2028

by Ken Saunders

  Aggie Posniak, the Ned Ludd who delivered the election announcement to the nation, felt things were off to a good start. This interview was an added bonus. ‘The Luddite Party doesn’t have just one leader,’ she explained to Jesse. ‘Luddite candidates represent a wide range of views and I can’t claim to speak for all Luddites. What is important is to have a parliament that represents, and can debate sensibly, the diverse range of views on important issues.’

  Jesse turned back to Renard. ‘Ned, the placard you’re still holding has absolutely nothing written on it. Why is that?’

  ‘The Luddite Party doesn’t run on slogans. The blank placard indicates everything is open to be debated,’ Renard answered without hesitation. Yesterday he’d been nervous about meeting the Prime Minister. Today, naked, being interviewed by the national media and improvising the political strategy of a party he didn’t know, he felt weirdly composed. ‘I urge you all to get to know your local Luddite candidate,’ he recommended. ‘Let your Luddite candidate know what you think.’ Picking up a theme he thought he’d understood from the other Ned’s launch speech, he finished, ‘Let’s figure out together what we want to do with this country.’

  Aggie gave him a nod. ‘And don’t forget, Australia,’ she added, ‘if a pollster calls, tell them you’re voting for the Liberal–National Coalition. It is vital—’ Gunnar, with a camera operator’s instinct, zoomed in for a close-up of the Melbourne Ned’s face ‘—to make the polls useless to the major parties. Force them to stop trying to manipulate the electorate and to stop bombarding us with slogans and catchphrases. Let’s have a campaign on ideas this time!’

  ‘Cut!’ Gunnar called.

  ‘Cut?’ Jesse cried. ‘I didn’t even get to sign off.’

  ‘Stream it now,’ Gunnar ordered. ‘It’s my turn. Quick, before the networks get a drone in place.’

  Aggie grinned at Renard. The day appeared to be going incredibly well for the Luddites. She gave him a quick high five as the journalists exchanged places. Renard beamed inside. There weren’t any metadata analysis days like this.

  Gunnar stepped between them. ‘This is Gunnar Sigurdsson outside Parliament House …’ he began.

  ...

  Prime Minister Fitzwilliams stepped onto the tennis court, racquet in hand. Olga O’Rourke was dressed all in white. Her shorts revealed trim but muscular legs. At fifty-eight years old, she was still fit and Fitzwilliams was proud that he’d kept himself trim too. There was nothing more awkward than a portly prime minister discussing the obesity crisis.

  The tennis court came with an added bonus; local primary school kids, still in their uniforms, were having tennis lessons on the adjacent courts. It would make a nice backdrop.

  He would feign surprise when the press told him the Luddites had pipped his election announcement. ‘Well, I guess they got a two-hour jump on me,’ he would tell the reporters good-naturedly.

  Olga surveyed the sky for drones. ‘Let’s have a quick hit around before they arrive. Get a feel for how to play.’ They had already texted Langdon to leak to the networks where they were. Olga arced her back and served. Fitzwilliams stroked it back cleanly. There had been nothing on the serve. He would take it easy on Olga. Playing for fun. That was the image to convey.

  Olga returned a smart shot to his backhand. He got it and she sent back his return with one that stretched him to his forehand. He managed to get to it, but only to send a lob straight to her. He expected her to smash it, but she held back on slamming it down, putting it to his backhand again, this time further away. He got to it, but barely. She caught his weak return in her hand.

  Olga scrutinised him carefully. ‘You were very fast as a young man, weren’t you?’

  ‘I was,’ he admitted modestly. Fitzwilliams had been a natural-born sprinter. Speed was his biggest asset in all the sports he had played.

  ‘You need to position yourself better,’ Olga told him bluntly. ‘When you were young, you made up for your lack of tactics by being fast.’ She looked at him, not unkindly. ‘You are no longer young, Prime Minister. You’re sixty-four. You’re not fast anymore. You need to be sharper. Position yourself cleverly.’ Then, as if his hurt was visible on his face, she added, ‘I am just calibrating how we should play, so that we both come off looking good when the cameras arrive.’

  ‘It’s okay,’ Fitzwilliams said. Olga’s advice might sometimes sound harsh, but it was always professional. Maybe it was because English was her second language that she missed the subtleties of tact. Or maybe it was just how Russians spoke to each other. It was certainly how the Russian president always spoke to Fitzwilliams.

