2028

by Ken Saunders

  ‘That would be … uh … I reckon a lot, Mr President.’

  ‘So you’re up there collecting rocks, Neil. Well, do bring back some pretty stones for us, maybe a nice shiny one, a good flat one for skipping on a lake.’

  Fitzwilliams winked at Paul and hung up the imaginary phone to indicate he had finished.

  Paul stepped out of character. ‘Not bad,’ he murmured, looking at Fitzwilliams with what seemed a new-found respect. ‘You trivialised the whole Apollo program. You had Neil Armstrong uncomfortable up there and, more importantly, the audience amused. If you can do that to a genuine hero like Neil Armstrong,’ Paul continued, ‘somebody standing on the bloody moon, then you can take apart some Ned Luddite nobody.’

  If Fitzwilliams needed a confidence boost, he had surely got it. Off script wasn’t to be feared. It was the weapon he would use to take down the Luddites.

  The other exercises were equally stimulating. Fitzwilliams played the Mayor of London in 1348 putting a positive spin on the bubonic plague. ‘There has never been a better time to get into the housing market.’ To practise against the known Luddite tactic of springing a policy proposal in mid-debate, Paul ran a series of exercises. Fitzwilliams was cast as the French Minister for Health tearing into Louis Pasteur and his crackpot smallpox vaccine; a publishing house executive rejecting J.K. Rowling and her bland children’s series; and, to give it an Australian flavour, a patent office official kicking out the inventor of the Hills hoist. ‘It doesn’t matter that in each case you were wrong in the long run. All you have to do tonight at the leaders’ debate is win the moment,’ Paul advised. ‘That’s what people will remember.’

  Direct from the improv training, Fitzwilliams headed full of vigour to Queanbeyan to campaign in the heartland of the Eden-Monaro electorate. Georgia Lambert had delivered everything he’d requested: an auditorium full of Liberal Party faithful, a relatively coherent local candidate, even a band to play the unofficial campaign tune, ‘We Are Aussie, It’s What We Are About’.

  That’s what he’d requested before his training sessions with Paul. Now he was eager to try some spontaneity. He and his two new bodyguards—Quentin and Leon had the day off—strolled the streets of Queanbeyan. Fitzwilliams enjoyed being out of the protective cocoon. Here were Labor voters. Here, too, were Luddites. A gaggle of celery-wearing Luddites were being led by a girl sporting a red ribbon on her Ned Ludd for Eden-Monaro t-shirt. The Luddites noticed Fitzwilliams and one shouted at him, ‘We are the Pelotoni!’

  ‘What’s that?’ Fitzwilliams shouted back. ‘A type of pasta?’ That got a laugh, not just from the local Liberals accompanying him but also, he noticed, from the general public. He was on form.

  He’d been enjoying himself so much he let it run late, but even that could be turned to his advantage. Here was a prime minister so capable he didn’t have to spend the afternoon swotting for the debate. By contrast, Roslyn Stanfield had been sequestered somewhere all weekend being drilled on her own Labor Party policies and the supposed loopholes in his.

  Fitzwilliams opted to close his eyes and rest on the short ride back to Canberra. The limousine was a self-driving car. Desmond the chauffeur’s only role was to key in the destination and step in should the driverless car system fail. It never did.

  He must have nodded off, for the next thing he heard was a voice ordering Desmond to pull over. Fitzwilliams blinked and took in the surroundings. They were already in the outskirts of Canberra. ‘Why are we stopped?’ he asked.

  The bodyguard in front with Desmond had the coiled look that came over bodyguards when they thought something might actually be happening. ‘The TI alert light has come on, Prime Minister.’ He pointed to the dashboard of the prime ministerial limousine. ‘The terror incident light,’ he clarified. ‘It indicates there’s a terror incident occurring somewhere within fifteen kilometres of here. The procedure is we stay put until we have assessed the situation.’ He turned to the driver. ‘Engage security lockdown,’ he ordered.

  ‘Christ!’ Desmond exhaled. ‘Is that what you’re on about?’ He gestured a hand towards the flashing red light. ‘It’s a malfunction. We’ve tried getting that light fixed, but no one can figure out what’s wrong with it.’

