Free Dawnwind 1: Last Man Standing by George R. Shirer Page A

eyepaint, and his skin was starting to display the coarseness many Junians developed later in life. His dark blue robe, decorated with intricate yellow beadwork, fell to his ankles.
    “Do your own hunting, Wisiw.”
    The old man chuckled.   “Don’t be such a sorehead.   Have you seen Fi?”
    “No,” said Deso, leaning against the wall.   “Maybe he gave up.”
    “More likely he’s found a better spypoint.   Are you going to try one of your famous ambushes with Epcott?”
    “Why do you want to know?”
    “Just making conversation,” said Som.
    He reached into a pocket of his robe and produced his PIN.   He touched the interactive screen and Deso heard the camera-drones before she saw them.   They were small, spheroid devices with mirrored surfaces.
    “Isolation!” Deso glared at Som.   “You’re using stealth camera drones?”
    “Jealous?”
    “What do you think? Does UNN know you have those?”
    “Of course.”
    Deso frowned.   “You aren’t thinking of violating privacy, are you, Som?”
    Som gave her a withering look.   “Don’t be stupid.   I just use them to cover more ground than I can on my own.”   He rose from the bench.   “Speaking of covering ground. . . .”
    Deso turned back to the front of the building.   Epcott had emerged, the hood of his red over-robe down, easily identifiable by his tangle of black hair.   He was accompanied by a man and a woman.   Deso recognized them as Epcott’s housemates, Olu Teneso and Vesu Oza.   The trio headed toward a groundcar station, chatting among themselves.
    Deso powered up her camera-sphere and hurried after them.   “Mister Epcott!”
    The trio paused on the stone path.   Deso saw a look of annoyance flash across Teneso’s face, but Epcott was smiling and standing with his head tilted to one side.
    “Yes? Can I help you?”
    Deso smiled and raised a hand to indicate her camera.   “Deso Nesomi of the Planetary News Service.   Do you have time for a few questions?”
    “Well,” said Epcott, glancing at his companions, “my friends and I were on our way to dinner, but I suppose I could answer a couple of questions.”
    “Thank you,” said Deso.   “You were released from the hospital a few days ago.   How is your recovery progressing?”
    “Oh, I’m fine,” said Epcott.   “Completely recovered.”
    “Were your injuries from the assault very severe?”
    Epcott chuckled.   “Oh, I wasn’t injured in the assault.   I had an unusually strong reaction to a sedative I was given at the scene.”   He laughed.   “It knocked me out for four days.”
    Deso plastered a smile on her face.   “You look well rested.”
    “Thank you,” said Epcott.   “Now, if you’ll excuse us. . .”
    “But . . . .!”
    “I’m sorry,” said Epcott.   “But we really must go.   If you’d like to arrange a more formal interview, miss, you can comm me and we can set up an appointment.”
    Deso was about to protest, but Epcott had turned away.   His companions had already claimed a groundcar and were waiting in it, the door open.   He slid inside, turning to wave goodbye to Deso as the door sealed.   A moment later, the groundcar pulled away from the sidewalk.
    “Wastes!” swore Deso.
    “At least he offered to do a more formal interview,” said Som.   “That’s something.”
    Deso scowled at the older reporter.   “I can’t do a newsbit with just two questions!”
    “Then stop scowling, dear girl, and come along,” said Som.   He walked to the next groundcar and climbed inside.  
    Deso frowned.   “Why are you being so helpful?   We’re competitors.”
    “Even competitors can collaborate when it’s in their best interests.   Now, are you getting in or not?   I don’t think I’ll lose the signal, but. . .”
    “What signal?” asked Deso, climbing into the car.  
    “I programmed one of my drones to follow Epcott while you were talking to him.”
    Deso stared.   “It’s inside their