Serpentine Statecraft

plembobria

plembobria

TNPer
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The September election in Plembobria had quite an interesting result. The left-wing bloc, comprising the Revolutionary Democratic Party and the New Left failed to secure a majority for the second time. Their group had been fractured. TNL's precursor, the People's Socialist Front, had been the junior party in the governing coalition when they left abruptly. Trying to save the government, members of the PSF defected, forming the New Left. It wasn't enough. The RDP government, led by Sydney Briggs, lost the ensuing confidence motion.

The resulting election failed to produce a majority for the RDP-TNL coalition. Negotiations with other parties did not come to fruition. The King himself headed a short-lived unity government. Finally another election came. No majority. However, the emerging centrist People's Party announced it would support RDP-TNL on confidence and supply. Finally, Plembobria had prime minister again."

"I now invite the Right Honorable Martin Alistair to take the oath as Attorney General."

Martin stepped up towards the King. He hadn't been paying attention until he heard his name called. He looked the king in the eye. He groped around in his jacket pocket and pulled out an index card. Printed on it, was the Oath.

"I, Martin Alistair, do swear that, in the position of Attorney General, I shall bear true allegiance to His Majesty, Tozian I, King of Plembobria, his heirs and his successors, and the people of the Kingdom."

"Congratulations."

As the ceremony droned on and on. Martin drifted into his thoughts. He looked around the room. There was Sydney Briggs. Smiling, but in a manner that was serious and business-like. There was Isaac Heavensby, the Deputy Prime Minister and New Left leader. He stood there was a donkey-like smile on his face. Everything was a novelty to the man. He had a most irritating childish fervor about everything.

"Virgin politician.," Martin thought. He was right. Heavensby had served as a backbencher all of his parliamentary life. This was his first "kissing hands" ceremony. For Alistair, this was his third. He'd served as Attorney General under Briggs twice before.

He was the only PSF minister not to leave the coalition. He clearly saw that trying to force Briggs out of office was foolish. The Front would never find have any position of power by alienating her. It was he who was the true architect of the New Left. Heavesnby was just a prop. "Always put a dummy in charge."

TNL was full of dummies. The party only won a single local seat. Everyone else was on a list. Alistair liked the list system. His members didn't need to campaign to win. Just show up and vote as they're told. Leave the real politics to the leaders.

The ceremony continued. Finally the King invited them all to take their oaths as Executive Councilors. The Oath was a long, grandiloquent piece about "protecting the person of his majesty," and "keeping secret under pain of death all that was revealed to them." Thankfully, no one had to recite it. The King said it, and they all said "I do." It was like a foolish wedding ceremony.

By now Heavensby was beaming. He was Deputy Prime Minister. Oh the joy!

"As if you'll ever get higher than that." Martin Thought. The DPM's position was meaningless. A phony gesture of goodwill toward the junior party. He was a front. A face. His job was to shake Briggs' hand in photographs and show what a great time the coalition was having together. God forbid that they should let him speak during question time.
 
The swearing in ceremony. Not the culmination of a life's work but just one step towards it. Deputy Prime Minister in a coalition government. It was immensely satisfying that finally there was a government again and that Isaac Heavensby was part of it. He had saw the opportunity when the People's Socialist Front had tried to topple the government and taken it.

A new party, the New Left. A party he led and a party that had brought him to the second highest office in the land. Self-doubt, previously a problem that had crippled him, was something he now used to drive him. He did the right thing because it must have been the right thing. Self-justification proven by how reality played out.

Backbenchers never usually got to be involved in things like the swearing in ceremony, so this was a massive occasion. Probably the biggest day of his life and Heavensby couldn't keep himself from grinning. He'd considered himself held back by the PSF leadership, forced to reside in the margin because they didn't see his worth. Now he was Deputy Prime Minister and the PSF was finished. The New Left really was the New Left, and he led it.

Heavensby watched as the ceremony went on, smiling as friends and colleagues were sworn into positions. He was unconcerned by the party's poor performance in local seats. PSF were the ones with the infrastructure for a local network. TNL would have that eventually, he was sure of it.

It was his turn to step forward, but as he did he stumbled ever so slightly. Not enough to be noticeable, but enough to cause him personal embarrassment. He fumbled quickly for the cue card.

"I, Isaac Heavensby, do swear that, in the position of Deputy Minis-Deputy Prime Minister, I shall bear true allegiance to His Majesty, Tozian I, King of Plembobria, his heirs and successors, and the people of the Kingdom."

The King regarded him briefly, before congratulating him, and Isaac scurrying back into line, face burning.
 
Seated next to Alistair was John Truman, the New Left's Minister of Customs and Trade. His complexion was noticeably darker than that of everyone else in the room, and his countenance darker still.

Truman had evaded the suspicion cast upon his father and grandfather by creating a reputation of stern dedication to king and country while serving as MP. A façade that, with a natural tendency toward solemnity and quiet calculation, proved difficult for anybody to see through. When it was his turn to be sworn into office, he arose and soberly stepped forward.

"I, John Truman, do swear that, in the position of Minister of Customs and Trade, I shall bear true allegiance to His Majesty, Tozian I, King of Plembobria, his heirs and his successors, and the people of the Kingdom."

Only Martin was aware of how empty this oath was.
 
The Cabinet Office, Parliament House

The Cabinet Office is a small dim room deep somewhere in winding halls of Parliament house. It has decent a conference table, a coffee machine, and a house plant here or there. That's pretty much it. The room isn't ostentatious like the Parliament Chamber, and doesn't need to be, since meetings are held in secret, and aren't technically official business. The Cabinet makes decisions here, and take them to King give them legal force. Only there meeting as members of the Executive Council. Of course, not all of them go, only three are required. They present their decisions the King, he says "approved," and they all go home.

The Cabinet was up late today. They were hashing out the last details of their economic stimulus package. They were tired, bored, and some of them hungry.

Minister for Defense was wondering why he needed to be here. The Minister for Foreign Affairs was fighting dozing off. The Minister for Customs & Trade had dozed off. Only the Prime Minister was fully alert. The Minister for Finance was the one talking, but talking as if he had rehearsed so many times, that he could switch off his brain, and keep saying what he was saying.

Suddenly someone barged into the room. It was an intern. "What is the meaning of this?" inquired the PM. Customs & Trade woke up dazed. The intern swallowed before answering.

"McMasterdonia declared war on us." The entire cabinet said there dumbfounded. There was absolute silence in the room for at least five minutes. The intern just stood there holding the declaration in her hands. Finally Darren Crowly, the Minister of Defense rose and took the paper. "You're excused," he said gravely.

He took the declaration of war, and began reading aloud. "Whereas the Kingdom of Plembobria has committed the following acts against the people of the Kingdom of McMasterdonia: Carrying out acts of espionage within the Kingdom of McMasterdonia, The murder of more than 100 Royal McMasterdonian Forces personnel, The destruction of an official Royal McMasterdonian Military encampment." Darren stopped. "What does he mean by this?" he mumbled.

It was now that it dawned on the Minister that the King must have been privately up to something. What was it? "I'm afraid only His Majesty can brief us on these accusations." In the mean time, I'll have my office issue a press release. Does that please the Cabinet. A few members nodded. Everyone was silent. "Rudoph, I need your help. Let's go."
 
John had found that his new office as a member of the Cabinet was more than satisfactory. His uncle, a former Member of Parliament, was generous to loan a few old furnishings, including a lovely roll-top desk. John entered his office and locked the door. He then sat down behind the desk and held his face in his hands.

What am I going to do about this?, he thought as he sat up straight in his chair. His superiors in Vazos would not be pleased to hear that he had no prior knowledge of the war. He had been aware that the Plembobrian government had less than honorable intentions toward McMasterdonia, but had no knowledge of anything that could provoke this.

After a few more minutes of quiet contemplation, John grabbed his coat and left his office. He needed to consult with Vazos, but it couldn't be here. After arriving at his apartment down the street, he quickly entered his study and retrieved a laptop from a small desk safe. He then opened the laptop and started a video recording.