  Fitzwilliams broke in more urgently. He was behind schedule. ‘I’ve been through this before. It’s a false alarm. It pinpoints the terror incident to the middle of Lake Burley Griffin. So unless you think some terrorist group is trying to blow up the nation’s flotilla of paddleboats, can we get to the studio?’ Even under this unwelcome stress, Fitzwilliams recognised he was in form. Flotilla of paddleboats! Bring on the Luddite! He was ready.

  ‘We aren’t going anywhere, Prime Minister,’ the bodyguard in the front seat replied sternly, ‘until we’ve ascertained the nature of the threat.’

  ‘There is no bloody threat!’ Fitzwilliams insisted. ‘Quentin and Leon ignore that light all the time.’

  ‘It’s a red light, Prime Minister! There’s no point to having red alert lights if you ignore them when they go off,’ the the bodyguard beside Fitzwilliams declared peevishly. ‘We have a terror incident alert and we have protocols to follow! Let us get on with our job.’ The bodyguard picked up his Genie phone to indicate the discussion was over.

  They were starting to run seriously late now. ‘If I don’t make it to the debate, your bloody protocols could cost me the election!’ Fitzwilliams snapped, but the bodyguards were through responding to him.

  Several minutes went by, the two bodyguards on their phones double- and triple-checking whatever was on their damned emergency protocols. A city bus was approaching the bus shelter next to where they were parked. Improv, Fitzwilliams thought.

  The bus slowed. Someone was getting off. Fitzwilliams waited, then clicked his seat belt with one hand, swung open the door with the other and sprang from the car. Both bodyguards were caught unaware, but their reflexes had them out of the limousine and after him in an instant. Fitzwilliams pushed past the passenger getting off the bus. The bus doors closed behind him with a delightful whoosh. The bus began to pull away, the two bodyguards running alongside it slapping on the door and demanding that the nonexistent driver let them on. ‘Driverless bus,’ Fitzwilliams shouted back at them. ‘Go finish your protocols!’ He clenched his fist in triumph. On the way to Canberra now, improvising all the way!

  Several of the bus passengers had already recognised him. He smiled at them and took a seat. He’d be cutting it fine now. He’d just have time to shower and change at the studio before the debate. Those bodyguards had not only aggravated him, they’d taken him out of his mental zone. He’d been so on his game.

  ‘Please pay the fare,’ a voice intruded. ‘Payment can be made by tACT card or credit card.’

  Fitzwilliams looked up. ‘Put your Transit ACT card in the box over there,’ a passenger instructed him. ‘Your tACT card.’ She pointed to the red box at the front door. Fitzwilliams went over to the machine. It had been years since he’d ridden public transit. ‘Please pay the fare,’ the automated voice intoned again.

  Fitzwilliams felt for his wallet, but he never carried his wallet when campaigning. His image consultants insisted that the public like their prime ministers to have sleek, tapered lines. No bulging pockets. Besides, you were meeting with the general public and some of them could pick pockets. He’d learned that bitter lesson on his first campaign. ‘I don’t have my wallet with me,’ he told the machine.

  ‘Please pay the fare or the Fare Evasion Procedure will activate in twenty seconds,’ the voice warned.

  ‘I don’t have my wallet!’ he repeated, but got no answer. ‘I’m the Prime Minister!’ he shouted at it. ‘I don’t have my wallet!’

  ‘Fair Evasion Shaming Procedure in ten seconds.’

  ‘Shaming?’ He turned to the other passengers, ‘What do I—’

  ‘Face Recognition Software activated!’ the voice announced with just a slight undertone of menace to its automated chirpiness.

  On
-bus cameras swirled to face him and flashed simultaneously. Fitzwilliams reeled in the brightness, stunned. Flashes? What kind of camera used flashes these days? This was being done solely to humiliate, he thought indignantly, though fare evaders were not a group with whom he normally identified.

  ‘Face recognition software identifies fare evader as …’ The machine paused, it seemed dramatically. ‘Adrian Fitzwilliams.’

  Fitzwilliams turned to look at the passengers. It was almost as if he were their Fuhrer, he thought. Straight arms were extended towards him, but not in salute. Each held a Genie phone. The episode was probably already uploading onto YouTube.

  ...

  Georgia Lambert stared at her phone in disbelief. She couldn’t raise anyone in the Prime Minister’s car. The debate started in half an hour and the Prime Minister had dropped off the radar. His car was rejecting all calls.

