The Revolution Business tmp-5

by Charles Stross

  Miriam stared at the backs of her hands on the handles of the wheelchair. A daughter’s hands. Trusting, maybe too trusting. “What do you want?” she asked.

  Iris chuckled quietly. “Well, let me see . . . knowing you, you’re planning something to do with business models and new worlds. Am I right? You’re plotting a business revolution.” Without waiting for Miriam’s assent she continued: “My plan is a bit different. I just want to make sure that no daughter of the families ever goes through what you’ve been put through ever again, for dynastic reasons. Or what I went through. That’s all; nothing huge.”

  Miriam cleared her throat. “But. You’d need to break the Clan’s entire structure to do that,” she said conversationally. She could hear the blood throbbing in her ears.

  “Yes,” said Iris. “You see? You’re not the only one of us who wants a revolution.” Her voice dropped a notch. “The trouble is, like I said: I can’t make it work without your help. You’re in a powerful position, and better still, you’ve got a perfect excuse for moving across social boundaries rather than obeying convention. It’s not going to be obvious to onlookers whether you’re doing stuff deliberately or because you don’t know better. Which gives you a certain freedom of action. . . . Meanwhile, my plan depends on us agreeing to cooperate, and that’s something the braid system tends to discourage. See? A year ago you wouldn’t have been this suspicious of my motives. That’s part of the problem. I know it’s a lot to ask of you—but I want you to trust me to help you.”

  Miriam stared at the back of her mother’s head, her mind a whirl of emotions. Once, a year ago, she’d have trusted Iris implicitly, but now that she knew the forge her mother had been tempered in, a tiny voice urged caution. “Tell me exactly what you’re planning,” she said slowly, “then I’ll tell you what I’m planning.”

  “And then?”

  “Then perhaps we can do a deal.”

  Working in the belly of the beast, supervising the electrically-driven presses of the Petrograd Times and minding the telautograph senders that broadcast the message of the Committee for Democratic Accountability up and down the western seaboard, Erasmus had little time to spare for mundane tasks—he slept under his desk, having not had time even to requisition a room in a miner’s flophouse—but a superb perspective on the revolution. “We’re going to succeed,” he told John Winstanley one morning, over tea. “I think this time it’s actually going to work.”

  Winstanley had stared at him. “You thought it might not? Careful, citizen!”

  “Feh.” Burgeson snorted. “I’ve spent half my life in exile, citizen, working underground for a second chance. Ask Sir Adam, or Lady Bishop, if you doubt my commitment. And I’ll willingly do it all over again and go for third time lucky, and even a fourth, if this one doesn’t succeed. I’m just pleased to note that it probably won’t be necessary and taking advantage of your discretion to vent a little steam in company where it won’t fog the minds of the new fish.”

  “Ahem. Well, then, I certainly can’t find fault with that. I’m sorry, Erasmus. Sometimes it’s hard to be sure who’s reliable and who isn’t.”

  Burgeson turned his attention back to the pile of communiques on the table, studiously ignoring the Truth Commissioner. He was rapidly developing a jaundiced view of many of his fellow revolutionaries, now that the time to come out of the shadows and march for freedom and democracy had arrived; too many of them stood revealed as time-servers and insidious busybodies, who glowingly talked up their activities in the underground struggle with scant evidence of actually having done anything. I didn’t spend twenty years as a fugitive just so the likes of you could criticize me for pessimism, citizen. The New Men seemed to be more preoccupied with rooting out dissenters and those lacking in ideological zeal than in actually building a better nation, but Erasmus wasn’t yet sure enough of his footing to speak out against them. The rot had spread surprisingly far in a matter of weeks. Not so surprising, if what the membership subcommittee reports is right, he reminded himself; the council’s declared members—whose number could all count on a short drop to the end of a rope if the revolution failed—had quadrupled in the past two weeks, and just keeping Polis informers out of the rank and file was proving a challenge.

  “Let’s see,” he said. “Jim, if you’d be so good? . . .”

  “Ayup.” Jim, who Erasmus had drafted as a sub-editor as soon as he’d ascertained his literacy, picked up the top of the pile. “Lessee now. Yesterday, Telegraph Street, Cyprus Hill: A people’s collective has seized control of the Jevons Ironworks and Steam Corporation factory and is restarting the manufacturing of parts for the war effort, with the arming of the Cyprus Hill militia as a first priority. The first four armored steamers have been delivered and are patrolling the Hispaniola Reaches already.”

