NationStates Jolt Archive

It was a fact, universally acknowledged, that Illhuitl Quiyahuitl was going to feel absolutely terrible when he eventually woke up. The term 'a late night' and 'over-doing it' would be woefully inadequate terms to describe the previous evening.

His old school friend, Tom, can successfully passed his pilot exams and, in so doing, had fulfilled his life-time ambition of serving in The National People's Army Air Force (or the NPAAF for short). So, needless to say, some manner of celebration was required.

Illhuitl had, of course, reassured his girlfriend Shelley that 'he wouldn't go crazy' and that 'he would be back home by 12 at the latest'. It was fair to say, though, that everyone concerned knew that it was going to be a heavy evening. Illhuitl did go crazy, and instead of 12 o clock he had returned to his flat at 5 o' clock. He would later be mortally embarrassed at remembering the very drunken conversation he had with the milkman. Oh....dear.

Great events were occurring, however, as Illhuitl slept on his sofa (and as the various chemicals in his body conspired to produce a headache of epic proportions). His television, which until now had been quietly humming to itself as it displayed the test card, suddenly burst into life with the National Anthem, ‘Onward Ye Valiant Men.’ The test card was replaced with a film of the Fiefdom’s flag as it fluttered in the wind. Then came the announcer.

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“Good Morning,” said the voice to the still sleeping Illhuitl Quiyahuitl, “from Fiefdom One on this day, Monday 12th March. The time is 8 o’ clock and it's time for the early morning news…”

It was time for the men and women of Fiefdom Television, the only television station in the world that hadn't moved to colour, to begin another day of operation. The picture on Illhuitl's television changed to Studio 1 where, in a dinner jacket, sat the young female newsreader.

"Good Morning, I'm Peggy McNamara and this is Early Morning News on Fiefdom One. Our top story today is the overwhelming victory for the Communist Party in yesterday's elections. The results of all 687 seats in the National People's Soviet have been counted. To discuss the results with me is our political correspondent, Oquitzin Yohuac. Oquitzin, what are the results in full?"

"Well Peggy, I should begin by telling the viewers that the system for elections chosen by the out-going government for the new legislature isn't a 'First Past the Post' one that you may have seen in British or American films. The Election Commission decided that a system of Proportional Representation would be used so, as it stands, no party has enough seats to form a government single-handedly."

"What are those results Oquitzin?"

"Well, I've drawn the results on this blackboard [high-tech computer animation being the order of the day at Fiefdom One] and we can see here that the Communist Party came first with 37.5% of the vote which gives them 257 seats in the Soviet, the Otiacicoh Socialist Democratic Party came second with 25% of the overall vote, giving them 171 seats.

Next came the Torch of Freedom party, with 15% of the vote and 103 seats. The Monarchists and the National Socialists each obtain 10% and 68 seats respectively. The big losers last night, though, were the Legion of Xipe Totec that was only able to scramble-up enough votes to gain just 17 seats."

"That makes 684 by my calculations Oquitzin, who took the last three seats."

"Simply answer to that, Peggy, are independents."

"I see, so now that the results are in and the Fiefdom has held its first free elections, what now?"

"That's a good question Peggy. It really depends upon what the next move is by the Communist Party. The Party, as part of the decision to hold elections in the first place, reserved the right to automatically award itself an additional 1/4 of the seats available."

"Taking the number of overall seats to 859?"

"That's right. Now if the party does that, and there is more than enough room in the main chamber of the Palace of the National People's Soviet for them to do so, then it would have the 257 seats that it won in the election and an additional 172 seats, and then it would give them a majority."

"Are there indications that they would not use those seats?"

"Well, I've been speaking to a number of top-level party officials who said that the additional seats were created in case of a mass desertion of the Party with the advent of free elections, such as we saw in the old Soviet Union. But this hasn't happened, quite the opposite in fact, and many of those same officials are saying that they are willing to form a coalition government."

"Who would it be with, this Coalition?"

"There's only really one answer to that, Peggy, and that's the Socialists. Several newspapers have already begun to coin the term 'The Fraternal Coalition' for this new government, but we'll have to see the developments later today."

"Oquitzin, thanks.

In other news, confusion continues to reign in Liberty City, Allanea, after the recent political turmoil. Early Morning News has learnt that the Pantocratorian ambassador, Isabelle Katalyn, has asked that she is with..."

