NationStates Jolt Archive

Salisbury, Republic of West Oceania

Over the mountains to the east of Salisbury, the sun crept upwards into the sky lighting the sleepy township. Under an umbrella of blue, with a steaming mug of tea in hand, Alistair Tetley cracked the double French doors to his large veranda and then slowly nudged them open. From the loose stone walk he could peer into his office and his study and watch his Deputy Chief of Staff waving his arms around with his mouth open wide enough that he could hear the shouting and frantic screaming as he tried to get a handle on the election results trickling out of New Britain and Pax Nova. His Earl Grey warmed his hand that felt cool in the higher elevations. In thirty minutes his armoured sedan would arrive in his circular driveway to take him to the local firehouse for a highly photographed vote. Yet, as the sun climbed ever higher, and as the noise from the city below grew ever louder, Tetley could not help but feel a sight pang of anxiety deep within his chest, gnawing at his heart. The next twenty-four hours were going to be absolutely brutal. And there was nothing he could do about it.

Ilsen, Republic of Rimbaldt

To the north-northwest of Salisbury, on an island off the coast, sat the still sleeping town of Ilsen, where a solitary man paced up and down the soft shores where tiny waves lapped the wet sand that squished up between the man’s toes. Daniel Collins paced because, like his counterpart, his archrival, the leader of the Conservative Party was nervous. Recent polls had shown that while his party had gained significant ground over the past two weeks, very slowly Tetley’s party had been regaining that ground – especially after his relatively strong showing on the national debate, despite its distinct dearth of debating. His aging hands ran quickly through his blond hair while he threw his head back in near primal frustration. Despite the ability to communicate instantly via satellite with a point on the far side of the globe, despite the ability to press a single button and wipe out an entire country, despite the fact that dinners could now be heated by radiation and made edible, man had not yet been able to devise a method to divine the future. And the uncertainty of the race ate Daniel Collins alive.

Quarry’s Crossing, Republic of Bennington

West of Salisbury, to the west-southwest of Ilsen, a small town had grown to be known as Quarry’s Crossing. It was a town that had once been made famous for its bridge linking two rock quarries astride a small creek; and now as the home of the United Kingdom’s sitting Minister of Defence. Daniel Blair blew a soft kiss to his wife for all the press to see as he set about to walk down the road a few kilometers to the meeting house where he would vote for himself and his party. Along with him were several members of the media, of which Blair suspected that only the most athletic would survive the walk with all their equipment.

Mr. Blair, an older man called out, already panting. Why are you walking into town?

Blair just smiled. Because it’s a beautiful day, Harry. Because it’s a beautiful day for democracy.

Across the township of Duckington, Reginald Rowen pressed his thumb for the final time after being prompted on his certainty in his selection of himself and the Conservative Party for the district of Duckington. Outside his booth, his chief aide stood tossing her long brown hair behind her back. Please tell me you voted for the right guy?

Yeah, that Daniel fellow seemed quite proper, don’t you agree?

The two enjoyed a simple laugh before exiting the township’s police headquarters, where they were instantly swarmed by reporters, each of them finding it necessary to thrust their microphones in Rowen’s face. With a dour, yet dapper appearance on Election Day, Rowen gave an uncharacteristic smile at the Molder of Democracies.

Mr. Rowen, are you worried at all about Mr. Blair’s bounce back in the polls overnight?

You know what, Edward, I’m not. The only polls I have any intention of watching are the ones I just came from, the one where I voted for myself. And I firmly believe that the majority of people in this district will vote for me as well with the realization that Mr. Blair is truly the wrong choice for not only Duckington, but for the United Kingdom as well. There is simply no excuse for the number of lives that Mr. Blair lost through his mismanagement of the Novikovian War. And I firmly believe that the people of Duckington are aware of that fact, and they will vote accordingly. But, if you’ll excuse me, I have some more meetings to which I must attend.

Salisbury, Republic of West Oceania

Clever bastard. Robertson muttered to himself, clicking off the television in the process. The Deputy Chief of Staff to the Prime Minister swore under his breath once more, then turned to make sure nobody else heard him.

What’s the problem?

Robertson turned his head completely around and found a short man in a grey suit, with obsidian black buttons aligned in two rows of three down the front of the jacket. Mr. Prime Minister, I apologise, I didn’t know you had returned.

It’s alright, Howard, Tetley replied, finding the coat rack on the back of the door to his private study. He waved Robertson to a seat and opened a refrigerator and offered his staffer a drink, which was refused with a polite wave of the head. So tell me, what’s got you all worked up this early in the morning?

Well, sir, it’s the rest of the party. Frankly, I’m scared that we’re going to lose a lot of good people today.

That’s assuming we even win the election.

Yes, sir, but we need to plan for if we do. And if we do, I fear that too many of your close colleagues will be tarnished with the legacy of the war. Robertson saw the familiar twisting of the facial muscles, the slight scrunching of the brow. Sir, right now it’s Mr. Blair. I think that this Rowen guy is going to pound him and I think that we’re going to be without an MoD when we return to Imperium.

Why?

Well, sir… it was Mr. Blair’s plans that cost us over two hundred thousand people – both civilians and armed service personnel. And two hundred thousand people make for a lot of caskets, and a lot of anger and resentment. Don’t get me wrong, I entirely agree with your policy. The war was the right thing to do. But the things that are best for the country often times come with heavy political prices. And I’m afraid Mr. Blair is going to be one of them. But the larger problem, Mr. Prime Minister, is that if we lose the MoD, we need someone to replace him. We can’t lose that many men and women, sir. We simply can’t afford it… Robertson trailed off into thoughts of his own, visions of political catastrophes that he could be facing in twenty hours or so.

Tetley read the thoughts through the distance of Robertson’s eyes. As he stood up, shaking Robertson from his fears, he patted the loyal aide on the shoulder. It’s alright, Howard. I’ve just been thinking of it this way. For a functioning majority, we only need 373 seats. He watched as Robertson half-smiled for his boss. At least he was trying, Tetley mused. The problem was, Robertson’s fears could very well turn out to be reality.

[TAG because this directly concerns my nation.]
Oh, and nice job.

*subscribes* If you want to tie any of this election-day stuff in with Pacitalia, I'd be delighted to work with you on this.

[ooc: Pacitalia, I sent you a TG because I am interested in bringing something in/together/whatever preposition you choose to use. I just have no real ideas at the moment as I'm still figuring out the breakdown of seats. Oh and the change of font is because as a graphic design major I'm getting quite tired of working with Times New Roman. /ooc]

Queensbury, Republic of Bennington

The city of Queensbury awoke slowly to the partly cloudy skies blowing in off the Azazian Sea. Along Beach Avenue, which ran parallel to the coastline, large banners hung from the ornate street lights, celebrating Election Day through the generic advertisements of each party – the party logo and the faces of those running for Queensbury. The giant palms swayed in the stiff breeze while street bands tuned their instruments readying to play popular tunes all day long. A post-modern high rise fronted Beach, its aquamarine windows normally complementing the colour of the sea on sunny days while the rows of white steel-reinforced concrete mirrored the sands on which students could often be found cutting class and executives and mid-level managers eating extended lunches. But today, as the clouds grew greyer and greyer, Emily Deveraux winced at the articles in the Queensbury Press. Despite her avid campaigning, she was down by five percentage points to Jillian McLeigh. Although technically within the margin of error, Deveraux found the figures far too close for comfort.

The sun rose between the spotty clouds to the east and the urban scene glued to the horizon. Deveraux meanwhile fixed her breakfast, a bowl of cereal and a large pot of tea, while opening the window. The blasts of trumpets and horns to staccato palm muting of amplified guitars reverberated off the skin of her building, and while Deveraux cared more for the fine culture to be found in classical European music, she sincerely enjoyed the laid back atmosphere, the chill attitude exuded by the city of Queensbury.