"Greetings again, Lord Na?a. Today's Cabinet meeting was, for the most part, unfruitful—merely a discussion of the latest economic stimulus—until I received the news that Plembobria is now at war. The Kingdom of McMasterdonia declared war earlier this morning. I have not informed Alistair myself, although by now he's doubtless heard. The grounds for this war, unfortunately, involve acts of espionage that the King has pursued privately, without informing the Cabinet, including but not limited to an attempt to overthrow and assassinate the McMasterdonian King-Regent. Many apologies for not having been able to see this coming. I will send more information when available."
 
Parliament House, Parliamentary office of Martin Alistair.

The Attorney General was going over some legal papers. He was trying to get his mind of the state of war. He couldn't think of how he could take advantage of this. Briggs was now a wartime leader. This would galvanize her support.

The Minister for Customs & Trade peeked through the open door and rapped his knuckles on it.

"Martin? Got a minute?"

"Yes come in."

The Minister came in and stood in front of Martin's desk.

"I presume I may speak openly?"

"You may. What is this about?"

"I just sent my report to Vazos. I have yet to hear my orders but I need something resembling a plan. They won't be happy to hear that I didn't see this coming."

"My plan?"

"Is the Cabinet really going to take this news sitting down? The King taking action without informing the Prime Minister? It's ludicrous, Martin. We exist to represent the people - people he has put in danger."

Just as Martin was about to respond, there was a knock at the door. Martin nodded at John, signaling for him to open the door. In came an aide. He was trembling, as if he was on the verge of crying, or going insane. "The Palace has been bombed. The Royal Family is dead."

"Oh Rethea!" Martin exclaimed, with almost forced emotion. John inhaled, but said nothing. "We have no government," Martin said, "If I were Prime Minister, I would declare a state of emergency. The constitution is void without the King."

"Indeed. Unless..." John's voice trailed off.

"Unless what?"

"This may be an opportunity to... No, it would be mad."

"What are you getting at, John?"

"We could take this as an opportunity to unseat Briggs."

"How? She'll dig in more than ever now."

We don't act immediately. All we have to do is wait for her to strike back against Plembobria. Firstly, having the King walk all over her makes her look weak. Secondly, she didn't act on the declaration of war quickly enough to protect the king. She has to slip up again soon."

"Yes. She shrugged off the declaration, and look where we are now."

"If she takes any action without a seated monarch, she's in jeopardy. If she fails to act, the nation is doomed."

Martin gave a leery smile.

"How shall we do it, though?" asked John.

"If we get her to declare a state of emergency, and this backfires, we can blame her," Martin rejoined.

John thought for moment. "Yes...yes, that could work marvelously."

"I'll start work on the resolution. We'll call it the Emergency Directorate."

"Excellent. With you in command, of course."

Martin frowned. "Briggs is a populist fool."

"How so?"

"She'll insist Parliament approve it. In the directorate, we'll have collective power. She'll be the ceremonial chairman. Nothing more."

John nodded, "More subtle. Very good."

"I'll have most legal power as Attorney General. They'll defer to me on legal matters," continued Martin.

"As for me?"

Martin thought. "You'll have control over trade," he said finally.

"Very well. Will the entirety of the Cabinet retain their positions?"

"Yes. The Parliament will be dissolved. Perhaps this will give us a chance to merge our parties when this crisis blows over."

"Indeed. I'll leave you to it, then. I must report further." John started to leave.

"Thank you, John. Meet me in the Cabinet office in about an hour."

"Excellent. I'll see you then." With that, the minister left.
 
Cabinet Room

"Prime Minster, as Attorney General, I have written a plan for an emergency directorate consisting of this cabinet."

"The King has been murdered. This absolutely is necessary for continuity of governance."

"I will not have democracy suspended, Martin!"

For the third time, an aide intered the room. "Albert has declared himself King." Briggs slammed her fist on the table angrily.

The aide continued, "The High Court agrees."

Martin spoke up, "Prime Minister, this furthers my case. We need to repudiate this claim."

The Prime Minister breathed angrily for a long moment. Then she spoke, "Let's take this to a vote. Summon the members." she told the aide.

The cabinet entered the chamber where the rest of the Members were waiting.

The Prime Minister addressed the speaker, "Madam Speaker, I request a formal division be made immediately."

"Granted. The vote shall last for five minutes."

Those five minutes where the longest in Martin's life. The Members voted at their machines. Finally it ended. The Speaker announced. "With 124 votes in favor, and 100 opposed, the resolution passes in the affirmative."

It was done.
 
Later that evening, John entered his apartment, planning to record a second report and get some well-deserved sleep. Instead, he found a tall, thin woman in his living room, dressed in the black robe of House Na?a. He recognized her as Gracina Na?a, eldest daughter of Lord Imir Na?a and head of the Foreign Intelligence Service. "Lady Na?a..." he stammered in High Vazosi while closing and locking the door. "I wasn't—"

"You have done well so far, Trunedo," she interjected, walking toward him. "Dissolving the High Court was especially prescient of the two of you, given their most recent ruling."

"Many thanks, altrina. How did you know—"

Gracina frowned. "Surely you did not think you were the only agent the king has in this alindula country? You forget yourself."

Truman bowed his head. "I am sorry. What news do you have for me?"

Gracina nodded. "You may have heard that His Royal Majesty is permitting all alinduloj of Vazosi ancestry in Plembobria and McMasterdonia to return to Vazos." Truman nodded silently. "This does include any of our field agents who feel that their operation may be compromised. What think you?"

After a moment of thought, Truman answered, "In all honesty, ma'am...Albert has shown that he does not discriminate between civilians and officers of government. I fear not only for my life, but for Alistair's. He has been invaluable to my operation. Unfortunately, I cannot envision any way of leaving my post without making the true nature of my family's work here obvious. I must stay and help lead the Emergency Directorate."

Gracina allowed a rare smile. "I admire your devotion, especially given the delicacy of this assignment. Don't allow emotion to let you forget your responsibilities, Trunedo. All pertinent information must be handed over to us."

"Of course. What about my family?"

"It's up to them. From what I've heard, those in the family who are not our agents have mostly decided to stay, with a few exceptions. The majority of those headed for Vazos are parents of young children or very old."

Truman sighed heavily with relief. It would be much harder to do this alone. "Many thanks, Lady Na?a. Before you go, do you have any further instructions for me?"

"Just keep on as usual," she replied as she headed for the door.

"Wait! One last question...does Vazos intend to enter this war?"

Na?a turned around, her face clouded. Her arm flew out as she slapped Truman with the back of her hand. "Do not ask questions above your assignment, Trunedo." The Minister of Customs and Trade sat on the floor nursing a bruised jaw as Lady Na?a quietly exited the apartment.
 
Martin was not a fearful man. Little scared him. But he couldn't help but feel slightly uneasy about this war.

He was home now, trying to get a little rest. It was very late. Slowly, he fell into a fitful sleep.

He was awaken by the buzz of his cell phone vibrating. He groped around his nightstand for the device, knocking it to the ground. He swore under his breath. He got out of his bed, realizing he was still in his suit and tie. He retrieved his phone and looked at the text message on the screen:

Cabinet office, half hour later

The Chairman had called the Directorate to a meeting. The Attorney General removed his suit and left it crumpled on his bed. He'd have it dry-cleaned later. He donned his spare, brushed his teeth, combed his hair, and headed off.

At the cabinet office the entire Directorate was waiting. He was there last. The Prime Minister, now the Chairwoman, had a slight smile on her face.

Something about Briggs always bothered Martin. Nothing seemed to throw her. Even when he was trying to convince her that a state of emergency needed to be declared, she seemed like she wasn't bothered by the King's death, like it was all a bad joke.

She began to speak, "Members, His Majesty is still alive. He is in the Lancerian Empire with the Princess, Duke Gregor, and Queen Mother of McMasterdonia. The agents which you have heard about were conducting an operation to rescue her. They have revealed that the Prince Richard was in TLE all along. This should improve our standing in this conflict, as well as force Albert's government to back down."

Immediately Martin interrupted, "What will this mean for the Emergency Directorate?"

