110 A Patron Sain

By the time the day ended, Carlton Brock decided that it had been the longest day in his career, no, more than that: in his entire life! It felt much, much longer even than the days preceding his birthdays when he was a child. He'd spent them wondering what presents he would get the next day, constantly looking at the clock and finding that only a few minutes had passed in what had felt like an hour.

Accompanied as usual by the indomitable Lea Panatella, he returned to his suite and immediately made straight for the cabinet that contained his private bar. He poured a stiff Wild Turkey for himself and a Dubonnet for Lea. Handing her the glass, he said:

"You know, Lea, sometimes I amaze myself. I really do. You know that I carry a gun around at all times, now that everyone's bodyguards have been reassigned to building security. I had the urge to pull my gun out and shoot a couple of assholes every few minutes, I kid you not. It called for supreme self-control."

"Why? They agreed to everything," said Lea.

"They agreed because they had no other choice. What did you say, governor? That you're opposed? You're fired, get the fuck out of here right now. They all knew that would be exactly what would happen if they got difficult with me."

"You were disappointed by their lack of enthusiasm," said the mind-reading Panatella.

"Exactly. Exactly! I give them total power, absolute power to do anything they like within their territories. And how do they react? They're horrified! You know why?"

"They are afraid of the responsibility?"

"Absolutely. No more hiding behind someone's back, pointing the finger of blame everywhere but at the mirror. They have to produce, and keep increasing production. They have unlimited powers, so if they fail there will be no excuse."

"I was about to tell you that I heard Mark Penny is adopting the same approach at the White House," said Panatella.

"He would. The dumb fuck never has any ideas of his own. He has to steal mine. I don't mind. He won't be President much longer, anyway. The election's scheduled for next year, right?"

"It was. But don't you think they might move it, because of all that had happened?"

"I don't know and I don't care. Lea, you cannot imagine how wonderful it feels not to be at the mercy of the moronic mob."

"You mean the voters?"

"Yeah, I mean the voters. The amount of disgusting people I met when I was campaigning... I tell you, anyone who goes through that hell deserves more than the Presidency. He deserves to be canonized. A saint! That's who you have to be, on the campaign trail."

"Even Mark Penny?"

"I'm afraid so, yes," said Panatella, getting her notebook from her handbag. She flipped a few pages and said:

"We kick off at nine with minister Weinberger. He wants to discuss the new financial structure before the vote."

"Another guy that likes to evade responsibility. Who's next?"

"Nelson Odongo, at eleven."

"That guy," Brock said, nodding. He had a swig of bourbon and said:

"I really feel for him. I mean, I've got just fifty one assholes to deal with. He has what, around a hundred and forty?"

"He worked for various aid agencies when he was young," said Panatella. "So I'm sure he has plenty of experience dealing with assholes."

"You're right, let's not worry about Odongo. He's really fucked himself though, hasn't he?"

"What do you mean?"

"Well, he obviously thought that being the leader of the world parliament he'd also head the Colonial Council. And everyone on the Colonial Council will make megabucks, Lea. Speaker of the world parliament, a thousand a month. Peanuts."

"It really is peanuts," Panatella said, shocked. "That's less than welfare before the, you know, in the old times."

"Welfare? Hah! You know how much the guaranteed minimum income is going to be?"

"Less, I guess."

"Much less. Ten dollars a month. Everywhere, across the whole world."

"Ten dollars!"

"Lea, ten dollars or pounds or whatever is going to be the same as a thousand, in the not-so-good old days. Anyway, you and everyone else on my staff have nothing to worry about. I'm paying you all out of my cut, and I'll make sure it's enough so that you have everything you need, and more."

"Thank you."

"And on top of that, you'll be getting the ten bucks, too. So will I, like everyone else who is certified as a living, breathing adult. It's not dependent on being out of a job."

"What about children?"

"What about them?"

"Well, they have to eat too, don't they?"

"Children are the responsibility of their parents," Brock said firmly. "The new government is all about giving people back their responsibilities. Anyway, what happens after Odongo?"

"There is a final brainstorming session scheduled at two. Practically everyone will be there, so it will take place in the assembly chamber."

"Brainstorming? What the fuck? I thought everything has been agreed upon."

"The final vote is the day after tomorrow. I guess everyone wants to have their say before that, maybe propose something new."

"A hundred and forty guys, and each will have something to say?"

"Hopefully not. Anyway, not everyone will be there."

Brock nodded.