A Statement from Comrade General Secretary (Emeritus) Noel Hoogaboom, the Dear Leader and Great Helmsman.

Comrades, today is the dawning of a new day, not just for the Fiefdom but for all the nations of the world that prize freedom and fraternal love above the empty vessels of tyranny and repression.

The sun is shining on the Fiefdom today, upon her churches and temples. Upon the schools and factories. Upon her docks and farms. This sun, comrades, is nothing less than the light of liberty, a light that warms our hearts and chases away the shadows of the night. The winter of our discontent is truly over, replaced by the reason of rebirth and renewal that we call spring.

Each and every citizen that voted in the recent elections is to be lauded, for in so doing you have helped to contribute to this moment. I consider it the greatest personal honour that anyone can bestow to know that, in my own small way, I have contributed to the triumph that was Election Day. But, as I have already mentioned, the true honour belongs to all of you.

Today is also the beginning of two great journeys, for both myself and for the Fiefdom. For the Fiefdom begins the journey as a responsible actor upon the International Stage, a role that, alas, I cannot promise will be easy. The free nations of the world are like a lighthouse, continue assaulted by the waves of those that would wish it to fall. I would remind you to be strong, comrades, but I have every confidence that you will be.

As you me, I begin a retirement after nearly 54 years in the political limelight. It shall, of course, be very strange but it is a move that is entirely necessary. A new dawn requires a new generation of leadership; a generation that I am confident is fit for purpose.

Not that I shall be going gently into that good night, for in my retirement I am content to do my all for the Fiefdom and her peoples, in whatever capacity they believe to be necessary.

In closing, I shall add my voice to those encouraging the swift creation of a new Coalition Government in the National People’s Soviet. I believe, as do many others, that the Party that I have guided since the late 1940s would be entirely justified and honourable if it were to not utilise those seats which I granted it when I first announced elections and were to seek out an alliance with another party. There is nothing wrong with this, since the people have seen fit to elect my old Party as the majority party in the Soviet, an act that humbles me greatly. Such a course of action, however, is for the current General Secretary to make.

The inheritance of the Party, and the light of freedom, has left a glorious birthright for all the citizens of the Fiefdom. I ask you, Comrades, that you do not squander this.

Adieu, and good luck.

Yours in Solidarity,

Noel Hoogaboom
Palace of the People, Karl Marx Square, Port Sunlight.

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Column of Alfred Grainger-Hyland, Minister for State Security 1963-1974

Well, Comrades, it has been two days now since the heady day of elections and what, pray tell, do we have to show for it? Very little by all accounts, it would appear. But why is this? In any other country, two parties with similar views and a combined share of over 50% of the vote would easily reconcile their differences and form a party of the people, for the people. In the Fiefdom, however, this seems to be an exceedingly difficult task. Maybe it is because we, as a nation, are not used to compromise and dialogue. Or maybe it has to do with the two parties that are currently the largest in the National People’s Soviet.
The victory of the Communist Party is, of course, nothing less than a triumph for which we have all worked. We have entered into that very rare experience of being a democratically-elected Marxist Party, provided with not only a mandate from the proletariat but now one from the majority of voters. But how has the party used this tremendous inheritance? By petty squabbling for positions of government, a sight that is unworthy of those who have been martyred to make the people’s flag a RED FLAG. Far be it from me to cast dispersions, but I would have thought that General Secretary Macmillan, being from so glorious a bloodline, would have taken the job of forming a government with the dignity, grace and wisdom that his uncle, the Great Helmsman, continually showed throughout his Premiership and continues to demonstrate even in his retirement. It is true what they say, comrades, that you only ever appreciate what you had when it is gone, and this is no more true than in the works of the Dear Leader.
The other problem, though, is the pernicious meddling of the Socialists. I have always considered Socialists to be nothing more than lickspittle revisionists, but one would have hoped (at least) that they would have seen sense and joined in a government of Fraternal Unity in order to keep the baying wolves of capitalism from the door of the Fiefdom. One need only remember that the successes of Nazism were built upon the lack of left-wing unity in Germany. So why have we waited two days for something we call predicted weeks ago? I blame Finduilas Nénmacil. One would have thought that one of the benefits of being an elf was that one had time to wait. Yet technical immortality has not diminished Nénmacil’s desire for the office of Cihuacoatl. Even now she intrigues, with the rest of the revisionist back-sliders, into forcing herself into the position of governance even at the expense of the party that gained the majority of the vote! I say to her now, if she cares one jot or tittle about the land she professes to love, she will see the dignity of her position and accept the position of Deputy Cihuacoatl, a position which I believe is still far too generous but one that I would sacrifice FOR THE GOOD OF THE FIEFDOM.