"The Directorate will remain until His Majesty returns and dissolves it."

"But how can he dissolve it, when the it suspended the Kingdom itself."

"He will find the suspension illegitimate."

"Will the Parliament be reinstated?"

"I will recommend that the King reinstate the Commons, as well as its current members."

"I disagree. I believe that an election is in order."

"The government is unstable enough. I will not advise an election. That is final."

Meanwhile, the Deputy Prime Minister sat quietly, with his usual donkey smile.

The Minister for Defense, Darren Crowly raised his hand. The PM recognized him. "The Minister for Defense."

"After discussion with the Minister for Foreign Affairs, as well as my deputies, I feel it necessary that we institute mandatory conscription, at least on a temporary basis. Since we have compulsory voting, we can request the electoral rolls from the REC as a list."

"Does the Attorney General have a legal opinion?"

"None at this time. If parliament is reinstated we may have to have them approve of this. That is all. Though I have doubts that the People's Party will vote for it. Obviously they have the balance of power," Martin responded quietly.

"I have no doubt the Nationals will approve of it," said Crowly.

"That will not be required. Make the announcements." Briggs ordered.
 
The Emergency Directorate assembled. Here they were meeting again, governing all of Plembobria unchecked, around a conference table.

The directorate waited. The Ministers for Foreign Affairs and Defense were elsewhere. They had called this meeting for an announcement. Where were they?

Defense Minister Crowly, and Foreign Minister Stein and served in each other's positions. They were probably the most competent and most experienced Plembobrian politicians alive. They were good personal friends. The worked together on almost everything.

Something about their mannerisms irked Martin. They seemed themselves not interested in power. Rather, they just enjoyed working in government. As if it were a fun hobby.

Finally they arrived.

Stein spoke first, "Good news, ladies and gentlemen. Our representative to the Novrith Conference has signed a treaty, along with Myroria, the Imperium Augustum, Funkadelia, McMasterdonia, and Vazos."

"Vazos?" the Chairwoman repeated. Martin quickly glanced at John at the mention of the country.

"Yes, madam Prime... Chairwoman."

"May I see the treaty?" the Chairwoman asked, donning her reading glasses. Stein handed it to an aide, who gave it to the Chairwoman. She looked it over. Her eyebrows furrowed.

"There is a mutual defense agreement here."

"Yes, ma'am. There is." the Minister responded.

"Did the Foreign Ministry discuss the effects this would have on our relationship with the Democratic Union?"

"With all do respect ma'am," said the Minister, taking a seat, "I don't think this will harm our relationship with them. Secondly I have personally spoken to His Majesty on the subject of closer relations with the East, and he is all for it."

"Is he now? Was he aware that we'd be aligning ourselves with the likes of Vazos?"

"Not necessarily ma'am."

This was irritating Martin. Briggs' constant political cynicism was on the brink of nauseating. He spoke up, "Madam Chairwoman, I think we should support the pact," he said, emphasizing his friendly, northern country accent.

"This will show that we don't discriminate among different nations and governments. It'll show our determination to seek a middle ground in international conflict. You've heard the narrative!"

"I have. From the National frontbench."

"What does the Minister for Customs and Trade's opinion. What are our trade opportunities here? You're Vazosi, aren't you, what do you think we can gain from allying ourselves with them?"
 
John rarely betrayed his emotions regarding Vazos when conducting business. He did, however, turn a bit red as he took offense to Briggs's remark. He was of Vazosi ancestry, yes, but he had been born in Plembobria and had never seen his ancestral homeland. Better not to respond in anger, though.

After a brief pause to collect his thoughts, he responded laconically, "From a mercantile perspective, we have a great deal to gain. Vazos has been closed to foreign trade for centuries - now that we are allies, it stands to reason that their borders would open to us. We therefore have an opportunity to gain an advantage in the Vazosi market unavailable to most other nations."

"Regarding what the DU may think...I fail to see any way in which this might hurt us. Vazos does, after all, have an elected lower house in the legislature, and many of their local authorities are elected. They are not a perfectly democratic nation, but I'm optimistic for their future. The High King is young and much more progressive than his predecessors. The fact that he sent a delegation to Novrith at all speaks volumes to the reforms he likely intends to put in place."
 
Martin could see that Briggs was a little embarrassed that she had referred to Truman's nationality so blithely. Martin huffed. Briggs never treated coalition partners with much respect. At least privately.

The Chairwoman was quiet. She looked at her hands for a moment. Then at Martin. "Attorney-General, does, in your legal opinion, the Directorate have the power to ratify a treaty signed on behalf of the King, despite having suspended the Kingdom?"

Martin couldn't help but smile. In the emergency directorate he was the entire judiciary. Judge, jury. Maybe even executioner! "Madam chairwoman, considering that the King has blessed the directorate as the legitimate government, I think we have the full power to exercise royal prerogatives, especially without the constitution in force. I could prepare the ratification instrument immediately."

"I think we'll hold off on that for now."

"Why? The Novrith members are meeting without us."

"Because diplomacy isn't in the purpose of the Emergency Government. I don't think it's proper to bypass convention where it isn't necessary. We have committees for reviewing these things, and I feel they must be consulted." Heavensby's head was swinging back and forth between Briggs and Alistair as they argued.

"Are you saying that we have to wait till Parliament returns? Until the emergency state is over?"

"Of course, Mr. Alistair."

Martin could not withhold his anger. His began to shake. The nation was on the verge of being major members of both global blocs, and all the Chairwoman cared about was committees?

The Minister for Foreign Affairs, who was talking quietly with a deputy up to this point, said, "Madam chairwoman, I think it's best that we provisionally ratify the treaty. Perhaps we could have the legislature ratify it after we reinstate the government fully. I've just been informed that the Pact members are discussing the possibility of a reserve currency. If we stall and this it will undermine confidence in our government among members. Do you realize how important it would be if trade in the West was denominated by the plemp. This could be monumental. I consider it foolhardy not to go ahead with this."

"I agree with my colleague." said Crowly.

Briggs looked uneasy. "Are there any objections?" The room was silent.

"Well," said the Chairwoman, "I request that Attorney-General draw-up the ratification."

Now Martin was happy. Very happy. He put all the effort he could muster behind hiding his devious smile. "I shall prepare it for the Directorate's approval right after this meeting."

"Now that this has been cleared up," said Foreign Minister Stein, "I'd like to bring the Directorate's attention to the situation in Quraf." Once again, Truman and Alistair glanced at each other.

"It has been made a viceroyalty. The government has asked officials from Novrith to attend the inauguration. I believe that this government should send a delegation as a token of support for our new allies. I myself cannot attend, as I am indisposed with the business of the directorate. But it's best a member of this body be sent."

Barely after Stein had finished, Martin declared, "I wholeheartedly recommend that Mr. Truman go. As our trade minister, he is shows our willingness for economic cooperation. He could also influence their government to support the plemp as an ideal reserve currency for the Pact."

"What are your thoughts on the matter, Mr. Truman?" asked the chairwoman.
 
John shot a brief glance to Martin—this wasn't in the plan. Ah, well—an agent of Vazos is nothing if he can't improvise. "I'm flattered that you would place such faith in me. I'm not sure if my ancestry will matter to them...it could serve as a boost or as a hindrance. I do speak a bit of Vazosi, so that will smooth things over either way. I'll be sure to see if I can get a chance to chat with their Chancellor."

He bit his lip in thought. If Lord Na?a didn't approve of this, he'd be in for some trouble on arrival. It would be nice to have a chance to report in person, though...
 
Alistair's Parliamentary Office

Journal,

Closer, yet ever so far. She stands in my way. Every suggestion, every recommendation, every single proposal I make she ignores.

The people love her now. Because of my management of a national crisis the people love her. I predict she will soon take this opportunity and call another election. I will merge the parties. She will have no choice. None.

The nation can no longer survive under this woman's leadership. She prefers to wait around and talk while a war rages outside our door.

Power is useless for those who don't appreciate it. I shall soon hold her office. Power shall be mine.


Martin closed his diary. He put it into his desk. Truman walked in, "I presumed that you'd like to inform me as to what exactly you had in mind."

