02: Chloe – Trip

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While the rest of the world slumbered, a select few scrapped it out for scraps of rumor. Tanks invading cities? Children being abducted along with their closest relatives?  My sources didn’t believe in being subtle.

I’d been the Shipyard Island weather girl for over three years, scouring additional stories from what few contacts I had. Anything to grow a reputation in actual journalism. Since most of my contacts were architects, technicians and other techie kind of folk, I managed to secure my own niche, and what started as an occasional review of products before they hit the market, grew into a year long series called Smartbuilds: Deconstructing Construction.

It seemed someone up there liked what I had to show, because as soon as the last segment aired, the big cheese of the Kinsley Foundation, James Kinsley himself, snapped me up for a more prestigious assignment. That alone would justify bragging rights, but when I was told his company jet would fly me over, I damn near puked in glee.

And that was before I was shown my accommodations. My own set of rooms on a hired yacht. A walk-in wardrobe for every occasion, all tailored to my measurements, and a ship to shore chopper waiting on me twenty-four-seven.

I’d have settled for free WiFi.

The job itself was simple. Read a report live for some dignitaries, give it my patented chipper lilt and charm the eyes and ears of all who heard it. In essence, make Kinsley look good.

On the day itself, I was flown to the site, glimpsing the future through the chopper window. Sea and sky stretched out forever, blurring into each other with no visible horizon. It was a view I never thought I’d tire of.

Only one other person sat in the cabin with me, a big guy playing on his phone. I thought he was a bodyguard.

“Hey, Muscles,” I said. “How’d they get my measurements?”

He answered without looking up. “Your what?”

“Measurements. These clothes were tailored to exactly my size.”

“They have a girl who looks at you.”

“She just looked at me?”

“That’s her job. Takes a look, buys your outfits, makes alterations and delivers them pressed.”

On my last flight, I’d found a chiller underneath my armrest. The flight crew kept it stocked with pre-filled champagne flutes. I unsealed one and savored the bubbles.

“Wow. And she makes a living out of that?”

“An even million a year. Before tax.”

I tapped the info down on my phone. “Hey, could you remind me to talk to her when we get back?”

“Sure. You doing a fashion piece?”

“Just a preliminary interview. If that’s all there is to her story then it’s just an amusing fact, but if there’s more, I could at least make her a filler.”

“Filler?” he said.

“A filler article. One of the small articles nobody reads, but they make a paper look like it covers more issues.”

“Oh.” He tapped his phone. “I don’t read newspapers.”

“Ah, more a gamer than a reader, huh?”

“No.” he said. “Get about forty to fifty novels under my belt each year. Just don’t see the point in newspapers.”

“Well some might see the importance of keeping up with the world’s events.”

“And I’m one of them, but the same content’s been online since the nineteen-nineties. Newspapers should have stopped there and then, yet here we are decades later and still some fool has to waste paper.”

“Aren’t novels written on paper?”

He turned his phone to face me. At the top of the screen was a title, 13: Castles in the Air. A long row of text trailed away below it.

 “Little Women.” He said. “I’m a sucker for the classics.”

“Ah. And here’s me thinking a big strapping guy like you would be reading Hulk comics or Batman.”

“What, ‘cos a guy can’t have muscle and brains?”

I gave him a smirk. “Because you have the Kinsley insignia on your collar. They like to recruit from prisons or their own orphanages, and let’s be fair, neither’s known for producing great thinkers.”

He checked his jacket and nodded in surprise. “Y’know, I never even noticed that before.”

He put his phone away and held out a hand. “I’m your copilot. Reece Alexander.”

“Chloe Heralds.” I said. “Shouldn’t you be flying the chopper?”

“Nah.” He shook his head. “Capt’n and me are in a fight.”

I gave him a frown. “Isn’t that a safety hazard?”

“Relax. When he calls, we’ll be professional. You’ll get you to your destination. Then we’ll box each other around later when no-one needs us.”

“Oh, well that’s reassuring. What’s the fight about?”

“He thinks Batman could beat the Hulk.”

This time his face gave nothing away and I half laughed. The half that didn’t wondered if he wasn’t joking.

He leaned over. “Hey, ain’t you the weather girl? The one who always wears them short skirts.”

“Yeah,” I said. “I’m not the one who chooses those.”

“You’re pretty far from Shipyard Island Meteorology. What you doing, a climate report?”

“No, this isn’t weather related. Someone up top liked my voice and wanted me to read a speech tonight. I even get to choose what I wear.”