The unusual thing about Finduilas Nénmacil’s house was, not so much its size and grandeur (though it did befit both of these adjectives) but more the fact that it had survived unscathed. Most people with large, stylish townhouses in a chic part of Port Sunlight had, come the Revolution, fled with their belongings and now resided with their relatives in equally chic townhouses in Paris, London and other fashionable capitals of Europe. The House of Nénmacil had, however, stayed and in so doing had provided something of a dilemma for the Communist authorities.
The reason for this dilemma was simple, the Communists had no idea what to do with the elvish minority. Marxist-Leninism, after all, was a political theory that was devised by humans in order to explain the actions of humans so that those humans could achieve a better life. Man, after all, was defined by what he produced, and the entire history of mankind (from the first ape walking upright to astronauts on the moon) could be viewed as the various changes in the means of production. Sooner or later, the working classes would seize the means of production, establishing the dictatorship of the proletariat that would, in time, dissolve to create the pure communist society. This communist society would entail the end of government, the end of history, the grand footnote on the page of time and all that jazz (until the Messiah returned and reintroduced government in the form of the New Jerusalem, as many in the Fiefdom thought).
So where exactly did elves fit into that? You could read Das Kapital fifteen times and not discover any mention of magic. If communism was a machine, perfect, ordered and rational, then elves were a painting. They both had uses; it’s just that they didn’t really work together.
The Communist government had never really known what to do with the elves, therefore. They had been accepted, terrorized and threatened with deportation throughout the life of the Fiefdom, but mostly they had been ignored, which explained why Finduilas’ family home had stayed exactly how it was when the family had moved in, some 113 years ago.
Finduilas stood in the hallway of her home, glancing into the ornate Menelmacari mirror that hung there. She looked at herself for a moment, content that her appearance was approachable but not overly informal, and steeled herself for the ordeal of the day.
‘1, 2, 3, 4...’ she counted down as she turned the handle to her front door.
‘5’. She instantly assaulted by what seemed like a thousand lightening flashes and a wall of humans. A thousand questions came from each direction.
“Miss Nénmacil, are you going to form a government today?”
“What is your response to the accusations leveled at you in this morning’s Fiefdom Pravda?”
“Is it true that you refuse to compromise on the top job?”
And seemingly hundreds more.

Finduilas smiled politely at the reporters, but said nothing. She weaved/pushed her way through the reporters, using every ounce of her will-power to keep her expression pleasant. It was a relief, therefore, that a voice rose above the clamour.
“Come on Comrades, let her through, let her through.”
The voice belonged to Marcus Entwistle, Finduilas’ private secretary, who stood by the open door of the black Zagreb People’s Car that would take the Socialist leader to the Palace of the People for another day of talks with her Communist counterpart. The distance from door to car had only been a few metres, but the sheer volume of people made the task difficult and laborious. She was glad, therefore, to reach the relative comfort of the Zagreb, though having three-doors meant a relatively undignified scramble onto the back seats. Entwistle took the front passenger seat, next to her Finduilas’ usual driver.
“Bloody animals,” cursed Entwistle as the Zagreb’s two-stroke engine assaulted the assembled reporters with a plume of oily smoke for their troubles, “You would have thought that we had a history of gutter press in this country.”
“We do,” said Nénmacil in a voice that sounded more tired than she felt, “the Communist press.”
Short, polite chuckles erupted from the passengers in the car.
The little Zagreb made its way through the winding streets of the White Sector, heading into the drab uniformity of the modern socialist tower blocks that made up most of the capital. It was a journey that depressed Nénmacil, whose elven heritage had always made her appreciate light, grace and beauty over utilitarianism and ugliness. But it was a journey she had to make since, even after elections, you went to the Communists, not they to you.
Parking in a drab inner court, surrounded by the dull grey of prefabricated concrete slabs, the Socialist leader and her secretary made their way into the vast and imposing structure. She found herself directly by the staff into the meeting room of the Political Bureau, which might have been a nice room had it not been so laden with communist propaganda and busts of Lenin, Marx et al. Macmillan was already awaiting her, rising as she entered.
“Miss Nénmacil,” he said extending his hand across the table, “welcome back.”
“Mr. Macmillan,” she said graciously, taking her seat and arranging the papers that she had brought.
“Right,” said Macmillan, “where did we get up to yesterday?”
Macmillan’s deputy as General Secretary, Tlahuixcalpantecuhtli Yolcatl, sat next to him. It had been widely recognized by those involved in politics that Tlahuixcalpantecuhtli had been chosen for his experience and political muscle, two vital ingredients that Trevor Macmillan lacked. As such, the former Minister for Energy had already made his reputation and was free to speak his mind.
“We sorted out the minor jobs,” said Yolcatl, reading through his notes, “so that’s the crappy stuff like fisheries, environment, health. Which leaves us with the big ones.”
“Which are?” asked Macmillan.
“Foreign, Interior, Finance, Defence, State Security, Economic Planning and, of course, Cihuacoatl.”
“Ahh yes, the big ones as you put it. Well, Miss Nénmacil, where do we stand?”
Nénmacil whispered for a moment with Entwistle before answering.