"Arms," Martin replied

"I beg your pardon?"

"We are at war." He paused. "Briggs will soon realize that we need to intervene against the Flemingovianists. Yet she refuses to bring up the subject of arms."

"Why on earth do I need to travel around the world to get arms?" John asked, "You truly have no idea what it would mean for me to return."

"Well..."

"It's not the sort of thing to be sprung on me, Martin." John slowly sat in a chair opposite Martin, rubbing his temples.
"My apologies, but I'm afraid if you were informed beforehand it'd seem..." Martin's voice trailed off. "Scripted."

"Lord Na?a will not like you playing games like this, Martin. He could order me to have you silenced. Don't put me in that position."

"Silenced?" Martin questioned in disbelief, "We are colleagues!"

"From our perspective, yes, we are. The Foreign Intelligence Service doesn't view it that way."

Martin breathed in slowly. John sighed, "I've no choice now. I have to go," he said, starting for the door, "I'll see what I can do about acquiring Vazosi military aid. I have much preparation before I leave."

"We need infantry weapons. Guns. Ammunition."

"Of course."

"There will be a shortage when we deploy."
"Remember, as trade minister you have no need to appear disingenuous. You represent the government."

"The entirety of the Royal Council knows who I truly am. I trust that my reception will be amicable."
"Excellent." Martin Smiled. "We shall need to devise a cover."

"What is your suggestion?"

He thought for a moment, "Try to funnel it through the defense ministry. I'll find some obscure implicit authorization of some kind if we're caught. Blame it on some lower-level executive. Even Heavensby if we need to."

"Good enough for me." Said John, rising from his seat. "I'd best be off. I must leave tonight if I'm to report to my superiors in time."

"Thank you, Mr. Truman. I have a meeting with the Heavensby later today. You can reach me in his office if you require any assistance."

John nodded soberly and left the office.

Truman once again wrote in his diary:

I cannot have my partners crossing me now. Things are far too precarious.

He put it away again. He headed down the hall to the office of the Deputy Prime Minister.

When he arrived, he saw Isaac Heavensby had that same inane donkey-smile on. Hopefully he had good news.
 
"Deputy Prime Minister?"

"Ah, yes! Great news, Alistair. Splendid news! I've just spoken in private to Miss Briggs. We will be having another election, and she wants to provisionally merge our parties."

"Provisionally?" Alistair's heart skipped a beat at the use of the word "merge."

"Well we won't be merging. But we'll be forming an electoral alliance. That means we'll agree to a joint list and agree on certain local..."

"I know what an alliance is, Isaac." Martin growled.

Heavensby jumped, "Well, this must certainly lead us to an eventual merger! Besides, we would need to put this to a vote of our greater membership, right?"

"Thank you Deputy Prime Minister." Alistair left hurriedly.
 
Timothy Starkey Hill.

The Vulture of Rethel.

He'd been born to a humble world. No-one but his mother and his father, in a small cabin on the outskirts of some run-in-the-dirt Plembobrian village. Luckily, they never went on such a foolhardy vacation again, and Timon would go on to live in the lap of luxury, as he recovered from his upsetting birth. He went to a charming little private school, studied a charming little set of languages - Mercanti, and Latin - and rented a charming little apartment in Rethel for his university life.

Ah, how enamoured he had become with Imperium. They conducted cultural missions to major universities in capital cities, now and again. They brought artifacts older than many cities - traditions older than many families. Artwork to put whole galleries to shame. Free food.

There were two days that he would never forget. The first was when he saw his wife for the first time, in the tender hours of the morning, nursing a hangover in her bed. The second was his graduation day. As he walked down that hall to gather his degree, and he looked out into the watching audience, it was not his deadbeat father who greeted him, nor his ailing mother. It was a gentleman from the Peregrine Service, tastefully clothed in that ever-familiar Albanese cut of suit, and a loose scarf in lieu of a tie. That was the day he got his job offer - a thanks for his dogged dedication to the work of Imperium in Plembobria, organizing student functions, participating in student activities, and as encouragement for his postgraduate studies.

That had been years ago. He'd been a lobbyist for the August Cultural Union of Plembobria ever since, a political organization with explicit ties to the August Peregrine service. The vulture was a famous symbol of Caesar, and the Augustine Dynasty - and it suited Timon well.

Timon, you see, was a scavenger. He was very, very good at headhunting. He would pick up washed-up politicians, or public figures - on their way out - and he'd sit them down. And he'd talk to them. He'd listen to their concerns, their plans for the future, their opinions on how they would find themselves again. And he'd shoot them down - he'd tear the life out of them. And he'd offer them redemption.

And his bloodlust made Rethel a warm home for him.

The offices of Parliament were a wonderful place to catch politicians coming to terms with their future, this close to elections. At this time of year, they'd start trading preselections - start figuring out blocs heading into the new years. If they were sadistic enough, or certain enough, they'd already picked a few scapegoats, to whom they'd be sending their condolences. Nothing more unpleasant than losing the election and receiving a condolence gift the same day, postmarked the day before. He'd heard, once, of a particularly unpleasant gentleman who had received a condolence gift ordered from McMasterdonia, the morning of the ballot count - postmarked the month before.

He'd heard, too, soft words of hustle and bustle around the coalition - the New Left.

Isaac Heavensby was...not the world's most interesting person to speak to. Certainly, he was the leader of the New Left, but the man was so daft that selling him policy was better done over the phone and hidden in tupperware. You could threaten that man with a knife and he'd just ask you what you were cooking.

Martin Alistair, though. Now that was someone worth holding an iron to. More importantly, someone with an almost contagious sense of self-worth - so much fun to toy with.

His rather imposing frame soared into the hall from some backroom office, where he'd settled himself. He positively loomed into view, called for by the bustle of Heavensby's outburst and Alistair's rush. No doubt a courtesy given to him by some sycophantic public servant, looking for an easy out of the rigors of party politics for the all-together more appealing world of the Union. A coffee machine and a spot for his laptop, and he was living large. He gave his beard a stroke for good luck, and slicked back his hair in the most pretentious manner he could bring himself to admit.


"Ah, Mr. Alistair. I believe we've met. Timothy Hill - Timon, to my colleagues. You might remember me - I represent the August Cultural Union, and I was a frequent voice regarding our representation in the Novrith Pact. Perhaps you've seen one of my recommendation papers. Nevertheless, it is a pleasure to make your acquaintance."

Timon shifted imperceptibly, to hold Alistair from moving forward, and keeping himself in his vision.

"I hope I'm not interrupting you. I just wanted to discuss the upcoming elections with you - a chat between insiders. I imagine you've discussed such things at length with the Deputy Prime Minister, but -" Timon flashed a knowing smile at Alistair "- it is always nice to get a point of view...alternate to Mr. Heavensby's. I should think that as a co-worker, you've heard...quite enough of him on the matter, for now.

Some fresh air and fresh coffee would do you good, you know."
 
"As a matter of fact, I've just heard of about it. Tell you what, let's head go The Grim Alfresco. It's small spot in walking distance from here. Their espresso is absolutely perfect. It's not frequented by MP's, even though it has division bells in inside!"

"This is the clear sign of a man who wants something. I must be vigilant," Martin thought.

As the pair headed down the hall towards the exit, Martin's phone buzzed. It was a text message from the foreign minister.

Briggs is headed to Wolfsea. IA has made an offer at Novrith.

Martin stopped walking. He looked at Timon. Did he know about this offer? Martin replied:

Offer?

Propose official DU backing of invasion of Rhuv. in exchange for making plemp reserve currency. Draw up the resolution please.

Has the rest of the Cabinet been consulted?

No. Cabinet has already approved supporting IA.

Will get to it.

"Stein is one I truly think highly of," Martin thought, "He does what needs to be done exactly when it's needed. He's what you'd expect from the old Privy Council."

The men walked strolled along, scarcely saying a word until they entered the Grim Alfresco. The tables were empty, except for one, where a young student appeared to by studying. After they had ordered, and sat. Martin looked at Timon, "Now, Mr. Hill, what would you like to know about the election."
 
