Half an hour later she was on stage, standing before a bouquet of bulbous microphones and a flicker of press camera flashes. Beside her were the Mayor of Cambridge, the Citizen Commissioner of Development for the Republic of Massachusetts, and a collection of local Party members and handpicked workers. Then it was time for speechifying:
“Today is a great day for Cambridge and Massachusetts—and more important, for the entire Commonwealth. The Commonwealth has made great progress in the past fifteen years, but many of our fellow citizens have yet to be exposed to the revolutionary potential of micro-electronics, much less the potential of automation, information technology, and computing that the microprocessor makes possible.”
Before she’d discovered—or been discovered by—the Clan and learned to world-walk, Miriam had grown up in the United States. She’d worked as a tech journalist during the dot-com boom era. The hackneyed Silicon Valley rhetoric of revolutionary change came easily to her. But to ears raised in the New American Commonwealth it sounded fresh, exciting, and new: they’d barely had vacuum tubes when she arrived. “This factory will showcase the Watertown Semiconductor Cooperative’s first fully integrated fab line: a historic breakthrough. And one day in the future, we’ll be able to put a minicomputer in every school and workplace across the Commonwealth”—not to mention eventually providing the brains for the secure terminals required by the People’s Logistic Allocation Network, in every factory and warehouse and farm across three continents—“training our children for the computerized future they will live in…”
Keep it as short as possible was one of her guidelines: Miriam had sat through too many of these events, on the other side of the mikes and cameras, to enjoy abusing her captive audience. But: Make it too short and nobody will notice anything you say. And Miriam needed to milk every opportunity to be heard. It wasn’t just everyday politics: it was vitally important to keep the master plan visible in the public eye at all times, gathering momentum, delivering the goods. Or in this case, delivering the first indigenous, crude, eight-bit microprocessors from the Commonwealth’s first civilian semiconductor factory.
All because the USA was coming.
Finally it was time for the ribbon-cutting and confetti—the latter an imported prop, one that had been latched onto with enthusiasm by the locals—and the band struck up a jaunty revolutionary march. Miriam took her place at the end of the receiving line in the factory canteen, beside the union convener and the plant’s magistrate. They were both old hands, deeply wary of each other and of her world-walking self: they clearly had no intention of burying their worker/management hatchet without some discreet external head-banging.
“Play nicely, now,” she said, smiling at the magistrate over a glass of passable sparkling zinfandel: “We’re in this to make life better for everyone, not just a select few.”
“In my experience, the nobs don’t settle for just their share of the cake if they think they can ’ave it all,” said the union rep.
“You’ve got my office number. If you think the managers are overreaching, I assure you my staff will be very interested to hear about it. Just try to remember that my task is to ensure the best outcome for the nation as a whole.” She smiled again to take some of the sting out of the words. “This plant isn’t going to stand still and hammer out the same products for the next thirty years, you know. Today’s chips will be obsolete in five years’ time. The only constant will be change—”
The line shuffled forward while she shook hands, chatted over her shoulder, and exchanged smiles and the odd greeting with the people before her: they were into the workers now, mostly skilled technical personnel who’d been taken on to run the silicon foundry. She was glad she was wearing gloves: about one in four of them seemed to want to cripple her with their robust handshakes, but at least she wouldn’t need to worry about picking up the flu.
A young man stood before her, wide-eyed. Something about him didn’t seem quite right: it wasn’t his clothing (a regular worker’s suit, with a cravat after the modern style) or hair (curly, with flyaway locks escaping the grip of his pomade), but rather his curiously fixed expression. Somehow it reminded her of someone she’d seen before. “Hello,” she said, smiling professionally, and reaching out to take his right hand, “how are you today—”
Danger. As he opened his mouth she remembered where she’d seen that look: back during the Revolution, or even earlier. He snatched his hand back from her offered palm, lips curling back in rage—
“Down!” It was Melvyn, her number one bodyguard, shouting over the hubbub. Miriam ducked without thinking and began to roll, realizing This is going to hurt tomorrow—
—then somebody landed on top of her, crushing the breath from her body and shoving her off to one side as the young man shouted “For God and Emperor!” and repeatedly pulled the trigger of the snub-nosed revolver he had somehow, improbably, smuggled in past the security guards.
Someone shrieked hoarsely, in an uncontrolled bloody-throated wail of pain. The crash of the gun, so close, felt like ice picks in her inner ears. A bullet struck the floor close enough to her face that she saw splinters. More screaming, and a bellow of rage. “—God and—”
Boots, stomping past her face. Different screams, with the shrieking of whoever had been shot a ghastly counterpoint. “Got ’im!”
Miriam gasped, trying to breathe. Her ribs hurt, and her left shoulder was a solid lump of agony. For a moment she wondered if she’d been shot too, but there was no blood. “Off me,” she tried to wheeze. A second later the man lying atop her shifted, grinding her harder against the floor, then began to lever himself up.
“Sorry, ma’am. Clear?” The latter question was not addressed to her.
“Shooter down, stand down, stand down! Evacuate the Minister!”
Suddenly she was free. Miriam took a deep, moaning breath and began to push herself up on her right elbow. Strong hands grabbed her under the armpits and bodies closed in, carrying her backstage in a rush. Her chest heaved. “I’m all right!” she choked out. “Let me walk!”
Melvyn was insistent. “Madame, we have to get you out of—”
“I’ll walk!” Her chest heaved. “How many gunmen?”
“Just the one, but—”
“Casualties?” She dug her heels in, turning to face him. Her bodyguards drew in, facing outward, forming a human shield. “Who’s hurt?”
“Madame, he hit Jeffrey in the stomach, an ambulant will be here just as soon as—”
“Who else?”
“His shots went wide, thank God,” said the other guard.
“Right.” She took a deep breath, then another, assessing the situation. “Lone gunman, one pistol, one injured, nobody killed. Secure the scene, Mel, I’m going back.”
“Ma’am, I can’t let you—”
“You can’t stop me and you mustn’t stop me,” she shot right back. “Do you want to make me look like a coward? There are frightened people there—”