Relatively small by UK standards, Queensbury boasted a modest population of some sixteen million crammed into a small stretch of white-sand coastline along the northern shores of New Australia. Split in half by the Maurice River, the town had grown up as a layover point for the ships that hugged the coast of the largest island in the country as the Maurice River nearly split the length of the northern coast in half. As ships grew larger, and navigators became more confident of sailing across the deeps and more distant shallows of the sea, Queensbury became more and more famous for its role as a shipping centre for the diamonds mined just upriver at Calne. With the diamond trade came the wealth and the upper class who demanded more luxuries from the city, and so the city became one of the cultural centres of the nation with beautiful skyscrapers serving as sacrifices to the gods of capitalism while the poor pressed their musical, lyrical, and artistic talents on the city streets that all lead to the white sands that made the city home to numerous resort hotels. Having suffered very little during the war as the city served no true military or political purposes, there was little left to rebuild, and so Deveraux listened to the street bands playing their tunes celebrating the musicians’ freedom to play all along Beach despite the impending inclement weather.

But inside, as Deveraux listened, she slipped into a tight-fitting pair of blue jeans and a modest, cream-coloured cashmere top. She wore her hair up in a bun, held together by an off-white pen that complemented her top and the fragile flats she slipped on while finishing her tea. Into her pockets she pushed an ultra-thin mobile phone while her keys and wallet went into her beige clutch. With a final glance at the mirror, making sure her light makeup and lipstick were properly applied, she opened the door to find her single bodyguard waiting. Get the car, Martin. It’s time to go vote.

Port Hamptonshire, Republic of New Ireland

To the far north of Queensbury, a much colder city stood ready to vote. Port Hamptonshire had developed into the leading industrial and commercial port of the English republics in the northern isles. While Regal retained some degree of importance, the lower taxes in Port Hamptonshire had steadily wooed businesses and their profit-craving owners and shareholders to the nearest port that did not require ice breakers. The city benefited from a west to east flow of warm Pacific waters, some of which found itself diverted into the Hampton Straits, keeping the harbour free of ice and allowing shipping all year round with assistance. At some point during the city’s long history an Arab trader had made the port city his home, he had joined a rather large population of immigrants that continued to grow leaving the city with the largest proportion of Arab descendants of all the major cities in the UK. Yet this particular Arab had found an English lady far more attractive than his own culture’s best offerings and over time the interracial marriages brought a man of an olive complexion, with dark black hair and deep brown eyes into the world. Standing neither particularly tall, nor particularly short, the man had the gift of charisma and intelligence which had led to his position as representative of the Democratic Socialists for the mainly Arab voting district 03 in Port Hamptonshire, a city that housed over thirty-five million citizens. Now, Iain Bashir smiled, dressed in a silk, collarless black shirt, black khaki pants and black sunglasses while exiting his voting booth. Bashir found himself fortunate in that his opponent had been forced to drop out of the race for personal indiscretions that had found their way into the national spotlight, and discredited the Conservative Party in the city. With the vote all but locked in, Bashir belonged to one of group of few Democratic Socialists who could count an easy victory in their “To Do List” for Election Day.

Deep down, Bashir empathized with the Socialist Revolutionary Party, also known locally as the Pro-Russia Party for their evolution into an extremely nationalistic party, with their demand for greater respect and even autonomy for the racial minorities that still faced segregation despite changes to the legal statues and even civil wars to promote integration. However, Bashir also saw that the SRP was on its way out as they increasingly found their politics intertwined with the DSP. He had met their leader, Ivan Guryev, many times in Imperium over lunch and tea. The two had discussed the future of Azazian politics, as this was to be Guryev’s last term in Parliament. The two shared the same vision for the SRP, its eventual absorption by the DSP. Consequently, Bashir had remained loyal to the DSP despite differences with the party leadership that had come to a head earlier this month in speaking out against the Prime Minister. His only hope was that the speech, which had saved him – politically speaking – in his own district, had not made him an enemy of Tetley and Whiting, the Prime Minister and Deputy Prime Minister respectively.

With a final wave, he climbed into his hybrid automobile and tapped the driver on the shoulder. Take me home, Rashid. Noiselessly, and seemingly without effort, the small vehicle, lightly armoured by Bashir’s own expense account, accelerated down the city street, headed for the expressway that would take him home to his lakefront estate where he would sit and watch the daylong coverage on the cable news networks. First, he dug his mobile phone out of his pocket and entered the second number on speed dial. Good morning, Victoria, how are you and the kids?

They’re toddlers, Iain. They’re pure hell. Anyways, I just got them off to daycare and I’m on my way up to your place. I take it you got done voting?

Indeed. The local press got some photos, I didn’t see any national news media.

You’re a non-story, Iain. You have the election locked up. The story is what happens after this disaster.

I take it that the polls aren’t going all too well?

They’ve only been open three hours in the east, but early indicators are that the DSP is going to lose quite a few seats. Conservative seems to be picking them up.

Bloody hell…

Exactly, which is why I’ll meet you at your home in twenty.

Thanks, Victoria, see you soon. Bashir snapped the flip-phone shut, disconnecting him from the cell. If his chief of staff was correct, the desired 373 seats were going to be a problem.

Regal, Republic of New Russia

Damnit, Ivan, what the hell are you doing?

In the office of the leader of the Socialist Revolutionary Party, the embodiment of the classic archetype of the wise old sage leaned back into his deep, worn leather chair, tapping his golden cane against the side of his thick, heavy wooden desk. Through his thick coke-bottle glasses he eyed the contemptuous youth before him in his modern cut black suit, its black tie, and his black slicked-back hair. The feud between the old guard and younger generation had been building for months now, the culmination of the conflict having occurred last night. In a televised address to the predominantly Russian republics, the old man had taken to the air waves calling for his supporters to vote for the Democratic Socialists and to abandon the new politics of the man sitting before him.

For his part, Vladimir Velchenko had played the morning session quite calmly. Through his icy blue eyes Velchenko stared down the much smaller man who led the party in nothing but name. His defection earlier this morning, after the polls had opened in New Britain, had begun to spell an early disaster for the SRP in the pre-vote polls that had been scrambled together by overnight staffers at various news outlets. The old man had gone almost immediately home, refusing to answer the throngs of phone calls before returning to his office through screaming, jeering crowds that went so far as to hurl bottles and rotten fruits at the feeble old man, hunched over in a tweed suit that would now be permanently stained. Yet, waiting outside his office was Velchenko, the likely successor to Guryev after this coming term – if the old man even survived that long.

I am doing what is best for this party, and this nation, Vladimir.

This nation, Ivan? Have you forgotten the definition of the word nation? A group of people that share a common culture. Last I checked, we did not share a common culture with those elitist English pigs in New Britain. Hell, we don’t even share the same wallets anymore. And as for the party, you’re going to hand it a major defeat as your loyal supporters listen to your every word. Just tell me why, Ivan. Why the hell did you do that?

It’s really quite simple, Vladimir, Guryev responded in an almost grandfather-like tone. This party is dying despite your zealous claims to the contrary. The last time I saw results where we represented more than twenty percent of Parliament was over fifteen years ago, Vladimir. We’ve been in decline ever since then. Year after year, term after term, the Democratic Socialists – for the most part – incorporate more and more of our truest doctrines. And yet you claim the gulf between us widens more every day?

Because it does, Ivan. Look at New Russia, we are losing more jobs than we can create – and the annexation of our cousins in Novikov won’t help us any because… simply look at their GDP, it’s a mess, Ivan. They’re going to steal our jobs and leave us in the dirt while the English-owned corporations bathe in the profits. Ivan, our culture is slipping away and if we sit here and let it happen there will be nothing less but empty shells of cities and broken families addicted to vodka and drugs. And I will not sit idly by and let you let this happen.

And what exactly do you propose to do about it, Vladimir. I’ve already made my announcement not that long ago and people are just now showing up at the polls. Your precious party is now in disarray with people now leaving for work and appointments they will all be out of reach of you and your cronies. Believe it or not, but on rare occasion we of the older generation can sometimes… how do you say it… own you when it comes to politics. You may be the next leader of the SRP, but right now, you are my deputy, Vladimir. And it is not the other way around. And I am doing what I deem best for the party, the people, and the nation as a whole. Your own personal cares be damned. Now if you will excuse me, I have some phone calls to make.

