As global politics become murkier by the day, and the ‘Leaders of the Free World’ become increasingly dictatorial and less ‘free’, it is a period rich for speculative fiction, for imagined outcomes and conspiratorial note-taking.
This short story emerged from thoughts of dystopian possibilities. Who knows how close to the truth our words skirt?
Men are more easily governed through their vices than through their virtues.
Napoleon Bonaparte
The room was unassuming and the scale of the oval table around which they gathered modest. But a whiff of ambition assailed the nostrils of any hangers-on in the entourages of the assembled leaders-in-waiting. There were less than a dozen of them. All men, all-powerful, in spite of their apparent standing in the political pecking order. Over the past two years, they had quietly manoeuvred themselves into position. Perhaps it would be more accurate to say that they had been manoeuvred into place by those who would profit from their elevation. The real power sat in the shadows. Media barons, leaders of multinational conglomerates, and the architects of social media platforms that spewed divisiveness and prejudice.
For the next two days, the intentions that lay hidden in those murky shadows would be manifested in discussions between the men who sat around the oval table glancing down at the single page agenda.
Fewer than a dozen copies, in nine different languages.
One agenda, cloaked in euphemism and the softened lexicon of global institutions. Words, cleverly woven to mask meanings.
Today, in the fourth gathering of what had become known among the cabal of political advisers as ‘The Axis’, the subject was ‘Transition’.
Eighteen months into his Boss’s second term, the US Vice President arrived buoyed by their successes, his successes. He basked in the evidence of promises fulfilled. He relished his status as the hard man who had secured his country’s borders before slamming the door loudly behind migrant families forcibly deported from the communities they had built. When he spoke, the ‘Vices’ listened. Urbane and polite in public, he was - they were all too aware - an iron fist in a velvet glove. His was the path they all wished to follow. His convictions glowed brightest.
The Vice President, however, looked with envy at the man who sat opposite him. While their respective faiths divided them, enforcement of hardline religious texts was an ambition he was keen to exploit beyond the rhetoric that had played well while campaigning in the Bible Belt. The Head of Judiciary, dressed in a simple cleric’s robes, was the Supreme Leader-elect. ‘Supreme Leader’. It was title the Vice President had rolled around in his thoughts, a notion that made him smile to himself as he nodded a welcome across the table. But he knew the man’s weaknesses, his penchant for company of an entirely secular nature. The taller, the blonder and the more ‘ample’, the better. The Vice President’s team included just such ‘company’ and the future Supreme Leader would be led into her arms shortly after they rose from dinner this evening.
He looked to his left, noting that the Vice President of Venezuela was in deep conversation with his Chinese counterpart. It would be a surprise to him if their pre-meeting chat was not sprinkled with the white powder that left a dusty trail across the border from Columbia to an office in the Venezuelan Presidential Palace. Behind the legendary inscrutability of Mao Lin lay an enthusiasm for drug-fuelled violence. As the host for this fourth gathering, the US Vice President was keen to ensure that such enthusiasm was kept in check until Mao Lin returned to his own sound-proofed offices.
The well-pressed uniform of the Israeli strongman who headed up their Special Operations Directorate marked him out in a room full of finely-tailored suits. But it was the General’s handpicked, highly-trained militia that the Vice President envied. He made a note to speak with the General over coffee about how to grow and fund such a force. Well-armed loyalty with an impassive, unquestioning approach to enforcement would be a whole chapter in a would-be dictators playbook. The VP had the makings of such a militia but a little well-informed finessing would be timely.
The Vice President was snapped out of his reverie by the arrival of the Russian, a boorish giant of a man who breakfasted on strong spirits and weak women. He laughed along with the rest of the gathering as the dishevelled vice premier slapped his translator on her shapely behind while demanding “COFFEE” in loud, heavily-accented English. Unseen, the Vice President whispered to his aide. The blond translator was quickly replaced. It would not do for the Russian to take a fancy to her when she had been earmarked for her exceptional Iranian language skills, to say nothing of her height, hair colour and 1970s centrefold build. According to his file, vodka tended to make the Russian less discerning. He would hardly notice that she had been replaced by a young man whose Russian was fluent but whose discreet photography skills were even better.
***
By mid morning, several key decisions had been taken. Mutual support had been offered in a number of ways and the threads that bound The Axis had been tightened. Under his chairmanship, they had evolved. There was a deep understanding of mutuality. Differences had been cast aside and a template had been agreed upon.
In a side room, a sallow-faced man listened to a proprietary phone model manufactured by the vast telecoms business that hosted the social media empire of the current chair of The Corporation. Paymasters rarely muddied their hands at the coal face. As was ever the case, instructions were conveyed down encrypted lines in deniable forms of words.
The thin man had expected the instruction and the code words were imprinted on his consciousness, but he listened carefully. There was no room for error, that much he knew. He nodded, though the figures in the shadows could not see. As the line fell silent he murmured one word, ‘understood’.
The Vice President was mid flow as the conference room door opened. He had them in the palm of his hand as he spoke warmly of the internment camps run by a private security company with ‘unlimited scope for innovation’, a gentle euphemism that masked the nature of brutal preparations for repatriating those who were no longer welcome in his country.
He looked up, slightly irritated to lose his flow but maintaining his composure when he saw who it was. The man cleared his throat before speaking. “Capitol, Sir”.
The Vice President took a breath. “Capitol?”
“Yes, Mr President”.
The warm applause washed over him, first among equals. And so it began.
Oh, my! You gotta cry and laugh, right?
Oh and hope dystopia and fiction stay as far apart as possible.
Great writing. :)
I wish this didn't make me smile, even chuckle in places... you've just reminded me of my often inebriated but always loved father, who loved an opportunity to say, ' many a true word is spoken in jest'.
Enjoy your trip, I've just seen your F&F newsletter, the Lot is sooo close to here!