by Ken Saunders
What Fiona had told the Prime Minister was true. The assembled Luddites looked like a meeting of Olympic athletes. He’d never seen such a fit-looking group of people, or a group so handsome. However, what Security and Freedom Minister Langdon had said was also true: being naked with a group of naked people made it seem … natural, which Renard supposed it was. He felt oddly confident and, if he were honest with himself, even excited to be there.
There was little conversation. Everyone was waiting for three thirty pm to arrive.
‘Hi, I’m Ned Ludd,’ one of the protestors said to him, extending her hand.
‘Ned Ludd. Pleased to meet you,’ he replied.
That had been it for introductions with all of them. One Ned Ludd told him she had been designated to give the speech. The others were to go up to the microphone afterwards simply to introduce themselves and say which electorate they were running in.
‘Hey, Neds!’ one of them called suddenly. ‘Pick up your placards. It’s showtime.’
...
Jesse Pelletier’s twenty years as a parliamentary camera operator had seen a steady erosion of the profession. When he started, they had shouldered heavy cameras, cameras people respected. His current one weighed hardly anything. He was freelance by necessity, all the permanent jobs with the networks having long gone. They used to work in threes, all permanent employees: the reporter, the camera and the sound boom. Back then, they could attack in numbers, the press corps surrounding a cabinet minister with a ring of equipment and a barrage of questions. Now you had to be all three yourself, working the camera while shouting questions at the cabinet minister and wearing the silly little headband with a mini directional microphone sticking out.
Gunnar lumbered over to him. Another freelancer, Gunnar had once been Jesse’s sound man. Technically, they were competitors, but they couldn’t help working together.
‘Something’s definitely up,’ Gunnar announced. ‘Nobody is in the parliamentary cafeteria.’ All the cabinet had come to parliament that day but had made themselves scarce, none of them venturing out of their offices. The Prime Minister had called a press conference for six.
Jesse surveyed the sky. ‘At least there are no drones about,’ he observed.
When Australia Post had ceased letter delivery and become a parcel-post-only service, few had anticipated that the antiquated government service would stand a chance against the big international private delivery companies. Australia Post had surprised everyone. First, they replaced their entire delivery staff with a drone fleet. If you had a parcel to deliver, a small drone appeared at your door, the largest in the fleet capable of carrying fifteen kilograms. You logged the job online and when the drone showed up, you just loaded the item onto it and stuck in your credit card.
Then came a series of major media signings for Drone Feed on Demand. For a price, Australia Post agreed to divert its drones to any news site a network wanted covered. If a train derailed, spilling diethyltoluene across the Pacific Highway, a drone carrying the package of your Aunt Emily’s Anzac biscuits would divert straight to it. Drones could get to the scene of a news flash faster than any reporter/camera operator. They could dodge in and out of landslides, bushfires and floods. The networks made all their news photographers and camera operators redundant and used freelancers for indoor events. The drones were reviled by camera operators but loved by the moguls, who noted that drones never chucked a sickie because they were hungover. Then a drone found that photogenic lost child and her even more adorable puppy in the Blue Mountains while the press corps was back drinking in a Katoomba pub. It was strictly a rearguard action for the camera operators from then on as they scrabbled for meagre employment as freelancers.
Gunnar nudged him. ‘What’s that?’
Jesse squinted. If he had to guess, he would have said it was a group of naked people marching with placards. Both men leaped to their feet in sync.
‘You beam to Network Nine and I’ll take Seven!’ Jesse shouted.
Gunnar looked up as he ran towards the marchers. Not a drone in the sky. He cackled delightedly.
...
‘Chief, you better have a look at this!’
Allison Trang looked across the newsroom and did a double take. On a screen, a nude woman was approaching a microphone. Behind her was a group of nude people with placards. All of them were smiling. All of them looked—it wasn’t a newsroom sort of word—beautiful. She strode over. ‘What is this? That’s Parliament House behind them!’ she exclaimed, pointing at the screen.
