NaNoWriMo 2006
Busted Seventh: A novel experiment
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Mitch took a minute to pull out an older, battered laptop from his canvas messenger bag. After fiddling for a moment with both laptop and cables, he held a plug out and said, "Hey, Henry, help me out, will ya?"

"You should upgrade already, I hear the new batteries last a lot longer."

"These old ni-cads don't last at all any more. So plug me in."

Henry took the proffered plug and worked it in underneath the bar in the vicinity of the Jagermeister dispenser.

"Does that thing even get the internet?" Henry asked.

"Yes, smart-ass. Not here, though, since Jack is too cheap to spring for free wifi, and I'm too cheap to upgrade to wireless broadband-- which would likely require that new laptop you want me to get. This sucker still works, and I love the action on the keyboard. I've spilled just enough beer in this thing that it's finally working the way I like."

"And it still works? After the beer I mean?"

"You'd be surprised. Computers are tougher than you'd think. And in my experience, it's only the really cheap ones and the top of the line models that hold up this well."

"I can tell you went for the cheap one."

"Well, yeah," Mitch said. "I'm self-employed, after all."

A few keystrokes, a couple of touchpad clicks, and several minutes of waiting for the laptop to catch up, and Mitch was looking at another batch of research files, and a copy of the latest email from Jacob Tallinn, his editor. Mitch usually dealt with Jacob over email, only occasionally by cell phone. Honestly, the convenience of submitting stories over email was a big plus for Mitch, and he didn't mind that his boss was largely unseen and unavailable.

Though he did meet the man once.

It was a memorable visit, walking into the main office of The Empyrean and Chthonic New World Times. The reception desk was the same sort of thing you'd find at any office, from a dentist to a nondescript public relations or law firm: the plain decor in greys and earth tones, the generic waiting room furniture from an office supply warehouse, the commercial grade carpet and the off-white suspended acoustic tile ceiling. Both boring and reassuring, it was a faceless office that could have been used for any part of corporate America.

Just past the past the waiting room, through a pair of fairly intimidating ornate wooden doors, Mitch felt like he had walked into something from Victorian England, and not just because of the sumptuous carpets and couches. Framed display cases were featured on nearly every wall, with a shrunken head or an orchid under glass; the souvenirs and samples from a dozen world explorers. The large desks were made of exotic hardwoods, near as Mitch could tell, and the desk chairs were upholstered in reds and purples. The E&C New World Times used an open-floor layout much like a modern office, but this was not a typical cubicle farm: it resembled a Gentleman's Club of some forgotten era more than anything else. There was even a butterfly collection in the bathroom. Mitch had been ushered into a conference room that, if he had to describe it, was a recreation of a parlour from a London brothel, from about the time of Dickens and Tennyson. After the requisite introductions, the rest of Mitch's job interview was short, but just as memorable.

"So, you wrote this?"

"Yes, I did."

"Excellent. We've been waiting for you."

After that it was a matter of talking with a series of secretaries and assistants, to arrange for payment and setting up the various email and phone contacts.

After Mitch's laptop finally managed to labour through the tasks assigned to it, he pulled up the email that he had saved a few hours ago, when he was last on the internet at a local coffee shop.

"My Good Friend Mitch,"

Jacob Tillmann always started his emails that way, whether he was forwarding a story lead to Mitch, or merely asking for a clarification on a quote or attribution from a previous submission.

"It is perhaps unfortunate, but I must ask you to take on an assignment that will place you in some danger. And I know there are some aspects of this story that you will find hard to believe, on a rational level, but I trust that even the fantastic nature of the story will not deter you, nor compromise your usual journalistic rigour. In fact, your scepticism is one reason I have chosen you for this task. You will be met soon by an E&C representative; I hope you will listen to this individual and follow the instructions and advice presented. Additionally, let me just say that this is no usual news assignment; as such your pay rate will be ten times what was previously negotiated.

"As always, your servant,
J. Tillmann."

Mitch read the email several times. He still had no idea what Jacob was getting at, but his eyes always lingered on that last point. Ten times is a nice round number, Mitch thought, and I can certainly use the cash. Particularly if this drags on a bit, and I get to negotiate some sort of reimbursement for expenses. I could make two or three months rent off of this one story.

"I still have no idea what the damn story is yet," Mitch said aloud, "but hell, I'll bite."

Mitch clearly heard the voice of his editor in his mind: "Excellent."

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