NOVEL NEXT Chapter 36: A Popular Enemy
"Let's have it your way, then," Jirani said, smiling bitterly at the Saltillan Intelligence Underapparatchik. "I will be honest: I don't much care if Crowley had lost one or a hundred brigades, but several concerning issues are raised by the way things have played out on the battlefield. This world is important to the Democracy for its resources, and Saltilla doubly so by virtue of the Transportation Gate; I'm no admirer of Sisyphean endeavors, you understand, and if our efforts are constantly going to be derailed by a bunch of your esoteric plans, Marja and I might as well cut and leave right now."
"My good friend, that is a situation we are hoping to avoid, most definitely, and I'm sure you have… good, personal reasons for being here, which it would be in no one's interests to derail," the Intelligence Apparatchik, Alan Grimmersby, said, sighing deeply and bobbing his head as he did so in order to show the utmost sincerity. Jirani paused ritualistically, turning to regard Alan and bowing his own head slightly. Many things passed between Jirani and Alan, things much too hidden for Marja to discern.
"We were sent here—on the Protectorate's request, I remind you—to secure the Protectorate's position on Desert," Jirani said, "and we can only discharge our duties if we have information that is accurate enough to navigate the political realities facing us. You understand, I hope?"
"Yes, I thank you for putting all that so clearly. In the end, we're all on the same side," Sen responded, smiling wide enough to show teeth, and it was clear that Alan, who was sitting between Sen and Jirani, could not agree more with the sentiment.
"The same side?" Phyllis interjected, narrowing his eyes, and Marja fought the urge to roll her eyes. She was sure the dossier had explained that the Protectorate's higher positions tended to be exclusive to Silvers—but for a Silver (if that was what he was), Phyllis hadn't seemed to have mastered the art of reading the room.
"Sen, we mustn't be too precipitate," Phyllis said. Then, turning to Marja, he continued: "I'd heard your second did not survive LR. You understand this means we had to hold back on submitting your Lebensraum complaint to the Tellus Arbitration Court."
Marja was gritting her teeth beneath her lips, but otherwise kept her expression under control. Gone were the days that she could make use of the Mentzer name to push her way through; it wouldn't be politic to fall back into old habits.
It was Alan who responded on behalf of Marja, his composure so measured and calm that it made a stark contrast to Phyllis' tensing facial muscles: "That's a small matter, Phyllis, not something to get too concerned about. I'm sure Marja will have no issue finding another second. Jirani, Marja—let me know if we can do anything, anything at all, to help. We maintain a pool of compliant Ash-grade personalities for just this sort of situation, and I trust there should be no problem setting up more meetings with your kin. As Sen said, we're all on the same side."
As he concluded, Alan shot a meaningful glance at Phyllis.
"Couldn't have put it better myself," Richard nodded, taking his cue from Alan. "Marja, all the essential paperwork is completed and we stand ready to submit the complaint once we have an affidavit that is properly seconded."
It interested Marja to see such a youthful-featured man as Alan control his powerful relatives with so much facility. She supposed it wasn't completely out of the realm of possibility that his face was a prosthetic, and that he was in fact much older than he appeared. These days the technology was advanced enough that you couldn't really tell.
"... That… will be in order," Marja said, smiling politely. "Alan, we may have to take you up on that offer regarding the second."
"Excellent. And though my opinion on war must matter very little, I hear you—I hear your problems, I commiserate with the internal difficulties you have grappled with even as you faced our alien enemy. Regarding LTC Pilix, I will have an internal memo sent to you explaining the situation. I'll have to run it by Saul first, of course, but it'll get to you sometime tomorrow. Just remember it's an internal memo. Completely unofficial," Alan returned Marja's smile with an expression that was expansive and warm.
The solar lights without the tall window were in the process of dimming from the apex golds of the Saltillan day. Hues of pink were creeping into the tones of orange and yellow, and the living room began to be filled with mellow colors streamed from hanging bulbs, the slow crescendo in light-intensity calibrated to so utterly match the change in color-constitution that it created an effect that was a wonder to discern and a little mystical. It was the sublimation, Marja had no doubt, of some expert light-artist's incredible artistry.
"Great. We were diverted a little, but now that we have that out of the way we should move on to the other no less pressing matter," Alan said. "To this long and tortured relationship we share with the Jegorichians we can add new information uncovered by our ICPD agents—the Investigating of Corrupt Practices Division is a division of my Intelligence Bureau—new information relating to such funding of the Gimma Ashby as are traceable to Jegorich-domiciled sources.
