None of my journalist colleagues want to touch this story. Not even my friends outside the Greater Boston area. Even though the police have finally conceded to filing a missing person's report for Stella.

After three weeks.

This is my twelfth meeting with a respectable journalist. I've traveled cross country to find anyone willing to listen, meeting them in person to protect both sides. If I mention one word about AlphaGalaxy, they clam up tighter than a shaved penguin's butt.

Even Paul Steiner, my mentor from New York who inspired me to get into investigative journalism, refuses to bite. Like the others, he can't write about Stella's disappearance at all. Not even on neutral footing.

"Look, I don't want anyone to get hurt." Paul downs his second ristretto like it's a shot of vodka. "Especially you."

We're sitting at a fancy marble table in a high-end Seven establishment. The scent of fresh bagels and muffins wafts through the air, almost luring me back to the counter. Paul's just gulped his third espresso while I nurse my mochaccino latte with a fluffy cloud of whipped cream.

"But AlphaGalaxy is your regional competitor," I insist. "Surely MicroBook will jump at this story?"

Paul chuckles. "Look, Tara, you're what? Still twenty-something?"

"Twenty-eight."

This dreamy gaze crosses his features, the one middle-aged people get when they reminisce about their college years. "Yeah, I remember being that age. Naïve...idealistic."

All of my friends give me the same shtick: the pitying expression and the empathetic nod followed by the regretful tone. These same newscasters leap at the tiniest piece of news I can find about Guardian terrorists.

Any lead about the Viper kidnapping? Here's our VR address! Shit, there's a million holocoin reward for her safe return. Ten thousand for a lead to her body.

If I crack a peep about AG's crimes, they back away quicker than a squirrel from a fox. I'm sick of it. Even though Stella has headed up a respectable company, no one gives the tiniest crapola.

This is some major-league bullshit!

"Paul, please. This is Stella we're talking about."

"I love you both almost as much as my own son," he says fervently. "But AG? One of the biggest tech companies in the world? Ya gotta be joking."

"You're saying MicroBook wouldn't want some dirt on them?"

"That's not how this works, Tara." Taking an old-fashioned ink pen out of his shirt pocket, Paul draws a diagram on a napkin. It's old-school but safer than using a device. "Complex monopolies...we don't fight against each other. It's bad for business. They turn a blind eye. We turn a blind eye. If I expose AG, they rain shit down on MicroBook."

"And you lose your job," I say, finishing his thoughts for him.

Paul gives me a helpless gesture. "In this day and age, I'm lucky to have a job. If I lose this one, I won't find another. Not when I'm pushing sixty."

He has the courtesy not to tell me losing his job means kissing his high-Seven status good-bye. This guy used to be a Niner like me, but he's written too many articles arguing against the establishment. Taken too many risks that have chipped away at his reputation bit by bit.

But not anymore.

Not when only ten percent of the population can find gainful employment.

If his social rating drops too low, his family will lose the fancy house with the pool and the personal gym. The hovercab. The private vintage cinema with over a thousand antique films. And his kid's free university education?

Forget it.

I don't blame him. But his rejection stings all the same.

What happened to the firebrand I used to know?

All I can find now is Paul's hollow shell, with a face full of worry lines and head of graying hair. His piercing sapphire gaze has turned dull with cynicism, perhaps because of his repetitive need to stay blissfully unaware in the face of AG's sins. Or maybe even MicroBook's.

"Look, I can't help you unravel this mess." Paul purses his lips. "But I'll give you the name of someone who can."

He writes down a single word on the napkin: Zephyr.

I furrow my brow in confusion. "Zephyr? Who's he?"

"They," corrects Paul, "are a lone wolf cryptocurrency hacker."

"Affiliations?"

"No connections to the Mafia, gambling societies, or any Guardian terrorist groups. None that I know anyway."

I raise a quizzical brow. "Gotta be a Niner then."

"They invested it all in the cause," replies Paul. "Doesn't hold 'em back, though. They siphon more holocoins every year than you can spend in a lifetime."

"Huh..."

Beneath the name, he jots down a sketchy VR address inside Darkwebs. That place makes me shiver. Whenever I have to visit the sinister underbelly of virtual reality for my job, I can't wait to return home. It brings to mind the street gangs and abandoned alleyways of classic literature.

"You think that's a good idea?" I ask. "Hanging out with criminals?"

"Zephyr might operate a sketchy business, but at least they only target the big guns."

How reassuring! Draining the bank accounts of influential people never puts a target on your back.

I give Paul a skeptical look.

