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  “Where did we rank?” I asked. It was a bald, borderline rude question. Someone needed to ask it, and the nice thing about being the team Irwin was that “someone” was almost always going to be me.

  “You would have come in second, but you were disqualified,” said Governor Kilburn.

  “Why?” demanded Audrey. “We have no arrests, no convictions, no outstanding warrants. Half of us don’t even have families.”

  “At the time the application was filled out, Mrs. North’s naturalization was under a year old. In the eyes of the Secret Service, she was still a foreign national.”

  My knees felt suddenly weak. I didn’t look at Ben. I couldn’t look at Ben. Our relationship had cost him as much as it had given me. He’d managed to find a few girlfriends who were fine with the fact that he was married to another woman, but none who were willing to keep going out after he made it clear that they’d be dating in secret, or that she would be publicly dating me as well. He’d had uncounted fights with his mother about being married to me, and what it was going to mean for his chances of having grandchildren. If I had cost him the gig of a lifetime, just by existing, I didn’t know how I was going to live with myself.

  “I read the application requirements myself,” said Ben stiffly. “They indicated that they were open to all journalists, regardless of nationality, who were living legally in the United States, or who did the majority of their reporting for U.S. audiences. I know several teams with members in Mexico or Canada who also applied.”

  “Their applications were accepted and looked at the same way all the others were,” said Governor Kilburn. “Being a foreign national wasn’t an automatic disqualification. It was just… a black mark, of a sort, that had to be outweighed by everything else in order to go away. In Mrs. North’s case, her prior citizenship combined with her involuntary committal was too much for Peter to risk. He’s a conservative man in many ways. He had the opportunity to work with an all-American team—how do you top a brother-sister pair and one of the last evacuees from Alaska? The people he picked were the ones he saw as the best possible assets.”

  “This is a very circuitous way of telling us why you’re here, ma’am,” said Ben. His voice was even stiffer now. He knew me well enough to guess what I was thinking, and from the way he kept glancing in my direction, he didn’t like it one little bit.

  He’d always been my greatest cheering section. That was just the sort of friend he was.

  “Not really,” said Governor Kilburn. “Mrs. North is an American citizen now. The things for which she was committed are not crimes in this country; if anything, they’re marks in her favor. She fled here because she wanted the right to live her life as she saw fit, and she lived within the system until we accepted her. Mr. Ross, you live in the home of your grandparents, and you survived the Rising under the care of a single mother who had lived through one of the most racially and economically troubled decades our nation had ever known. Miss Wen graduated at the top of her class from Yale before choosing to write crime fiction for a living. And, ah…” She stumbled.

  There was only one member of the team left. I decided to take pity on her. “Just ‘Mat’ is usually fine, right, Mat?”

  “Yup,” agreed Mat. “Sometimes I think about going to medical school, just to get a gender-neutral salutation.”

  “I find that ‘Governor’ also works for that problem,” said Governor Kilburn.

  Mat laughed. “Well, once you’re in charge of the country, maybe I’ll run for your job.”

  “Fashion bloggers are common. Fashion bloggers who come with an intact group that touches all three branches of the news are exceedingly rare. Mat’s presence on this team gives you an edge I don’t think Peter took into account. Part of being conservative is a rather rigid approach to gender roles in society.” Governor Kilburn shook her head. “He would never have seen a makeup artist as an advantage against the opposition.”

  “Clearly he is a man who has never beheld the raw cosmic power of really good eyeliner,” said Mat primly. They sounded utterly offended. “I take it back. I didn’t want to work for him anyway. No one who can’t see the vital importance of what I do deserves to have me fighting for them.”

  “Which is why I want you all to be working for me,” said Governor Kilburn.

  You could have heard a pin drop in the silence that followed, although I wasn’t sure why, even as I held my breath along with everyone else. There was no other good reason for her to be here, in our kitchen, talking to us. She had to be here to offer us a job. And yet hearing it, actually hearing it leave her mouth, was like the whole world tilting on its side and laughing at us. This couldn’t be happening. This was the sort of wish-granted, lottery-won moment that happened to other people, people like the Masons, people who lived enchanted lives. It didn’t happen to people like us.

  Audrey recovered first, thank God. “What are your terms?” she asked. She wasn’t technically in charge—inasmuch as our collective had a “boss,” it was Ben, who was generally responsible for finding us jobs and figuring out ways to leverage our collective skills into better pay and wider exposure. At the moment, though, Ben was overwhelmed with too many things in too little time, and so she was stepping in, covering for him. That was what she did. That was what we all always did for one another. It was our job, our real job, the one that everything else was built around.

  Governor Kilburn swung her attention around to Audrey. The friendly, conversational pose was gone, replaced by pure business. I liked her better this way. It felt more like I was seeing a real person, and less like I was seeing a persona designed by focus groups and market needs. “You follow my campaign. Starting in two days, when I launch my campaign, and staying with me until my race ends in either the White House or defeat. I sign contracts with your team and with each of you individually. If one of you elects to leave before the contract term is up, it is the responsibility of the team to replace you with someone who covers a similar area of the news inside of forty-eight hours. If they fail, I am allowed to hire your replacement myself. You get access to the inner workings of my cabinet, and to any nonclassified briefing. You—”

  “All briefings,” said Ben abruptly.