Velchenko nodded, glaring at his immediate superior, not ready to accept the fact that he had in fact been beaten by an old man. With a slight nod of his head, he conceded defeat and decided it the better part of valour to allow the old man one of his final moments in the sun. As he pushed his tall frame up and out of the chair with his long, toned arms, he simply watched as Guryev pulled out a phone from inside one of his desk drawers – waiting to dial until Velchenko shut the door soundly behind him.

Salisbury, Republic of West Oceania

Robertson rubbed his smooth, bald head, running numbers and figures in his head. It was now one hour past noon in West Oceania, making it two past in New Britain and half of Pax Nova. The polls would be open for another six hours there, seven in Salisbury and Breningrad, and even more out in the largely Conservative and SRP western republics. Glancing at a map, Robertson intuitively knew that the best shot for any majority for the DSP would lay in victories in the east, where ideas such as decentralization, segregation, and nationalization of industry played very poorly among the largely wealthy populace. Out west, however, where the minority populations tended to gather, the platform of the Conservatives held a lot more power, and in the northwest the SRP maintained its firm lead over the Russian districts. However, in the past two hours a speech by Ivan Guryev had perhaps changed all that, although polls had yet to do any serious business that far away and it was doubtful the true extent of his speech would be known for many hours yet.

In the interim, however, Guryev had apparently called the Prime Minister to inform him personally of his implicit change of hat. Now, Robertson sat outside the bedroom of his boss waiting to brief him on the latest numbers out of New Britain and Pax Nova. Shortly after Guryev’s call was received, Robertson had spoken to Tobias Heath, the Chief of Staff, who had remained in Imperium in order to allow the PM to better run the government. With the Conservatives running Arthur Kent in Salisbury, where he had surprisingly picked up steam ahead of the polls opening this morning, Tetley had neither the time nor even the slightest inclination to return to Imperium to manage the affairs of state as he needed to make sure he would be returning on a far more permanent basis. Alas, Robertson had moved to Salisbury with the Prime Minister and some of the more junior staff while most of the senior staff remained at the Citadel taking care of the job of babysitting in the PM’s absence.

Finally, the door swung open revealing the short Prime Minister, who tossed Robertson the mobile phone. Good news, Howard, Ivan thinks that enough of his constituents will vote for us.

That’s good, Mr. Prime Minister, if he can really be trusted. Because frankly, we’re getting our ass kicked in Pax Nova and here in West Oceania.

But didn’t we expect that? After all the Breningrad area got hammered by Novikovian raids… far too many good people died in that war. And my friends have to pay the price. Listen to me ramble, my apologies, Howard. What were you saying?

Well, it looks like Collins is a shoe-in in Ilsen, and so far exit polls indicate that Dr. Jackson will be safe in Islington. Whiting, Blair, Deveraux, and Hastings, however, all remain on the rocks with the first three showing less than fifty and Hastings only slightly above at 50.7% of vote so far. Even if we win, if those four are gone, there goes your Deputy PM, your Minister of Defence, of Foreign Affairs, and of Agriculture. We’re going to need to start drafting a short list of replacements for each.

Earl’s out?

Well, it’s too soon to tell for sure, sir; however, Deputy Prime Minister Whiting appears to be losing to Angela Hayden.

She’s the one who lost both sons during the war, right?

Yes, sir.

Damn. The Conservatives can mop the floor with us on that issue.

Yes, sir, they can. We just have to hope that the public bought our version of events.

Indeed, Howard. But who can we start looking at for Foreign Affairs?

Ilsen, Republic of Rimbaldt

Daniel Collins sipped a cup of coffee, a rare treat given his preference for tea – but the greater amount of caffeine would serve him far better tonight as he compiled reports from across the UK. As the clock now ticked past five in Rimbaldt, he could be certain that in Salisbury, the Prime Minister was waiting with baited breath. The Azazian Broadcasting Network was reporting that Arthur Kent and the Prime Minister were in a statistical dead heat, one that would likely come down to mere dozens of votes in the small township. Meanwhile, his own election was all but complete with his DSP opponent thoroughly trounced, as widely predicted. Also, as predicted, Collins sat watching district after district switch allegiance from the DSP to the Conservatives, although, he remarked, in fairness the DSP was managing to hold its own for the most part. The larger candidates were taking a beating, as witnessed by Whiting, Blair, Deveraux, and Hastings. With significant portions of the east falling to the Conservatives, his position looked better and better.

Quietly, he took out a little black, leather bound journal and skimmed through a short list of names. He had had his chief of staff prepare a list of potential deputy PMs as well as critical MoFA and MoD leaders who he could call upon later tonight. Yet, his only real concern remained in the northwest as that bastard Guryev’s call to switch allegiance might be having a noticeable effect – although like anywhere out west, it was still too early to tell. This was the closest election that Collins ever remembered, and he had seen quite a few close ones in the past. With the exception of Juristan and the Andaman and Nicobar Islands, the whole of the west would normally find itself in Collins’ hands or the hands of Guryev and Velchenko. But with those two unable to keep the peace between themselves…

Salisbury, Republic of West Oceania

Alistair Tetley drummed his fingers along the cold metallic rim of the table, each finger falling in step behind the previous, the cascading effect soothing to the man, who in his mid-forties still managed to keep some of his brown hair despite the stress of the elections. Across from him, Howard Robertson sat, wringing his hands together and then running them over his smooth bald head The two had brought a television to the small auxiliary office where they had setup a plastic folding table, a roughly textured grey table with stainless steel rims. In silence the men listened, waiting for the news to break as the great grandfather clock in the main foyer slowly chimed its way through each deep, bone-numbing clang to the local hour of eight past noon. The queues were now closing, and voting in the eastern half of Bennington was coming to a close.

Quarry’s Crossing, Republic of Bennington

Daniel Blair stood in front of his large screen television, his wife clinging delicately to his right arm while child slept in the playpen in the corner. The Blair also managed to be watching the same channel as Tetley and Robertson, waiting anxiously for the announcements – which came far sooner, and more reliably than that of the official information given the candidates’ aides. The two had spent the day watching television before going out for a nice long dinner at a close friend’s restaurant near the summit of Mt. Bailey. With a sweeping view of the plains and rolling grasslands stretching far to the south, a landscape permanently scarred by hyper-urban development, the two had discussed everything but politics for the first time in weeks. And now there was nothing but silence between the two.

Meanwhile, across town, Reginald Rowen paced his bedroom floor while April Carlson sat on the edge of the bed. Rowen turned the whole of his lanky frame and stared at Carlson, who sat mesmerized by the glowing pixilated light of the box sitting flush against the wall. April, how’d I do?

I don’t know yet, Reg. Duckington has been too close to call all day.

That’s not news, it’s been like that all over the republics, at least here in the east. But I need to know.

Well, I’m sorry, but you’re going to have to wait.

Rowen rubbed his forehead, not able to fathom how so many politicians had gone through this for thousands of years. Then again, not all politicians ran such tight races as this. The United Kingdom was apparently not that united in its politics anymore, Rowen thought. A near fifty-fifty split meant the country was deeply divided, and that did not sit well with anyone anywhere.

Queensbury, Republic of Bennington

Among those people was Emily Deveraux, the late twenty-something (for she never let her age of 28 be publicly known, despite its general knowledge through birth certificates and alike) Minister of Foreign Affairs sipped a cup of steaming herbal tea at her small kitchen table, watching the television on the granite countertop. She had truly been fortunate, having been the protégé of one of the United Kingdom’s greater foreign ministers, a man who had hand-picked her out of the whole field of MPs to recommend to Alistair Tetley for the position of MoFA. And yet now it was in jeopardy. She understood why, of course, as did everyone else in DSP. Tetley’s war had been extremely unpopular and the Conservatives were playing the whole affair as if the responsibility lay not only on the shoulder of the Prime Minister, but his entire cabinet. Even if the DSP won the majority once more, the cabinet officers would be out on the street plunging the DSP into chaos with nobody left to lead the party. She sipped her tea. Collins was bloody smart.

