Chapter 23: The Feed

Victory Hall was white and empty at three in the morning.

The chief operator met them at the back door in his shirtsleeves.

He was a heavy, grey man with an army tattoo on his wrist.

He did not look at the Marshal or at Linus.

He looked at Wystan.

"You said a favour," he said.

"I did."

"You said not to ask what."

"I'm sorry, old friend. I'm going to ask for the whole of it."

The operator shook his head grimly.

"Is it true what they're saying? That she'll hang him?"

"On the fourth morning," Wystan said. "In the square. Live."

The man looked at the ledger in Linus's arms, and at the little gold disc Wystan held up on its chain.

Then he stepped back from the door.

"I've run the Empress's feed for twenty years," he said. "I've never once been asked to run the truth on it."

The booth was a long room of screens and dials, with one chair and one microphone.

They did not go live yet.

They waited until the first light struck the square outside.

The street sweepers came out, and the early drones began walking to the ore carts.

At the first bell, the operator put his hand on the main lever.

"Say when."

Linus stood in front of the microphone.

His hands were bandaged, and the fire under the bandage was steady.

He thought of a ship, and a ridge, and a stage.

"Now," he said.

The lamp over the booth turned red.

Every screen in the empire woke at once.

It lit in the square and the markets and the taverns of the ward.

It lit in the long hall of the Ore Works where the shifts changed.

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