‘That feed is coming from Jesse Pelletier,’ the technician answered.
‘Get me the audio,’ Allison ordered. ‘Quickly!’
The woman looked improbably dignified for someone standing naked outside parliament. A crowd had gathered around the group, including a dumbfounded high school excursion.
‘Hello,’ the woman said. ‘I’m Ned Ludd of the Luddite Party of Australia and a candidate in the Melbourne electorate of Wills. This afternoon, Prime Minister Fitzwilliams visited the Governor-General to request that parliament be dissolved and a general election be held on Saturday, 6 May. The Luddite Party will be running candidates in every electorate—’
‘Can anyone confirm?’ Allison shouted to the rest of the room. ‘Has there been an election called?’
‘The PM’s office isn’t answering,’ someone called back.
Luddites! Allison could hardly believe it. The Luddite story had been nearly ten years ago and she’d heard nothing about the party since. Now there were nude Luddites outside Parliament House—and they were calling an election!
There was a shriek from another phone. ‘Confirmation from a contact at the Governor-General’s. The PM left there five minutes ago. She doesn’t know what was discussed, but the PM was just there!’
Allison turned her attention back to the woman on the screen. ‘The Luddites want this election to be a genuine national debate. For that to happen, we must put an end to the meaningless style of election campaigns that Labor and the Liberal–National Coalition have perfected with their carefully manicured events, their policy sifted through focus groups, their slick advertising. During an election, the major parties follow every nuance of the polls to figure out which issues and policies are working for them and what issues to downplay. Let’s prevent them from indulging in that game this time.’
‘She’s good on telly,’ the technician whispered. ‘I mean, I wasn’t even looking at her tits when she was speaking then.’
‘I’m asking all Australians,’ the woman continued, ‘no matter what party you actually support, to tell pollsters you’re planning to vote for the Coalition. If everyone says the same thing, the polls will no longer indicate voter intention. Neither of the major parties will be able to tell what’s working for them and what isn’t. If pollsters ask you what issues are important to you, tell them all issues are important. If you are asked to be in a focus group, tell them you support all the government’s policies regardless of what you truly think. Let’s have an election not on what the major parties’ polling data indicate will succeed for them, but on what ideas they have to present to this country.’
Allison Trang could feel the seconds ticking by. She glanced over at the screens that displayed what other news stations were covering. None of them had the Luddites on. She took several short breaths. ‘Interrupt regular programming!’ she instructed. ‘Insert this clip from the beginning of her speech and just put underneath it: Live—outside Parliament House, Canberra.’
‘It’ll take fifteen minutes to pixilate all this,’ the technician protested.
‘No pixilation!’ she ordered. ‘Send it direct. I’ll wear any complaints.’ She gazed again at the group on the screen. It must be their smiles. This wasn’t lewd. There was the multicultural mix of all Australia standing there nude and looking … well, just lovely really. ‘Anyone who complains about this,’ she declared grandly, ‘doesn’t love humanity.’
The newsroom staff weren’t used
to dealing with such lofty sentiments, but there were nods from around the room nonetheless.
‘There she goes,’ the technician exclaimed, punching in the feed from parliament to stream.
...
‘I’ve prepared a kit for every member of cabinet,’ the PM’s staffer explained. ‘The kits contain every ribbon or item that will be necessary during the campaign and detailed instructions for action-related days.’
This sort of thing was important, Fitzwilliams acknowledged, but the list grew depressingly longer with each election. It was to be only a six-week campaign and yet there were twenty-seven special days that needed noting. He’d never heard of some of the charities and causes on the list. ‘National Prevention of Scrapie Day?’ he asked.
‘A fatal disease affecting the central nervous system of sheep,’ the staffer replied. ‘The Minister for Agriculture will play the lead that day. You’ll note that the Woolly White ribbon we’ve issued is made of genuine merino wool,’ she added proudly. ‘Most are synthetic.’
