The Revolution Business

'Yesterday, Dunedin: The ships of the Ontario patrol have put into harbor and their officers and men have raised the people's flag. That's the last of the undeclared territorial and riverine patrols-'

'Get that on the wire. Hold page three, this sounds promising.

'A moment.' Winstanley leaned forward. 'Are those ships under control of people's commissioners? Because if not, how do we know they're not planning-'

Burgeson glared at him. 'That's not your department,' he said, 'nor mine. If you want to waste your time, make inquiries; my job is to get the news out, and this is news.' He turned back to Jim. 'Get someone to look for some stock pictures of the Ontario patrol. I know: you, Bill. Go now, find pictures.'

Bill, the put-upon trainee sub, darted off through the news room towards the stairs down to the library. 'Next story,' Erasmus said wearily.

'Yesterday. People's courts in Santiago have arrested and tried sixteen Polis commissars and eleven informers for crimes against the people: Three have been executed for ordering the arrest and torture of patriots during the Andean campaign last fall. More details…'

'Run it. Paper only, inside pages.' Erasmus jotted down a quick note on his pad. 'Next.'

'Today. Communique from the New London people's committee: A people's provisional council will be voted in, by open polling next Tuesday, to form a constitutional convention that will determine the structure of the people's congress and establish a timetable for its election. Lots of details here. Um, delegates from the provinces are to attend, as are members of the inner council-'

'Stop.' Erasmus stood. 'That's the front page for you, right there, and get it on the wire. I'll need a copy for reference while I write the editorial. Go get it now.' He glanced at Winstanley, who was examining his fingernails. 'Coming?'

'What? Where?'

Erasmus closed his eyes for a few seconds, feeling every second of his years. Give me strength. When he opened them again, he spoke evenly. 'I don't know about you, but I am going to see Sir Adam, who will surely be preparing to depart very shortly, in order to learn what he expects of me in his absence.' He paused. Winstanley was looking at him dumbly. 'I expect he'll have some errands for you to run,' he added, not unkindly.

'What-oh? But. Surely?…' Winstanley looked confused. 'You weren't listening, were you? Or rather, you were listening to the voice, not to the words.'

Winstanley flinched. 'I say, there's no need for-' 'Negativism?' Erasmus smiled humorlessly. 'Get your jacket, man. We have to see the chief right away.'

'The correct salutation is 'citizen.' ' Winstanley levered himself out of his chair with a glare.

'Certainly, citizen.' Erasmus headed for the door.

Over in the Committee Palace (its new name hastily hacked into a layer of fresh cement that covered the carved lintel of the former mayoral mansion), Erasmus found the usual ant-heap a-buzzing with petitioners, delegates from regional committees from places as far afield as Chihuahua and North Cascadia, guards drawn from the local militia, and the anxious families of arrested king's men. 'Commissioner Burgeson, to see Sir Adam,' he told the harried page waiting in the Hall of People's Justice (formerly the western state dining room).

'This way, sir. You're just in time.'

Am I, now? He stifled a wince as the door opened. 'Ah! Erasmus.' Sir Adam grinned impishly and stood up, cutting off the manager or committee member who had been talking to him. 'I'd just sent a courier for you. Did he arrive?'

'A courier? No, we must have passed in the street.' Burgeson glanced round. The manager or committee member was an unfamiliar face; Burgeson's secretary Joseph MacDonald, though… 'I take it you're going east?'

'We're going, Erasmus.' Sir Adam inspected him curiously. 'Unless you have more pressing concerns to keep you in this provincial capital than the business of keeping the people appraised of the progress of the new constitutional convention?'

'I'm sure Jim and Judas between them can keep the press and the wire running, just as long as you leave orders to keep that sheep Winstanley away from the hay. But I assumed we'd be here a bit longer… Do you really need me merely as a stenographer or ordinary correspondent?'

'God, no!' Sir Adam looked him in the eye. 'I need you in the capital, doing what you've started here, only on a larger scale. You pick the correspondents-and the editors-then leave them to it unless they go off course. But we're about to up our game, man, and I want someone riding herd on the gossipmongers who knows what he's doing.'

Erasmus's cheek twitched. 'The correct salutation is 'citizen,' or so Citizen Winstanley keeps reminding me, but aside from that I take your point.' He grinned. 'So what's the plan?'

'The militia-rather, an army air wing who have signed to us-are arranging for a mail packet to fly from Prussian Ridge encampment tonight. You and I will be on it, along with a dozen trusted cadre-Haynes, Smith, Joe, Miss Rutherford, a few others, I've written a memo-your copy is on its way to the wrong place-and we shall arrive in New London the day after tomorrow. Andrew White is collating the lists of longtime party members for us to review when we arrive. You will take your pick of staff for a new Communications Committee, which will take over from the Truth and Justice commissioners when the congressional committee sits. Edicts are being drafted to nationalize all the telautographs and printing presses and place them under your ministry. Are you for it?'

'All of them?' Erasmus raised an eyebrow; Sir Adam nodded. 'Well, that's reassuring-nothing like half measures to short the stew pot.' He rubbed his hands together. 'Yes, I'm up for it. But, one question-'

'Yes? Spit it out, man!'

Erasmus grimaced. 'Is there somewhere in this place where I can catch a bath and some fresh clothes? I've been living in my office for the past week-I'd rather not stand up in front of a room full of newspaper owners and tell them I'm holding their front pages to ransom smelling like a tramp…'

The next day, Miriam visited the clinic again-this time, for her own appointment.

Brill had found her an anonymous motel suite near the interstate, along with a survival kit. 'Here's your driving license, credit card, and phone. Want to do dinner?'

'Sounds like a plan. Uh, what about you guys?'

'Oh, we'll be around.' Brill looked amused. 'I thought you'd appreciate some privacy. Tomorrow…'

'Yeah, that.'

Tomorrow dawned hot and early through the picture window in the suite's lounge; Miriam rolled over and buried her face in the pillow until the bedside alarm radio cut in, reminding her that she really needed to get up. She sat up slowly, fuzzy-headed and confused: Where am I? A concatenation of hotel bedrooms seemed to blur behind her. What am I-oh. And so it began-the first day of Iris's, of her own, little conspiracy.

She swallowed, feeling a mild sense of nauseous dread. You can't avoid this step, a little voice reminded her. But it's too much like admitting it's real. The result of the cheap pregnancy test kit on the road had left her feeling numb but clearheaded. Going to see an OB/GYN and finding out whether it was a boy was the inexorable next step down the road, but she wasn't ready to face up to her destination yet, or to decide whether she was going to go there or stamp on the brake pedal. As she brushed her teeth, combed out her hair-which was darkening at the roots again, after its brutal treatment in New London-and pulled on her clothes, she found herself treasuring every remaining second of her indecision.

Brill was waiting for her downstairs in the lobby, concealed behind a newspaper. She rustled it as she rose, to signal her presence. 'Ready?' she asked.

'Let's get this over with.' Miriam managed a brittle smile.

'As my lady wishes.'

While Miriam had been held prisoner for a couple of months by Baron Henryk-held in the conditions of a most privileged prisoner, the troublesome heiress of a noble family who must needs be mewed up and married off before she embarrassed the elders enough to warrant strangling-the baron had arranged a most unpleasant medical examination for her by a doctor who specialized in making sure that the family tree always bore fruit in the right places. And seven weeks later, give or take a couple of days, her period was still late,