Chapter 51: Joric's Solution
Dorio looked at Sasha's broken, empty expression and let out a heavy sigh. "The smart play? You should have told us everything. Sent us the damn data-backup. Let us figure out how to spread the word, use all our contacts and markers in Night City."
"Your job," Dorio continued, her voice heavy with regret, "was to do whatever it took to stay alive. We were right downstairs. We even had their security net temporarily paralyzed. We had a real window to pull you out. But you chose the most extreme, and... most useless, option."
Falco added his own cold, pragmatic assessment, "Biotechnica put out the bounty, yeah. But in Night City, that has a limited effect. A crew with real chrome will weigh the risk versus the eddies, and most will decide starting a war with us isn't worth it. The gonks who do try? They're just flatline-fodder. The only good news is that Biotechnica hasn't sent its own elite spec-ops team after us. Yet. But your move... it didn't 'protect' us, Sasha. It just put a bigger, brighter target on all our backs."
The cold, hard facts hammered Sasha, one after another, shattering the last fragments of her self-righteous "sacrifice." She hadn't exposed the truth. She had nearly gotten her entire family killed. And now, they were all wanted by a mega-corp.
Self-blame, guilt, despair... the emotions coiled around her like vipers, sinking their fangs into her already fragile psyche.
Seeing Sasha completely shut down, Rebecca's white-hot fury sputtered, replaced by a restless, frustrated ache she didn't know how to vent. She violently kicked a nearby tool chest—CLANG!
"Fuck! This sucks!" she yelled, her voice cracking. "It's all so delta-damn messed up! You ask me? We should go back, hit their HQ, and zero a few of their labs! Get some real payback for Sasha!"
Maine rubbed the bridge of his nose, his brow furrowed. "Cool it, Becca. More violence won't solve the root problem. It'll just make us public enemy number one."
He paused, his gaze shifting to Sasha, who looked like a broken doll. His voice softened. "But... the data... it's not a complete lost cause. I know an indie-media. Her influence isn't like a giant like News 54, but she has... other channels. And she owes me, big time. Maybe we can give the info to her. See if she can make it stick."
The words were a tiny spark in her darkness. Sasha's eyes snapped open. She stared at Maine, her voice a ragged, desperate whisper. "The data... I... I backed it up... my private encrypted node... The key... it's..."
She recited a long, complex string of keys and node addresses, a fragile, desperate hope returning to her gaze.
Maine carefully recorded it. "Got it. I'll contact her ASAP. But Sasha, steel yourself. An indie's power is limited. Even if the news gets out, it could be buried by the corporate media machine just as fast."
Just then, a flat, synthesized voice cut into the conversation, dousing the tiny spark of hope like ice-water.
"Inefficient. And, in all probability, meaningless."
Joric's tall, dark-red form had silently approached the medicae-slab. His crimson optical lenses swept over Sasha, then Maine. He had just finished another round of analysis on the dimensional transporter's data, drawn from his work by the sound of their intense, and wholly inefficient, discussion.
"Your assessment is based on emotional appeal, not realistic probability," Joric stated. A mechadendrite unconsciously traced a complex geometric path in the air, as if simulating an unseen data-flow. "An 'indie-media' exists only in the cracks of the corporate system. They may possess the will to publish, but they absolutely lack the power to resist a full corporate counter-measure."
"Biotechnica's legal division, their top-tier cybersecurity teams, are fully capable of blocking, deleting, or discrediting the information before it has any substantial impact. They can even make the publisher 'accidentally disappear'. Your data will, at best, become fleeting gossip on the deep net, unable to cause any quantifiable damage to the company's stock, reputation, or policies."
He paused slightly, his optical lenses turning to Maine. "Your mention of 'media machine' is accurate. The corporations firmly control mainstream information channels. They can easily create counter-narratives, painting the whistleblower as a deranged ex-employee, or a slanderer bought by a competitor. From a technical and social control analysis, this plan's success rate is below three percent."
The cold, precise words stripped away all warm possibilities, leaving only the bloody, naked reality. Maine's crew fell silent. They knew Joric was right. In Night City, going head-to-head with a mega-corp in a media war was like trying to punch out a tank.
Rebecca's face flushed red with frustration. She glared at Joric, unconvinced. Even if she rationally knew he was right, she couldn't emotionally accept this total denial.
She craned her neck and shot back, "Then what do you suggest, Boss?! We just let it go? Watch those bastards get away scot-free? Let Sasha's mom, and all those other victims, die for nothing?! As long as the news is out, someone will see it! Someone will remember!"
Joric's crimson lenses focused on Rebecca, his gaze analytical, as if analyzing the emotional-response center of her brain.
"'Someone will see' is a vague expectation, lacking practical operational value. What we need is to ensure the information cannot be deleted, and can be forcefully delivered to a sufficient number of terminals, forming an un-ignorable tidal wave of public opinion, briefly paralyzing the company's PR response protocols, and triggering a chain reaction—like a significant stock-price deviation, or forcing a government investigation."
His mechadendrite turned to the main terminal, quickly pulling up complex network topology maps and data-flow analysis.
"Based on my ongoing analysis of the local network architecture, and specifically... the 'Blackwall' protocols... I have formulated a solution with a higher execution efficiency."
"The Blackwall?" Maine's brow furrowed. That word represented the most dangerous, uncontrollable, and mysterious domain of the entire Net.