“What is it, a funeral?”

I looked down at my suit. “What’s wrong with this?”

“You look like you’re giving a eulogy.”

“This is what professionals wear.”

“Not where we’re going. Israel in summer? Not the kind of place you wanna be clothed in stiff black. Dust and heat don’t work for formalwear.”

“Yeah, well as far as I know it’s just a reading and a party, then return home to a bonus. Not a bad way to earn my keep.”

He nodded. “Foundation’s pretty generous with its money, I’ll give ‘em that. Got a bonus like that when I landed the job. A job they paid the training for, I might add.”

I pulled my phone out again. “Sounds like you have a pretty interesting story yourself, Mr. Alexander. Wanna fill a column?”

He chuckled. “Ain’t much to tell. Got six months for crashing in the only street race I ever drove at, signed up with the Kinsley crew to see if I could do something better than flippin’ burgers when I got out, and signed up for helicopter training because, y’know, it was there. Plus I want to know why some global foundation would train pilots from the joint. The whole system don’t make sense, especially when you think about all those academies for gifted students they got running. But hey, I’m grateful.”

I jotted it all down and nodded. “I hear that a lot. The Foundation’s methods are always under scrutiny but nothing’s ever uncovered.”

“And if you want to stay on track to success, you don’t go poking ’round in their shit.”

“As leashes go, it’s pretty roomy.”

Reece pointed to the collection of anecdotes on my screen. “So you got a good voice. But how’d you end up on TV for them to hear it?”

I shrugged. “Similar story. I was a bit of a terror back in the day, nothing special. But a few hundred counts of shoplifting and sketching a large cock on town hall, I wound up in juvie. The judge sent me to the Foundation’s outreach program and I got a sponsor named Holden.”

“Outreach manager?”

“Nah, one of us. But we promised we’d turn our lives around and you know how the JRC works. One trainee recommends another for whatever. Meritocracy. But he decided Junior Rehab was his calling and now works for the committee full time, even helped me get into their journalism branch.”

“Where you became the weather girl.”

“Hey, that was just a pit stop. I’m moving higher now. Reformed Girl Makes Good. I do this reading tonight and Kinsley gets to show the world how he successfully privatized philanthropy.”

“And we both fly off into the sunset with lined pockets.”

“Now you’re on the money.”

Reece grinned. “And maybe a celebration later tonight on the town.”

“Damn right.”

“With your lucky man, Hold’em.”

“Holden.”

“Right.”

The conversation died. Reece tapped his foot on the floor and looked out the window at an interesting patch of cloud. I downed the rest of the champagne. When he half turned back, I put away my phone, and waited for what he wanted to say.

“There’s avocado fields below us now,” he said.

Fuckin’ men.

As an urge to say something, anything to make sense of him, built up, the captain summoned Reece back to the front. He gave an apologetic nod and squeezed through a thin door.

We then descended to a large hill where a crowd parted for us to land, cramming themselves into canvas tents as we blew dust over the site. Once we touched down, Reece proved the gentleman and got out to open my door.

“I haven’t seen Holden in months.” I blurted.

Reece waved me off. “Hey, I wasn’t implying—”

“You were totally implying.”

“I was just pointing out it was nice to have someone to celebrate with, y’know. Someone who knows what it’s like to go through the same shit and come out at the same place.”

“You free tonight?”

He grinned. “I did imply that.”

I flashed him a smile. “You’re picking me up after this, aren’t you?”

“You’re the one picking me up, lady, but yeah, I’ll be back with the chopper after sunset.”

A soldier approached and handed Reece a sheet of paper and a pen.

He signed the form. “Here, we’re back in three and half hours.”

I left him with a smile and followed the soldier to the tent. The chopper rose and Reece poked the captain while pointing at me through the windshield. It was kind of cute. I watched them shrink into the air and let a little laugh out, then turned to greet my hosts.

And the laugh died in my throat.

A gun barrel was raised at my face, held in the grip of a soldier. The soldiers behind him raised their guns, too. I raised my hands.

One dragged me to the side and the guns were fired into the oblivious tent crowd. I screamed and found myself running before I knew what I was doing, but another man in army garb blocked my escape and raised his rifle.

“I expect professionalism.” He said, scowling through a thick mustache.

I saw stars before the impact of his rifle butt had time to register. The ground tipped up to bash my skull in. What was happening? Less than a minute ago…

The world went dark.

Why?

It had started out as such a great day.