  Two drones were approaching and a car also pulled up with reporters, Fitzwilliams noted with satisfaction. They didn’t often leave the studios nowadays. ‘Let’s play,’ he said, grinning at Olga.

  The game was delightful. A frisky pace, some lively rallies, laughing at the occasional flubbed shot. His two bodyguards obligingly retrieved the stray balls. Fitzwilliams was surprised at how much fun he was having. More and more reporters arrived. They were calling questions to him from the other side of the tennis court mesh. He ignored them and played on. The media could always tell when they had become part of their own story and sportingly went along with it. He imagined the report: ‘The Prime Minister kept the whole media corps waiting this afternoon for the election announcement while he and Senator O’Rourke battled it out on the tennis court, the South Australian senator winning two sets to one, 6–4, 2–6, 7–5.’

  They had cropped the outing by telling the first journalist to arrive that the score of the first set was 4–4, saving them eight games of effort. He had let Olga win the final set, sensing instinctively that was the best result. At the net, Olga, much to his astonishment, had kissed him on both cheeks and put a hand on his shoulder as they left the court. They had visited the primary school kids on the adjacent court, posed for a group photo, and then, and only then, had they gone over to talk to the networks.

  ‘Yes,’ he told them all. ‘This afternoon I requested that the Governor-General dissolve parliament for a general election to be held on 6 May 2028. This government is eager to seek a fourth mandate. I shall meet with cabinet briefly at the new parliamentary Stadlet before we head our separate ways to take our vision for the next three years to the people of Australia.’ He was pleased to use the Stadlet, a small outdoor theatre built during his administration. It had won awards for design and had Parliament House as a splendid backdrop.

  He shrugged off the many questions about the Luddites. About the nudity. ‘You can rest assured I’ll be keeping my clothes on during this campaign.’ About the Demonstration Protection Act. Fuzzy reply talking about terrorism, safety and the sanctity of free speech. About the Luddites announcing the election before he had. ‘They got the jump on me today,’ he admitted, ‘and have had a two-hour head start on campaigning. Good on them.’ He loved being off script. To think he had wanted a boring election. ‘Members of the media, if you’ll excuse me—’ he winked at them all ‘—I’m in need of a shower.’ Perfect!

  ...

  Russ Langdon sensed the tension in the room. The cabinet had been rattled by the unexpected Luddite events of the afternoon and the Prime Minister going off script. Langdon thought the latter a triumph, but the cabinet weren’t used to the PM improvising.

  Not everyone was unsettled. Alan Chandos, the Treasurer, was his usual confident but disquietingly amused self. So well versed he could handle any political situation, it made him inattentive to the worries of others. Donna Hargreaves, the Minister for Health and Ageing, used to fighting her way out of tight situations, was also upbeat. But they were the most capable of the cabinet. The rest needed leadership and the Prime Minister was still not back from his tennis match.

  ‘The weather is changing.’ The Minister for Sport and Recreation came away from the window. ‘Might rain.’

  ‘Will we still have to go out there if it’s raining?’ the Minister for Industry, Science and Inn
ovation asked. The Luddites were scheduled to muster at 7.00 pm, their demonstration just one hundred and fifty metres from the Stadlet, where the cabinet would be gathered. Many dreaded a close encounter of the nudist kind. Caution was giving way to fear.

  ‘What are you?’ Langdon snapped at them. ‘The New Zealand cricket team? Hoping rain will get you off the hook?’ They needed to stiffen their sinews. ‘There’s no need to be afraid of a few naturists!’

  ‘They aren’t birdwatchers,’ the Minister for Sport retorted. ‘They’re stark-naked nudists.’

  ‘I said naturist, not naturalists!’ Langdon stopped himself. In the Prime Minister’s absence, somebody had to calm the horses. Langdon looked to Alan Chandos, but he was oblivious, chuckling over something he was reading. Donna Hargreaves had fought with this cabinet too often to lead them. It would have to be him. ‘The Stadlet has an auto-roof,’ he reminded them. ‘If it rains, the roof goes up. So,’ he emphasised, ‘you all need to be ready to get out there and do your job.’

  ‘Thank you, Russell.’ Prime Minister Fitzwilliams breezed into the room, Olga O’Rourke at his side. The cabinet applauded the PM’s arrival, more in relief than affection he knew, but he basked in it nonetheless. He had wanted to speak to the troops before heading out, but there was no time. ‘Let’s go,’ he said. ‘To the Stadlet everyone!’