  Russ Langdon bit his lip. ‘It has to be an LTI,’ he said. ‘During a local terror incident, the Prime Minister’s car can only receive telecommunications from F-TES, the Federal Terror Emergency Services.’ It prevented terror-hackers from potentially feeding false information to the Prime Minister’s personal security that might lure them into an incident danger zone. Langdon was flummoxed. ‘But if a terror incident was underway, as Minister for Security and Freedom, I’d have been informed,’ he pointed out, mostly for his own benefit.

  Though her stomach was in turmoil, Georgia Lambert’s face didn’t show it. The debate was scheduled for 7.30 pm. Network Nine had shelled out a fortune for its debate coverage. At this moment, their sample selected audience was being slotted into MRI machines in fifty different hospitals across the country so Nine could monitor their brain activation patterns during the debate. This high-tech version of the infamous Worm would have cost them a bomb. The debate had to go ahead on time. ‘Russell,’ she said, ‘head to make-up.’ Langdon looked back blankly. She would have to spell it out. ‘We don’t know where the PM is. You’ll have to go on in his place.’

  A staffer came belting towards them. The run alone indicated bad news.

  ‘The PM’s on a bus somewhere!’ the staffer panted. ‘Look!’ The hand holding her phone was literally shaking.

  They peered at the tiny screen. The PM was gesturing at the bus ticket machine and shouting, ‘I’m the Prime Minister. I don’t have my wallet.’

  ‘It gets worse,’ the staffer warned.

  ...

  Fitzwilliams needed to take charge of the situation. ‘Yes, I’m the Prime Minister,’ he told the motley crew of bus passengers. God, public transit users! What could he possibly have in common with this lot? ‘I need to get to the debate. How close does this bus get to Parliament House?’

  ‘No bus gets close to Parliament House,’ one of them replied. ‘You brought in that rule.’

  She was right. One of Langdon’s security measures, after three buses laden with explosives were detonated outside the Algerian parliament. No buses of any kind were allowed within a kilometre of Australia’s Parliament House.

  ‘This bus can drop you at Kingston,’ another told him. ‘You’ll have to hoof it from there.’ The passenger seemed to say this with satisfaction. She was wearing a celery stick. Bloody Luddite, Fitzwilliams thought.

  Kingston. About two kilometres. Seven or eight minutes’ running he calculated, but it was the part of his brain that remembered being an athletic twenty-three year old that had made that calculation. He couldn’t run two kilometres! He only had about half an hour. A brisk walk with a few hundred metres of running to leave enough time to change clothes and have a hasty make-up job.

  He didn’t even have his phone. Georgia was fielding all his calls today. He had to remain focused. ‘Can one of you call a taxi to meet me in Kingston?’ he asked the public transit mob.

  ‘How are you going to pay for it?’ the Luddite inquired. ‘Or are you planning to stiff the taxi for the fare too?’

  ‘Auto Pilots won’t take you anywhere without a credit card inserted into them,’ a kindlier passenger informed him.

  He looked at his watch again. Trot half a kilometre and then brisk walk the rest of the way to recover. Wash his face and go straight to the debate studio. It was a plan.

  The bus disgorged him at Kingston. Fitzwilliams oriented himself and set off. He’d try to run as far as Brisbane Avenue.

  It started to drizzle.

  ...

  Fifteen minutes from the start of the debate. Despite all the Wagga-to-Canberra pedalling of the previous days, Aggie had been happy to cycle to the parliamentary studio. It had steadied her nerves, but that had been an hour ago. Her nerves had ratcheted back up. A few other Ned Ludds were with her in the waiting room. Good for morale. She wasn’t alone, but she would be when she went out there.

  The stillness of the trenches before going into battle, she thought. No one was talking or doing anything except for the young girl who had accompanied the Sydney Ned Ludd, who was absorbed by something on her Genie phone. ‘Ned,’ the girl suddenly called to Aggie, brandishing her phone. ‘Have a look at this!’

  The small knot of Ned Ludds in the room gathered around the phone. Perhaps, Aggie mused as she watched the clip, she was under less stress than some other party leaders.

  ...

  There was no time to sort out why it had happened. A woman walking her dog had found the Prime Minister running through the streets of Canberra and all three of them, dog included, were heading to the studio by Auto Pilot taxi. Russ Langdon was getting the finishing touches to his make-up. ‘They’ve found the Prime Minister,’ Georgia Lambert told him. ‘He’ll be here in five minutes.’