Salisbury, Republic of West Oceania

This is it, sir. Robertson pointed to the screen while Tetley poured the two some water. The Deputy Chief of Staff picked up the remote and turned the volume up, allowing the voices of the too-attractive-for-reality anchors to sound throughout the room.

[i]Now, at 20:30 in Breningrad, we have the results for several of the more contested races in the eastern portions of the United Kingdom. At this time, we are ready to announce that in the race between Deputy Prime Minister Earl Whiting and challenger Robert Houghton will go, to Conservative Robert Houghton 52% to 47%. In the race between Minister of Foreign Affairs Emily Deveraux and Conservative Jillian McLeigh, the indicators are that Ms. Deveraux regained her early lead and took the race 53% to 45%. In the race between Minister of Defence Daniel Blair and challenger Reginald Rowen, our numbers indicate that Mr. Blair lost the election to Rowen’s surprising 62% against Blair’s own polling of 33%. In other close races, particularly between Jennifer Connelly and Adrian Malvo…

Tetley, with great care, placed his glass of water quietly on the table, the only sound of ice clinking being drowned out by reports on numerous other races in Bennington, New Britain, Rimbaldt, Pax Nova, and West Oceania. Damnit, Howard. This isn’t good. This isn’t good at all.

No, sir. It’s not. We’ve lost Deputy PM, Defence, Agriculture, and Transportation. We’re fortunate that we kept Emily, sir. She was supposed to lose.

Tetley turned around to face the television, the harbinger of the death of his administration. And we can now predict a winner in the township of Salisbury. With 98% of the vote tabulated, challenger Arthur Kent has a total of 484,835 votes while incumbent Prime Minister Alistair Tetley has a total of 485,162 votes – giving the Prime Minister a victory in his own district. Of course, nationally, the Democratic Socialist Party has apparently lost its governing majority while the Conservatives appearing to be polling rather strongly. The determining factor of how dominant the Conservative victory, which we are now predicting, will come when the polls in the northwest, Juristan, and the Andaman and Nicobar Islands close and those results are calculated.

However, as a synopsis for all those just turning in at now 21:00 Breningrad time, Prime Minister Alistair Tetley has won his district, and so has his Minister of Foreign Affairs. Unfortunately for the DSP – and fortunately for the Conservatives – the Ministers of Defence, Agriculture, and Transportation have all been voted out of Parliament. Additionally, the long time friend and political ally of the Prime Minister, Deputy Prime Minister Earl Whiting, has also lost his reelection bid. Currently, national results are showing a Conservative lead with 142 seats to the Democratic Socialists’ 136 with the newly formed Centre Party taking a commanding third with 44 seats in the new Parliament. Other parties of importance, including the Socialist Revolutionary Party, are polling slightly worse than predicted. The Green Party and the Communist Party both appear to be doing better than expected due to the new electoral format, however the SRP appears to be losing seats in the northwest, although polls are hours from closing. Additionally, the Christian Democrats are down from anticipated results, currently sitting at only 20 seats in Parliament. The current break down comes as follows. Tetley muted the programme once more as the screen displayed a graphic, the familiar arc of Parliament’s seating arrangement with running totals of the votes sitting below the colour coded image.

With 54% of the Vote Counted:
Conservative Party: 142
Democratic Socialist Party: 136
Centre: 44
Socialist Revolutionary Party: 38
Christian Democratic Party: 20
Green Party: 13
Communist Party: 10

Regal, Republic of New Russia

The sun had now long ago set on this side of the nation, and in the cold night air, an air that chilled men to their bare bones, Ivan Guryev gathered his belongings from his office and secured a warm fur hat on his head. The city of Regal was situated so that its deep harbour was the only true way out of the city, the other three sides blocked by massive mountains – made more navigable by rail and automobile tunnels, but nonetheless difficult to transgress. Now, at the front of the slate and granite headquarters for the Socialist Revolutionary Party, Ivan Guryev stood wondering how many more times he would dare enter this place, for he had committed treason against the party for which he had worked his entire life. The cold air from the heights of the mountains swept through the city streets, which had all but become deserted in the waning hours of Election Day. In the distance, the city bell chimed slowly with Guryev pausing to count each of the eight chimes. For now, the elections were over, the polls closing earlier in Juristan and the Andaman and Nicobar republics than in the last Russian republics.

All day long, Guryev had attempted to ignore the mass hysteria, but signs and posters and littered placards occupied the streets as hollow vestiges of those who had proudly born their signs but mere hours ago. Since, they had all returned sullen to their homes and apartments, each dimly aware of the staggering loss Guryev had engineered. Along his walk home, he found a solitary café open along 33rd Street, where he went in and removed his black fur cap and unbuttoned his jacket. An obese man, slovenly looking with crumbs and stains all along the front of his apron and the mess of matted hair on his face, approached Guryev. What can I get you, traitor?

Just a cup of coffee, thank you. The old politician watched the man carefully, smiling once he had finished pouring the cup without any additional ingredients. Dropped on the counter, the proprietor forked over a few containers of cream and a few packs of sugar, which the frail old man gathered slowly in his weakening hands whose skin ran taught but sagged in that older-generation way. With a solemn nod, Guryev fixed his coffee, mostly black but with a trace of cream and sugar, before buttressing himself once more against the cold. He flipped the tab on the plastic lid, and poured some of the steaming contents down his throat. The simple pleasures of life made it all worth living. And those were his last thoughts on life.

Salisbury, Republic of West Oceania

This is a joke, Howard. Please, tell me this is a joke.

I wish I could, Mr. Prime Minister. But it’s not.

Assassinated? On Election Day?

Yeah. Howard Robertson sighed. I know.

Alistair Tetley shook his head, vague memories of the man who had been his friend in Parliament flashed through his mind. The last time he had seen the statesman in person was the closing session of Parliament, when he had taken the time to limp over to Tetley’s seat and wish him luck. And now, he lay dead on the streets of Regal. A gunshot wound to the head. He was a good man, Howard. One of the few honest politicians left.

Yeah… There’s going to be hell to pay in Imperium.

There’s going to be hell to pay across the Kingdom. Are the final votes in?

Um, the networks are set to broadcast them very shortly. So if you will follow me, Mr. Prime Minister, we’ll get you seated and ready for some interviews.

Interviews? How in the bloody hell do I get ready for interviews on election results I don’t even know?

I don’t know, sir. But it’s what we do.

Azazian Broadcasting Network: You Decide 2005!

Good evening, everyone, I’m Marcy Tostler and welcome to our continuing coverage of this year’s general elections. The big news so far today has been the massive defeats handed to the Democratic Socialist Party with several key portfolio holders being voted out of office in response to the Novikovian War. Earlier this evening, we confirmed that Earl Whiting, Daniel Blair, Seamus Hastings, and Rita Carlotti all were kicked out of office. They were, in order, the Deputy Prime Minister, the Minister of Defence, the Minister of Agriculture, and the Minister of Transportation. Retaining their seats in Parliament were Prime Minister Alistair Tetley, who weathered the fierce competition from his challenger Arthur Kent, and Minister of Foreign Affairs Emily Deveraux, who beat off Jillian McLeigh. Also interesting was – excuse me, we are now receiving word of the final vote tabulations for this year’s elections. And this is what we’re looking at… The voice trailed off as staffers rushed to fill in a template for the final poll numbers.

The Next Parliament of the United Kingdom

Democratic Socialist Party: 260 seats
Conservative Party: 245 seats
Centre Party: 78 seats
Socialist Revolutionary Party: 56 seats
Christian Democratic Party: 51 seats
Green Party: 35 seats
Communist Party: 19 seats

Now, the only problem with the current figures is that the two main parties are, for the first time in several years, with sufficient members to rule with their own majority. We have in fact seen the DSP drop from 452 seats to a comparatively small 260 while the Conservatives went up from 187 to 245. Yet, with the number of seats necessary for a ruling majority set at 373 seats, no party looks to walk away with a clear cut victory tonight. In fact, it is entirely possible that His Majesty will need to dissolve Parliament once more and call for a new round of elections if a coalition government cannot be formed. In some respects, tonight has been a minor miracle for the Tetley campaign because they have staved off defeat by fighting to almost a draw in the elections. For further analysis, we turn to political analyst Adam Corolla.

