel. All he had to offer was the truth, as he knew it.

"Unorthodox." Atawayo nodded tersely. Knox wasn't what he had expected.

Gerald shrugged. "I get that a lot."

Atawayo visibly made up his mind. "You can go with us tonight. We'll wait until after dark so that we can use our night vision systems."

"I thought you said the rebels were gone," Gerald said, concern evident in his voice.

"That's what we were told by the people in town. When dealing with these rebels, I have learned never to believe what I have been told." The captain's uniform had no pips, ribbons, or patches to indicate battle decorations.

Gerald nodded at the soldier's suspicion. The captain had plainly been educated in the school of hard knocks. "You think they'll be waiting for you?" The prospect of following troops into a free-fire zone didn't bother him. He'd done it before.

"I'm not proud of what we are here to do." Atawayo's anger turned to sour pragmatism as he checked his watch. "It must be done. That's all. We will go out an hour after sunset. You have permission to interview my men for the next hour. After that, I want them left alone so that they can get some rest. You would be advised to do the same."

Knox was released and shown to an empty shelter-half, where he was instructed to stay until he was called for. His pack and other possessions were returned to him, minus a small handling fee in local currency.

Atawayo's troops had a lot to say about the Atumbo massacre. It became clear that most of them shared the same shock and uncertainty that conflicted their leader. The rest saw it very clearly—kill or be killed.

"How's that for irony?" Amy asked when Knox was able to get her on the phone. "I think their whole country is traumatized. Except for the rebels, of course. They seem to be causing all the trauma."

"You're so funny," he grated. "How are we doing for numbers?" Five hours earlier, when he had first called her, Amy had sent out a Subscriber Alert to Polar's paying customers. As part of their high-end membership, clients could watch Gerald and other reporters on the payroll as they broadcast live. The company's profitability hinged on these accounts. Gerald Knox was their biggest draw. His penchant for being near to or involved in natural disasters, gun battles, or government coups might one day make him a celebrity—if he lived that long.

"As usual, you're my favorite—seven hundred thousand and climbing. Once you do the intro, it'll double. I'd love to be a fly on the wall over at Z News corporate when their computers flag this broadcast. They're gonna spaz." Z News could make millions from a live broadcast. Gerald's show wouldn't do nearly that well, but it would pay the bills.

"Right. You want to do that now? I've got just enough time to do it once, and then I've got to go. The good captain isn't going to let me carry a gun, so I want to be on time when they leave."

Freelancers like Knox shot their way out of trouble only as a last resort. When it happened, it was usually a newsworthy event in its own right. Amy would never admit it, but he did have a way of stumbling into a lot of "last resort" events.

"Hook it up. Recorder's waiting."

Booting his laptop, Gerald tapped on the keyboard with his dirty fingers. In the darkness, he typed slowly to avoid mistakes. Looking around, he found a pile of crates to perch the helmet on. Watching himself on the computer's holoprojector, he adjusted the light levels of the picture so that the viewers could see him more easily. As the helmet cam looked at him, it broadcast the image back to Anchorage.

"What happened to you?" she asked when she saw how filthy he was.

"The usual," he replied as he checked the phone in his ear. "How's that?"

"Make me proud."

Dressed for the field, Gerald struck a hunter's pose as he belted out the intro. "This is Gerald Knox, and I'm about to broadcast live and direct from the scene of the Atumbo massacre. Some people say it didn't happen. The government isn't talking. I'll show it to you and let you decide." His tag line was trademarked. His company was bonded. Being showy was just part of the job.

"You've got two hours. Anything else?"

"Let's do a better job with the call screening this time." He shut off his computer and picked up his helmet. "I know they're paying for it, but give me a break. We're trying to do something meaningful here. You know?" Clients with the most expensive accounts could sometimes call in while the session was live. Most of them had good questions. Some used the chance to be seen and heard by millions to say or do stupid things.

"You're still mad at me about that woman from Zagreb," Amy pouted.

"There are some things that not even I can forgive." He stowed his computer and slung his pack. "Gotta go." He hung up with a smile.

Jogging across the compound, he arrived in time to see Captain Atawayo in a huddle with his squad leaders. Staying visible, he avoided the soldiers out of professional courtesy. In the night sky, a half moon cast its pale glow.

"Pretend I'm not here," Knox told the troops as they moved out. "The faceplate on my helmet will be down. You won't be able to see my face, but you can still talk to me. I need the visor to watch my feed. It will also block my voice. Gotta talk to the camera."

"We won't stop for you if you get shot," one trooper replied.

"We're supposed to shoot you if you get in our way," somebody else told him.

Finding his way to the center of the column, he couldn't blame Atawayo for those orders. Some media freelancers made bad names for themselves by getting in the way of the troops they reported on. One of his colleagues had been shot for just such an error. It was a mistake he would go out of his way not to make.