"Essentially, a substantial portion of the Gimma Ashby's funding is attributable to interest groups who solicit for charitable corporate donations—this we have known for some months now—and by our efforts we have more recently linked such corporations to notable Jegorichians, including but not limited to the Jegorich Mayor himself, Attika Detlev-Alquarismi. Our Legal Division just yesterday confirmed that we have probative evidence linking Jegorichians of high repute to the Gimma Ashby."
"Interesting. The Jegorichians are giving you a taste of your own medicine," Jirani smirked.
"Ha ha! Let's not get too far with that," Alan chortled, grinning back at Jirani.
Marja frowned. Considering how much trouble the Gimma Ashby was giving Saltilla, it was a wonder that the Saltillan bureaucracy hadn't already acted on the evidence. Unless… "Something is stopping you from taking this straight to the judiciary?"
Alan, still grinning, turned his attention to Marja, then gave a single nod.
Sen cleared his throat softly, and Alan permitted him to respond to Marja's question: "Indeed, you have hit the nail on the head. The main issue can be broken down into three points. Firstly, a matter such as this which implicates the fundamental cohesion of the Protectorate must be submitted to the Central Court, the highest court of the land, for its consideration. A Judge of the Peace will be appointed to decide on all procedural matters before the substantive case goes to trial before a bench comprising three Judges of the Peace.
"Secondly, appointment matters are always decided by the Chiefjudge of the Peace, with the current acting Chiefjudge being one Buscho Oqanun. You can tell, I think, why that will be a problem—in all his twenty years of service, Chiefjudge Oqanun has not once let notions of impartiality override his primary loyalty to Jegorich, the city of his birth, which also happens to be where the bulk of his economic interests lie.
"Thirdly, there is the thorny and technical matter of how exactly we would bring a complaint to the Central Court. You see, a case like this would normally be brought on behalf of the Protectorate by the Home Affairs Apparatchik, but a similar issue obtains in that case as in the judiciary—the current acting Home Affairs Apparatchik is one Bilal Kradir, also a Jegorichian. There are several Saltillans, including Alan, who serve as Apparatchiks and who might be able to claim locus standi, but the key problem is that the Permanent Apparatchik Borak Kelokeril, the Protectorate's top bureaucrat, well, there you have a Jegorichian again who is all too ready to use this as an excuse to hamstring Saltilla's ascendancy."
"You're saying that you're stuck," Marja remarked. "Is there no way that the Central Court can help you?"
"Not exactly. We have our ways, but we need time. That's where you and Jirani come in. Time is what we need your help for," Sen said, looking out the window and realizing that the daylight was slowly fading. "We at Intelligence are exploring bringing a complaint on behalf of Saltilla, but the most immediate issue is that this would require the sign-off of the Saltillan Office of the Ombudsman, an organ that essentially serves as our vestigial city-state legislature. But things are not so simple, because the Saltilla Ombudsman, Megaman Sturtevant, is… well what else can I say but that he's a Saltillan through and through and that he prizes his independence over all else."
"That Ombudsman is indeed a strange one," Richard volunteered, and Sen, Alan and the Saltillan Home Affairs Underapparatchik Tenton Jorges-Ross nodded in deep agreement. "It is very difficult to do him justice, but I can say this at least: he's someone who cannot be bought. He is partial only to his own systems and procedures, and if you don't play by his rules, he can make life very difficult."
"Yes… unfortunately, Phyllis here has already gotten on his bad side," Sen sighed. "If you recall that Mr. Sturtevant had been against sending the Allied Forces against Liberation's Reach and instead advocated for retaking Arroyo. The Protectorate soldiers officially came under Phyllis' authority, in his capacity as Marshal-in-Saltilla, when they reached the Saltilla garrison, and by delegating control of the Protectorate soldiers to Marja, in her capacity as Deputy Marshal, he indirectly signed-off on the LR op. You might imagine this did not sit well with the old grump."
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"Hah!" Jirani snorted. "I remember him—that's the guy who went onto the Ayish-Zhabo radio interview to say… what was it? To say he agreed with your President that the Allied Forces should march against Arroyo."
"You do, do you?" Phyllis managed bitterly. "You also remember saying that you agreed with him?"
"My good friend," Jirani mocked, echoing Alan's words, "have you been keeping up at all? We're supposed to be on the same side now."