Thank you, Marcy.

Adam, what happened today?

A few things, Marcy. One of the more important factors, one that we could not truly anticipate, was the new MMP system, which allowed for a greater degree of representation in Parliament by effectively opening the system up to numerous new parties. The best example of this impact is the Centre Party, a moderate party that had up until now been forced to run only in regional elections never having been able to secure enough votes for a national election. Tonight, however, they seem set to play a major role in a new government with 78 seats in Parliament. At the same time, these new seats drained away many of the seats from the older political parties, namely the DSP and the Conservatives – two parties that had taken their bases for granted. In fact, what we saw were massive defections from traditional geographic party strongholds.

What do you mean, Adam?

I’ll put it this way. In large swaths of the east, the DSP had always set to win elections, while in the west the Conservatives reigned supreme with the only true third viable party, the Socialist Revolutionaries, maintaining their solid grasp on the northwest. Today, however, many high level party officials of the DSP were replaced by Conservatives in the East – we need only to look at Deputy Prime Minister Whiting and Minister of Defence Blair for examples. Meanwhile, in the west, the more socially conservative values played up by the Conservative Party forced the still progressive populations to vote for the new Centre Party in addition to the Green Party. In the northwest, a small speech by the late Ivan Guryev seemed unimportant around midday with the politician calling for his supporters to vote for the DSP. And in another odd twist of events, just that happened and the party dropped from 95 seats down to 56, the most of the rest making up for some of the heavy losses suffered by the DSP in places like Bennington, West Oceania, and New Britain.

So we know how fractured the country is, but how does this help us figure out the political future for Parliament?

Coalition government, Marcy. True, the United Kingdom has never before been ruled by a leading party with so few votes – but there always has to be a first time for everything. Anyways, the Centre Party stand to gain a significant amount from this being they are the largest swing bloc in Parliament at the moment. For the most part, we can be certain that the SRP and Christian Democrats will ally with the Conservatives while the Greens and Communists fall in line with the DSP. With these numbers, the left-of-centre parties, the DSP, Greens, and Communists, stand with around 314 seats. With the Centre Party they push that number up to 392, far enough above the 373 benchmark to govern rather effectively. On the other side of the aisle are the right-of-centre parties, who have a total of 347 seats. They too need the Centre Party, but not as desperately as the left-of-centre parties, and they may not be as inclined to offer the Centrists as many positions and concessions as the DSP-led coalition. But I should point out that these coalitions are only likely, as no real coalitions have ever been in fact agree upon outside of the now-defunct DSP-SRP alliance, which was not even truly necessary by the sheer domination the DSP held over Parliament. It’s going to be an interesting few days to see exactly how things shape up. But keep in mind, they only have a week in which to set the House of Commons in order before His Majesty can dissolve Parliament once more.

Artega, Republic of Bennington

Even to James Orvath, the elections had come as a complete surprise. Orvath had founded the Centre Party amidst the year’s turbulent and troubled political landscape, not expecting more than a few seats, guaranteeing his party a taste of representation in the national Parliament. However, as the elections came nearer and nearer, he found his ranks swelled by disillusioned members of the main political parties – disillusioned members who brought serious capital for serious campaigning. Practically overnight, Orvath’s little party had become a major player in Parliament. And it was all by sheer chance and luck. Although he would never admit that to the press.

In his party’s headquarters in the port city of Artega, Orvath had been planning the dispatch of no more than fifteen to twenty individuals to Imperium, although now on his mind were likely cabinet level posts for a few individuals while seventy-eight found themselves going to Parliament. Even now, as his secretary talked into the phone, his life was far, far busier than he had ever anticipated. Sir, the old woman called out, the Prime Minister is on Line 1.

Thank you, Elizabeth. Orvath pushed the small door shut and walked the few steps over to his desk, where he picked up the receiver and toggled the lines. Mr. Prime Minister, it’s an honour to speak with you. Congratulations on defeating Mr. Kent, an odd show by Mr. Collins. But, what can I do for you?

Thank you for the kind words, Mr. Orvath. I’m calling to discuss the potential for an alliance between our two parties to form a governing coalition in Parliament. The citizenry of this great country voted today, giving our two parties the highest and third-highest vote totals – which to me signals a clear mandate to lead this nation jointly. Now I won’t beat around the bush because I’m sure you need to entertain proposals from Mr. Collins, but I think it best we get to the heart of this matter. You and I both know that I lost a good number of people from my cabinet today, and if you were to join the DSP in a coalition, a significant number of those positions could be filled from your own ranks.

An enticing offer, Mr. Prime Minister, but I’m not looking to send my men and women to your Cabinet meetings while holding the post of Minister of Art and Culture. To be frank, sir, without my party’s support you can take your mandate to His Majesty’s Loyal Opposition because only my party can put you over the edge now. So what exactly are you offering?

I must confess, Mr. Orvath, bluntness has never been my rhetorical forte, however, I applaud your sensibilities in hitting the nail on the head, so to speak. In the current caretaker government I have an extremely qualified and well-liked Minister of Foreign Affairs, and if at all possible I’d prefer to keep her in that portfolio. However, there are numerous other openings, especially at Defence. Exactly how many openings were you looking to take?

Orvath allowed himself a smile at the sheer blatancy of the Prime Minister’s need for a coalition. Never before had he ever heard of Alistair Tetley asking for help from others, especially from other political parties. Yet here, on the other end of the phone line, the Prime Minister was asking Orvath for aid. Finally, Orvath scribbled a number on his pad. I was thinking along the lines of six positions, Mr. Prime Minister.

That’s almost half my cabinet.

A cabinet you won’t have if not for my party.

And what about the Green Party and the Communist Party? How are we supposed to apportion positions to them with the Centre taking so many already. I propose direct representation, Mr. Orvath. With you in the coalition, we’re talking 392 seats for our coalition, 78 of which belong to the Centre Party. I say we take that percentage and allot your party that many seats in my cabinet.

To deny the importance of my party?

No, Mr. Orvath. What I propose is that your party take the higher ranks as Green and the Communists have agreed to posts of lesser seniority such as Environmental Affairs, Trade and Industry, and Health Affairs. While I retain the position of Prime Minister, and my colleague Emily Deveraux that of Foreign Minister, what about your party selecting its own candidates for Defence, Deputy PM, Education, and Transportation?

It’s an intriguing proposal, Mr. Prime Minister. I’ll call you back in an hour or so to let you know my decision.

I thank you for your time, Mr. Orvath.

Salisbury, Republic of West Oceania

Alistair Tetley rubbed his dry hands over his mouth and chin, squeezing his eyes shut in painful deliberation of his dwindling options. His last cabinet had been staffed entirely by members of the Democratic Socialist Party, he had of course some 450 seats in Parliament. Now that had been reduced by just under 200 – leaving him with the necessity to form a coalition or find a role in His Majesty’s Loyal Opposition. And that was not a particularly enviable situation. He picked up the small telephone in his office in order to find his personal aide. Geoffrey, I was wondering if you could have the kitchen send a pot of tea to my office. Thank you.

Suddenly, his office seemed like a prison. In fact, the entire world of politics seemed like a prison from which there was no escape except through death for even when he retired his party would hound him and use him for all the fundraising they could. But for now, he simply wanted to stay as Prime Minister. Where he could have some real influence on the cell block life.

Salisbury, Republic of West Oceania

The hour stretched into the limits of forever, all the while Alistair Tetley simply sipped his tea and tried to read reports from Imperium faxed over by his Chief of Staff. Little appeared to be happening outside of the arrival of an envoy from Largent who had been dispatched to discuss the new Treasury of the Imperial Confederacy, which was to be built in Caliz in an attempt to infuse some life into the economy of the western republics. The weekly reports had also arrived from the new colony of Atlantis where the shipment and unloading of basic supplies continued under the guard of the Royal Navy and Marines. Economic growth continued to be strong with a recent UN report classifying the UK within the top 650 nations in the world – despite claims to the contrary from the Conservative Party. How he could have used that report mere days ago. Most pressing, however, were riots breaking out in Grozny, one of the industrial centres of Novikov. Azazian forces had cordoned off the city in an attempt to stifle the flow of men and material into and out of the city of nearly twenty million or so. Nonetheless, satellite imagery provided scenes of horror with massive riots and buildings that had managed to survive the war found themselves engulfed in the flames of insurgency. Yet, with his own future uncertain, there was little time for these matters while awaiting the call from Mr. Orvath of the Centre Party.