  The Stadlet, with its small stage, was ideal for more casual parliamentary events and that was the tone Fitzwilliams sought tonight. Though casual in function, the Stadlet was built with security in mind. There was a seventy-five-metre perimeter fence with controlled entry points. The Stadlet’s auto-roof was reinforced, able to withstand mortar shells if necessary, with state-of-the-art security programming.

  The Prime Minister led his cabinet from Parliament House across the grass towards the Stadlet. Each was let through the security point after producing accredited ID. In security matters, nothing was taken for granted.

  Fitzwilliams frowned. The media were not as numerous as he had anticipated. There were drones about, but again, not that many. He shifted his gaze over to where the Luddites were gathering. Their Demonstration Mustering Zone was just out of sight, blocked by trees. The Prime Minister could make out drones, a lot of them, circling the area. The Luddites had hewn off part of the media crowd, but there was nothing he could do about that.

  A few drops of rain were starting to fall. He motioned two of his staffers to the Stadlet auto-roof control console. ‘Be ready to put up the roof if the rain gets any heavier,’ he instructed.

  At the console, the staffers discovered that the retina scanner for ID recognition was broken. ‘Don’t worry, Prime Minister—we’ll log on manually,’ one of them assured him. ‘I’ve done it before.’

  The Prime Minister started a standard speech about the team he led, the pride in what they had done in three terms in office, their commitment to Australian values, but he hadn’t even got to the pride bit when there was a murmur in the crowd. He shot the quickest of glances towards the Luddites. They had started to march.

  ‘It doesn’t like my user ID,’ he heard a voice say from offstage.

  ‘Try your Federal Government Employee Number instead,’ a second voice suggested.

  The rain had picked up but was still only a gentle mist.‘Everyone stay in place,’ he heard Langdon hiss behind him. Was the cabinet wavering? Fitzwilliams resumed his speech.

  ‘I’m in,’ the voice at the console exhaled with relief. Then: ‘Christ! It wants me to change my password.’

  The Luddites were clearly visible now. He could make out that they were nude and carrying placards again, just as they had that afternoon.

  ‘Pride in—’ he started again.

  ‘Rejected!’ came an exasperated voice.

  ‘Try eight characters. Upper case, a number and a punctuation mark.’

  The Luddites halted. The rain was becoming heavier. The auto-roof was nowhere to be seen. Some media made for the exit.

  ‘Hold your positions!’ the Prime Minister heard Langdon bark at the cabinet behind him. ‘The Luddites are holding theirs.’

  The Luddites, as if they knew they were being watched, made a sudden move. In one synchronised upward sweep, they raised the placards above their heads.

  ‘What are they doing?’ whispered the Minister for Defence.

  ‘The tortoise,’ Langdon muttered, impressed despite himself. ‘The Roman legions locked shields above them like that when under missile attack.’

  The Minister for Defence snorted. ‘Missiles? In Ancient Rome?’

  ‘Missiles! Like arrows, stones shot from slings,’ Langdon hissed. ‘How the hell did you ever become Minister for Defence?’

  The Prime Minister soldiered on. Where was the roof? He shot a desperate glance at the two young staffers at the console. Langdon was right. If the Luddites held their position in this light rain, the ministers had to hold theirs. The cabinet couldn’t be seen to run for cover.

  ‘Pride in—’ he began yet again, only to be interrupted by a crack of lightning.

  ‘Try turning it off then turning it on again,’ came a voice from the console area.

  All hope of a roofing rescue was lost, Fitzwilliams knew. He could faintly hear something wafting across the rain. The Luddites, under their tortoise of placards, were singing.

  The skies suddenly opened and the rain came down full force.

  ‘Hold your positions!’ Langdon shouted, but three-quarters of the cabinet were running for it. The Prime Minister turned to restore order in the ranks. If they had to evacuate, at least they could be seen to do so in an orderly fashion. The Minister for Regional Development let out a girlish shriek as she ran past him, covering her hair.

  Russ Langdon hadn’t adjusted to the change in tactics. He stepped in front of the Minister for Small Business. ‘I said stay put!’ he yelled.

  ‘Out of my way!’ the Minister for Small Business yelled back. ‘This suit cost me eighteen hundred dollars, you fool!’ He tried to push past Langdon. Langdon staggered backwards. Fitzwilliams lunged to catch him. He got a hand to Langdon’s chest, but failed to grab on to anything. Langdon toppled backwards off the stage, hitting the turf heavily.