“We’re happy for you to get Defence, since the Constitution does still state that the armed forces are ‘fighting arm of the Communist Party’, a situation we shall have to rectify in the next Soviet. We’d also like State Security.”

“State Security?” bellowed Tlahuixcalpantecuhtli, “You can’t be serious. People voted for us because we have the better track record on security.”

“What you have, Mr. Yolcatl, is a track record in repression. We believe that people would have better faith in the system with a Socialist in charge.”

“Outrageous, utterly outrageous,” said Yolcatl, adding to his disgust by pounding a fist into the table, “I can’t believe I am hearing this.”

“No no Tlahuixcalpantecuhtli, they do have a point,” said Macmillan with a gesture, “What would you be prepared to give for State Security?”

Finduilas thought for a moment. She wasn’t sure if she liked how easily Macmillan had relented on Security.

“Interior?” she hesitated.

“I was thinking of something along the line of….Foreign Affairs.”

“What!” Finduilas could scarcely believe her ears; “You can’t be suggesting Michin keeps his job after Kaitan-Leagran?”

“It is my opinion,” said Macmillan stiffly, “That Comrade Michin is more than qualified for the job, with some years of experience.”

“Experienced at bungling,” interjected Entwistle, “No, no. The party will never accept Michin as Foreign Minister.”

“Well who would you suggest?” said Macmillan.

“We think that Chalchiuitl would be ideal for the task.” Replied the Socialist Leader.

“What!?!,” nigh-screamed Tlahuixcalpantecuhtli, “A former granary clerk? Oh, she’s more than over-qualified. The very idea!”

“No no Miss Nénmacil, I am afraid that we can’t budge on that one.”
More whispers occurred.

“We’ll take Finance, I suppose, but only if Michin is to be forced on us….”

“Which it is.”

“Fine,” said the elf, “Finance and State Security to us, Defence and Foreign to you. That leaves us with…”

“Interior and Economic Planning.” Interrupted Tlahuixcalpantecuhtli.

“Quite,” replied the General Secretary, “Well we’ll take State-Planning for Interior, if you want.”

Nénmacil whispered some more to her secretary. After a few minutes, he rose and left the room.

“We think that should be acceptable, but Marcus will have to check that with the result of the Party’s National Executive.”

“Marvellous,” said the General Secretary with a smile, “Now all that leaves us with is…”

“Cihuacoatl,” interrupted Tlahuixcalpantecuhtli.

“Ahh, yes, the big one.” Said Macmillan, “Well Miss Nénmacil, your thoughts on this?”

“The Party will accept, with all due respect Mr. General Secretary, nothing less than a Socialist Premiership, especially if we are going to yield to the incompetent Michin retaining his job.”

Both Macmillan and Tlahuixcalpantecuhtli exclaimed disappointed/angry sighs.

“Really Miss Nénmacil, you can’t be serious. Yours is the minority party in this alliance.”