In the hall outside of his office, Tetley could hear his Deputy Chief of Staff answering his mobile phone through his patently irritating ring tone. He waited until the bald head appeared in the door frame. What is it, Howard?

Orvath’s chief of staff. He wants to know if we’d be willing to negotiate on the positions in Cabinet.

What does he want?

Robertson took the time to uncover the phone and step into Tetley’s office, repeating the question and listening for the answer – a slight frown forming. Finally, he replaced his hand over the phone. They don’t particularly care for Education. They want Foreign and Interior Affairs.

Tetley simply shook his head. If he gave up the deputy premiership, foreign affairs, defence, and interior affairs there’d be little point in even maintaining the office of Prime Minister. If nothing else, Tetley had to give Orvath credit for his excessive demands; for he knew how weak the DSP truly was in this situation.

Offer him this, Howard: the DSP will retain the posts of Foreign and Interior Affairs in addition to Education. Orvath can get Defence, Transportation, the Deputy PM, and he can appoint the Chancellor of the Exchequer.

Sir?

Tell him it’s the best he’s going to get. For he damn well knows it’s the best he’ll get from either Collins or myself. Tetley watched, although only half in earnest, while his staffer relayed the message. Only half because Tetley knew the outcome before Robertson pumped his fist in the air. For all intents and purposes, the Democratic Socialists were yielding control of the budget over to their coalition partners.

Azazian Broadcasting Network

Thank you for joining us this afternoon, I’m Marcy Tostler, and at half-past thirteen, here’s Rhonda Dickinson with your headlines.

Thank you, Marcy. Our top story this afternoon is of course the discussions held over the past few days concerning the coalition government that will lead Parliament come next week. ABN can now confirm a rumour spread earlier this morning that the Centre Party has agreed to form a left-of-centre coalition government with the Democratic Socialists, Greens, and Communists to bring about a majority of 392 seats in Parliament. Although the Citadel has yet to release the full details of the agreement, ABN has learned that several key positions once held by Prime Minister Tetley’s closest political allies shall be handed over to the Centre Party. Other major stories we’re following are the announcement that the United Kingdom’s heavy manufacturing industry remains among the top in the world despite its continual decline, this according to a United Nations report released earlier this morning. The United Kingdom has dispatched Lord Melbourne of the House of Lords to meet with oil company executives in Rotovia concerning the United Nations’ proposal to ban the production and consumption of petroleum in its member states. While the UK does not belong to the United Nations, the Citadel released a statement explaining how the UK has several allies in the UN and this meeting will allow the Prime Minister to formulate a plan on how to best aid them should the resolution be enforced. And those are the major headlines in the United Kingdom today, now back to youm Marcy.

Thanks, Rhonda. Continuing with our coverage of the deal cementing a coalition between the Democratic Socialists and the Centre Party, here is Chief Citadel Correspondent Rudolph Mays.

Thank you, Marcy. This morning, we received vague rumours that a tentative deal had been reached between Prime Minister Tetley and James Orvath, leader of the Centre Party, which would create a governing majority in Parliament. The deal comes as a certain blow to the Conservative Party, which had been hoping that the Centre Party – formed mainly by dissidents from the DSP – would naturally side against its paternal political party and sign a deal establishing Daniel Collins as the new Prime Minister. This was not to be the case. Sources inside the negotiations have said that the chief opposition to any deal with the Conservative Party was the likelihood that many of the DSP’s social and economic programmes would be rolled back to jumpstart reconstruction and rebuilding throughout the United Kingdom.

Instead, after receiving a reportedly significant offer from the Prime Minister, Mr. Orvath agreed in principle to form a coalition government – a deal which was formally signed in a small ceremony earlier this afternoon. Scheduled for later tonight is a press conference to be jointly held by the Prime Minister and Mr. Orvath as to the exact makeup of the new cabinet. However, ABN has learned that the Centre Party will be given the posts of Deputy Prime Minister, Ministers of Defence and Transportation, and most importantly the Centre Party will select an individual to serve as Chancellor of the Exchequer. Effectively, the deal will position the Centre Party highly in the new government as it will maintain the second, third, and fifth most important seats in the new government. According to sources within the Tetley administration, remaining in place as Minister of Foreign Affairs will be recently re-elected Emily Deveraux.

Beyond the post of Foreign Affairs and Prime Minister, little is known about who will hold the portfolio for each position as the popular incumbent Minister of Trade and Industry, Dr. Garret Jackson, will have his place taken over by the Communist Party’s sole representative. Rounding out the new coalition government will be the Green Party, which saw a modest rise in its national polling numbers that will give them two seats in the cabinet: that of Minister of Health Affairs, and of Environmental Affairs. This is Rudolph Mays, reporting live for ABN from the Citadel.

Breningrad International Airport

Six hours after midnight, the sun had yet to rise over the mountains and the strait that split New Australia from New Britain despite the softening and warming of the dark blue skies to the east. With a slight cold front passing through overnight, Alistair Tetley kept warm by wearing a black wool peacoat overtop his suit for the day, itself a fine silken suit: black in alternating bands of slightly lighter and darker shades creating an illusory effect of quasi-pinstripes while one of the long lapels boasted a small pin in the design of the flag of the United Kingdom. Through his wire-framed dark sunglasses, Tetley swung open the door from his armoured sedan, smiling to those diehard supporters who had gathered behind the ropes to see their representative board a small twin-engine executive aircraft bearing the seal of the Office of the Prime Minister. Turning around to face the crowd, Tetley waved once more and lifted his arms into the air, celebrating his victory for his constituents one last time in his hometown.

In a second sedan, though still somewhat conspicuous, Howard Robertson held a small mobile phone tight against his ear. Dressed in a grey suit with a powder-blue tie, Robertson also wore a black peacoat – although one far rattier and more worn than that of the Prime Minister. I understand, Tobias, I’m just trying to say that the speech ought to be short out of respect… No, I do understand, but the King’s will be short, and we need to make Orvath and company seem welcome in the new government… Of course I’ve tried talking to him, but you know how obstinate he can get… Yeah… Yeah… Yeah, it’s one of those kinds of days… No, I don’t blame him either, I’m just saying we should have a different speech ready. Just try to talk to him when we land, I doubt he’ll listen but it’s worth a shot… Alright, you too. See you in a little bit. With a loud snap, Robertson closed the lid to his flip phone and slid it quickly into his left pocket.

With much less fanfare than his boss, Robertson opened the door to his sedan and met briefly with the head of the airport security detail confirming the plans for departure before running up the few steps into the body of the aircraft, a body decorated with wood trim and stainless steel fixtures and leather seats in front of a small sound-proofed office at the rear of the plane for the Prime Minister where the door was opening and the leader of the United Kingdom’s government stood waving Robertson inside, who quickly took a seat opposite the lightweight desk of the PM.

So what is the exact schedule, Howard?

Well, Mr. Prime Minister, we are to arrive at Emperor’s Field within an hour, after which we will drive by motorcade to Newcastle where we will rendezvous with His Majesty’s Royal Motorcade, which will take us to Imperium where we will stay outside the chamber for the House of Lords listening to his short speech, after which we return to the House of Commons and you present your inaugural speech.

In other words, an all day affair.

Yes, sir. It is, after all, the State Opening of Parliament after an election.

