"Jungarw," Reg said slowly, her lips snarling out the syllables, "is a new build nothing northern glacial lake mineral fuck. An MCM self-assembly job. Do you know how they run the glacial lake mineral fucks up there?"
"Of course," Val said, bluffing and shifting his gaze to the shifting gallery images of Esplinade Chronicle front pages throughout history flashing across the antique rectangular gizmo affixed to the wall of Reg's office. "I studied the whole history at Fleet."
"Fleet," Reg chuckled mirthlessly, "Fleet is a flea circus mockery of the operation they use in places like Jungarw. You're the journalist, look it up."
Val said nothing. He knew damn well what Jungarw was. He'd taken MCM's direct training programme and devoured everything he could lay his hands on. He hadn't made the cut, that's why he was out here in God forsaken Esplinade, living twelve stories below sunrise.
He left across the office and strolled across the sparsity of the newsroom and flashed a smile at Tre as she accepted the incoming.