“You can’t use that argument, Mr. General Secretary,” said Nénmacil, “The people have yet to realize the yoke, under which they previously toiled, is now gone. I think they voted Communist more out of instinct than critical thinking.”

“That is an outrageous thing to say,” exclaimed Yolcatl, “It almost sounds as though you are suggesting that the voters cannot be trusted.”

“That’s rich, sir, coming from a Party that hasn’t allowed elections in 50 years of power.”

“Please, please, let’s be civil at least,” said Macmillan attempting to soothe already fraught tensions, “Miss Nénmacil, I am not prepared to relinquish the office of Cihuacoatl which, by all rights, belongs to my party.”

“If you ask me,” said Nénmacil as her temper rose, “It is not, and never will, be your Party. It’s your uncle’s.”

“Don’t you dare say a bad word against the Great Helmsman,” said Yolcatl, “He is a better man then you’ll ever be, elf.”

“He’s a tyrant and a murderer who can’t hide his crimes in supposed-beneficent retirement.” Replied the Socialist.

“Miss Nénmacil, please,” said Macmillan again, “Be serious, you have the offer of Deputy Cihuacoatl which is what a person in your position would expect in any other modern democracy, why don’t you take it?”

“Because, Mr. Macmillan, this nation has laboured under Communist dictatorship for too long, it needs a change of leadership and your premiership, in both my opinion and that of my party, is not sufficient change. We’ll work with you but shall never be led by you.”

A silence fell across the room, interrupted only by the sound of Entwistle reentering the room.

“Then,” said Macmillan rising to his feet, “We have nothing more to discuss. Good day to you Miss Nénmacil.”
He said nothing more, just collecting his papers and making his way to the opposite door from which Entwistle had entered. Yolcatl provided an angry glance, as was his wont, but followed his younger superior to the door.

“What did I miss?” asked Entwistle as he surveyed the empty room.

“Nothing, Marcus, that’s the whole problem. Nothing." Came the elf’s reply.

Finduilas Nénmacil sat on her bed and watched the assembled crowd from her bedroom window. It had been a day since the breakdown of talks with Macmillan and the Communists, and Nénmacil had not left her house once. She had sat, and thought, and watched the motley assemblage that had gathered around her home.

Well, motley was really too strong a word. The journalists were still there, milling around and chatting as they do before suddenly leaping into action when the milkman had come and one of the staff put the family cat out. There were also some men from the People’s Police there to maintain a modicum of order, often by leaning against their Zagrebs and drinking tea. But they were now joined by a collection of protesters, mostly Communist, who had taken the Press’ line that the lack of a government fell squarely upon the Socialist Leader’s head. They protested, therefore, against her intransigence, outraged that she should not accept the offer presented to her. Their banners and placards were traditional enough, hammers, sickles and the portrait of Mao (et al), but Finduilas had been alive for long enough to know what they were saying in private. They were no doubt gossiping that this entire event was foreseeable, she was (after all) only a meta. That’s what all these non-human types did, cause confusion and disorder in human society. It was probably the greatest PR campaign the Fascists ever had.

Well Finduilas Nénmacil wouldn’t let that sort of casual racism stand. Elves were supposed to be vain, egotistical and self-centred, regarding humanity like some form of intelligent cattle, to be patronised before being told to run off and play with their toys. She had been resolute that she would show them all that one could be an elf AND a citizen of the Fiefdom. She wouldn’t, couldn’t let people assume that she was just like all the others. She would do her duty, not to her people but to her country. The problem was how to demonstrate this.

“Funny creatures, aren’t they?” said a voice beside her.

Finduilas practically jumped out of her skin as she noticed a tall elven man next standing next to her, with long brown hair and Menelmacari robes.
“Uncle Camthalion,” she exclaimed, “Er, yes, they are funny. Well some of them. Others I am not so sure about.” She narrowed her eyes as she watched the protesters beyond the pane.

One of the problems with living in the family home, grand though it was, was the necessity of sharing it with one’s family. This was especially so with an elven family where…shall we say…older members don’t retire to the celestial bar but take up golf. It was fortunate, therefore, that the House of Nénmacil had not been living in Port Sunlight for very long (only 150 years or so), otherwise the house would have been overflowing with elves.

“Finduilas, you have not left your chamber all day, do I need to ask what is the matter?” asked her uncle.