Office of the Prime Minister
Imperium, Republic of New Britain

I know that Andrew, but do you really want us to add this to the speech?... I know your party is the lynchpin to this government… I understand… Andrew, I am simply trying to say that the proposal is not likely to meet with the support of the Prime Minister, and either way it needs to be run by him before he signs off on the speech. Now what else is there? Chief of Staff Tobias Heath snapped his fingers, grabbing the attention of his waiting secretary, then signaling he needed a pen and a pad. I can tell you for sure that the Prime Minister will not mention any sort of scaling down of operations in Novikov. Have you seen the latest reports from Grozny? It’s an absolute mess down there… No, I did not mean it in that sense. I simply meant that… No, Andrew, just be quiet and listen. The Prime Minister will not pull out of Novikov because to do so now would mean that all those men and women literally died for nothing. If we leave now, their government will pass legislation punishing us and our interests because of their raw, unabated anger towards us. We need to have patience and stick with it until they Novikovians become fully acclimated… I know that. But you must have known that the Prime Minister will not back down from the annexation. Heath nodded as the secretary placed the pad and paper on the desk in front of him, where he scribbled a few notes out before raising his finger to hold the secretary a moment longer. Can I do anything else for you, Andrew? I have to get these last minute updates out of my office and through communications if they’re to get to Newcastle in time… Alright then. Thank you, Andrew. I’ll be seeing you later today… Until then.

Heath carefully placed the phone back on the hook. That man is a prick. Just because Orvath joined with us isn’t reason enough to shift the DSP’s agenda to the Centre’s agenda. I’m sorry, Janet, I didn’t mean to rant. I just hate that man. Anyway, I need you to get these off to Howard immediately. Heath opened one of his drawers and pulled out a fried tzatlian from its plastic wrapping. A sweet and spicy fruit, the tzatlian was native to the Home Islands, in particular southeastern Vetraz and northwestern New Australia, and had become a popular dish in the centuries since colonization. Heath knew that the snack was absolutely awful for his health – but the damn thing tasted so good. While savouring the flavor, he managed to mutter a single swear because Andrew Needermeyer had become a most non-royal, royal pain in the ass by simply being the chief of staff to the leader of the largest partner of the DSP’s in this new coalition. And suddenly, the Centre Party had to keep getting its way. Their latest proposals included cutting welfare spending by nearly 8% in order to make up for the lost revenue from damage inflicted by the war, despite this running in obvious opposition to the Prime Minister’s plan to increase some social welfare spending to assist those who were hurt by the very same war. And then of course was the always contentious issue of the war itself; and more specifically how to resolve the conflict outside of stating “annexation, annexation!” An idea that apparently did not sit very well with Orvath and the rest of the Centre Party.

The trick for today, of course, was balancing the politics with the formal traditions, however, even those were likely to change today if the rumours were true. And so while Heath sat, nibbling on the fried fruit and reviewing military deployments to the new colonies in the Pacific that would serve the economic interests of the United Kingdom, he began to image the scene at Parliament House, where the Royal Guards, His Majesty’s most elite unit in the armed services, were likely beginning their official sweep of the grounds. Meanwhile, the Crown Jewels were probably on their way from Newcastle down to Imperium, where they would be awaiting His Majesty in the Robe Room, where King Michael I would don His royal attire before heading over to the Chamber of the House of Lords to deliver the Speech from the Throne.

Tobias? Heath turned around to see one of his secretaries standing wrapped around the frame of the door with her head and upper torso in his office.

Yeah, what can I do for you, Janet?

The Royal Governor of Port Elizabeth is on Line 2.

[i]Thanks, Janet.

Newcastle, Republic of New Britain

With lavish tapestries hanging from the wall, the sitting room of the Crown reached towards the heavens with its immensely high, vaulted ceiling framed by original masonry. The original candle lighting had all since been replaced by electricity, but the massive chandeliers and light fixtures all remained the same on the exterior. At the center of the room was a semi-circle arrangement of leather chairs headed by a more massive chair adorned with gold-leaf globes at the ends, in which sat King Michael I, facing Prime Minister Tetley and Howard Robertson.

Gentlemen, the King began in a quiet, whisper-like voice. Our time here is brief and I need you to know some things before we go to Imperium and I speak to Parliament.

Of course, Your Majesty.

My time left on this throne is rapidly approaching an end, gentlemen. And I fear that given the current political and social instability I’ve been observing will be the gasoline to which my successor will be he spark. As if on cue, the young monarch, barely thirty years of age, doubled over in a fit of coughing, the white carpet becoming stained with flecks of red and yellow. As you can undoubtedly see, my illness is becoming far more difficult to conceal – even in these orchestrated meetings. For that reason, I will be speaking only briefly today. I need you to deliver the heart of the message, Alistair.

It would be an honour, Your Majesty. Is there anything I can do, Your Majesty?

I’m afraid not; and I’m afraid the news gets worse. Andrew is, as you know, my uncle and next in line to the throne after I die. It seems, Alistair, that our lack of success with women since the university will plague this whole nation. The King allowed himself a wry smile and a quiet laugh, quiet only so as to not to aggravate his sensitive throat and lungs. Seriously, though, I’m sure you are well aware that Andrew is not so fond of your limiting monarchial powers by the zealous work of Parliament. Furthermore, given that there is no truly definitive constitution for the United Kingdom, he could very well be entitled to reduce the powers of Parliament and increase those of the throne. And while we disagreed upon the exact balance of those powers, Alistair, you know just as well as I do that Andrew would be far, far worse. We’re speaking about an overthrow of democracy.

Your Majesty, Robertson interjected, if I may be so bold, why not appoint Edward as your successor as he is next after Andrew, and a younger cousin. Sure, the public knows almost nothing about him, but how bad can he be?

Nobody sees my Uncle Edward because he suffers from Downs Syndrome, Howard. And above all else, I am the sovereign of this land, and I will not put a mentally handicapped individual on the throne after a child-cripple who barely survives into his thirties. The nation needs a strong monarch, and that monarch is Andrew. But Andrew will also attempt to subvert democracy unless you take proactive steps to counter his royal proclamations.

A loud knock on the door disturbed the somber meeting, a Royal Guard dressed in the ornate and archaic fashion held the door open with his pike. Your Majesty, Your motorcade awaits.

Thank you, Paul. King Michael turned to his university-era friend. Alistair, I’m letting you know of this because I respect what you’ve done and I’d rather not see it all come unraveled in the near paralysis of your coming term. I’m aware of the problems this Orvath is giving you, and if you’d like I can speak to him of this matter as well and make it clear to him that he needs to give consent to any legislation you propose that codifies Parliamentary powers.

Thank you, Your Majesty. However, I think for now that Mr. Orvath will be willing to go along with such legislation in return for something or other. Now, enough of this talk, we have pomp and circumstance awaiting us down in Imperium

Parliament House
Imperium, Republic of New Britain

The motorcade came to a slow halt, the procession of black sedans, limousines and SUVs forming a semi-circle into which the limousine carrying the King and the Prime Minister drove. With tiny decorative flags of the Royal Crown at the corners of the vehicle, Alistair Tetley looked out of his tinted window to the giant pole on which the flag of the United Kingdom flapped in the stiff breeze. With a loud trumpet blast, the door to the limo swung open initiating a slow, quiet beating of the assembled drums of the Royal Marine Band. Alistair took his musical cue and exited from his side of the vehicle, walking slowly around the front of the limousine while the drums sped up, ever so slowly.

Finally, Tetley reached the side door, behind which sat the King. With a final pull, he opened the door and then knelt beside the red carpet which stretched from the door to the majestic entrance of glass and stone harkening back to an era of architectural grandeur despite the post-modern feel of the remainder of the building.

A loud blast from the trumpets soared over the gathering of press and nobles. As the first heavenly calls to God to save our gracious King His Majesty stepped out of the vehicle to a fluttering of trumpets. A smile and a timid wave followed itself by a call for long life, after which the King began to make his painfully slow way towards the raised entrance. Behind him, Tetley rose and fell in line behind the sovereign, after Tetley, the House of Lords. With swells and crescendos from the trumpets Michael I made his way into the Royal Entrance before retiring to his private Robe Room. Along the aisle the Prime Minister and House of Lords continued onwards to the large hall for the Lords. Along the way, Tetley stepped away, headed for the House of Commons, to beckon his colleagues to hear the words of their Sovereign.

