NationStates Jolt Archive

"... The Schultz family still remains one of the most peculiar enigmas to date in studying modern Schultarian history. Of course every student of Schultaria's Democratic Revolution can tell you the names, dates, and battles that won our nation its independence, but not even the most invasive and persistent scholar can tell you precisely how the Schultz family earned such political clout in such a short amount of time. Despite the meticulous archiving of data and the careful record keeping of our ancient counterparts, the question still remains: How exactly did the Schultz family first ascend to power? ..."

-Themr Oligowvey: "The Fourteen Schultarian Dynasties of the Central Directorate: SDC 0 - 500"

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Chapter 1: An oligarchy revisited

The weather was unusually crisp and dry in the metropolis of Myrle, but the people trudging about in the streets didn't seem to notice the beautiful excuse for a winter’s day. Breaking out of the clouds, a beautiful sun cast its rays on the massive avenues below and miles of pavement began to cast their captive heat to the sky. Entwined with the sky and the weather, nature seemed to defy all reason as well; trees and flowers were blossoming in every park and window box while colorful birds passed their songs to the waking world. Even the most oblivious observer could have marveled at the morning and felt completely at ease with the world. In this city, however, everyone silently made their way across town to their cubicles held in the sky by anonymous towers of cold steel and betraying glass. No one had time for awe, and certainly no one had time to worry about the weather.

Today… was audit day…

While the people walking in the streets and languishing in their offices saw today as only another minor inconvenience in their lives, hundreds of people gathered in clandestine hovels and sewers to meet for one final time. Many of them had been cast out by society, not suitable for even the most unskilled of blue collar work by the government and shunned by the majority of their generation. Declared worthless investments and incompetent by the Greater Sooltaria Conglomerate, their crimes were not against property or life, but against ideas seen as essential to the preservation of the company above all. These were all criminals to the corporate establishment; thousands of normal, law abiding, people simply cast aside because they refused to believe the company way was true law.

Beaten and dragged through the mud, the once proud city states that composed this land had been subjugated time and time again by ruthless imperialists with little regard for human life. Over the course of three hundred years as many as eight flags had been raised and removed on the island’s virgin soil, tainted by the blood of countless innocents looking for freedom and security from foreign occupation. During this time numerous unions met in secret, plotting revenge and raising havoc wherever possible while inflicting terrible wrath on colonial occupiers. Throughout the realm, a cry for local government became too loud for even the deafened ears of the colonial empires to ignore; in an easy transition the land that had once been the property of so many outside rulers was returned to local corporations for a substantial fee. For three decades, the loose confederation of corporate governments that had come to rule over Sooltaria were benign and magnanimous; although there had been opposition to the possibility of corporate domination in government, almost all of the population saw this as a boon to a flagging civilization.

Almost all vestiges of colonial resistance faded during this period, and what few secret societies that did remain were relegated to the backburner of the nation’s consciousness. Even as the nation descended further into autocratic rule by CEO oligarchy, the majority of the population blindly accepted force fed dreams of a bright future at face value. Those that did reject the society were regarded as little more than impractical dreamers with only a tenuous grasp of reality. For the most part, the unthinking masses agreed to this point of view; after all, for the first time in generations, Schultarians were governed by individuals within their own nation, or so they thought.

Those that didn’t go to work that winter’s day knew better…

All of the clock towers across the city chimed eight times to herald the start of the workday, their pealing bells echoing across the polished avenues and grimy alleys. While the majority of people retired to their desks for another long days work administering the affairs of the bloated corporate state, people began to file out of disheveled tenements and tuck away in the numerous back streets of the glittering city of commerce. As clean and neatly dressed corporate cohorts gathered for their morning meetings and strategy discussions, the common people were beginning to assemble themselves in dingy pubs all throughout Myrle. The quiet of the morning hours belied the brewing tension felt throughout the nation; it was no secret that people were beginning to grow discontented with the lack of quality employment, and it was also apparent that the Board of Sooltaria Executives began to live ever more lavishly on the company dollar.