There were twenty ribbons inside the kit. The demand for colours by charities and research foundations far exceeded the visible spectrum’s ability to provide them. Were ‘avocado’ and ‘fawn’ really colours? Fitzwilliams wondered. At least the kit contained no clown noses or pirate hats.
‘What,’ he asked with slight trepidation, ‘is Walk Like an Egyptian Day?’
‘Research into Tropical Diseases.’
Egypt isn’t even in the tropics, Fitzwilliams noted, but supposed that hardly mattered. ‘I guess I should have asked how rather than what. How do you walk like an Egyptian?’ It sounded potentially offensive, perhaps racist.
‘Oh, it’s a bit of fun.’ The staffer smiled encouragingly; she had picked up on his lack of enthusiasm. ‘Like in the hieroglyphics.’ She stood up to demonstrate. ‘You turn your hands at the wrist, perpendicular to the forearm and make little jutting motions.’ She bobbed a few times to demonstrate and gave him her best you-can-do-it-too look.
With global warming, tropical diseases research was increasingly important and the more money the public gave for research, the less the government had to. Although tiresome, it was important to pay attention to such special days. Forget one and you’d absentmindedly offend a swathe of voters. The staffer’s work on this was commendably thorough and she was looking at him so eagerly. He’d give the ancient Egyptian posture a go.
As he rose from his chair and bent his wrists, an urgent clumping sounded in the hall. The door was flung wide open. There stood Russ Langdon, looking wild-eyed.
‘Prime Minister!’ he exclaimed. ‘Come to the media room! Now!’
Fitzwilliams stared. Langdon did not usually give him orders. ‘Come!’ Langdon implored. ‘You need to see this.’
The three hustled to the media room. The media room had twelve screens, each monitoring a different news network. Olga O’Rourke was already there. She shot the Prime Minister a worried glance.
‘What’s going on?’ Fitzwilliams asked.
‘Network Seven is broadcasting the Luddite march,’ Olga answered. ‘No pixilation.’ She pointed at another screen. ‘Nine’s switched to it!’ she gasped. Other screens were cutting to the march outside Parliament House. A nude woman was speaking before a microphone.
‘It’s four in the afternoon!’ Fitzwilliams exclaimed incredulously. ‘The networks can’t be showing full-frontal nudity!’
All twelve screens were now broadcasting the Luddite demonstration. Even Aunty. Fitzwilliams sighed. Couldn’t the ABC have been more prudish?
‘Give us the audio of Seven,’ Olga called to a staffer.
‘… the Luddite Party has no fondness for public nudity,’ the naked woman on the screen announced. ‘We demonstrated this way today because it’s the only way we, the Australian public, can demonstrate in front of our own parliament. If we had been clothed, we would still be queued at the mustering area being individually searched by the Protective Office. The Demonstration Protection Act of this government makes it virtually impossible to have your say and your clothes on at the same time.’
A soft rumble came from Olga O’Rourke’s throat.
‘When you vote on May sixth …’ the nude woman continued.
‘They’ve announced the election!’ Langdon squealed. ‘The Luddites have told the nation before we have!’
‘We’ve got to account for that,’ Olga said urgently. She turned to Fitzwilliams. ‘You left the Governor-General’s at three, yet only scheduled the press conference for six. Why wouldn’t you have told the Australian people immediately?’
On the screen, another nude woman stepped in front of the microphone. ‘Hello, I’m Ned Ludd, the Luddite candidate for Denison.’ A nude man stepped forward. Fitzwilliams recognised Fiona Brennan’s ASIO agent from the day before. ‘I’m Ned Ludd. I’m not a candidate in this election, but I’ll be working with Ned Ludd, who couldn’t be here today, to help her win the electorate of Sydney!’
‘What could the Prime Minister have been doing in the interim?’ Olga put the question to everyone in the room. ‘Something important.’
There was silence. ‘Sport,’ Russ Langdon murmured. ‘The Australian people will understand if it’s sport-related.’
‘There’s no sporting event I can rush off to at four in the afternoon,’ Fitzwilliams told him.