  Governor Kilburn stopped. “I beg your pardon?”

  “We get access to all briefings. We won’t post things you tell us are vital to national security, but we need to know the whole picture, even if we’re only reporting on parts of it. If you want us to do this, you need to let us do it.” Ben leaned forward. He was still stiff, but he was coming out of his shock, and coming quickly up to speed on the situation.

  That was the trick to dealing with Ben. Sometimes he took a while to process things, but it wasn’t because he was slow. More the opposite. He was considering all the angles, looking at all the ways a thing could go. By the time he was ready to move, he was going in for the kill. It would have made him a terrible Irwin. He would have been a smear on the pavement before the end of his first urban expedition. But it made him a fabulous Newsie, and there was no one I was happier to have at my back. No one.

  “We’ll sign a single group contract, and handle dispersion of rights and funds within ourselves. No one’s going to find themselves caught between two masters,” he continued. “I’m assuming, since you have access to Ryman’s data and you’ve clearly decided that we’re the team for you, that you’ve already done a deep background check. We’re going to get some scrutiny when you announce us as your blog team. I do not want our backgrounds being used to score political points. We aren’t here to prove how open-minded or progressive you are. We’re here to do a job. We’ll do it very well, if you let us. We’ll walk if you don’t.”

  “Well,” said Governor Kilburn. She looked briefly amused. “What if I say your terms are too strict, and that my offer’s off the table?”

  “Then I respond by suggesting you get your friend on the phone and ask him what sort of terms he got from the Masons,” said Ben. “I know Georgia Mason. She?
??s not a friend, but she’s a professional colleague, and if the deal she struck with Senator Ryman isn’t considerably more rigid and detailed than the one I’m offering you, I’ll eat Aislinn’s cooking.”

  “I can’t cook,” I said, recognizing my role in this little drama. “It’s sort of like a traffic accident in a pot. Sometimes you can pick out individual ingredients. Mostly not. It’s criminal what I do to a potato. Actually criminal.”

  “So I’m not going to get anything better, is that what you’re saying to me?” asked Governor Kilburn.

  “Actually, I’m assuming you already made that phone call, and just wanted to see what we’d do if you offered us something that looked good but was going to leave us hurting later,” said Ben. “Am I close?”

  “Very,” said Governor Kilburn. “Full access, but a member of my staff gets to read everything before it goes live, and can flag things as dangerous to either national security or to the viability of my campaign as a whole. You’re here to document, not to undermine.”

  “We don’t delete the things we hold back due to campaign concerns, and we reserve the right to publish them once the campaign is over,” said Ben.

  “If I’m President when the campaign is over, you agree not to publish anything that would undermine my ability to do my job,” countered Governor Kilburn.

  “You can’t forbid us to criticize the President,” said Ben. “That’s an unfair request for you to make, and I’m reasonably sure that it would be an illegal contract for us to sign.”

  “I’m not asking you never to criticize me,” said Governor Kilburn. “I’m asking you to agree that, should I win, you will not write articles saying I can’t govern effectively because I have a tendency to spend Sunday mornings in my pajamas, eating cereal out of the box and watching the Top Forty video countdown. To choose a completely nonspecific example that you cannot possibly prove without signing on for my campaign.”

  “CMT or VH1?” asked Mat.

  Governor Kilburn turned to blink at them. “I beg your pardon?”

  “Are you getting your rock on with the dulcet all-American tones of Country Music Television, or do you prefer the pre-Rising nostalgia of VH1? It’s not a hard question.”

  Governor Kilburn hesitated, looking around the table like she sensed a trap about to snap shut. Finally, she said, “CMT. I like the blue jeans and big hair, and the fact that they think writing love songs about shooting zombies in the head is a good idea. There’s a sort of postapocalyptic good cheer about it that just makes me feel better. Sunday mornings are my private time. I’m allowed to spend them however I like, providing nothing is on fire.”

  “Right answer,” said Mat. They turned to Ben. “We should take the job.”

  “We’ll agree not to use personal information we learn to intentionally damage your credibility, providing you will agree that sometimes, that personal information may be relevant to your job.” Ben’s lips twitched as he fought a smile. “For example, were you to miss an important presidential event because there was a convention at Dollywood—”

  “Dolly Parton was a hero of the Rising, and I dare you to tell any red-blooded American girl who’s ever felt bad about her wardrobe differently,” said Governor Kilburn. She wasn’t fighting her smile. “Agreed. I can have my men draw up the contract within the hour.”

  “And that’s… that’s it?” I couldn’t keep my disbelief out of my tone. “You’re not going to ride us about my committal, or try to censor us, or anything?”

  “I understand that sometimes those who mean well will start making decisions about your mental health without consulting you, Mrs. North,” said Governor Kilburn. Her tone was gentle, but her left hand touched her right wrist in a way that was all too familiar to me. I’d seen that gesture before, during support group discussions, when people tried to explain their reasons for attempting suicide. “There’s no reason for that to be held against you now. Your past is a foundation, not a crime.”