Slapping his faceplate down, Gerald keyed his modems and tested his mikes. The world around him was visible through night-vision green. The visor came alive with cutout camera shots and system monitors. The total effect was that he had three hundred and sixty degree vision while still being aware of his wireless connections and battery power levels.

"Your picture is grainy," Amy complained stereophonically inside the helmet.

"I didn't have a chance to recalibrate." He adjusted the transmission as he walked. Omnivision took some time to get used to each time he put on the helmet cam. The obsolete system he was wearing had its faults. Modern versions had anti-roll and impact features that made the helmet cam more durable than the person wearing it was.

"The e-mail is piling up."

"Sounds good." He finished his fine-tuning.

Atawayo's hand signal broke up the column as they approached the small town. Pointing at Knox, he made a 'come here' gesture.

Atumbo was like any other small town in this part of the country. The layout of the streets and architecture of the buildings spoke of hard-won prosperity. Bullet holes and neglect now attested to its downfall.

"Follow me," Atawayo commanded tersely. Gerald got in line with the rest of his squad.

"Amy?" Gerald prompted.

"Commercials. We're sixty seconds out." Because of their small market share, Polar News had to run local ads. Cuing a submonitor, Gerald watched his network's feed as it went out over the internet. Dancing fish paraded across the screen, singing about the virtues of fresh Alaskan salmon. Atawayo's squads made good time. As the remixed intro for Gerald's on-air session began to run, the patrol was into the outskirts of Atumbo.

"So far, so good." The captain smiled at his sergeant while the pair squatted behind a parked car.

Even Gerald had to admit that the recon was going well. At this pace, they might reach the soccer field inside of an hour. The first step to laying claim to the story of the Atumbo massacre would be to document the fallen bodies.

"Things are gonna get jiggy any second now," he warned Amy. If the rebels were here, they would strike before Atawayo's troops got too far into the maze of buildings. Their superior training and weapons would give the government troops the edge they needed to track and kill the insurgents.

Three snipers fired on Atawayo's squad as his intro finished, putting him on the air. "Gerald Knox here, live and direct," he managed to get out while running for cover. "I'm on the outskirts of a small town called Atumbo. Rebel forces massacred more than a hundred people last week. Today, government troops are in the town, looking for the rebels." He flinched as a bright strobe light lit the night. The helmet's flash filter worked manually. Struggling to activate it while lying prone behind a garbage can, he waited for the hidden machine gunner to burn through his ammo belt. The helmet display showed Gerald's program rating had jumped two percent with the dramatic opening to his broadcast.

The program screen split. Amy now appeared in a tiny block in the upper right hand corner. "Jerry, we've got stuff going up on our site now. Viewers and off-line subscribers can click on the Atumbo link to read more about this conflict."

"I think I'm gonna be here for a minute," he prompted her as the fighting continued. Raising his head above the lid of the battered metal can, he let the helmet cam's zoom features do the looking for him. Reaching down to a belt control, he cued some of the interview video that he had taken earlier. Atawayo's troops, framed in daylight, talked about the massacre as many of those same men now shot it out in the moonlit night with the rebels.

"As long as you're waiting for the bullets to stop flying, how about a phone call?" As chief editor and senior news anchor, it was Amy's job to screen callers and put them on the air with reporters in the field. It was Polar's angle, intended to set them apart from their competitors.

"Go." He scuttled over to kneel behind a park bench that would let his viewers see more of the action. The quality view of this firefight was worth another ratings point, according to Gerald's helmet display.

"My name is Mandee, and I am calling from South Africa." The videophone image of a bronze teenaged girl replaced Amy in the upper right hand corner of the broadcast. "If this happened last week, how come we are only just now hearing about it?"

"Polar News found out about this just seventy-two hours ago. I can't tell you why nobody else picked up on it. Maybe they didn't think it was important."

"In school, they told us about the war in that country. Are they really fighting over race?"

"Yes, Mandee, they are. It seems silly to you and me, but some people still haven't gotten the message." Thinking of his earlier conversation with Atawayo, he shifted his camera view to zoom in on a dead soldier. "We all bleed red. It doesn't matter what color our skin is."

Atawayo was taking his time. He was in no hurry to waste the lives of his men. Using scrambled radios and hand signals, he directed his troops into action with surgical precision. In the time it took to silence the machine gun and account for all three snipers, Gerald took three more calls.

"We know they're here now," Captain Atawayo told him as he approached after the battle. "We have bodies and weapons for you to photograph. Come with me." Getting close-up shots of the dead rebels and their old-style Russian weaponry helped his program keep its rating stable. Programs of this type that ran for more than seventy minutes didn't do well in the live ratings category. Gerald was pressed for time, and he knew it.