Timon let his coffee rest for a moment, almost forgetting it was not his preferred fare. He inevitably ordered a flat white, and was inevitably disappointed by a blank stare, and an unwillingness to explain the drink during work. So he adjusted his request down to an espresso. The flat white was hard to find outside the Pax Latina. But, oh how he envied the Augustans. If one was exceedingly lucky in Imperium, they could find a coffee-house willing to serve authentic, Augustine-style coffee, like one could find in every marginally well-off city block. Each one had their own, subtly different spice mix, and each neighbourhood a taste to match.

He liked to leave his flat whites to sit, for a little bit. But there was no need to do that with a cheap espresso. Ah well. To work. "Oh, I was just wondering how your personal fortunes are faring, in terms of electoral success. As I mentioned, I do work for a cultural affairs organization that is...friendly towards Imperium Augustum. Which is making the news right now, it seems. Lovely to see them, you know, fighting for the rights of the common man and all."

Timon feigned a worried look, just for a moment. He was rather overacting - but it didn't seem he cared. "Just such a shame it's come to this, you know. War and all. Heading forward, it's going to be critical for them to rebuild their diplomatic reputation. Not every nation views the Rhuvish Emergency like ol' Caesar does."

Timon gave Martin a quick look-over. "And Imperium doesn't view our country like we do. For instance, you have no idea how much trouble I had explaining what an Attorney-General was to them! The idea of someone who can advise the government on legal matters - the law-making body itself! A country with such...stability, they have difficulty conceptualizing the need for an independent judiciary in democratic system like ours. Long-lasting, consistent governance is their keyword."

Timon leaned in conspiratorially. "But such things are not always easy to get. I was wondering how long-lasting and consistent Plembobria's governance is. Oh, excuse me - been talking with my employer too much. I was wondering...what are the party's electoral hopes like? I know, I know. Plenty of lobbyists asking you about these sorts of things. But you can trust me - you've heard it all before. Look at me. I'm a representative of one of the most maligned nations - well, that isn't totally isolated from international politics. Not many people savvy enough to side with a nation that could sorely appreciate another voice of reason in the Plembobrian cabinet."
 
Martin sipped his coffee. How much should he give this lobbyist. Too much information and you've sold your soul.

"Well," he began, "The coalition is polling ahead. But I am concerned for our party's chances. The balance of our coalition will not be decided by the voters, but fixed internally. Between you and me," Martin leaned in closer, "I think the RDP intends to hoard its safe seats. And I'm certain our list candidates will be tacked onto the end of theirs. But we do have a slight advantage..." Martin gazed at the person in front of him. What did he have in mind?

"Our candidates will not be subject to having the election spoiled by other members of the Bloc. That means, with enough campaigning, we can quite possibly take the victory in some marginally right-leaning..."

Something on the wall-mounted television caught his eye. "Excuse me," he said to barista standing idly at the counter, "could you turn that up please?" It was a campaign ad.

"This Prime Minister doesn't care about you, or the nation. Every crisis that comes by is shrugged off. Unemployment on the rise! What does the government do? Punish job-creators. This government thinks running the nation is a joke. Let's put real leaders in office. Vote National.

Martin grinned at Timothy. "It's happening already," he said. "Now tell me, Mr. Hill, no one confronts me right outside the office unless they want something. What is it you' want?"
 
Timon considered the ad, rolling it around in his head. The Nationals' tack was clear - focusing on economics, with a nice rhetorical turn in opposition to tie up the Prime Minister and cabinet in an ad hominem. Pulled out the ever-relevant unemployment growth statistics, a favourite of the right-wing. But he particularly liked the line about 'real leaders'. One of those wonderful weasel phrases used by a party unwilling to commit to a keystone policy. Attack ad or not, the Nationals were definitely playing to existing biases regarding the respectable Isaac Heavensby, rather than trying to create new ones.

He sipped more of his coffee, before flicking some dust off his sleeve, onto the floor. "Well, I'd like to see Plembobria following up on its relationship with...the nation I am quite fond of. For one thing, a bit more support for their monarchy would be nice. I mean - for all the talk of Caesar and the like, they're not so different, you and them. If anything, they're further left than even we are. Publically-owned corporations, a welfare net, even a robust public education.

Of course, my concern is always to make sure that my people agree with your people - the marginals who you represent, of course. And you want to push right, of course. The Nationals are campaigning hard on economic policy - on lambasting your economic policies as incompetent, and your senior partner as a fool. There's no need to meet them at that juncture. Do what you do best! The bloc is built on economic policy, and you wouldn't want to bring issue to it.

But, should the New Left want to...discuss social issues, then, we may have common ground. Plembobria needs to find its voice again. Caring for the youth, for the unemployed, even participating in a multicultural society. All of these things can be achieved with a tighter grip. Let the Nationals speak of government paternalism - there is no need to worry. Plembobria, as we speak, is advocating for Imperium's war in Rhuvanland. What an embarassment that we cannot stand on our own - that our economically capable leader in Heavensby is simply not strong enough to use his economy for the support of our allies, when they are prepared to wage war even in protection of citizens who are not yet their own. Unemployment is rising, even as he shores up our economy with his capable progressive economic stance. For there is a gap in our economic policy, is there not? We make the corporations pay their fair share - force them to become more efficient, and yet are not prepared to take up the slack. Not yet.

Imperium would be more than willing to support a Plembobrian left with a...traditionalist viewpoint. A party prepared to embrace its many cultures, while making sure that the few are not privileged to the detriment of the many. That those cultures properly intertwine, for the good of the nation. A party that can combine welfare and charity with a strong mind towards its place in the world. We need the government to step in - to create the society that the marginal right wants. Those who are scared of what these 'job-creators' create in stability, who worry that we will willy-nilly audit corporations and take their jobs.

A more militarist, more paternalistic New Left would easily dispel any talk of a weak bloc. All your voters want is security - certainty. So what if Heavensby looks worse in comparison? When you've won your seats, then the two of you can discuss the matter. Imagine it, a nationalism built on multiculturalism. On tolerance. On internationalism. On pro-Novrith interventionism."
 
"I couldn't agree more. And that's how I, and the party, intend to run." Martin shifted in his chair, and took a sip of his coffee. He couldn't help but stare at the lobbyist facing him. This had yet to state what he wanted.

"We intend to support diversity and multiculturalism, coupled with strong, competent governance. We have an advantage in this area. Our frontbench has two experienced members of the old Council, both friends of the King. The public is well aware of their relationship. The National frontbench is nothing more than a few provincial officials. One former premier, a couple of treasurers, a police chief or two. The rest have made decisions of no more consequence than the price of traffic tickets. The rest of their caucus is, of course, there to blindly follow this coterie."

Martin leaned in, and lowered his voice, "I also have a legal team working on a constitutional amendment to establish a new upper house. A sort of Augustine-esque House of Peers. Both meritocratic, and aristocratic. Wisdom and experience working together, tempering the passions of the elected Commons. We haven't gotten it just right, and we certainly aren't prepared to announce it yet."

The Attorney General leaned back and resumed his normal tone of voice, "But I'm digressing here. Where was I? Oh yes. Our platform. Our platform hasn't been drafted just yet. But it is certainly going to include a proposal for closer relationships with Novrith members, including the nation to whose culture you have dedicated your career, in its foreign policy section."

At this moment Alistair noticed he had been tapping his fingers on the table. The jittery affects of caffeine always seemed to get him. He stopped, smiling at Hill in slight embarrassment.

"So. Enough talk of policy. What is it you've come here for? What does the firm you work for, forgive my memory, want with the Attorney General?"
 
Timon leaned back for a moment, perusing a small brochure produced from his jacket. He offered it to Martin, with a flourish, upon which it quickly became apparent that the brochure was a hacked-together facsimile of some more comprehensive document. Timon gave Martin a moment to say what he thought of it.

After that brief pause, Timon indicated some text at the bottom of the back. 'Property: Hill Media and Relations Ltd. Not for Public Use'. "If anyone asks about that, you didn't get it from us. It's a summary of the last annual report released by Tamerlan, before the buyout. Nasty stuff. Really looks like they were heading for downsizing, the way they put things. 'least, that's according to the numbers they were leaking to Schmidt throughout her tenure, before the Tamerlan Acquisition."