  “Bottom drawer,” Erasmus said instantly. “Next.”

  “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 Chihua
hua 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, and she was regularly skipping breakfast. Not to mention the other, terrifying symptom: the loss of her ability to world-walk. There was no room for doubt in her mind, even before the test stick had shown her the treacherous blue label. It’s not like I haven’t been pregnant before, she’d told herself. But dealing with it was another matter entirely, and if it was male, potentially heir to an explosive situation . . . this wasn’t about her doubts and fears. It was about everybody else’s. And Mom. Mustn’t forget Mom.

  “Your pardon, Miriam—aren’t you a bit tense?”

  “Put yourself in my shoes. How would you feel?”

  “I’d be petrified! If it’s a boy it’s the heir—” Brill stopped, her hands gripping the steering wheel.

  “That’s what we’re going to find out,” Miriam agreed. With the free run of a fertility clinic, ven Hjalmar would have been able to put his sperm samples through a sex sorting protocol, and while that wasn’t a surefire guarantee, she wasn’t inclined to bet against it. “But what about me?”

  Brill paused for a few seconds. “I’m sorry.”

  Miriam took a deep breath, then let it out slowly. “Don’t be. What’s done is not your fault.” What happens next, though . . . “Just get me there and back. Then we’ll talk.”

  This time there was no security cordon of bible-scholar bandits to penetrate, just a brilliant and vacuous smile from the receptionist followed by directions to a waiting room. “Dr. Price is waiting for you,” she added as Miriam put one foot in front of the other and forced herself along the corridor. Brilliana, behind her, felt like the shadow of all her fears, come to escort her to the examination room. I’ve done this before, she reminded herself. Yes, but you were twenty-one and indecisive and Mom guilt-tripped you out of having an abortion—and there was a nasty thought, because how certain was she that Mom wasn’t playing a riff on that same head game all over again?

  Seven weeks along. All I have to do is ask. Huw said he’d sort everything out. She held the thought like the key to a prison cell as she paused on the threshold of the examination room, and the guy with curly brown hair sitting at the desk turned to look at her and then rose to greet her. “Hello? Are you Miriam? I’m Dr. Price, Alan Price.” His eyes tracked past her. “And this is . . .”

  “A friend.” She practiced her smile again; she had a feeling that if she was going to go through with this she’d be needing it a lot over the next weeks and months. “Hi. I understand you’re an OB/GYN.” She shuffled sideways as he gestured towards a chair. “Have you ever worked with Dr. ven Hjalmar?”

  Price frowned. “Van Hjelmar . . . no, doesn’t ring a bell.” He shook his hea
d. “Were you seeing him?”

  “A different practice.” Miriam sat down heavily, as if her strings had been cut; a vast weight of dread that she hadn’t even been aware of disappeared. “I really didn’t like him. Hence this, uh . . .”

  “I understand.” Price leaned over and dragged a third chair into position, then waved Brilliana towards it. His face assumed an expression of professional interest. “And your mother, I gather, suggested? . . .”

  “Yes.” Miriam took another deep breath. “My fiancé is, uh—”

  “—He died last month,” Brill picked up without a pause.

  “Oh, I’m sorry!” Price sat up. “Well, that probably explains it.”

  “It was a shooting accident,” Miriam said tonelessly, earning her a sharp look from Brill.

  “Eh.” Price glanced back at his computer screen. “Alright. So you were on his HMO plan, but now you’ve moved to—oh, I see. Well. I think my receptionist’s got the new release forms through—if you can sign one and get your old practitioner’s details to us we can take it from there.”

  “Okay.” Miriam nodded.

  “Meanwhile? . . .” Price raised an eyebrow.

  “Well.” Miriam managed to get a grip on her breathing: mustn’t start hyperventilating. “I’m pregnant.” It was funny how you could change your script and the person who you were talking to would fall into a new pattern of their own, she thought as she watched Price visibly tense as he tried to keep up with the conversation: from polite sympathy through to curiosity to a quickly suppressed wince. Brill glanced sidelong at her again: You’re laying it on too thick, back off! “It wasn’t planned,” she added, not backpedaling exactly but trying to fill in enough details to put Price back on ground he was comfortable with, that wouldn’t raise any questions. “We were going to wait until after the wedding. But . . .” She shrugged helplessly.