"Hey, they steal from the bad guys and give to the poor," he says. "What's wrong? We write epics about those kinds of flecks."

"How do you think this person will help me? I need a media giant to sponsor my story, not a modern-day Robin Hood."

"They fund a whole team of anonymous holobloggers. Ever heard of The Boston Beacon? Liberty Rings? Freedom fighters?"

Sweet sun! Those numbnuts?

"Zeph started them up a few years ago," he adds, "after none of us would run their stories attacking fat cats about digital slavery."

"Digital slavery?"

He waves a dismissive hand. "Yet another tall tale badmouthing Big Money. As if they couldn't find enough real stuff to bitch about."

Weird. Where do these flecks come up with this crap?

"Zephyr's the only one who would take on this story." He shrugs. "Problem is: No one takes them seriously. They're written off as conspiracy freaks."

"Yeah..."

"Usually by us." He leans forward, speaking in a conspiratorial whisper. "If you side with these guys, you can forget about your mainstream career."

I stare at him, incredulous. Paul uses the silence to take another hit of caffeine, gulping down his fourth espresso.

"So, is it all bullshit?" I ask.

"What?"

"What they say in the holoblogs?"

Paul considers my question for a moment before shrugging and giving me a noncommittal, "Meh."

"Figures." I take another sip of coffee. "They probably wouldn't help me anyway."

"Why not?"

"They approached me to do some freelance writing for them a while back."

"And?"

"They didn't give me any details. But I refused, of course."

Paul gives me an unmistakable gesture, which seems to say: Ya see what I mean? Don't cast aspersions. You're no better.

"As any sensible journalist would, Tara."

"The point is they probably won't give me the time of day."

He curls his lip. "Ah, don't be so sure. You know what they say: Politics makes for interesting bedfellows."

"How do you know so much about their dealings?"

"I may or may not know people who may or may not write for those holoblogs," comes his cryptic response, "and who may or may not be friends with Zeph."

"Very helpful."

He flashes me a smile.

"What does this Zephyr want?" I ask, skeptical. "Writers? Hackers?"

"Well, I'm sure they could always use writers. If you go to them with a juicy story like this, they'll throw all their grudges to the wind."

"Excuse me?"

The flick does he mean by 'juicy story'? Stella is dead!

"Sorry, I didn't mean it like that." Paul reaches out to me, but I pull away. "I just mean they favor radical change, and they would print any article against AlphaGalaxy. They don't give a damn about their reputation."

Yeah, because they don't have one.

Well, they don't have a good one.

Before they killed Stella, I would probably have called it a juicy story, too. Only now we're talking about the love of my life.

Stella is more than a headline. I will do almost anything to see justice done. Or, at the very least, I want to damage AG's reputation so badly that people begin to campaign for greater corporate accountability.

Last time I checked, we still technically live in a democracy, even if it's bought and paid for by powerful corporations dripping with greed. We can change things. It simply takes someone with enough guts to tell the truth.

"When you visit Zeph, give them my name," he says. "We go way back."

I can believe it. Paul used to be the political firebrand who advocated for the mandatory use of the gender-neutral mexem in all professional circles. Even if it hurt his social status. That was one of his more mainstream ideas. Never mind the others. Makes sense he would have teamed up with a radical when he was my age and had little to lose.

My, how the mighty have fallen.

"Thanks, Paul." I take the napkin and fold it up in my pocket. "I really appreciate it. No one else would consider helping me."

"Anything for you. And Stella." He gives me a tight-lipped smile. "You know it kills me, right? To see such a bright light snuffed out so young..."

His eyes turn misty. Paul clears his throat and scans his wristband to pay.

"Please allow me."

"Tara, I--"

"Come on. It's the least I can do."

Paul gestures at the digital pay station, and I scan my wristband.

"Thanks." When I get up to leave, he takes a gentle hold of my forearm. "Hey, be careful, will ya? Zeph protects their people, but don't be careless."

"I won't."

"Good." Paul gives me a curt nod. "I don't want you on my conscience. Zeph's a good person, but they're still wanted by the police."

I don't like working with a known criminal either, but what choice do I have? Forget what happened to Stella? Let AlphaGalaxy get away with it? Stand by while others suffer the same fate?

It's worth the risk.

___

Word count: 1,714
Total word count: 5,217/8,000

Thank you so much for reading! ♥ I hope you enjoyed this chapter, which--again--will probably take me a few attempts to get just right. Feel free to give both positive feedback and constructive critique so that I know what went right and what needs fixing.