  Langdon looked relieved, but Georgia could not let him relax. ‘You’ll still have to go on. The PM is soaked and in a terrible state. We’ll need time to make him presentable. Don’t make excuses. Say he was delayed. Many viewers will have already seen the YouTube video.’ Georgia hadn’t yet come up with a strategy for dealing with the bus fare evasion video; ‘tACTless PM Doesn’t Pay his Way!’ was already trending. That damage-control task could wait until tomorrow, she decided. She put a hand on Langdon’s shoulder. ‘Hold the fort until we get him ready.’ Langdon nodded, but not convincingly.

  ‘You can do it, Russell. Just go out there …’ She needed to simplify the task. This was high-stakes play beyond Langdon’s comfort zone. ‘And defend,’ she told him. ‘Stall them until the PM is ready. Don’t go on the attack. Deflect any attack from Stanfield. Under no circumstances discuss the merits of anything the Luddite proposes. Just defend. Even if the Luddite looks vulnerable on something, don’t go for her. It could be a trap.’

  ‘Like at the Battle of Hastings,’ Langdon agreed.

  The analogy threw Georgia. ‘In what way?’

  ‘King Harold knew his Saxon army was tired,’ Langdon explained, oddly pleased to be asked. ‘He drew them into a tight formation and ordered them to hold their positions and let the Normans exhaust themselves attacking. After one charge, the Normans fell back in disarray. The Saxons couldn’t help themselves and surged forward after them. A trap,’ Langdon told her sadly. ‘Norman forces, waiting on the flank, fell on the Saxon axemen.’

  Georgia had long recognised that male politicians thought of elections in terms of warfare. Even the word ‘campaign’, they shared with Napoleon. She’d given Langdon what she thought were simple instructions, but his mnemonic for remembering them involved the detailed carnage of some battlefield from a thousand years ago. Still, if that was how his male brain operated, she would work with it. She gave his shoulder a gentle squeeze. ‘I’ll get the PM out there as quickly as I can. Go out there and do it. Do it, Russell,’ she said, summoning a Shakespearean tone, ‘for Fitzwilliams and King Harold!’

  She had got the tone right. Langdon flung off the make-up bib that protected his suit and stood up, his shoulders straight.

  ‘1066 and all that!’ Georgia cried, urging him towards the studio floor.

  ...

  Roslyn Stanfield ha
d a small phalanx of her team escort her to the lectern to block the view. The cameras weren’t going to see how badly she was limping.

  She had been determined to carry on despite her hamstring pull, but the few more kicks she’d attempted had proved a humiliating failure and severely aggravated her injury. Labor yanked its leader from any more appearances on AFL pitches. She knew her advisers didn’t fear further damage to her leg; it was damage to Labor’s election chances that concerned them.

  Painkillers had helped her to walk with a more normal gait but they fogged her brain. Twice she forgot her local candidates’ names in the whirlwind of touring electorates. For the leaders’ debate, she needed every bit of mental sharpness, so she’d gone off painkillers three days earlier. She could think clearly again but, unfortunately, foremost among those thoughts was just how much her bloody thigh hurt.

  The election was hers to win tonight. She might be suffering shooting pains, but Fitzwilliams was clearly in worse condition. Minutes earlier, she’d been shown a clip of the Prime Minister freaking out at a bus ticket machine. Had Fitzwilliams—stalwart, steady, dull Fitzwilliams—finally lost it?

  But Fitzwilliams wasn’t her only foe. She sized up the Luddite behind her lectern. Leadership was the gaping hole in the Luddite campaign. Her Luddite debate opponent was just one in a sea of anonymous candidate Neds, but with the nation facing so many challenges, the people needed a prime minister. Tonight, she would make them realise that was her.

  Liberal staffers entered the studio and Roslyn did a double take. Russ Langdon was taking the Prime Minister’s place behind the lectern! Where the hell was Fitzwilliams?

  Up against Langdon as a last-minute replacement and a generic Ned Ludd, Stanfield was the only actual leader there! She had to seize this opportunity. She decided she’d go at the Luddite first, make the Australian public see that the party was a farce. Then she’d run rings around Langdon.