John Barnes - Directive 51

Cartland laughed. “Well, one thing you can say for Daybreak, it’s a great opportunity for smart ruthless bastards, ne?”

“Like everything else that ever happened,” Chris agreed. The two picked up their wheelbarrows, aiming to be in the market at first light, since they’d be mostly paid in barter goods that would be better when fresh.

At mid-afternoon, they were getting used to the rhythm of things. One of them would push a wheelbarrow into the market, full of copies of Battle of Articles ; the other would then depart from their slot with the other barrow, laden down with produce, jewelry, paper cash, and pre-Daybreak canned goods, moving it into their lockup in the print shop. The one who had just arrived would take over the head of the line where so many people waited for a copy. Apparently the idea of a book about something that had happened since Daybreak appealed to people.

They would be back to press, and for the moment they would have to work the newspaper in around printing the book. Though if the newspaper is as big a hit as the book, Chris thought happily, we might have to find more printers someplace. Wonder if anything survived up toward Tacoma? That was a bad fire but some areas didn’t burn.

He sold the last book and handed the Ping-Pong paddle to the man at the front of the line; they’d hit on that as a system to preserve “firstness” and reduce anxiety; now all Chris would have to do was shout “stand behind the man holding up the Ping-Pong paddle!” until Cartland came back with the next load of books.

“Mr. Manckiewicz?” a man said at his elbow.

“If you want to buy a book, get into the line; I’m not going to help anyone jump it, I’d be lynched.”

“Not what I had in mind,” the man said. “Do you have a moment for a possible scoop?”

“Tell me what it is and I’ll tell you if it’s a scoop.” He glanced sideways; the man was in T-shirt, jeans, and a leather jacket, holding out a file folder.

“Read,” the man said. “Make notes. Make a copy if you can find the time to type that much, photograph it if anyone you know has a working camera. Use any of it you want in your paper. But don’t tell anyone where you got it, and I wouldn’t publish while you still have it. You’ll see why not. When you’re done—and make that within one week—move the potted plant in the Observer ’s window to the other window, and leave this folder, with all the documents in it, out on your fire escape by your window at noon. Bye.” He dropped the folder at Chris’s feet; Chris picked it up, looked again, and the man was gone.

Well, either the guy is very paranoid and watches a lot of old movies, or the guy is very paranoid and I’ve got a scoop. He looked around and didn’t see Cartland coming yet; the man with the paddle was being good about yelling “This is the line for the book about the two governments! Line up behind this paddle!” so Chris didn’t have much to do. Either this barrowload or one more, and we’re sold out. This is going so well.

Curiosity overpowered him and he peeked into the folder. The document was new, and had been typewritten rather than printed; there were several XXXed out mistakes on the first page, which was a letter addressed from “General Norman McIntyre, Sec. Armed Forces” to “Dr. Graham Weisbrod, POTUS.” When I was working for 247NN, they’ d have given a fortune to get any document from this level, but I suppose nowadays getting hold of a high-level national document isn’t much harder than stealing a proposed zoning plan from a small-town planning commission used to be.

At the bottom of the first page was scrawled, “Recommended, further discussion suggested.”

Still no sign of Cartland. The line was still quiet, patiently waiting for their chance to buy a book. I hope that guy way back there with the live lamb gets to the head before we’re out of books; Cartland’s kids would love that as a pet.

He flipped the letter to the back of the stack and looked at the title page. OVERALL PLAN FOR SPRING OFFENSIVE.

He froze. On the next page was a map of the Dakotas, with arrows running along rail lines and roads, and junctions marked with D+2, D+9, and so forth, all the way to Minnesota. The next page was a table of West Coast and Rocky Mountain Castles that had declared for Nguyen-Peters, with columns for “troop strength,” “probable arms,” “allies,” “estimated food stocks”—

“Mr. Manckiewicz?”

“Yes, I can’t accept this, it’s—”

It wasn’t the same man; it was four of the President’s Own Rangers. “Sir, we have to ask you to come with us, and we were told to secure all documents in your possession.”

“Yes,” Chris said, “you definitely need to secure this. The man who gave it to me—”

“You can explain that later, sir.”

It wasn’t until they cuffed him that he realized what was happening. Wonder if they’re registering trademarks anywhere yet? Maybe I’ll start a whole chain of papers called Free Trip to the Pen.

At first Captain Wallace, Army Counterintelligence, seemed pretty nice; he explained that he had once been a Seattle police detective, working fraud, ID theft, and cash-hacks, and he was still more used to civilian investigations. He hoped Chris would cooperate.

Chris told him exactly what had happened and described the man as well as he could remember; Wallace was oddly uninterested, as if he already knew who had done it ( Perhaps the spy was already busted? Chris thought). He established that Chris had looked at the documents but had no intention of disclosing their contents.

“I hate the idea of a civil war,” Chris explained, “but if there is one, I’m on the side of this government, and I don’t want to do anything to jeopardize victory.”

“Is that a matter of revenge? You were jailed by the Athens government before being sent here—”

“Well, it didn’t make me especially like them, of course, but my real problem is that the Southeast is turning into one big Army base, gearing up to attack some squatty little patch of dirt that had nothing to do with Daybreak. And while they’re getting ready, they’re wiping out most of the traditional liberties.”

“Such as freedom of the press?”

“Well, I’m pretty attached to that one. Look, I had just realized what I’d been given when the Rangers came and busted me. I hadn’t had time or opportunity to turn it in—jeez, I guess your office would have been the right place, I didn’t even know that .”

“Yes, actually, my office would have been the right place.”

“Off the record, did you catch the guy?”

“You might say that. Off the record entirely, though.” Wallace sat down, so close to Chris that their knees almost touched. “So let me make sure of a few things. No one else saw the documents but yourself. How would you describe what you saw?”

“It looked like the first stages of a military offensive against the Athens government—securing our communications through Montana and the Dakotas to the New State of Superior, and cleaning out Castles that might act as enemy bases in our rear.”

“I can see you’ve done some military reporting before.”

“Second Iranian War; I was embedded with Tenth Mountain for three months, and almost all that was at headquarters.”

“Ah. And your record there?”

“Flawless on security issues, Captain Wallace. Not that anyone can prove anything with all the computers down.”