Tetley knocked once on the heavy doors, His Majesty Michael I requests your presence outside the House of Lords Spiritual and Temporal. The doors slowly opened themselves to Tetley and the cameras behind him. Inside was the whole of the newly elected Parliament. Despite their great political and ideological differences, they stood together on the floor before the Prime Minister.

Then we shall attend in due time. came the response from the Speaker of the House of Commons.

Very well then. Carry on.

The House of Lords slowly assembled, with each noble and church leader taking their place while the Upper Gallery filled with notable guests and a few members of the civilian population. In the balconies flanking the hall, large curtains swung open, revealing a full orchestra from the Royal Marines with an older woman standing in a simple white gown behind a gold-leaf decorated podium. A smatter of conversation echoed in the great hall while the House of Commons slowly entered their own balcony above the hall from where they could view the Throne.

Alistair Tetley watched the proceedings and took roll of the House of Commons, registering only the Speaker of the House of Commons absent – the traditional symbol of an independent Parliament. Tetley closed his little book of names and proceeded towards the Robe Room, where with one knock he found his identity questioned. It is I, Your Majesty, Alistair Tetley, Your Prime Minister. I have come to inform You that Your Subjects await You in the House of Lords Spiritual and Temporal. Tetley received his dismissal and proceeded back to the hall where he took his seat in the front row, reserved for the Prime Minister ever since the man occupying the post had begun to come from the House of Commons.

Beginning ever so quietly, the string section ran their bows over their strings before flutes, fiddles, trumpets added to the rising crescendo with flutters ascending and descending the scales until at the doors stood Michael I, in a royal purple robe, crowned in gold carrying a scepter of precious gems from across the islands. As he entered the beautiful voice of the woman in the white gown carried down towards the hall while the orchestra played the tune of Rule Britannia.

The first lyrics flowed down upon the ears of the assembled.

When Azazia first at Heav’n’s command
Arose from Poseidon’s reign
This was the rule of the island
Given us when the angels sang to proclaim

Rule, Azazia! Azazia, rule the waves!
Azazians never will be slaves!

King Michael I smiled, listening to the lyrics of the refrain, enjoying the seemingly divine mandate he had to rule – all the while knowing he could do nothing but speak a few words in his crippled state. All the while he walked slowly, but firmly through sheer concentration, towards the most uncomfortable seat in the whole of the nation, his own Throne. He half listened to remembrances of when loud blasts tore the sky. Finally, he took his seat while the trumpets began to blare their loudest, beginning their final crescendo while the drums rolled towards the magnificent end. Leaving King Michael I surrounded by a growing chorus of cheers and huzzahs as the music faded away.

With a slight tremble, barely noticeable on television, His Majesty Michael I retrieved a small piece of paper, then crumpled it in his hand and threw it at the floor before the sitting Parliament.

My Lords and Members of the House of Commons,

This glorious day I shall break with tradition and open Parliament not with a reading of that which My Government will do, or even what it ought to do, but to caution you, to warn you of the dangerous ground upon which you all now tread.

Despite My conspicuous absence from Imperium I have been carefully watching the events unfolding over the past few months – and not just this past deadly war. I refer instead to the food riots, the race riots, and now, the abominable assassination of a serving Member of the House of Commons, a dear friend of Mine, the Honourable Ivan Guryev.

This is supposed to be a United Kingdom; but if that is so, why do I see nothing but divisions leading to violence and chaos. This Parliament exists to mediate and resolve these disputes, no matter how significant, how minute they may appear to be.

To the citizens of this great country, your hatreds, your disagreements on policies, my citizens, these should all be solved here in this building by your representatives and not by your own hands with your own sense of justice and fairness. This United Kingdom must exist under the rule of law, not under the chaos of anarchy.

Parliament must serve as an arbiter and mediator that shapes the change demanded by the people. If not for your steady hand, this country will quickly collapse into warring fractious alliances that would seek the elimination of the other non-consenting parties. And that is something I will not allow to happen while I sit on this throne.

And so My Government will seek to resolve the disputes that threaten this United Kingdom if nothing else is to be accomplished.

My Lords and Members of the House of Commons,

I pray that the blessing of Almighty God may rest upon your counsels.

Having finished, the King rose quite suddenly despite a now visible tremble and signaled for the orchestra to begin. In a hurried fashion, the orchestra and the white-gowned woman began a rendition of God Save the King while the robed monarch strode out of the hall as quickly as possible.

From his own seat, Alistair Tetley placed his hand over his mouth and chin and rubbed his goatee very slowly. His own speechwriters had prepared the words laying in a ball on the floor, and yet the King had felt it necessary to disregard decades of tradition to speak of the dangers besetting the United Kingdom. Perhaps, just perhaps it was something he could run with himself.

Only hours ago, Alistair Tetley had listened to an ad hoc speech by the King of the United Kingdom in lieu of the traditional outlining of Parliament’s policies for the coming year. Now, Tetley sat in his office at the Parliament House reviewing the draft of his prepared speech, a speech upon which a pen had spilled its red blood as Tetley frantically wrote notes on a legal pad on his desk. Rubbing his temples, Tetley looked up to find an aide to bring him some tea, only he found his Chief of Staff staring at the red-stained pages in his hand.

And what is that, Mr. Prime Minister?

Ah, would you care to review my own speech, Tobias?

I think I should, sir, especially since you are to be giving it in, oh ten minutes.

Plenty of time. That’s plenty of time. Tetley handed the legal pad over to his colleague and long-time friend. I felt inspired by the King’s speech, and his guts to give a speech on the fly, a speech of that caliber given his… given his condition.

Well, I think your tone is all wrong, sir. These points are very… well negative to be honest, sir. This is going to scare the bejesus out of the people.

As well it should, Tobias. Hell, I’m scared of the months to come. I had a talk with the King earlier today, Howard was in on it too, he’ll confirm this, but His Majesty coughed up blood and flat out told the two of us his end is near and that Prince Andrew will take the throne.

Andrew? He’s a consummate dictatorial, tyrannical monarchist. Why doesn’t he appoint… what’s his name, the other uncle?

Because that uncle has Downs Syndrome, and would you really want a child cripple who manages to survive into his thirties to be succeeded by a mentally handicapped individual?

Wow, I didn’t know that.

Neither did I. Yeah, so I need to scare the bejesus – as you so eloquently put it – out of the people so that we can get some real reforms done in Parliament before Andrew ascends to the throne and diminishes our power to nothing more than a rubber stamp.

Well, sir. It sounds like these coming weeks or months will be as fun as ever.

Tetley smiled, enjoying the moment of lightheartedness that Heath had brought to the wholly serious moment. Yet, with a sudden knock the end of that moment came far too soon. Tetley frowned while Heath moved to open the door, revealing a nameless aide from the Speaker of the House of Commons.

Mr. Prime Minister, they’re ready for you on the floor.

Thank you. I’ll be right along. Tetley waited until the aide shut the door and left before standing. He gathered his legal pad and placed it inside a far nicer looking folder and smiled at his friend, who now stood holding the door. It certainly is a day for unplanned speeches, is it not?

It most certainly is, Mr. Prime Minister. The two walked in silence down the short hall linking Tetley’s office to the main entrance for the House of Commons. In front of the door, Howard Robertson stood with the remainder of the Prime Minister’s staff. Howard took a step forward and thrust his hand out for the Prime Minister to shake.

Knock ‘em dead, sir.

Why thank you, Howard, although I think if I knocked them all dead I’d have very few people left to govern. The group laughed while the guards opened the door to the House of Commons, wherein the Sergeant at Arms moved into the hall shouting the arrival of the Prime Minister. Tetley started walking out before turning to his staff. Well, folks, I suppose the die now is truly cast.

THE SPEECH (http://forums.jolt.co.uk/showthread.php?t=446266)

[ooc: in a moment, I will be posting the link to the independent thread that will host the second inaugural address of PM Tetley. That thread will be the place to make any formal responses either congratulating or bitching about the new government, not that you can't respond here, but it would make more sense to do so after the first speech of the new term. /ooc]