A convoy of vehicles was coming the other way down Walton Boulevard, moving at a fair old pace. Two cabs in front, with armed militiamen hanging off the sides, their minds emitting a steely caution to get out of the way. Then came two big covered wagons, heavily fuzzed. Followed by a final cab, equally laden with militia.

Yannrith peered at them curiously, just glimpsing a young woman sitting up beside the surly-looking driver on the first wagon. She was dressed in boots and a long suede skirt, with a leather waistcoat over a white blouse, her red hair trailing from a broad-rimmed hat. Yannrith frowned; that face. He knew her from somewhere. She’s with Coulan’s militia, which means she’s an activist. But how do I recognize her? The cell network keeps us all isolated. In theory.

Then the convoy was past, and he didn’t know what to make of it at all. Coulan’s militia people had been methodically stripping the palace bare. There’d been a continual scrum along Walton Boulevard for the first two days as they handed out the Captain’s possessions, but now all the booty was gone. So why were the carts guarded? What could be so important?

A minute later he arrived at the Captain’s Palace, keen to get some answers from Coulan. The militia guarding the gates were reluctant to let him through. It worried him that factions were forming, their attitudes hardening: that would be disastrous for the revolution. But once inside, the remnants of the teams assigned to the palace told him Coulan wasn’t there. They didn’t know where he was, nor when he would be back. They knew nothing of the convoy, either.

*

The Delkeith theatre on Portnoi Street was old and shabby, but it did have thick walls to block ex-sight from outside. It specialized in fairly crude satirical comedy, which was why Javier was familiar with it. The management had closed up as soon as the mobs hit the streets, but the caretaker was happy enough to open it for Javier.

He sat on the stage, next to the giant teacup prop, and thanked people for coming, for having the courage to walk out of the Congress with him. They were mostly union stewards, as well as the radical stalwarts he’d known before he met Slvasta. During the time the cells had been built up, he’d carefully steered them all into positions of leadership, so now over twenty had been appointed borough delegates to the People’s Interim Congress.

They understood the reality of life on Bienvenido, not needing any persuasion to see the injustice. They knew how vital jobs and a thriving economy were to establish the revolution as legitimate. Once he started talking, they were with him on blocking Slvasta’s stupidity about mods and neuts.

With that agreed, they all started to discuss procedures and votes and possible allies to use in the Congress to defeat the motion. It didn’t help that the Congress was chaired by Slvasta, so they needed tactics into shaming him and forcing him to take account of a democratic mandate.

The one person Javier really needed at the Delkeith was Coulan. Not just for the personal comfort, but because he had the best brain for this kind of stuff. Coulan would also know how to smooth things over with Slvasta.

Now the argument was over, now the split was hugely public, Javier was feeling sheepish about the whole thing. There had been no need for either of them to get so bad tempered, nor so stubborn.

It was tiredness, he kept telling himself. A state where the smallest frustration could trigger ludicrous amounts of adrenalin and testosterone. And he was ridiculously tired. The others had given him the job of industrial strategy for the Interim Congress. After all the violence and desperation of the revolution’s active stage, there had been no time to rest afterwards. They had to keep momentum going – was it Coulan who kept insisting that? Keep pushing the establishment back, keep claiming their own legitimacy through the Congress, by establishing their own managers in strategic businesses. Don’t let up. Push and push until there simply isn’t any resistance any more. Keep going.

Coulan didn’t answer any ’paths. He was in charge of securing the palace and the Captain’s family. Tasks which had been carried out flawlessly, Javier knew; he’d perceived reports all through the active stage, keeping anxious track of his beloved. His small militia was superbly disciplined, eradicating any opposition, and not allowing the mob following them to run wild. If only all aspects of the revolution had been so well executed, he thought dolefully. There had been a lot of poor discipline. Too many had died or suffered. The looting was a disgrace.

However, the palace was theirs now, as was the Captain’s family – apart from Dionene. The city was theirs. They’d won.

So why do I feel so cruddy?

Javier realized his eyes were closing. He abruptly sat back in the chair – a jerky movement which sent his elbow thudding against the ridiculous teacup. It was made from papier mâché and wobbled about. Once he saw it wasn’t going to fall over and roll across the stage, he held up his hands. ‘I’m sorry. I really have to get some sleep. We know what we have to do. I’ll see you all tomorrow at the morning session of Congress.’

They all wanted to congratulate him. For the success. For not forgetting them. For standing up to Slvasta. For representing genuine democracy.

He shook hands. Slapped backs. Promised long cheerful sessions in the pub. Barely recognizing them, and certainly not recalling what they’d all just said. The fatigue was so strong now, making it hard simply to stand.

When he finally left the theatre, a cab was waiting for him. Bethaneve’s organizational magic was still working perfectly. He smiled at that as he told the cabby to take him to the palace. Somehow he had to talk to Coulan and find out just what was really happening. He fell asleep as soon as they started to move.

*

Exhaustion had finally abolished Slvasta’s rage. His aides kept giving him coffee during the Congress, which he hated but drank anyway. Now he had a wicked headache, his mouth tasted like crud, his bladder ached, and still the meetings went on. Essential political meetings he held in the First Speaker’s annex – a lovely hexagonal wood-panelled study with high, lead-framed windows. Delegates he knew he could trust came and went for hours. He talked to them soothingly, apologizing for his earlier outburst. They all expressed sympathy; it had been a tough week for everyone. And they all managed to drop in their concerns, on behalf of those they now represented, which he pledged to give them debate-time to raise. Trading favours and hearing whispers.

As he sat in the annex, so Javier had set up in the Delkeith with his old cronies, forming a pro-neut faction. That simply couldn’t be allowed to succeed. But as the exhausting day wore on, draining him still further, he resented not being able simply to ’path his friend and say: ‘Come on, let’s go for a beer in the Bellaview pub garden, and just talk about it.’ The way it used to be.

It should be Javier asking him, though. He was the one at fault.

Bethaneve came in as the seventh – or eighth – group was leaving. She walked over to him as he sat behind the wide desk, sitting in his lap and resting her head against him. They said nothing for a long moment, just relaxing, content that they were still alive, that they had each other.

‘We did it,’ she whispered finally.

‘Now we have to make sure we don’t lose.’

‘We won’t.’ She kissed him lightly, then put her fingers under his chin, raising his head so she could look straight into his eyes. ‘You’re still thinking of Ingmar, aren’t you, sweetheart?’

He nodded meekly. ‘I’m trying not to. But . . . Uracus damn those Fallers for all eternity. And the institute, traitors to our very race, every one of them.’