by John Scalzi
An
Election
John Scalzi
Subterranean Press 2012
An Election Copyright © 2010 by John Scalzi.
All rights reserved.
Cover art and interior design Copyright © 2012
by Desert Isle Design, LLC.
All rights reserved.
Electronic Edition
ISBN
9781596064966
Subterranean Press
PO Box 190106
Burton, MI 48519
www.subterraneanpress.com
David Sawyer walked into the kitchen of his townhouse and thrust his tablet at his husband James.
“I’m running for city council,” he said.
James neither took the tablet nor looked up from his coffee and toast. “The elections were last month,” he said. “And we already have a councilman. Please inform those responsible for maintaining your information bubble that they are falling down on the job.”
“We had a councilman,” David said. “Note the tense.” He thrust the tablet at James again.
James took it, frowning. “Councilman Krugg is dead? When did that happen?”
“Last night,” David said. “He’d been molting and he went out before his new carapace stiffened up. Was talking on his phone and not paying attention and walked in front of a bus. They say the death was instant.”
“And messy,” James said, glancing at the picture accompanying the story.
“He should have stayed off the streets until his carapace grew in,” David said.
“When you walk in front of a bus I don’t think a full suit of chitin is going to help you much,” James said. “As a general rule when it’s a city bus versus any biological creature, it’s safe to bet on the bus.”
“The point is,” David said, “Krugg’s seat is now open.” He leaned over and pointed at the news story on the tablet. “They’re going to hold a special election in three weeks so the winner can serve the full term. And I’m going to run.”
James glanced over. “You’re going to run? Isn’t this one of those things where spouses have a discussion about the pros and cons?”
“We’re discussing it now,” David said.
“You bounding into the kitchen and saying ‘I’m going to run,’ while I’m eating breakfast doesn’t actually constitute a discussion, you know,” James said. “It’s the opening scene of a situation comedy.” He slurped his coffee.
“Do you object to me running?” David said.
“No—” James began.
“Well, then,” David said.
“But I think we need to have an expectations management discussion,” James finished. “Because, my love, you have no chance of winning.”
“I don’t think that’s true at all,” David said.
“No?” James said. “Tell me. Which city council district do we live in?”
“The third,” David said.
“And what do we know about the demographics of the third district?” James asked.
“It’s a human-minority district,” David said. “I know—”
James held up his hand. “How long has it been since a human councilperson held the third district seat?”
“It’s been a few election cycles,” David admitted.
“A few?” James asked.
David threw up his hands. “Fine. It’s been forty-four years,” he said.
“And, since I know you’ll know this, because it’s the sort of political geek you are,” James said, “how long has it been since a human even ran for the third district seat?”
“Thirty-six years,” David said.
“So you weren’t even alive the last time it happened,” James said.
“I’ll be thirty-six in five weeks,” David said.
“There’s a relevant bit of information,” James said, and slurped some more coffee.
“So you think I shouldn’t run,” David said, after a second.
“I think it’s fine if you run,” James said, setting down his mug. “You’ve been wanting to get elected to public office for as long as I’ve known you. God knows why, but you do. I just want you to go into this with the understanding that the term ‘underdog,’ probably overstates your chances. You’re more like an ‘underamoeba.’ And I need you to know this because you’re intolerable when you lose.”
“That’s not true,” David said.
“Student body treasurer race,” James said.
“Oh, come on,” David said. “Totally not fair. That was fifteen years ago. I was twenty.”
“And you almost didn’t make it to twenty-one, because I swear to God I was going to smother you with a pillow,” James said. “You don’t know how close your mopey ass came to death.”
“That election was poorly run, anyway,” David said. “I know some of the fraternities voted twice.”
“Tell me you do hear the words that are coming out of your mouth right now,” James said.
“All right, fine,” David said, and held out his right hand. “I, David Sawyer, do solemnly swear not to be a pain in the ass if I lose this election.”
“‘When I lose this election,’” James said.
“I could win, you know,” David said.
“Say it,” James said.
David sighed. “When I lose this election. There, I’ve said it.”
