The Silicon Dagger by Jack Williamson

Author:Jack Williamson [Williamson, Jack]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 0312865406
Publisher: Tor
Published: 1999-04-02T00:00:00+00:00

“Stay tuned to the tube for the news while it’s new.” Tex Horn was back on the monitor, his hat pulled low. “Ramona Del Rio is still on top of the spot in the rebel county. You’ll get the hype when it it’s ripe, hot from the top of Web Watch One.”

The camera picked up the white-starred flag flying from the courthouse and panned to Ramona Del Rio standing beside her car at the curb. Her sleek black hair looked freshly done, the silver streak as bright as new metal, though stress and fatigue had begun to wear through her makeup.

“WebWatch One, fact and fun!” She chanted it like a mantra. “The newborn nation will live or die today. The tiny rebel army, a former militia group, is dug in on the county line. Colonel Stuart McAdam, its commander, stands facing a force that seems overwhelming. The deadline is near. I’m Ramona Del Rio, now driving out to the front to show you the showdown.”

Her camera man shooting from the car, she rounded the courthouse square and drove out of town on the Lexington road. The lens lingered on a busy mall, swept a used car lot, a farmer’s market, an empty-looking warehouse. Here and there it zoomed to a homemade rebel flag flown from a building or a fence post, the white star raggedly stitched.

A road block stopped her: two police cars parked off the road and flying the rebel banner. Half a dozen men in red Kentucky Rifle shirts stood around them, wearing blue-and-white arm bands as Liberation uniforms. One stepped out to the side of her car.

“Sorry, Ma’am.” His voice was hoarse and anxious, and I saw dark spots of nervous perspiration under his armpits. “For your own safety, we have to halt you here.” He listened to her protest and finally nodded. “Pull off the pavement if you want the risk. Your own funeral, lady. I’d advise you to head back to town and get under cover.”

She drove down narrow back roads and parked at last on a hill. Her camera man caught a farm pickup, following fast. The driver tumbled out and marched toward her, shouting angry demands for money. Though green-and-white ribbons fluttered from his radio antenna, he refused her check on a McAdam bank. He wanted no rebel money, if they had any, but American cash.

“Okay.” With a satisfied grin, he folded her bills into his wallet. “Stay as long as you want. Me, I’m outta here.”

He departed under a plume of yellow dust.

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