Timon took a sip of coffee.

"Page 3 has an abbreviated table of contents. A bit about the Schmidt plan - we had a look at it. By our reckoning, Tamerlan's back in the black. Or, well, it would be, if it wasn't feeding profits back into state-owned enterprise. They're burning money to keep the budget afloat. Not exactly making the most of a Plembobrian tourist industry, if you can find one, somewhere. Hasn't grown in months, despite making money - on a razor's edge, but that's better than most companies with great IPO potential.

Look, you take a look at something like - right, on the way here, we passed by the Century. One of the jewels in Schmidt's crown. A huge local employer, a favourite of your politicians when they're out to entertain foreigners, gorgeous lobby, gorgeous valets for anyone who bats on Schmidt's team. I'm not saying I swing that way, but hey, I did my time in creative innovation or whatever bullshit they're calling it nowadays. And the place is a wreck - they're pawning off the same fruit-of-the-land old Plembobrian produce, service distilled into a virtual factory line, and rooms that look like they were pulled out of a 1960s DIY furnishings ad.

The Century used to be the kind of place you took your boss to if you wanted to seduce their wife. The only people you'll be seducing there now are a day and a half out of a Rhuvanland refugee camp. Not even an internationally mandated one - how many of the half-a-dozen in there have bothered to do anything for them? We're talking the poorest of the poor. And I'll promise you, Schmidt's nutty bail-out scheme isn't exactly an efficient means of foreign aid, if refugees get your goat. Isn't particularly efficient housing, either, if your goat is Plembobrian poor. It'd be better off left to struggle on its own - but that's not your only option.

Imperium has plenty of money to burn - they can take the hit on these sorts of things. There are dozens of August politicians on the up and up who would kill to go in for a share of anything Caesar touches, if just for the domestic political advantage. And buying into foreign tourism is basically the only thing anyone in Imperium can agree on. A chance to buddy up with whoever's the weekly flavour in Silly String? A chance to rub shoulders with someone who vaguely looks like they've met Caesar's domestic staff? The kind of secure investment you can only get by buying gold and burying it in the seafloor? Those kinds of people are a penny a piece, and there are any number of people in Silly String and Floresque who'd at least lend us the cash if we put up collateral.

All you need to do is go Pink Conservative. Make like the Rosevine and remember who you're playing for. The rich can fend for themselves - if they can't afford to stay rich, they aren't rich enough. Sell Tamerlan to the right person who's rich enough, and they'll buy you your votes from the right people who aren't."
 
“Well.” Martin thought for a moment. ”He finally reveals what he wants. Tamerlan tourism. The largest tourism agency in Plembobria – sold to foreigners. For the benefit of a handful of local MPs. “Perhaps we could do that. I’m not sure the whole cabinet will be impressed.”

Martin shook the lobbyist's hand and left the coffee house. As he looked back through the window, he saw Timothy smiling.

---

2 Months later

"The leader of The New Left. Martin James Alistair!"

Applause.

Today the Party had elected a new leader. Heavensby had been dispatched. Rather, appointed to serve as a senator in Rhuvanland. Quite an excellent choice. Martin himself had recommended him. He was perfectly suited to represent the Plembobrian government. He was an excellent mouthpiece. Write him a speech and he'll stir up a crowd for you. As long as he hadn't written the speech.

Martin walked up to the podium. He tapped the microphone.

"Today the New Left has made the right choice. I say that having run unopposed."

Laughter.

"Today we consider the contributions of a great man who founded this party in his parliamentary office. A man who had the gall to leave the Socialist Front and join the government so that this country would not be thrown into chaos yet again."

Applause. Martin thought, "Isaac was certainly no great man. I picked him as leader because he was a whip. Quite a testament to the SF's leadership abilities."

"Although we may not have had the votes to accomplish this, we defeated them in the general election. They're a shell of their former self. They had to join the Farmers just to get past the threshold -- a party now polling at four percent."

The convention applauded again, louder this time. This meant it was likely that the so-called "Agriculture and Labor" party would be barred from entering Parliament. The now reduced number of seats would also dash their chances. They were still lead by Alesia Lehmann. One who jumped at the chance to make a political scene. This time she jumped and landed on her ass. She had been Deputy Prime Minister. A respected ally of Briggs until her pathetic little cabinet revolt. Now she was trailing in her own division.

"There is no one who could have more said of his patriotism than The Right Honorable Isaac Heavansby.

We may be a minor party. They may think of us as a pawn of the RDP. But this is absolutely, unequivocally false. We are built on equality for all. Between our workers and our bosses. We want peace with all nations regardless of their customs and traditions. And most of all, we will bring to Parliament an honorable and honest caucus.

Our Parliament will not be a tool of the wealthy class to present their interests to Our King for his approval. Our crown is not for sale! These are ideals we are serious about! And we are not changing them for the RDP or anyone else!"

The crowd roared. Martin clenched his fists and released them. He hated populist speeches but he had engendered the love of the convention. "The party is mine now."

---
Division of Newport East
One Month Later

"Welcome to Ricky's Shrimp Stack, Mr. Alistair."

Martin forced a smile and shook his host's hand. Here he was campaigning. The division of Newport East. That would be his seat.

He hated Newport. It was a seaside trading town. The proletarian presence was sickening, really. Everyone here was a simpleton. Happy to get up every morning at the same time and do the same manual labor their whole lives.

Ricky, his host, smiled giddily and said, "Imagine that! The Attorney-General in my restaurant!"

While wading through the crowd of greeters and reporters he noticed a man sitting at a small table in the corner. His face was hidden behind a newspaper. He approached him and extended his hand. "Hello, sir, who might you be?"

The man slapped the newspaper down on the table. Martin noticed the headline. "IMPERIUM BUYS TAMERLAN." The man? Timothy Hill.
 
Timon gave Martin a knowing look. As he went in for the handshake, his wrist brushed ever so slightly against the newspaper. His watch disappeared underneath a coatsleeve much looser than it appeared, as Timon gently maneuvered his back in between him and his surrounds. He took a glance at a wine glass, topped off with mineral water, watching for the inevitable flurry of smartphones to make their entrance stage left.

Timon's television crew training kicked in.

There were no shotgun mics present. The cafe was too low to the ground, so all the reporters present would be using hand-held recorders. In a few seconds, the two-bit cameraman down the back would get a chance to hop up on the bar in exchange for - who the fuck knows, a tip and a hug. Timon scooted just a bit to the right, to put Martin in direct vision of the cameraman's perch. A quick nudge with his foot moved the table under the ceiling light, the stark white tablecloth - when did the Shrimp Stack start using tablecloths? - giving a decent amount of indirect light to Martin's face.

"Adrian, your Honour. Such a pleasure to meet you! I'm not from around here, I'm from Rethel. I work in tourism now - my current boss is involved in the Tamerlan deal, and he wanted a proper, Plembobrian-born man on the ground. Wants someone to help pick out a nice place to live for the bigwigs who'll be handling hiring, let them get a handle on our work culture and put some real Plembobrians in charge - you know, the working class. Us shrimp-lovers. Heard they'd have us doing the stuff the old Tamerlan Clan used to have their kids pretend to do - night management and that sort of thing. Always wanted to have a job where I could start my day at a nightclub and finish with breakfast. Still, I bet it pays well."

Timon's laugh was infectious, if not convincing for anyone who had heard him at his most natural - bitching about coffee. But it'd do for the unwashed masses. Plus, it had that genuine, made-for-TV Rethel ring to it. That's why Imperium hired local.

Timon gave Martin a conspiratorial glance, for a second. Conspiratorial? Maybe that wasn't the right word.