"We won't go any deeper into the town. We'll call up the trucks. It will take my men a few hours to secure the choke points. In the meantime, I will have my driver take you to the massacre site. After that, you're on your own."

Gerald nodded his silent acceptance. Captain Atawayo had spent as much time in front of the camera as he cared to.

Gerald stepped away to update his viewers. "You heard the man. I've got a few more interviews to show our viewers, and I'm sure that Amy has to break for commercials. We'll be right back." Knox waited for the shift into advertisements before talking to Amy on a separate frequency.

"Good stuff," she told him as she typed at her workstation.

"There'll be more government troops here by morning. I don't want to be here when the shooting starts. After I get the video of the massacre site, I'll slip into town and see if I can't get some civvies to talk to me."

"Watch your back. I don't like having you work alone like this. What else can I do?"

"Let's cut the feed after I get something gory for the fans."

"Can you get me some stills while you're at it?"

Gerald nodded, reaching back to pat the lidar mapping camera on his belt. The images would be fully three-dimensional. Infrared and ultraviolet filters would allow sophisticated software to "authenticate" the corpses. "We're going to need more than that. I was thinking I might get some DNA."

"Ew!" Amy recoiled. "I know you like to be thorough, but ew!"

Gerald laughed at her. "You want another repeat of that business in Cairo?"

The reminder quieted her for a moment. "Just be careful. We still don't know how their government is going to take this."

"I'll be on my way by sunrise. I promise." Getting a story was one thing. Getting out of the country with the proof was another, as he knew well from bitter experience.

Atawayo's driver had commandeered a civilian vehicle. Despite the firefight, the town appeared strangely normal. Gerald took off his helmet to enjoy the breeze in the open-topped car as they sped down a fully lit boulevard. The commercials and the last of his pre-recorded interviews gave him a fifteen-minute window of opportunity to relax.

"You really gonna show what you see?" the dusky driver asked. His command of English was poor.

"Showing it now." Knox tossed the helmet in both hands.

"I'm only to take you there," the man said as he guided the car around a corner.

"Fair enough." Gerald ran sweaty fingers through his gritty hair.

"My father live here." The driver looked away. "You would like him." He paused. "I was not told when to be back. I could take you to see him. After."

"How much?" He gave the man a sidelong glance. This could be a trap.

"No charge. My father is old. I want him to be happy. This place make him happy."

Gerald nodded as they drove on in silence. The only thing that remained was the grisly business of imaging the charnel site. Taking video at night would lessen the visual impact to his viewers. The stink and everything else associated with it would still be there for him to experience and report on.

"Ten seconds," Amy warned.

Standing on the edge of the soccer field, Knox adjusted the fit of the helmet cam and stood ready to turn on his flashlight. Seventy meters back, the car and its driver waited for him to complete his chore.

"This is Gerald Knox, live and direct from the site of the Atumbo massacre. I've managed to make my way from the south side of town to the place where it all happened. You've seen the interviews. You know what I know. In just a moment, I'm going to have a look at what could be a hundred or more bodies. These people were killed seven days ago. This won't be pretty. Those of you watching with violence filters on may get blacked out. I won't apologize for that. If it helps, think of it as the price of truth." The broad hint of decomposing bodies gained Gerald's program another ratings point.

Mindful of the need to be a good showman, he whipped out his flashlight and turned it on. He played the beam out in a wide arc over the regulation soccer pitch. At midfield, the piles were unmistakable. Small animals fled from the harsh light as Gerald's camera zoomed in.

"Ladies and gentlemen, you're watching a Polar News exclusive," Amy voiced quietly over his feed. "This is live and uncensored video. Our field correspondent, Gerald Knox, is on the scene to get the facts behind this brutal killing."

"That's right, Amy. I can't stick around for very long. Somebody is bound to notice me out here. I'm going to get closer. I'll also take some three-D photos so that forensic experts can have something to work with. Then I'm outta here."

Clipping the flashlight to his vest, he approached the nearest pile. "Despite all our science and technology, we still seem to be quite capable of killing each other over trivial things." Working the lidar camera, he was not sure just what to say as he made his way around the crime scene.

"This injustice, and everything it represents, would have gone unreported by the major news outlets. The people that did this would have gotten away with it. You know what I know. In about twelve hours or so, I'll have more interviews for you. If I can get it out of the country, I'll have some physical evidence, too. Sorry, but most of it will be off-line stuff. This one speaks for itself, but there's more going on here than I can document on the air."

Pausing to give his viewers a clear and unobstructed look at the victims, he signed off. The helmet cam shielded him from the worst of the smell as he went about taking more pictures. Solemnly, he picked up a few bloodstained items from the cool grass where they had fallen. Most were handkerchiefs.

Walking back to the car, he waited until they were well on their way before taking off his helmet. He turned to the driver. "Now, let's go see that father of yours."