The Press Wars III: Death Of The Presses

By Neil Dabb

An attempt on Cal Wheams life, and the kidnapping of his son were the beginning of the end of the big presses. Now Cal must finish a war that started before his son was born, while his friends rescue his son. All without getting everyone he cares for killed.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Neil Dabb
• Release date: Jul 29, 2019
• ISBN: 9780463515617

Neil Dabb

Neil grew up in Smithfield, Utah, and currently holds a General Class license amateur radio license. He was a material handler for over 10 years while obtaining a BA from Utah State University. He has been a freelance writer for most of that time and has been published in a variety of magazines over the years.Neil worked for Utah State University for twelve years with the Junior Engineering program. He enjoys writing, Frisbee (disc) golf and bonfires. He is the father of five children and lives in Logan Utah.

Book preview

THE PRESS WARS III

DEATH OF THE PRESSES

by

Neil Dabb

Copyright 2019 Neil Dabb

Smashwords Edition

Chapter 1

You realize that this isn't the first time this war has been fought, don't you? The Storyteller said. His slight frame belied the powerful body hidden beneath his brown robe. I wondered at this time traveler’s attempt to look like a Monk. Rumor had it that the Monks were involved in this war, but this was the first hint of such an alliance I’d seen.

I shrugged. I've heard the legends. Hell, I've lived the legends, I thought.

The Storyteller took off his wire-framed glasses and shook his head. They're more than just legends Cal.

So I've heard, I leaned back and looked across the desk at man that claimed to be a time-traveler. So far he hadn't told me anything I didn't already know, and past experience told me that not all of his kind were to be trusted.

The first time was on ancient earth.

Because the presses went beyond reporting, and began controlling the politicians, or so the legend goes.

When the people finally had enough things got violent, and they nearly put an end to all presses, red, blue, yellow.... He took a deep breath. Having a press pass was the same as having a target on your chest.

I stifled a smile and shook my head. You're insinuating the masses quit caring about what happened out there and tried to destroy the presses. I knew better but would allow him his opinion.

The Storyteller nodded. For the most part.

Not bloody likely.

When the people realized how dangerous having the presses control their politics and many other elements of their lives was, they took them down.

And replaced them with local presses, I nodded. I've read the stories. I've even written a few.

Back then there were three or four major news agencies. They took out those and the presses disappeared.

I thought of the myriad of groups of press people I dealt with on a daily basis as leader of the Red Blues. It would be much harder to take down the presses now that there were so many local factions and completion between them. Not to mention the fact that big business had gotten involved.

Have you heard how they did it?

A few bloody decisive battles.

The Storyteller scoffed again. Decisive, yes. Bloody depends on who you talk to. Bombs tend to leave more body parts than blood at ground zero, especially when the bodies are the delivery system.

Is there a reason you're telling me all of this? There was something about this man that made me nervous as he continued. I slid back further from my heavy desk.

You're not concerned?

I scoffed. I've survived betrayal by a treacherous editor, and at least a dozen battles. Do you really think your story is going to scare me? And that was just the first press war, I thought.

The Storyteller opened his robe, and I had just enough time to dive under my desk before the blast turned my office into a raging inferno. I hit the security call button, but knew with the blast he would likely escape in the confusion. This particular breed of time-traveler was far too durable to be killed by a simple bomb, especially one mounted outside of his body. And even if it did kill him, he likely had lives to spare. A moment later the world went black.

I woke two days later in the Autodoc, cursing myself for not recognizing the danger sooner.

My children have grown, and moved on. As I watch the press struggle with it's own duality, a wondrous tool on the one hand, and a dangerous weapon on the other, I have decided to step back and work toward a simpler life...

Thus were the words of my journal the summer after the bomb blast when I began to set up the blacksmith shop. After the attack by The Storyteller, and the time in the autodoc, I tried to walk away from all leadership responsibilities and the politics that had come with the presses being sponsored by business.

If only it had been that easy, I thought.

同时

Cal, Quincy is in trouble, Angela said as she read the hand written note that had been delivered to her. She handed it to me and looked on in expectation as I read.

And what are we suppose to do? I asked as calmly as I could after looking at the note. Even if we had a ship and an army we couldn't go blazing in behind enemy lines.

At one time you could, Angela spat.

Yes, but back then we might have saved him. This time we'd be dead long before we even got close. You’re too well known.

Well, you can sit on your...

And you can ask yourself, I said interrupting loudly. If your rushing in there would do any good.

She hesitated, brushing a lock of dark brown hair from her blazing brown eyes.

I'm not sure I want to deal with two funerals, I said matching her angry gaze. And unless you can show me how you even have a prayer of getting in and out in one piece, I'd suggest you settle down and decide what else we can do.

We can't just wait for them to execute him, she said, still glaring at me.

The room was silent as we stared at each other. My brain spun through a dozen scenarios as I forced myself to match her gaze. None of them ended well. When the brain finally ground to a halt I looked away. Let me think for a while, I mumbled as I moved toward what I hoped would someday be my blacksmith shop.

I could feel her icy stare as I left the study we used as an office. I only hoped she would let me know before she ran off and did something rash.

The presses had changed much since Angela had first met Cal. There had been two wars between the various presses, and the current treaty was tenuous at best. On top of that, the discontent that the public felt for the press was growing at an alarming rate, especially after the business world got involved. As Angela thought through the various scenarios, she realized that the trigger of this iteration of the press wars would be another little war like the one on the backward world of Jamboni. A backward world where her son Quincy had followed her footsteps and gone into danger to report news, rather than commenting on it from a safe distance as Cal would have and had done on many occasions.

The more she thought, the more she realized that Cal was right. There really wasn't anything they could do, and that made it all the more frustrating.

同时

Conrad Fragle watched as the man he'd been following for Lt. Stemmerson arrived to pick up a dead body. This was not what he had bargained for when the tall skinny blonde police lieutenant with a British drawl had asked him to help.

I don't do that kind of thing anymore, Con had insisted.

Not even for an old friend?

Especially not for an old friend.

Con mentally kicked himself for staying around long enough to let Leon get one last barb in. Sounds to me like you're afraid, Leon said.

Now Con was watching a precisely orchestrated plan go into effect as the man he was following carefully slid the supposedly lifeless body up on the gurney. He had kept his normal persona while he had been watching the man that was now leaving with the body of a well-known criminal. But somehow he knew he wouldn't fit in with the crowd that would frequent the place he would have to go next. The entrance that the bodies came in would be different than the one used by the general public.

Con effortlessly slipped into his Mortamer Tenacticus guise ruffling his light brown hair and pretending to slump forward. Then he shuffled toward the door. He would have to work quickly to earn the trust of those inside, but if he was successful it would be well worth it.

同时

Leonard Shakovow still cringed as he walked into his office at the house of the dead. In old times they called it a mortuary. Now it was just a place to keep the dead till someone picked them up, or ordered them cremated. What made it worse was the new guy they'd hired. He was pale and his manner was as cold as they came. He even seemed to enjoy some of what he did. Leonard on the other hand was only here to pay off the debts his parents had left him. He couldn't complain too loudly, though. At least they let him keep enough to barely support his family.

The new guy had brought in another body and now they would have to prepare it for storage. "Do we need to