“No, I don’t suppose you do.” Said his niece in a quiet voice.

“Well, I know something that will cheer you up,” said Camthalion with a mischievous voice. Suddenly, in the street below, a loud bang was heard. The tyre of a police Zagreb suddenly exploded, making the policeman standing next to it leap in the air with a yell, emptying the contents of his mug over another.

For the people in the street, the denotation was more than a little shocking, but for the Socialist Leader it was nothing short of hilarious.

“One of the primary reasons I never moved back to Menelmacar,” said Camthalion with a smile, “is the absence of pneumatic tyres.”

“I didn’t know you could do that,” said Finduilas between giggles.

“I am an elf of many talents,” said her uncle with a smile, “Now, then, what is the matter?”

“It’s this business over the Cihuacoatl.”

“Ahh, that.”

“They,” she said, motioning towards the protesters again, “Think I should accept what I am given, Communist overlordship, and be grateful for it.”

A silence fell across the room.

“Why don’t you?” asked her uncle, finally.

“Why? Why?” said Nénmacil in an angry voice, “Why should I? Why should I be dictated to by another Communist stooge, like we have been for years now? And after everything they have done to us.”

“Is that ‘us’ the Otiacicohans or ‘us’ the elves?”

“Both,” said the elf, “And the entire system is rigged anyway, just look at the article on page 6.”

She pointed towards the copy of the Fiefdom Pravda which lay on the bed. The newspaper rose gracefully from the covers, hovering just before the face of the older elf, magic turning the papers.

“‘Raoul denies Ambassadorial withdrawal from Liberty City’?”

“Below that.”

The elf quickly glanced over the article.

“Oh.”
The article was, to use a nautical term, a shot across the bow of the socialists. Quoting ‘anonymous’ sources at ‘the heart of the Palace of the Peoples’, the journalist outlined the threat that, if an alliance would not be forthcoming in the next few days, the communists would use their retained seats and rule alone. The message was simple, put up or shut up.

“You see?” stated Finduilas, “Completely rigged. They’re only doing this because they like the cosmetics of appearing to be good democrats. It’s hypocrisy on a disgusting scale.”

The Pravda folded itself before gently floating down to the windowsill.

“Tell me niece,” said Camthalion, “Are you familiar with that curious human thing, the casino?”

“Why yes, of course, what does that have to do with anything?”

“You know that casinos are popular things in those places where they are allowed, often attracting people from a wide area.”

“Yes,” said Finduilas, increasingly irritated by her uncle’s flippancy on what was a very serous matter.

“Yet everyone knows that the odds are stacked in the House’s favour, otherwise they would quickly run out of credits, so why do people go along?”

“Because they are addicted to it?”

“For some yes, but I think it has more to do with the fact that, despite the odds, every so often there is the big win.”

“What are you saying?” asked the niece.

“That we live in a casino democracy, dear niece, but that doesn’t mean that you can’t get the big win.”

“I suppose…”

“And, these humans don’t live forever, Finduilas, not even Comrade Hoogaboom. And you could always lay out from the start that you expect a shot at Cihuacoatl one day in the not too distant future. And remember, your concept of ‘the short-term’ is very different from theirs.”

“I suppose…”

“But then, I have always thought that you were far too young for all this.”

“I’m 100 next birthday!” said Nénmacil in tones of not-entirely-mock outrage, “I think that I am more than old enough.”

Camthalion smiled and, turning to leave the room, gave Finduilas a warm smile.

“Prove me wrong Finduilas,” said the elder elf, “For all of us, prove me wrong.”

Voice of the Worker
About Bloody Time!
You would have thought that elections would have made things easier in the Fiefdom. No more having to grease the palm of a corrupt official to get a car, no more checks for membership cards and stuff. But the recent shower of incompetence that has followed over the last week has been, quite frankly, silly. But finally, we have a government after Finduilas Nénmacil of the Otiacicoh Socialist Democratic Party finally agreed to accept the position of Deputy Cihuacoatl under Communist Leader Trevor Macmillan, nephew of the Great Leader.
The reasons for the change of heart are not known, but we at Voice of the Worker don't care, just so long as the political classes finally see sense and do what they were elected for in the first place, running the blooming country!!

[Page 3: Phoar! Princess Ilancueitl is a right-royal eyefull in this little number!]