‘Not spectator sports,’ Langdon answered back, becoming excited. ‘You’re off doing a sport. Don’t you see?’
‘Frankly, no,’ Fitzwilliams answered meekly.
‘You call the election and then go off and do this sport for two hours before showering and coming back fresh to the press conference to call the election. People will admire that!’ Russ Langdon was clearly taken with the idea. ‘Like Sir Francis Drake finishing his game of bowls when the Spanish Armada sailed into the Channel.’
Olga nodded. ‘It’s good,’ she assessed. ‘Not bowls; that’s an old person’s sport. We should not draw attention to your age, Prime Minister. Roslyn Stanfield’s twenty years younger than you. Not golf either. Not active enough.’
‘I like swimming,’ Fitzwilliams offered, feeling he should contribute something.
Olga shook her head. ‘Harold Holt. Bad connotations.’
‘Tennis?’ the PM suggested. ‘I played a lot as a young man. I still play occasionally.’
‘Tennis,’ Olga agreed. ‘With a cabinet colleague. Happy team. Works together, plays together—a bit competitive, but a sense of fun.’
‘Russ …’ the Prime Minister began.
‘You can’t play me!’ Langdon exclaimed. ‘Thrashing someone with an artificial leg is not a good look, Prime Minister.’
‘Not you!’ Fitzwilliams snapped. ‘I’ll play Olga. That’s a good image. PM plays sport with women. Active ageing, if you’ll pardon me saying so, Olga. Friendly hit around. Relaxed.’ He pointed to Langdon. ‘What I want you to do is leak it to the press after we get there. The media will come scrambling about, but we’ll continue playing, Olga. Shake hands. Saunter over to the press and say, “Why, yes, there is an election on.”’
‘Francis Drake!’ Russ Langdon cheered, raising a clenched fist.
...
Australia Post drones were approaching, but Jesse Pelletier knew they were too bloody late. He and Gunnar—human, living, breathing camera operators—had covered the story before they could.
The Luddite demonstration was on the verge of breaking up, but Jesse did not want the moment to end. ‘Gunnar …’ He tugged at his colleague’s sleeve. ‘We interview this lot ourselves. On-screen reporting. Don’t go to studio link.’
The drill whenever a freelance camera found a story was to serve up the feed to a network studio and let one of their overpaid presenters interview the person remotely. The system stank.
‘We rotate,’ Jesse proposed. ‘I interview two of the Luddites with you filming me and then I film you interviewing them. Either the networks pick up our stream or they get nothing.’ He felt giddy. All the nor
mal rules, not just the clothes, were off.
Gunnar produced an old-style microphone from his satchel.
‘You still carry one of those?’ Jesse marvelled.
‘Always live my life in hope, man.’
‘That’s so fucking retro cool,’ Jesse said. He hadn’t felt this pumped up since he’d filmed Senator Bolen’s campaign interview back when the networks still paid camera operators to travel. The American senator had drawn his gun on the interviewer. That had been live, adrenalin live.
The crowd was still gathered around the Luddites. The previously mesmerised high school students had collected their wits enough to start taking selfies. Gunnar peeled two of the Luddites away from the crowd. Jesse quickly set up the interview, stepped between the two Luddites and readied himself. It had been so long. ‘How does my hair look?’ he asked Gunnar.
‘No one’s going to be looking at your hair, man.’
Jesse focused his gaze on the camera. ‘Hello, this is Jesse Pelletier coming to you live from outside Parliament House at the launch of the Luddite Party 2028 election campaign. With me is Ned Ludd. Ned, you said you’ll be campaigning on behalf of Ned Ludd.’
‘Yes,’ Renard confirmed. ‘For Ned Ludd, in her electorate of Sydney.’ He didn’t know whether the Luddites had a man or a woman running in his electorate but he’d said ‘her electorate’ before so it was best to stick with it.
‘And also with me is Ned Ludd from the electorate of Wills in Victoria. Ned, you delivered the main speech at the Luddite launch. Are we right to assume that you’re the leader of the party?’