A vein pulsed thickly on Phyllis' temple, but the Marshal otherwise held his tongue, and Marja wondered if Richard had his hand on Phyllis' knee under the table.
Jirani continued: "Now, I think this Ombudsman ought to leave military matters to military men. What's he doing anyway, commenting from the safety of his goddamn office and making this some kind of public talking-point? Don't you have laws against these sorta things?"
"... It is in fact Mr. Sturtevant's job to comment on anything that might be of public concern," Sen returned, speaking slowly and deliberately. "That is what the law says has priority over the separation of powers and functions."
"My God is that a recipe for disaster. Can you people not see that that's the kind of thing contributing to this spaghetti setup?" Jirani exasperated.
"You know, I seem to recall that President Hallstead is himself a Saltillan. Can't he do anything about all this?" Marja commented quickly so that Phyllis, his anger cresting again, did not have an opportunity to respond to Jirani.
Two seconds of silence. Marja was starting to feel rather uncomfortable and dirty in her inner suit and raincoat, and was experiencing a sudden and compulsive urge to undergo a thorough body-cleansing. An image of her stripping right then and there entered and would not leave her mind. Patience. Good things come to those who are patient.
"He's… not on our side," Sen said simply, taking on an apologetic expression. "A shame, but nothing we can do about it——Saltillans are a fractious lot."
"Hrnh. That is what it seems," Jirani said. "Your Jegorichian friends seem to find cooperating with each other much easier. Have you ever wondered about that?"
"Maybe they have better personalities," Alan chuckled.
Ignoring their asides, Sen continued: "Many things are happening and we need time to work out the kinks with Mr. Sturtevant as well as arrange a challenge to the appointment procedure for Judges of the Peace. Ultimately, we are certain it can be done, but the Gimma Ashby situation is giving us very little breathing space."
"Okay, so you need time," Marja said. "To get it, you've opted to lockdown the whole city, which is seeming a little drastic without more context. We met Director Moore on our way here, Alan, and he hinted at the supposedly ballooning Gimma Ashby popularity. But the Agave protests he informed us about—ten thousand strong, Director Moore said—that doesn't actually seem like such a big thing in a city of five million."
"Twenty-five million," Richard said.
"Sorry?" Marja raised an eyebrow, meeting Jirani's gaze. The old man didn't seem the least bit surprised.
"Official census puts Saltilla's population at five million, but the real figure is closer to twenty-five. We don't keep proper records of those who live in the Nook—what they call the area of living space between Saltilla's inner and outer wall," Richard explained.
"Let us not get ahead of ourselves, calling it living space. Living conditions in the Nook are quite a bit less than satisfactory for the majority of the population living there. You see how something like the Gimma Ashby has the potential to turn nuclear," Alan said. "Director Moore is right. Even if it's only ten thousand out of twenty-five million, we're on high alert because there's been a build up of too much flammable material. I suspect that Saltilla is only holding on by virtue of the mass-compulsion-matrices, and I understand from Director Moore there are some serious weaknesses to its overuse. You must forgive me—I understand that it is a Democratic method, the mass-compulsion-matrix, but our own research is quite clear that it has certain defects in application."
"You would be right," Jirani said.
"You know, this wouldn't be such a problem if the Nooksters weren't so habituated to filth and laziness—"
"Phyllis, that's enough of that," Alan snapped, and Phyllis fell instantly into silence. "Those ideas have little to do with the exact quandary we find ourselves facing, and it is always important to keep a handle on our prejudices. Tenton, if you would please give us a summary on the Gimma Ashby situation?"
"Certainly," Tenton said. Up until now the Saltillan Home Affairs Underapparatchik had not spoken a single word; at Alan's command, he launched without ado into an explication of the key points concerning Saltillan Home Affairs' recently promulgated executive order.
"I will start by saying… that it is a fact that the Gimma Ashby has been getting traction. Our best trend-models have thrown up estimates of between one and three million 'supporters', five and seven million 'interested parties' and ten to eighteen million 'have a strong opinion'. It has also been estimated that about ninety-nine percent or more Gimma Ashby 'supporters' hail from the Nook. Time series analysis suggests a marked upward trend in Gimma Ashby popularity in both Nook and official populations. 'Supporter' and 'interested parties' populations are growing.