"You know, when I first heard about the Tamerlan deal, I was wondering if the New Left was going to be making efforts towards Imperium. But appointing Heavensby to Rhuvanland - I wasn't expecting that at all. A proper unionist who's hard up about democracy. Don't you think he'll look out of place in the Rhuvish Parliament? Imperium's got all the parliamentarians there, so I don't know how much they'll want to be working with a born-and-bred people's person like Heavensby. I mean, look at how much they're trying to keep their hands off a Tamerlan run by Plembobrians - Imperium's saying Tamerlan will run itself. Can Heavensby do that for Rhuvanland?"

Timon made very sure to annunciate that second to last part, sharing a wink with the closest reporter - a tender, loving glance, and then a stifled chuckle into a nice bit of clear, room-filling projection. "Imperium's saying Tamerlan will run itself. Can Heavensby do that for Rhuvanland?" The question was immaterial - it was just the window-dressing for the statement.

Slowball with all the bases loaded. Take your best swing, Martin.
 
"Yes. He certainly can. And he will. Heavensby has always been one to empower people. That's where his heart is. That's where it was in his union days, that's where it was when he was our Deputy PM, and that's where it is now with Rhuvanland. Pleasure to meet you Adrien."

An hour later, after Martin's future constituents had left the Shrimp Stack, Martin stood outside the restaurant and smoked. Martin didn't smoke in front of the cameras, but he didn't keep it a secret either. Some amateur had snapped a photo of him with a cigarette. It showed up on a few right-wing tabloids. When asked about it he rejoined, "Well, we politicians all have our ways of relieving stress, and all my staffers are blokes."

Martin muttered quietly, "I am at an impasse. We shall win, and I shall do nothing but fill a space on the frontbench." He noticed a figure to his right. It was Hill, yet again.

"Impasse you say?"

Martin smirked. "You know just what I mean. I lead a third party. I'll be here forever and forever out of power."
 
Timon removed a cigarillo from his pocket. He did not smoke as a matter of habit, but it'd help him seem a bit less out of place, behind a Shrimp Stack.

Lighting it, he let the taste of the cigarillo hang in his mouth for just a moment, before exhaling. With no filter - like any cigar or cigarillo - it was too harsh and acric to inhale, and he had no interest in letting it linger long enough to settle on his tongue. That being said, Timon had no reservations about missing out on the taste of what was, for all its labelling and shipping, a cheap trick from some godforsaken machining factory.

"Perhaps you need a change of pace. I've always thought that you were someone with a bit more largesse to you. You know...the passion. The blood in your eyes. You'd fit in, in Imperium. Not like me.

For all my airs, I'm just biding my time. Never been one for the August ratrace - my equivalents wake up day in, day out, wondering if they've crossed the wrong man. I'm on Eras for good food, good drinks, and good ambience. You, though. You wear your heart on your sleeve. Plenty of August politicians are forthcoming, in the right setting. A decent indicator of power - to be able to flaunt your weaknesses in front of a crowd.

You know, I think I know someone you'd like."

Timon pulled a little book, flipping to a page. Many of them had, almost cryptic text, but one or two had pictures - although Timon went to pains to conceal them from Martin.

"Here. Her name's Lucinda, a police officer from Neapolis. Did a stint in New Intelligensia. A goddamn saint, even by Plembobrian standards - more idealistic than me, by half. But we share the same interests. And she's August, through and through - give her a reason to dislike someone, and she'll bring hell down on them. Story goes that she's tortured 'dead' Flemingovianist war-criminals, and spent her lunchbreak reading to their kids in the orphanages.

She's not the one for you if you wanted to play things like a Lictor, or Caesar. But somehow, I think even you wouldn't go that far.

You're lucky I'm a friend - coming out about an impasse like this one could get you killed in your sleep in some places. Your staff are booze and bread - they'll keep you in this little impasse of yours, tired and asleep on the frontbench.

Lucinda's a gateway drug. Sure, no-one's ever overdosed on her - but she has a way of giving you the taste for blood you can only get by driving yourself to the edge. That's how you find out if you're a mortal or a myth. She's the one who'll help you earn wings to clip to that sleeve of yours."
 
Strange. A police officer in Imperium who dispenses with enemies.

What did this man want? He was all to eager to help. Yet every word seemed scripted, yet charming. Hill was a manipulator. There was no question. Still, friend or enemy, it was paramount that Martin keep him close.

"Mr. Hill. After the election has ended, the secretary of the Attorney-General's Office, well be resigning. It's been quite a delight working with him. However now that he's married he wants to settle down, whatever that means." Martin had never been married. Often referred in the less reputable papers as the "Cabinet's most eligible bachelor," he had yet to find anyone to whom marriage would be useful.

"I shall need someone capable of managing an entire department. As well as putting my directives into force. I certainly hope you're up to the task. I shall see you in my Cabinet office the morning after election night. Then we will discuss this Lucinda."

At that moment, as if it had been waiting, the Attorney-General's motorcade arrived. Alistair got into the middle vehicle, and drove away without another word.
 
Timon yawned, extinguishing the cigarillo, returning it to a little plastic bag in his pocket.

It was good practice to learn not to leave a trail.

'sides, there's not always a bin around.

He reached into his pocket, pulling out an unassuming, black flipphone. Leaning back inside, his fingers quickly tapped out a text to someone on his contacts book, and he emerged with a suit jacket in one hand. The Shrimp Stack didn't have a coatroom, but he'd tipped an employee to hang on to his suit, just in case there were any photos taken. It was a reasonably recognizable tailor, from Imperium, and one he'd rather not be associated with while he was incognito. For that matter, he wasn't sure he wanted to be associated with the gentleman at all, anymore. With the Tamerlan deal behind him, he'd be looking at a payday worth visiting Alba Longa for. What he wouldn't give for a proper, Albanese suit jacket, and a nice silk scarf.

Timon's phone rang; his hand flew with uncharacteristic speed into his pocket, and in a single motion, he snapped it to his lips.

"Afternoon, room and road for one. Put it on the service card."

Timon allowed himself a smile at the reply, as a gleaming white car pulled up next to him almost instanteously. As he opened the door, the driver tipped his hat. Olivewood furnishings greeted Timon's eyes, the plush upholstery smelling of new leather and sandalwood.

"Good afternoon Mr. Hill. May I help you?"

"We'll be heading to the hotel shortly. But...a detour, first. U-turn, fifth left, second right and stop at the Palace Hill, the pub. It's pretty small - easy to miss."

Timon leaned back in his seat, viewing the world through tinted windows. With a flick of his wrist, the seats warmed themselves, and the car pulled away from the curb.
 
Ah, the Palace Hill. A little property taken on by the Tamerlan Corporation, to act as a hideaway for Timon's new staff. He'd been making his home here for a few weeks yet. His silk slippers and bathrobe were a common appearance at the little rooms in the back of the pub, where he kept a futon and work-desk for the many days when he could not be bothered making his way back to the hotel.

He yawned as a firm rapping at the door told him it was 9 in the morning - he was a late riser, when he slept at the Palace Hill. He liked to get his drinking over before he started dinner, and be in bed after he stopped drinking. However, Timon was nothing if not accustomed to dealing with things he did not like. His plates and cutlery had been taken away sometime after he fell asleep. His secretary had just arrived, and it would be her knuckles that roused him. He did not have too much of a hangover - certainly, he had had far too much to drink, but it was nothing more than August table wine. Not at all alcoholic, compared to the jaegermeister in his secretary's preferred pick-me-ups. He would, where possible, prefer to avoid pick-me-ups stronger than his entire daily binge.

A newspaper had been delivered to his door, he knew, in the early morning. The Palace Hill kept a news correspondant on Timon's staff, and she worked a night-shift. She'd take two copies of each of the daily newspapers delivered by courier, read them all in a couple of hours, and leave a copy of her favourite for the day at his door before sending her briefings back home.

He stuck a toothbrush in his mouth - peppermint, Caesar's favourite - and plodded over to the door, opening it.

On his welcome mat was a copy of every daily newspaper in Plembobria, and a couple of printed pages. He quirked an eyebrow - he usually simply got the one.

He picked up the printed pages, and noticed that they were stapled to the front of a newspaper. Taking them over to his workdesk, he flipped the lamp's light on, squinting slightly as he leaned over to pick up his bottle of wine from behind his bedpost. He settled in to read the printed pages.

