“Support might be weakening for the Labourer candidate after his new policy proposal landed flat yesterday. People weren’t happy with the idea of using the ants as farm animals. Unsurprising. This is interesting: apparently, there’s been a late surge by a new group,” Enid mused as she read over the pamphlet that had been delivered that morning.

“I cannot believe how quickly you got that organised,” Terrence muttered as he poured tea for the two of them. “Where did you even source the ink?”

“The Colony was able to facilitate a trade with one of the underground cities that they manage. The whole thing was above board.”

“And your enchanted printing press? I suppose you purchased that for the market price?”

Enid had the grace to look abashed.

“I have to admit, I didn’t expect something like that to appear. The ants were curious about the concept of mass printing, and I told them how I believed it was done. I could hardly expect they’d drop a completely finished press on the doorstep two days later.”

“You did have a rather amusing expression on your face, as I recall.”

“Oh hush and pass the tea. Thank you.”

“The real question is if they’ll be able to adapt the technology to mass print their scent writing. If so, then they’ll be able to produce books, libraries, and whole repositories of knowledge.”

“A golden age of ant information sharing?” Enid said. “Come to think of it, this could be the perfect time for them to take up such technology. They’re getting more and more spread out as they expand, pretty soon, a crafter on one side of the Colony will never meet one on the other. Being able to share information will be critical.”

“And you just happened to introduce them to the idea right when they might need it,” Terrence rolled his eyes.

“Not everything I do is part of some grand scheme,” the old woman huffed as she sipped from her fine cup. “Sometimes it's just an accident.”

“Fine.”

The two sat in companionable silence for a time, enjoying their drinks and the warm air that wafted in through the open window. It had been five days since Enid had first pitched the idea to young Matthew about putting out some writing about the election. It was important to educate the people on what was happening, and he’d been just the person to get the ball rolling. She hadn’t expected it to blow up as quickly as it had.

Already, he was doing limited, daily runs of short pamphlets detailing the goings on around town and the election. Likely, the pace would slow down once they had a new mayor, but already, Enid was seeing some return on her initial investment.

The author's tale has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

She’d never expected to be a printing mogul in retiring years. Oh well, something to take up the time.

“So who is making a late surge then?” Terrence finally asked.

“The Well Rested Alliance,” Enid replied.

“I can probably guess their platform.”

“It may have something to do with the number eight.”

“I figured. People are already terrified to miss out on sleep! Renewal is already the most rested place I’ve ever seen! Even the tavern closes early. What further policies can they possibly enact? We already have kidnappings for goodness’ sake!”

Enid eyed her former secretary over the edge of her cup.

“That’s dangerous talk,” she warned him. “They’ll come for you if you aren’t careful.”

“And do what? Read me a lullaby?”

The only way to experience the true terror of the sleep police was to fall into their shadowy clutches. It wasn’t even what they did, that was downright helpful, it was their unnerving and uncanny ability to be everywhere and nowhere at the same time.

“In truth,” she returned to their earlier topic, “the Well Rested Alliance is not interested in forcing people to sleep eight hours a day.”

Terrence raised his brows in surprise.

“They aren’t?”

“No.” She sipped her tea. “They want to make it nine.”

“Path’s mercy,” he groaned.

Enid laughed.

“That way, they can be even more certain that the proper number of eight has been achieved. They worry about ‘sevens’, people who are getting seven hours and fifty-something minutes.”

“How dreadful.”

“One does have to admit that general productivity is up, violence is down and people are far more pleasant to be around since this was enforced. I’m not saying ten minutes either way makes a difference,” she held her hands up at Terrence’s irritated glare. “I’m just saying I can understand why they’ve latched onto this particular aspect of ant-culture, it has measurable benefits. They have other proposals as well.”

“Such as what?”

“A lot of stuff about ensuring sleep quality is as high as possible. Under their plan, better quality mattresses, pillows and blankets would be provided by the council to every citizen. They also intend to form a blanket collective, which will source volunteers to help make blankets that will be shared out amongst the populace. Since so many people are sitting in bed when they wake up early, there’s already an underground quilting community out there, this will suit them just fine.”

“Oh, no. They’re going to win, aren’t they?” Terrence sounded horrified. “Who’s the candidate?”

Enid checked her pamphlet again.

“Mr McRanith.”

“WHAT?!” Terrence slammed a hand down on the table. “Doesn’t he sell bedding? Is he trying to send himself out of business?” His eyes narrowed. “Or is he hoping to sell his own stock to the council at a markup?”

Enid grinned, and Terrence’s face sank.

“He’s promised to donate everything he has to the council, if elected,” she told him. “He already signed the documents and holds them up everytime he speaks in public.”

“You’re saying, he actually believes what he’s saying? He buys into this madness?”

“An honest politician,” Enid hummed.

“Great One save us,” Terrence could only shake his head.