“Gone hungry, been homeless in a world without homes, seen friends and family die,” Chris said. “I imagine that ages them pretty fast.” He turned the book over in his hands again. “Of course, if you’d like to write something up about that—maybe a feature, parents noticing how much more mature the kids are? Or an editorial about whether or not it’s a good thing? I’ll always be looking for material.”
“I doubt I will, but I’ll pass the idea on to Cassie. She’s always writing letters to friends—all the people she used to text with—the ones where she knows their street address or can find it. Mostly just trying to find out if they’re still alive, I guess. She just heard back from two of them this week. She might have some things she could tell you about.”
“Sounds like it. And there’s a whole generation of possible customers that doesn’t remember newspapers at all; I need some writers from that generation if I’m going to get the habit restarted.”
“If you could sell newspapers with coffee as a single package,” Cartland said, “I’d be your slave forever. My dad used to read the paper and have coffee, every morning. For me, it was Twitter and a Red Bull, and for my kids it wasn’t even that organized. But I remember he used to look like the most relaxed creature in the universe, feet up on a spare chair, big mug of coffee by his hand, looking for something to read out loud to all of us. God, I thought he looked like a moron. Now my definition of luxury would be to start every day off like that.”
“Well, we’ll have the newspaper, weekly at first; the coffee’s kind of a problem, of course, but at least we’re on this coast, and among my first stories in the biz section, there’s a woman here in town who bartered for five sailing yachts with a warehouse full of liquor, and had enough booze left over to hire crews; she’s billing those as the ‘coffee fleet’ and I guess they’ll be running over to Hawaii, down to Mexico, wherever, to bring in the beans. My guess is she’s going to own the West Coast in a few years.”
“Lisa Fanchion. Yeah. My guess too.”
“I have an interview with her in the notepad already,” Chris said, smiling. “Closest I can get to coffee till some of her ships come back. I was teasing her that when the coffee fleet comes back, I’ll be trading full-page ads to get some, and she just shrugged and said she figured the boats coming in would be news, which I’d have to cover for free, and once that’s in the paper, she’ll have all the buyers she’ll need. She thought it might be twenty years before she needs to advertise. She really doesn’t miss a trick.”
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.
EIGHT HOURS LATER. OLYMPIA, NEW DISTRICT OF COLUMBIA. (OLYMPIA. WASHINGTON.) 3:00 P.M. PST. SATURDAY. JANUARY 25.
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.