"RDP passed in House of Commons nuclear rearmament legis under our noses. DefM Crowley & Briggs responsible. Called home & got dressed down by Augustine, Consular, Conclave, & two different Praefects in less than two hours. We fucked up. Nuclear Deterrant Act attached."

It was frontpage news.

'Defense Minister Crowly said the Government felt that "dangerous times" had prompted their decision to build a more effective deterrent, and that doing so was part of the Revolutionary Democrats' plan to "make Plembobria a global power." [...the program consists of] A small fleet of three submarines capable of launching Plembobria's AD-4 ballistic missiles. Each vessel will be armed with up to eight missiles. [...] The submarines will be assigned to naval bases in the province of Cherpis, which consists of a collection of islands off the coast of mainland Plembobria. [...] Opinion polling suggest up to 70% of residents are against the program. However, nationwide polling is more friendly, with about 57% of Plembobrians saying they support.'

Timon cradled his face in his hands. He'd have to spend the rest of the day doing damage control - and that was for his employers alone. He'd have to burn most of his political capital just to keep his job. An oversight this bad, on a topic this crucial, had made him a lot of powerful enemies overnight. He picked up the quaint little phone on his quaint fucking desk and rang his secretary downstairs. His usually immaculate voice sounded gravelly, pained, forced.

"Carla, did you read the news."

It was barely a question. More a statement with an implied answer.

"Yes."

"How many calls waiting do I have?"

"17. A Lictor-Praefect wants to have you chaperoned, a Peregrine-Praefect wants to have you replaced, a Medic-Praefect wants you court-martialled. A Praefect under the Augustine Office is demanding you brief Caesar's chief of staff -" Timon moaned audibly "-it gets worse. A Praetor under the Consular Office is demanding you brief the Consuls in Tolima." Timon moaned extremely audibly.

"Where am I? That's five. You've also got one from the Tamerlan Board of Directors, the Latin Labour Syndicate, the New Trade Syndicate, the Federation of Pink Labour, a Divine-Praefect, a Censor-Praefect, and the fucking Scholar-Magister. We're up to 12 - the remaining five are Senate Tribunals. The Tribunal on Plembobrian Affairs, the Tribunal on Novrith Affairs, the August Reform Tribunal, the Tribunal on Illamzat Affairs, for some goddamn reason, and the Tribunal on International Affairs."

"None from the Tribunal on Nuclear Affairs?"

"They did not call. They sent a Legate as a courier, with a handwritten note and a copy of their petition to have the August Senate revoke your visa."

Timon groaned.

"Where is he now?"

"He's getting coffee. He's expecting a meeting with you immediately. He threatened to wake you up himself until I reminded him you had de facto diplomatic immunity, and a gun."

In a few hours, Timon had gotten calls from the equivalent of a small nation's command staff.

"Will you be wanting an appointment with the Attorney-General?"

"Yes, Carla. Please."
 
“Do you know, Bridget, I have three offices now?” Martin said to an aide, “Three physical rooms in the same building: One one for the Member for Newport West, one for the Deputy Prime Minister, and one for the Attorney-General. In which are you currently employed? I forget.”

“Cabinet. That is, the DPM’s office, Mr. Alistair.” Bridget Paulson was your typical staffer. A mid-twenties female Poly-Sci graduate from Langford College, an academic achievement graciously funded by well-off parents now living in a delightful little tract development right outside Cummings. Bridget wasn’t hired by The Right Honorable Isaac Heavensby for her expertise – she was here to (lightly putting it) brighten the landscape. Martin had inherited all of Heavensby’s braindead staff, a well as an impressive-looking bookcase containing (entirely uncracked) tomes documenting every Eastern political theory to enter the head of any philosopher with sufficient intelligence to record it on paper. More office landscaping.

“Ah, yes. Call me Martin. Can you explain to me, then, why you are in the Attorney-General’s office, then?”

“Well as your personal assistant, it is my job to attend to during your duties in this House.”

“Is it? I am certain I have someone like that already who I just sent for coffee.” Bridget blinked in confusion. “Nevermind,” Martin continued, “I have appointments ahead do I not?”

“Um… I don’t believe...” Bridget was cut off by the entrance of Aaron Jones, Assistant to the Attorney-General. “Sir, Mr. Timothy Hill will be arriving shortly.” There was a rap on the door. “Make that right now.”
 
"...yes, I did complete my compulsory history unit, sir. Yes, I understand your concerns - yes, I understand. I understand. Thank you - yes, I understand. Thank you for calling. I understand completely, sir."

"Productive call, Timon?" Carla offered him a weak smile, the gloss on her pursed lips glinting in the light bouncing off the dark-tinted car windows. Dim LEDs hidden in the recessions of the doors were concealed from the driver by a heavy privacy barrier, letting Carla go over reams of angry emails with increasingly more elaborate letterheads. Near the bottom were printed, then hand-written letters, delivered almost overnight, with security details moving from wax seals on up to digital chips, meant to carry data for authenticating the sender rather than facilitate any form of encryption.

"Very; I was given some exciting recommendations for preschools with strong history curriculums. I did not even know such things existed - still, many things are not well known to us who do not fly in the circles of Princeps." Carla winced. The move to introduce a 'nuclear deterrence' into Plembobrian strategic planning had blindsided Timon's office; and, by extension, Imperium. His name had become virtually synonymous with failure overnight. He took solace in the fact that he had not found this fact out from his reliable sources, but rather, had been told as such merely by the types of people who could make such a thing possible.

As they came to stop outside the offices of the respectable Mr. Alistair, Timon took a deep breath as he thought better of sending his phone to voicemail. He passed it to the middle of the passenger seat, Carla picking it off the leather with just the most marginally offensive squeak of fingerpad on polish. Timon bit his upper lip, as reality dragged him from his happy place; the world where he could rehearse his speeches, where there was an outcome to this meeting which left him better off than a week before. He could literally walk on water and pluck Plembobria's submarines out of the ocean, and he'd at most be resolving an elephant that Imperium had decided to credit in full to his room.

Setting one foot, then the other on the sidewalk, his chest lifted and fell. Turning to Carla; partially for emotional support, partially for confirmation, he pursed his lips in a gesture of affirmation. She nodded, passing him his briefcase. She'd just shot off a notification to Martin's staff. Timon was here for business.

As the door opened for him, he walked with a measured stride, but he was visibly off-keel. On his shoulders weighed literal decades of the August line on nuclear policy. It was generally accepted for people to hold varying opinions on August politics, with two exceptions - the sanctity of the Crown, and nuclear non-proliferation. Individuals, depending on their relationships, were often brought in for questioning, for bribery, for the occasional blackmailing. But those two? Those were the two matters that would invariably make you disappear.

But even the first had its degrees of compromise.

There was no such spectrum for the nuke.

The accomplishment that had saved Caesar from going down in history as the weakest ruler in August history, inheriting the regency of his invalid mother, was brokering the disarmament treaty with Alainn. At only 16, he had easily been convinced of the horrific power of the nuclear weapon. For more than fifty years since, he had been the guardian of global security; the man who had defused one of the world's first nuclear flashpoint. It was the one thing that defined his otherwise complex and troubled legacy - the one thing that he would forever be known for. The Caesar of the Atomic Age.

Most of Imperium's various allies abroad had varying levels of ideological and pragmatic interests in Imperium's successes. Their embassy staff, their intelligence contacts, their business partners.

But those two matters were non-negotiable.



He walked into the middle of the room, planting both feet firmly in line, a shoulder-length apart. Both arms were tensed with energy - one gripping his briefcase, the other carefully cocked between itself and his jacket pocket, the crook in his arm kept from wavering only by a dying man's grip.

"Good morning, Mr. Alistair. I apologise for the early start.

Would you mind if I sit down? I have a copy of the Nuclear Deterrant Act that my - I'd like to discuss."

He licked his lips, wondering if Mr. Alistair had an understanding of the position he was in - or if he had any involvement in the legislation at all.

"I understand that the House of Commons has passed this piece of legislation, and I was wondering what the New Left's stance moving forward will be on the...execution of this bill."
 
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