Free Revolution by Dean Crawford

the night sky. By the time the pale, cold light of dawn broke over the river, a blanket of pure white had smothered the entire city.
    ‘Did you hear the guns?’ Megan asked Callum.
    They walked across Pevestraka Square, their boots crunching softly in the snow as they passed beneath Balthazar’s statue.
    ‘Eighty–eights,’ Callum replied, ‘heavy artillery. It’s difficult to judge distance at night, but I’d say they were no more than forty miles away and probably less as the mountains shelter Thessalia from the noise.’
    Megan had seen, against the distant clouds, brief flashes of light as mortar shells impacted the ancient earth. Pops and rumbles were just audible, a distant hymn of war echoing through the night as it had done for thousands of years.
    ‘We’re running out of time already. If the rebel forces take the city we’ll have to leave too.’
    Callum nodded, adjusting the heavy body–armour that he wore, modified from a standard NATO item.
    ‘We’re not done yet. They won’t break the Thessalia line for a few days.’
    They continued walking in silence, and had reached the edge of the refugee camp when Callum muttered from the corner of his mouth.
    ‘There he is.’
    Megan glanced across to their right in time to see Martin Sigby standing in front of his cameraman, who was filming against a backdrop of shivering human misery. Sigby saw them almost at the same moment and immediately curtailed his report, moving towards Megan.
    ‘Where are you going?’
    ‘None of your business,’ Megan muttered back, but Sigby was already intercepting them before they could vanish into the throng of the camp.
    ‘We’ve already got the best shots,’ Sigby said. ‘There’s no sense in you shooting the same scene and making the same report.’
    Megan stopped and turned to face Sigby.
    ‘You’re shooting everything that’s been seen a hundred times before and nobody will take a blind bit of notice. You’re not showing them anything new, ergo, they will not watch.’
    ‘This is my show, Mitchell,’ Sigby pressed. ‘Mordania was my call at GNN.’
    Megan refrained from mentioning the fact that Amy O’Hara had been in Mordania weeks before.
    ‘I know,’ she replied. ‘What I also know is that nobody has reported anything new from within this country for weeks. Therefore, I intend to change that by finding things out.’
    Sigby darted forward, blocking Megan’s path.
    ‘You’re going in country?!’
    Megan did not reply, simply standing in front of Sigby and wondering whether he would figure it out or not. Sigby looked at Callum and observed the heavy body–warmer style armour that he wore. He glanced across the camp before looking back at Megan.
    ‘You’re going in with the aid convoys,’ he said. ‘Callum’s going to shoot frames!’
    Megan allowed a tiny smile to curl from the corner of her lips. Callum tapped the thick chest guard of his body armour. The garment was equipped with a concealed colour pinhole–camera with audio fitted into the armour, perfect for undercover filming. In his back–pack he carried a 40GB hard drive recorder. The camera faced forward from Callum’s chest, below his left shoulder and almost level with his elbow, its body tucked into a pocket there and the lens concealed as a button.
    ‘We used the same kit in Bosnia, Rwanda, you name it,’ Callum said quietly so as not to be overheard. ‘Near broadcast quality images, provided I keep reasonably still when the camera’s filming.’
    Sigby shook his head. ‘You’re both insane. If you get caught out you’ll come back here in small wet pieces.’
    Megan shrugged her shoulders and turned away toward the camp. ‘No gain without risk, Martin.’
    ‘Mordania is my show,’ Sigby repeated as he pursued Megan.
    ‘It was.’
    ‘If you were caught filming, you’d be expelled from Thessalia!’
    ‘We’ll be careful then,’ Megan said.
    ‘You’ll have to be more than that,’ Sigby muttered.
    Megan glanced at