13. Six Years Ago, Consul Gregor
SIX YEARS AGO, CONSUL GREGOR
“Idon’t know if we should be talking about this online,” Anton stammers right when the screen crackles, distorting his words, a grainy strip running across before the picture stabilises.
I hit the monitor with an open palm.
“Piece of shit,” I mutter and only then remember to check if I’m on mute—I am.
“Don’t be a pussy,” Volker Senior grumbles, in as foul a mood as he always is these days. “This is a secure line.”
I say nothing. It’s not like anyone could drag Volker’s old ass out of his capital for an in-person meeting, and I don’t fancy making the trip all the way to Everrise.
Online’s fine with me. This is far from the first conversation we’ve had that we wouldn’t wish leaked to the uncomprehending public.
The loose skin on Anton’s neck slithers up and down as he swallows, blinking fast behind his thin-rimmed glasses, his narrow little mouth working without saying anything.
I don’t agree with Volker on much, but I do agree that Anton is a pussy.
It’s not like we haven’t talked about this before.
We have, and we have never once come to any conclusion. This is a colossal waste of time.
“Where were we?” I nudge them, picking under my nail; I’ve got a nineteen-year-old blonde with big, bouncy tits waiting for me in my bedroom two doors down.
“Why the hell would we accept their terms?” Volker Junior comes into view, and an uncomfortable shiver runs down my spine. “Nothing to lube the economy like a nice, protracted war.”
He gives me the creeps.
Our agreed-upon vision was that the Consuls would get elected for life by persons with the right to vote.
Three votes each for Higher Continuits—government staff, officials and advisers, military leaders, some media proprietors, and so forth.
One vote for Lower Continuits—persons who are directly or indirectly involved in the functioning of the state and have passed the necessary intelligence, psychological and political awareness tests.
I don’t know when it became a given—a fact set in stone—that Volker Junior will get the seat once Volker Senior croaks. But it has, and I am not a fan.
I must have grimaced because Volker Senior addresses me. “Anything you’d like to add, Consul Gregor?”
“The facts are clear,” I reply dispassionately. “Synechord could obliterate us with their nukes. We have no choice but to agree to their terms.”
Hard as they are to swallow, I add in my mind.
“We cannot under any circumstances accept their proposed terms. That would be devastating for our economy as well as our public image,” says Zobrin, our policy adviser, who has long outlived his usefulness if you ask me.
Ninety per cent of the time, he states blatantly obvious facts that are of no contribution. The remaining ten per cent, he scares the shit out of me.
“Then we just paint a different picture for the public. It’s not that fucking hard,” I snap at him. “It’s not like we need any more territories. What we do need is to strengthen our position in those we already have.”
My balls are itching, and I’m wondering if I can scratch them unnoticed.
“Nothing helps with that more than an external enemy,” Zobrin points out.
You don’t fucking say.
“Not if said enemy blows us to smithereens,” I cut him off, wanting to strangle him. “Do you have an actual counterproposal for them?”
“He does.” The screen fills with Volker Junior’s face as he drawls, and I do not like the glint in his eyes. “If we’re going the nukes route, let’s be smart about it.”
“No, no, no. I have nothing more than an academic solution to the problem at hand.” Zobrin fidgets.
“It appears to me that both sides could benefit from a true neutral zone. A radical geological partition.” He enunciates every word.
“Something to drastically reduce motivation for an actual open war, whilst allowing both sides to benefit from one another without the burden of surrender.”
As he explains his idea, throwing around phrases like “new enhancements allowing for localised impact”, “minimal contamination of the atmosphere” and “devastating effects only on the immediate area”, my jaw drops.
Anton’s pointed chin starts twitching. Volker Senior, on the other hand, looks bored.
But not Volker Junior. He is leaning forward in his chair like he wants to crawl through the screen and suck Zobrin off.
The humming in my ears drowns out the rest of Zobrin’s arguments—all pragmatic, logical, sterile, and completely detached from the monumental monstrosity of what he’s suggesting. Numbers, statistics, predicted casualties and financial losses.
Arguments, which I realise, would be perfect to get Synechord on board. A little too perfect.
Even though his face fills up most of the screen as he speaks, I’m not looking at it.
I’m looking at Volker Junior’s thumbnail instead, at the excited twitch of his flat nose, the small, crooked smile, disproportionate to the roaring vehemence in his eyes.
He could become one of us any day now. And when he does, what happens then?
He, still in his prime and ready to charge forward like an enraged bull against us two relics, disillusioned and mellowed out with age. What happens then?