"There appear to be three main prongs to the Gimma Ashby's program. They primarily attack the severe social stratification of Saltillan society according to socio-economic status, a political position which has always been popular with the Saltillan majority. Because socio-economic status has always been bound up with one's Incunabulum grade, and because pursuant to the currently standing Requisition Order Saltilla practices conscription of all individuals of White grade or lower, we see the most trenchant reaction to Gimma Ashby's criticism of the 'wealth gap' elicited from individuals of White grade or lower. If you recall the mass turn-out during the launch of the LR op—that's the population which the Gimma Ashby targets: the middle- and lower-class population who are to old to be subject to conscription. A large portion of these work in city infrastructure and are members of the Central Union. This might also include significant numbers of Primary and Bronze grades, but we cannot be sure of the numbers at this juncture.
"Secondly, the Gimma Ashby advocates for a 'return to tradition'. There are a not insubstantial number of Saltillans who believe themselves descended of the Ayish-Bejana, specifically the Sul tribe—"
"That was in the Infoments," Marja interjected. "There is a famous myth that a Soollehman Kilohkrill splintered from his tribe and charted northward to settle here some eight hundred years ago, isn't it?"
"Yes, that is quite correct, but allow me to finish, Marja," Tenton returned flatly. "This idea of 'return to tradition' is really just a vehicle to excite popular support against the so-called 'upper-class fadsters' whom the Gimma Ashby supporters label as self-abnegating chasers of Democratic culture and trends. It's an idea that had caught on some years ago and has since proved very difficult to shake. Interestingly, a substantial number of Gimma Ashby supporters consider themselves also supporters of the Democracy, and in these cases they consider the fadsters to be mere worshippers of a 'Democratic aesthetic' and therefore only 'false supporters'.
"Finally and of much more recent import, there is a feminist tilt to the group's recent surge in popularity, in large part due to the advocacy of an old and influential 'independent' group which calls themselves the Feminist Disquisitions and which publishes a magazine under the same name. This is, incidentally, also one of the interest groups funded by Jegorich-domiciled entities. The gist of their argument is that the conscription of both men and women is unfair, given that the patriarchal society continues to expect women to bear most of the burden of household chores and child-rearing, and given that the Protectorate has, unlike many other Frontier polities, seen fit to outlaw male-womb-prostheses. In riding the 'return to tradition' wave, the Feminist Disquisitions consider the Bejana-Sul to have 'vastly more equitable practices' which prize an equal split in familial duties between male and female roles."
Marja blinked with the onset of a sudden edification relating to Alan Grimmersby's fashionably-dressed maid, Marsha. There were reasons why Marsha had treated her so badly, and these reasons were probably coded in Saltillan Feminism.
Sen had already gone on to discuss more recent events: "Two TAF-days ago, Central Saltillan Police received a tip-off that the Gimma Ashby was planning a shuttle-march slated to start at the State University. The so-called 'March For Equity' would take the Main Road down toward the Saltila Gates and then turn back across the Main Road to end at the Agave. We knew that this was planned for today, but we didn't know exactly how many participants there would be.
"There was another tip-off early yesterday. Turns out it was to be thirty-thousand strong, three times the size of the Agave protests. Either the Gimma Ashby had over the course of the month tripled their supporters amongst the official population, or they were sneaking Nooksters through to the main city by some unknown means. I needn't belabor the fact that either possibility carries concerning implications.
"In any case the priority was to stop the March For Equity before it began. Given the sensitive state which Saltilla is in, it was assessed by our Intelligence colleagues that a forcible shut-down of the March in full public view would be politically untenable. Hence the executive order promulgated early this morning. Pursuant to this order we've locked down the key areas of the city and have successfully prevented the March For Equity."
"You seem quite sure that it is a success," commented Jirani.
"We achieved the objective," Tenton insisted.
"Then what do you need us for?" Jirani inquired.
"We achieved the immediate objective, but we cannot ensure the security of Saltilla without the authority vested in both of you—both Jirani and Marja—as Golden grades, and in Jirani's case, as a high-ranking officer of the Democracy," Tenton said, his voice barely modulating from its monotone.
"In not so many words," Alan said, picking up from Tenton, "we're spread too thin, Jirani. We need the TAF contingent in Desert to double as a peacekeeping force. We can only do this with your help."
Marja breathed deep, then exhaled. A crepuscular dusk had already fallen over the place outside the window. Exhaustion curled her fingertips into the palm of her hand. The mug of tea lay untouched before her, the black liquid still and stagnant and cold.
"Quid pro quo," she whispered, loud enough for everyone to hear.