[poem - Anybody can write a poem] The transmission window was closing off, and for the first time, Ray didn't have anything to say. For someone who spent most of her waking time trying to vehemently correct some piece of misinformation, for once it wasn't just what was being said that was Wrong. It wasn't just some ONE being wrong, some THING was wrong, and she couldn't figure out what it was, exactly. Fifteen minutes before the working satellite would pass over the limb of the earth, and anything needing to be said would have to wait another twenty hours for it to pass back into view. The news post in sat there, still marked unread, though Ray had read every word a dozen times now. "Moon colony joins rebellion" She hovered her fingers over the keyboard again. Usually, when someone had their facts wrong, there was an easy place to fire back. This wasn't factual. _How do you even respond to a blatant and inciteful lie?_ Ray's father's long fingers gripped the door frame as he poked his head into the communications cube. "Rayray, are you coming to bed?" "I can't. Someone's ... Wrong on the Internet." The tone in her voice made it clear that she wasn't going to be sleeping any time soon, and he let it be. "Okay, but I'm locking the door tonight. I don't trust those people. Got your key?" "Yes, Dad." He watched her for a moment, and she tried not to glare at him for the interruption. _Thank goodness_, she thought as he stalked off to the dorm cube. She wasn't in the mood to start an argument over something trivial when something important was happening. The rest of the news story was just as sensational and wrong as the headline, and it wasn't the only one. Every news outlet was carrying some variation on the story; Ray could tell that most of them were the old AP-Reuters machine churning out variations on a theme without a shred of anything new, but even the responses and blogs were saying it. One supply ship gets hijacked by a rebel group, and then lands where it was going anyway and suddenly everyone's complicit. Eight minutes left if she wanted to get a response out. She had the sickening feeling that this was how wars started, and always had. Maybe this is the kind of thing that would die down in twenty hours of silence, or if when she woke up in the morning, someone would have declared war or done something rash before the colonists could even respond. Six minutes. She gave up and deleted the not even half started post. It's not like hastily posting something to the Net would do any good against the tide of News. She wondered where AP-Reuters got their stories anyway. It was impossible to tell any more, ever since that Florida judge said that lying and calling it news was perfectly okay. She opened up a private post for just a few friends and attached a couple images from the camera in her suit, one looking through the ship's door -- it hadn't even taken much to make the Cascadian flag in the background show up clearly. The other was a picture of the two Cascadian astronauts still in the entry tube. She keyed in "At least she's cute" on a little tab pointing at the female astronaut's face and hit post. Blackout. She sighed and closed the computer. It's not like there was much to do until the next burst came in from Earth. Twenty hours of waiting, unless something came through on the emergency channel, and that was only official ESA business, and they hadn't said anything since the Cascadians had shown up. She glared at the emergency receiver. The silence was deafening.