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Daniel Ruppert left the steel-reinforced black dome of the GlobeNet, Los Angeles studio
and drove into the war-torn concrete hell of south L.A. The roads deteriorated beneath
him as he traveled deeper into the Economic Reclamation
Zone, where the Western Resources and Energy Committee now permitted up to four hours of
electricity a day and as much as two gallons of
water per household, a bid to stave off riots as the National Guard effected its latest
withdrawal. Another intervention would likely follow within
the month. Ruppert would report on it ominously, while framed by footage captured
by the triangular GlobeNet spycams that glided like tight swarms of black vultures over newsworthy
sites. On this evening’s newscast, Ruppert had
described the new measures as a “bold initiative to increase prosperity and opportunity for
the citizens of Southern Los Angeles.” Privately, he’d
wondered whether “increase” was the proper word, since it implied that those things existed
in the first place. The word, like the overall
positive tone of the story, had been chosen by network,
and a mere reporter had no place suggesting revisions. Ruppert was just a face-man, someone
who could look trustworthy and reassuring regardless of what he said, or how much he
lied. His new 2035 Ford Bluehawk stuck out like
a golden thumb as it raced low and sleek along the shattered 405, picking up speed
each time he darted under a wrecked overpass bridge.
Scavengers sometimes lurked in the shadows beneath bridges, waiting to snare a promising
target using a homemade explosive tucked into a roadway fissure, or maybe an old-fashioned
burst of machine gun fire. At least, this was the kind of thing Ruppert reported for
the local news. The boundary between the true world
and the one manufactured for the audience was
slippery and porous, even for him, especially since he didn't know when he told the truth
and when he didn't. It was all just script.
Garbage and earthquake rubble buried most of the ramps on this stretch of interstate.
Up the ramps, behind the rusty barbs and chain
link running alongside the highway, most of the old
concrete buildings stood lightless except for the occasional red glare of an open fire
in a window hole. The four hours of electricity was probably
an exaggeration. More likely, the Western Resource and Energy Committee provided one
hour, or no hours at all—most likely, they had
6 simply issued the announcement to assure security-enclave
residents in Beverly Hills and Orange County that something was being done for the
benighted masses of the south. In three or four weeks, he would be reading
a new statement for the cameras—that the residents of South L.A. had sabotaged the
transformers and power lines, or had used the new
electricity to fuel insurgent activity, and the power needed to be cut once again. Over
iced drinks on manicured golf courses, where groves of
trees concealed the electrified razor-wired fences,
Ruppert’s colleagues would shake their heads and comment on how you just couldn’t help
those people.