  Prime Minister Fitzwilliams knew instinctively what the photograph would look like. The freelance camera operators had run for it in the rain, but the drones were still hovering. ‘Bloody post office,’ he cursed. The photo would look as though he’d shoved his own Minister for Security and Freedom, one-legged Russ Langdon, right off the stage. Olga, Donna Hargreaves and Alan Chandos jumped from the stage to rush to Langdon’s aid. The rest of cabinet were running for the hills. The rain was pelting down. It was like the storm scene from King Lear, he thought.

  A voice to his left announced, ‘Got it!’

  A deafening alarm suddenly blared. With startling speed, the full defences of the Stadlet were deployed. The auto-roof swept up and over him and down again in one great arc, sealing the stage and Prime Minister Fitzwilliams under its hemispheric bombproof shell of titanium and steel.

  Day one of the campaign was over.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  The Prime Minister had barely had any sleep before having to make the gruelling round of morning radio interviews. Weeks earlier, he and Lister St John had plotted the course for the six weeks ahead with a precision that now appeared to border on delusion. Fifteen hours into the campaign and much of that plan was in tatters.

  The night before seemed almost dreamlike. Inside the titanium shell of the Stadlet, his two young staffers, whose attempt to reboot the Stadlet security system inadvertently caused it to believe it was under attack, fell to pieces. ‘We’re so sorry, Prime Minister!’ they stammered repeatedly. They simply couldn’t stop apologising to him. He found it almost reassuring that twenty-four year olds could experience the same exasperation with technology that he did.

  The security services outside needed to establish that any external threat was neutralised before the protective dome could be retracted.
This involved numerous verification steps in the security protocol, even though there was clearly no security threat whatsoever. It took ten minutes to roll back the roof.

  Isolated inside the Stadlet, he had missed his cabinet colleagues’ rush to help Russ Langdon. Typically, a drone had been hovering about to capture the action. The ‘PM Shoves One-legged Cabinet Minister Off Stage’ clip had rapidly gone beyond viral to pandemic, according to one news host.

  From the drone’s vantage point, Fitzwilliams’ body completely blocked the view of the Minister for Small Business bumping into Langdon. What its camera caught instead was Langdon stumbling forwards and what looked like Fitzwilliams shoving him backwards off the stage, three cabinet ministers jumping down to help him, the rest of cabinet scattering and the emergency dome coming down over the stage, sealing Fitzwilliams inside.

  Donna Hargreaves’ initial first-aid response when she reached Langdon was to exclaim, ‘Oh my God!’ Chandos tried to help Langdon to his feet, but Langdon shrieked in pain gasping, ‘I’ve dislocated my shoulder’. He actually had to gasp it twice, as Hargreaves drowned out his first effort with another ‘Oh my God!’ She pulled out her phone. ‘I’ll get an ambulance. Reassure the patient,’ she instructed Chandos in the first glimmer of proper first aid. Chandos turned to Langdon and said, ‘Flinders is a pretty safe seat. I’m sure you’ll get re-elected.’ Hargreaves snapped, ‘Now is not the time for jokes, Alan!’ but Langdon had given a weak chuckle. ‘I want an ambulance,’ Hargreaves screamed at the 000 operator, the pounding rain forcing her to raise her voice. Pause. ‘It’s the Stadlet! It doesn’t have an address!’ She paused again. ‘It’s outside Parliament House.’ Pause. ‘No. Not Adelaide! Canberra!’ Pause. ‘I’m the bloody Minister for Health!’ she roared. It had been her own idea, Fitzwilliams recalled, to centralise the entire 000 service to South Australia.

  ‘Let me do this,’ came Olga’s voice. She moved into the view of the drone camera. O’Rourke grabbed each side of Langdon’s face. ‘This is going to hurt a lot,’ she told him, as if that was one of the attractive features of what she was about to do. Patient consultation out of the way, Olga lifted his right forearm up and back and then raised the whole arm. Langdon howled, then gasped in relief. ‘It’s back in,’ he managed. Hargreaves shouted, ‘Never mind,’ into the phone. Chandos looked at Olga, obviously impressed. ‘Where did you learn that?’ ‘Advanced First Aid Medal, Soviet Youth Camp 1983,’ Olga replied, her shoulders betraying a small twitch of satisfaction.