“What the fucking hell is going on here, and what the fucking hell are we going to do about it,” a man said from behind a desk but a few minutes before the press conference. He wore the wrinkles etching his face like a badge of honor, and his words were the venom that kept him in control of the city.

“Mayor Wilmot,” the Press Secretary started, only to be cut off.

“When I want your damned opinion, Joyce, I’ll fucking give it to you.”

“Yes, sir,” Howard Joyce said with the tone of a reprimanded child.

“Do we at least know why the fucking NeuralNet went down?”

“Yes, sir, we do,” David Belzer, Head of Internal Security, said.

“The outage seems to be the result of a virus that was transmitted via a modded internal computer.”

“And who, pray tell, was transmitting this virus?”

“It appears to be an individual coming down from the mountains.”

“Was it one of those fucking Neo-Primitives who gave us so much trouble a couple years back?”

“Yes, sir, it appears to be.”

“Those fucking hippy bastards. Do we at least have him in custody?”

“Yes, sir, we’re preparing to interrogate him now.”

“And what is this insolent piece of shit’s name?”

“Stockton Davies, if the data broadcasting on his NeuralNet Feed is correct.”

The Mayor paused for a moment, and if Joyce or Belzer did not know any better, they could have sworn that the old man, a beast who bore no kindness save during election time, was scared. “Stockton Davies?”

“Yes, sir. He was a journalist for a brief amount of time.”

“Yes, yes. Joyce, you are to tell the press that the outage was planned for upgrades. Plant some memos in the record to back this up. If the press hounds you, tell them they’re in the wrong, that they should do a better job at reporting what we issue. Belzer, has the virus been eliminated?”

“It seems he was exploiting a loophole. We’ve closed it.”

“Good, good. I was Stockton Davies stricken from the Feed. Any reference whatsoever to the man is to be deleted.”

“Yes, sir.”

“All his articles, any mention him and his anti-NeuralNet activities, everything.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I don’t want a goddamned trace of the man left.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I want you to make him a ghost, metaphorically speaking.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Once I have a word with him, we’ll make that literal.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Tell the people with him to get whatever information they can get out of him, and that they shouldn’t be afraid to use, well, extra-legal measures. He’s an enemy of the city and should be treated as such.”

“Yes, sir. It’s just, I don’t think he is much of a threat any longer. The NeuralNet was only down for about twenty minutes.”

“Any fucking time its down is too long. Am I understood?”

“Yes, sir.”

* * *

Howard Joyce sat at his desk, the camera secured to his visage.

“Just a couple of minutes before we’re ready,” the cameraman said. Joyce nodded, before closing his eyes. “Nervous?”

“Maybe a bit,” Joyce said with a somewhat convincing laugh. In his head, he accessed the NeurnalNet and sent a message. “Whatever I say, the Feed going down has nothing to do with upgrades.”

Less than a second later came the response, “Seriously?”

“Does the name Stockton Davies sound familiar to you?”

“I think he wrote for the Times years ago. Why?”

“Don’t even think about mentioning it, but he was involved?”

“You’re fucking with me, aren’t you?”

“Not a chance. See if you can track down any hardcopies of his articles. The Mayor ordered him stricken from the public record.”

“If I can find any, I’ll bring them tonight. Want to come over and take a look at them?”

“Only if you bring some wine.”

“Will do.”

“Thanks, Irv. And don’t mention Davies at all, okay.”

“Will do, love.”