  “Except when there are actual crimes in your past, which thankfully, there are not,” said Audrey. She hadn’t been talking much through all of this. That was… unusual. I gave her a sidelong look, noting the laser-like focus she was directing toward Governor Kilburn. I almost never saw Audrey look at someone like that. It was rarely, if ever, a good sign when she did. “I want your guarantee that anything which comes up in our background checks that is not relevant will be left where it was found. No surprises.”

  “No surprises,” agreed Governor Kilburn. She raised her chin fractionally, looking at Ben. “Do we have a deal?”

  “One last question: Did you already run through the list of concessions we might ask for with one of your aides, and decide that we were worth the risk?”

  Governor Kilburn smiled. “Why, you sound like you think of me as a politician. It’s possible I called Peter and asked what his journalists had demanded before deciding how I was going to structure this meeting. We both have something to offer each other, here. You can bring my campaign to the attention of the people who don’t care much about anything that happens off-line—and frankly, Peter needs the competition. I can bring you to the attention of the world. Let us make each other’s lives better.”

  “My mother always said not to trust people who come offering you something for nothing,” I said. “Leprechauns aren’t real, and what looks like a pot of gold is probably nothing but proof that you’ve been drinking too much. We’re not the only journalists in the world, and you’ll forgive me for being a bit wary until we have a working relationship.”

  “Oh, I’m not offering you something for nothing,” said Governor Kilburn. “You’re going to work hard. You’re going to sleep in hotel rooms and trailers. You’re going to get so sick of my company that you’re going to want to scream. But in exchange, you’ll get money, you’ll get exposure, and you’ll get the chance to be part of making history for a change. Don’t you get tired of chasing stories? Come with me, and you’ll be able to sit back and watch the stories come to you. You were willing to work for Senator Ryman, even though you all have political leanings that put you much more on my side of the fence. So lean.”

  “We’re in,” said Ben. None of us objected. He’d seen our decision in our faces, heard it in the questions we were asking; it had been his job to make the final call, because sometimes slow and rational was the only way to approach the race. I went in too hot, Mat went in too careless, and Audrey went in too wary. Ben was our balancing point, the way that we took all those traits and turned them into something useful.

  Governor Kilburn smiled and offered her hand across the table. He took it and shook, twice. “I’ll have my people send over the contracts tonight. Review them, sign them, and send them back to me. I’ll have transport in front of your house the day after tomorrow at oh-nine-hundred hours precisely.”

  “Where are we going?” asked Mat.

  “Colorado,” said Governor Kilburn. “I’m giving a speech in Denver about the importance of rebuilding our past and reclaiming our future. What better place to begin than in Amanda Amberlee’s hometown?”

  “You are not wasting any time, lady,” said Mat admiringly. They turned to me. “Can we keep her? I promise to walk her and fill her cereal bowl every morning.”

  “That’s between you and the governor,” I said, making my voice as prim as I could manage.

  “We’ll find our own transportation, if you don’t mind,” said Audrey. “I’ll be a lot more comfortable knowing that I’m not driving someone else’s car.” The thought that someone else—someone not on our team—might be doing the driving was unacceptable, and so she was ignoring it. I admired that about her.

  “Fair enough,” said Governor Kilburn, laughing as she stood and collected her purse. “I know the footage you shot of this meeting isn’t covered by our contract, since you haven’t signed anything yet, but I’d appreciate it if you’d remember that we’re going to be working together for a while. Please don’t cut together anything we’re going
to butt heads over later.”

  “Us, shoot footage in our own kitchen?” Audrey pressed a hand to her chest, eyes widening in exaggerated shock. “What sort of monsters do you take us for?”

  “Journalists,” said Governor Kilburn. She cast us one last smile, and then she was out of the kitchen, her hired security following close behind her. From the looks they gave us as they made for the door, we were neither expected nor invited to follow. So we just stayed where we were.

  Audrey and I had been standing through that entire encounter. My knees were shaking, more from unnoticed adrenaline than from exhaustion. Still, it seemed like something should be done about that. I sat down, only realizing when I was halfway to the floor that I should probably have aimed for a chair. Too late now. I sank into a cross-legged position, pleating my skirt demurely over my knees. It was an automatic gesture, trained into my muscle memory by hours of drills. If I was going to make wearing a skirt into the field my gimmick, I was going to make damn sure no one saw my panties without an engraved invitation.

  Audrey pulled out a chair out and dropped bonelessly into it, resting one elbow on the table for stability. She lifted one bare foot and balanced it on my shoulder, staying in contact. I didn’t push her away. In that moment, I needed it as much as she did.

  “Did that really just happen?” asked Mat.

  “Pretty sure,” said Ben. “How many cameras did we have in here when she showed up?”

  “Six,” said Audrey.

  “Then we cut together an intro, we make it as human and appealing as we can without actually trending into dishonesty, and we wait for those contracts to show up,” said Ben. “If we sign, we post the ‘guess what we’re doing’ video, and we open that bottle of champagne we’ve been saving for a big score.”