"I knew it," he said. "I told all those guys: stay here. You go back to your country, you're inviting trouble. You might even get killed, or put in jail."

"It's happened to a few," said Panatella.

"Really! A few? I heard about this guy, whatshisname, Tunisia or Algeria or something like that. He was shot, wasn't he?"

"He was from Libya, and committed suicide."

"Can't blame him. If I were from Libya, I'd do the same thing. How did he kill himself?"

"With his own gun."

"I knew it," Brock said, with deep satisfaction. "I knew that he died from a gunshot. What about the others? You said there are others."

"The president of Uzbekistan has been shot, too. By his wife."

"So it's not political. Personal family business."

"Om the contrary. His wife had founded a political party of her own. An opposition party."

"He must have been one hell of a lousy husband," said Brock. "Your own wife founding a political party that fights you... Yeah, he had to be a major loser. Anyone else?"

"No one killed. About a dozen arrests on corruption charges. And another dozen or so have already communicated they won't be able to make it back on time."

"That's good," Carlton Brock said. "The less people are here, the better. As long as we have more than half, and they all vote in favor."

"I think I - oh yes. There's one more thing. Britain is sending someone new. Lady Bernice Chatterlay, their prime minister, has resigned."

"She RESIGNED? You're making this up, Lea. She's been made national territory governor and member of the world parliament and she RESIGNED?"

"Yes. Apparently her husband and her cat are both sick, and she hasn't been feeling well herself lately."

"Health grounds," Brock said, nodding. "I understand health grounds. Are they sending someone else instead?"

"Mr. Odongo didn't tell me that. He said he will discuss it with your tomorrow."

"It would look bad if the Brits weren't represented," Brock said. "I mean they're just a piddly little country like everyone else after they'd lost Scotland and all of Ireland. But I like having a Brit around. They side with us on everything, and if they don't a few quiet words always do the trick."

"I had a very good conversation with Monsieur Caron, head of the Colonial Council. He asked me to pass on that you always have his full support."

"Oh, this doesn't mean a thing, Lea. He says it to everyone. He'd tell a tree on the sidewalk that it had his full support."

"He sounded as if he really meant it."

"He always does."

"Well, that's it, sir. Except that the governors of Alaska, Hawaii, and Puerto Rico are waiting for you to call."

"They can wait some more. They can't drag their asses over here for the conference, it's their own fault they get left out of the loop."

"You won't call them at all? I'm not sure it's appropriate for me to handle this."

"Oh, I'll call them all right. In the morning. Bit of training for the shitstorm that will follow next. And I also have to appoint someone for Illinois, to take poor Charlie's place. Did you give it some thought, Lea? I mean I saw the names on the list but I don't know those people at all. You do."

"Not that well," said Panatella. "We've shortlisted six people like you asked on the basis of their qualifications."

"That's too bad. Are any of them lucky?"

"What?"

"I was talking to Caron the other day," Brock explained. "He said being lucky can be much more important than qualifications. He told me that Napoleon always asked about people's luck before he appointed them marshals or generals or whatever."

"Actually one of them might be like that," said Panatella. "His name is Gino Valente, and he used to run a very successful casino."

"That's the guy we want," Brock said firmly. "Set me up for a talk with Mr. Valente, will you? I mean if he doesn't work out I'll talk to all the others, but my gut tells me he's the guy I want."

"What time?"

"I've got those three assholes to call before Weinberger at nine, but each won't take more than a couple of minutes. Make it eight thirty for Valente."

"If that's all, I'll go and set it up now," said Panatella.

"Good night, Lea. You're a treasure."

"Thank you, sir. Good night."

When Panatella had left, Brock immediately poured himself another very large bourbon, and loosened his tie. What a day! And there would be many days even worse than that, starting tomorrow.

However, he still felt lucky. It was great to be a governor! Governors were appointed, not elected. Of course, they could potentially be removed if the territories under their care performed poorly.

But Brock knew that the good old US of A would do very well indeed in the New World. With coasts on both oceans, excellent waterways, and plenty of natural riches, it was destined to be the big winner in the colonization race. Russians? Bah! The Chinese? Pah! Only Americans had the talent and the drive to colonize new worlds properly.

Carlton Brock's name would be up there, alongside Washington's and Lincoln's. He would make damn sure of that. He had told Panatella anyone who went through a presidential campaign was a saint. Well, he would become the patron saint of the United States.

He raised his glass and said to the empty room:

"Your very best health, Carlton."

He drank.

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