At ten thirty in the morning, a group of nine individuals met in the Worn Rod Tavern for their usual weekly gathering. Friends for decades, the five men and four women saw themselves as brothers and sisters instead of friends and associates; all of them had been brought up as neighbors in the same housing complex, sons and daughters of the typical working poor. Six of them had criminal records, mostly involving petty theft and citing small acts of civil unrest, but all had kept their secrets well under the pervasive eye of the special police squadrons. Even in a tried and trusted place such as the Tavern, civilian spies lurked about to report on neighbors and family seeking rewards and employment favors from the political machine.

Keeping an eye for civil patrols, the group relocated from their booth in the back of the bar to a small wine cellar deep within the basement of the Worn Rod. Relaxing slightly, the nine heaved a collective sigh of relief. With a steady supply of fine liquor and a full day ahead of them, pressing business was the hot topic; a portly individual, perhaps no taller than a meter and a half, greeted his fellow guests.

“Thank you for getting here on such short notice, as all of you know we’ve been facing some heat from the authorities, but I know that no matter what we will get our job done,” he downed a shot of Brandy without missing a beat, “As all of you probably know one of our nearest and dearest friends, good old Merle, has taken to the notion that our meetings simply aren’t enough to complete our objectives. As a good Architect, he has told me in complete confidence that this is for the good of the people.”

“Yeah, because the fool’s too stubborn to keep things under wraps. Tamir, you know as well as all of us that he probably won’t be able to stand a chance this afternoon no matter what we try. He’s going to destroy what little chance we do have at real change.”

Tamir responded in sagely fashion, “I can understand perfectly what you mean Kedjem, but I also feel that he’s trying to do this for the greater good. Sure his judgment’s a little clouded…”

Kedjem Covey’s face sagged as Tamir tried to logically debate the actions of their mutual friend, the wrinkles growing on his darkened skin every time he mentioned Merle Schultz as well intentioned. He had always liked Merle, and over the years had come to respect him as a worthy thinker and reliable leader; however, the two never got along as well as they had hoped for in their minds. While both Kedjem and Merle were only born six months apart, their family lives had taught them wholly different values. The Covey family, a group of poor laborers who had worked in the mines of Northern Sooltaria for generations, had been taught the best way to go through life is step by step. Merle’s willingness to throw caution to the wind disturbed many people, but perhaps none more than those who were in the cellar today.

Letting out a slight harrumph, Covey inquired, “So, when does our crusading hero begin his little march into death?”

“Three hours. I want all of you to be there at least for the historical context if not for the security of this organization. No one has seen this ritual in over 200 years, so we should be prepared for anything.”

”Including our executions,” Kedjem muttered in his mind.

Merle Schultz, barely in the prime of his life, was a man already tormented by his actions; sulking in his apartment, half dressed and curtains drawn, he truly felt afraid for the first time in his life. While on any other given day he might have decided to skip work and spend time at the pub, today was a meeting he could not miss. In two hour’s time, he had given his assent to face the greatest of all trials, the right of Tah’kiea’leiah, in full public view. Not a soul had dared to bring a conflict to this level in nearly five generations, but when it came to convictions Merle was as stubborn as god could make a human. He had brought this threat to the threshold of his very life through his unwillingness to compromise with his adversary, but that didn’t frighten him: his rival did.

The man who he would come to terms amongst thousands of onlookers was no less than the very head of the Sooltarian Oligarchy. Byron Smith, a legend in his own right, earned and held his position as CEO of the United Sooltaria Conglomerate through less than savory means. Being a man of considerable power and little scruple, he saw the nation as little more than his kingdom and the countless innocents as merely cheap labor. In his frequent meetings with the corporate establishment, he had made no qualms about the use of military action in destroying so called “detracting elements” of society. This had attracted the ire of Merle, who at the time worked as a member of upper management in the infamous “Liquidation Division” of Smith’s security taskforce. Filled with equal amounts of disgust and deference, he did what he thought was most sensible at the time and called for a one on one debate with his boss. No one ever thought to take it seriously…

Sitting at a small desk across from his unkempt bed he caught a glimpse of his ceremonial robe and standard, still tucked in its plain brown box personally delivered from his intellectual adversary. The garment was light and airy, made with some of the finest cotton and silk he had ever touched, but whenever he put it on, he could feel the hatred of his former employer tugging at his skin. In front of the light, he could see the subtleties of the workmanship in better detail. His robe, unlike the one he had purchased for Smith, was enveloped in shades of deep crimson, violet, and sliver: colors of the unwelcome usurper. With a sigh and a slouch, he disrobed for his afternoon shower.

While basking in the lukewarm streams of water cascading down his body, Merle heard a knock on his apartment door. Suspicious for assassins he grabbed a towel and his forty five caliber revolver, assuming a suppression team had finally come to remove him from Byron’s sight. Much to his surprise, it was his one love, and not a firing squad, that was waiting for him at the door. In a curious mixture of aggression, passion, and paranoia Merle pulled the ravishingly beautiful woman inside; slamming the door, he stormed back into his dirty and disheveled bathroom to shave and put on a fresh change of clothes.

“You know how much you’re risking by even so much as breathing in my direction Neemie? Do you understand how much I’m risking right now as it is?”

“Why are you so worried hon?”

“Because, my sweetest flower, this isn’t some little ritual where we both compete in a ceremony and go home to feast. One of us is more than likely to die, probably very violently.”

Grabbing Merle by the waist, Norma clenched him in a loving embrace, “You know that as long as I love you I’ll never let anything get in my way. Not this silly little contest, not your friends, and certainly not my father!”

“Your father…” Schultz growled, “If it wasn’t for him perhaps I might have married you sooner and none of this nonsense would have come to pass. Oh Norma, how did we ever fall in love? I mean with your father threatening my life and all.”

“Don’t worry about what’s going to happen; once the time comes you’ll know what’s right for you. I’ll always stand by your side.”

Merle grimaced as Norma rested her head on his chest, ”Why me? Why did I have to fall in love with the daughter of the man I might have to kill?”

”In analysis of the Schultarian Revolution, several very peculiar things have come to light only recently which I feel give a whole new direction to the ‘Great Democratic Story’. One particular matter is the popularity of the rebellion; the Nation of Sooltaria just before 0 SDC was quite advanced for its age, having pioneered mass transportation, flight, and wireless radio communication as well. However all of this technology was reserved for SUC employees; the majority of the population was still relying on news carried by train that was quite old (often three days or more), but somehow every member of the lower class instantly knew about the outcome of the Audit Day Conflagration in less than ten minutes.”

-Themr Oligowvey: "Seven Hundred Fifty Years of Revolution and Progress: A History of the Modern Schultarian Nation -12th Edition"

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Chapter 2: Conflict of interest

Cutting their session short at the pub, the nine clandestine Architects toasted the day with whiskey and retreated into the anonymous shadows. All promised to show their support when zero hour came, but Tamir and Kedjem knew better. There was no time to blindly show compassion, nor lose life and limb when all of them were come so close to making their first successful strike against the company. As the two men were the last to leave their covert meeting spot they had the honor of bribing the barkeep to keep his mouth shut, even though every employee there was a member of the society.

Grabbing his cap and overcoat from the rack in the upstairs bar the aging Tamir set three fiver coins underneath the tap, gave a quick wink, and rushed out of the door. Kedjem was waiting outside clad in a gray woolen jacket and matching Tweed cap, “You’re too generous bubs,” he laughed as they strolled down the block, “You know how much fifteen can get you? It could…”

“Shhh, don’t mention it to the rest of the group,” Tamir responded, obviously nervous, “I did it because… Well, let’s just say we might not be spending our Thursday mornings in the bar anymore.”

Kedjem’s jaw dropped at the sound of the news, however he had expected this for a long time coming and thought it not out of the realm of possibility. Staying in any one spot to plot for more than six months was suicide in this city, but they had managed to meet in secret for two years without so much as one raised eyebrow. ”Our tracks were clean, our operation sound,” he thought to himself, ”Even the employees were clients of ours! Why are we moving now?”

Chafing in his overcoat, Tamir unfastened the front, leaving the coat to droop over his low slung, rounded, shoulders. “I should probably let you know that if things don’t go well in the next few hours… We’ll probably have to go deep undercover for a while until this thing blows off, but if our friend can do what he’s promised.”

“I know, all of our troubles will be washed away in his sea of rage. Let’s hope the strength of his father rests within him.”