“Thank you,” James said, and reached for his coffee again.
“I could use a campaign manager,” David said.
“Student body treasurer race,” James said.
“You’re never going to let me live that down, are you,” David said.
“Not if we live to a hundred,” James said, and finished his coffee.
“I’m here to file my candidacy for the third district council seat,” David said, pushing the paperwork, the filing fee and the hundred required signatures at the city hall clerk.
The clerk blinked at least two of her eyes at this. “The third district,” she said.
“That’s right,” David said, and smiled.
“You live there,” she said. “You live there and actually look around at the people on the street who live there with you.”
“I do,” David said, and tapped the papers. “Everything’s in order.”
The clerk glanced down at the small pile David provided her, looked back up at David, and then did what David supposed was the equivalent of a shrug. “All right,” she said, taking the papers. “We’ll take a look at these today. If you don’t hear from us by noon tomorrow, you can assume there are no issues and you can begin campaigning. There will be a candidate’s debate here at City Hall in two weeks; if you haven’t dropped out of the race by then you may participate. We’ll mail you all the details. Do you have a campaign manager?”
David glanced back at James, who had accompanied him to the clerk’s office. The two of them were the only people in the office other than the clerk and another woman at a side desk, filling out a form. “I’m still putting together my team,” he said, turning back to the clerk.
“Uh-huh,” the clerk said. “Well, if you get one, let us know so we can forward the debate information to them, too.”
“Has anyone else declared yet?” David asked. Behind him he heard the door of the office open.
“Three so far, plus you,” the clerk said. “We’ll probably get at least one more. Anything else, Mr. Sawyer?”
“No, I think that’s it,” David said.
“Then good luck,” the clerk said.
“Thank you,” David said. “Hey, you wouldn’t happen to live in the third district, would you?”
The clerk rolled at least three of her eyes. “Oh, honey,” she said. “Don’t.”
“Fair enough,” David said, holding his hands up. He backed away
from the clerk’s station, stepping on something squishy as he did so. He turned around to see a large pink gelatinous mass, holding a briefcase. David was stepping on one of the gelatin’s pseudopods.
“Whoops,” David said, and moved his foot.
From the inside the gelatin at mass of bubbles formed, rising to the surface to make a series of pops and squeaks that sounded suspiciously like language.
“I’m sorry,” David said. “I don’t speak…” he almost said I don’t speak bubble, but stopped himself in time.
“He’s asking if he heard correctly that you are running for the third district seat,” said the woman at the side desk.
“Oh!” David said. “Yes, I am. I’m David Sawyer.” He held out his hand to the gelatin. “If you live in the third district I hope you’ll consider me for your vote.”
The gelatin did not take his hand and instead snapped out another series of bubbles. David looked over to the woman again. “Could I get you to translate again?” he asked.
The woman set down the pen she was using and walked over to David and the gelatin. “He’s saying that he won’t be voting for you because he’s running against you.” More bubbles. “He also says that you are foolish to consider running in the third when it’s obvious you don’t know much about the district.”
“Hey, now,” David said. “There are at least a dozen languages spoken in the third. Not knowing his doesn’t mean I don’t know the district.”
“I think he’s suggesting that you should know who he is,” the woman said. By this time the gelatin had oozed around David and piled himself up at the clerk’s desk. He opened his briefcase and got out his filing papers.
“Who is he?” David asked.
“That’s Touie Touie,” the woman said. “He’s been Councilman Krugg’s chief of staff for the last fifteen years.”
“Who are you?” David asked.
“I’m Latasha Jenkins,” she said. “I’m a grad student in xenorelations at the university.” She pointed at Touie. “I’m here to apply for an internship in his office.”
“He’s not councilman yet,” David said.
“In fact he is,” Latasha said. “The mayor made him acting councilman today, pending the election. And he’s the odds-on favorite in the election. He’s already got the endorsement of the mayor and the three other council members. You should actually know this. I know this, and I’m just applying for an internship.”
“I can do better than an internship,” David said. “You say you know what’s going on. Okay. I agree. So how about you becoming my campaign manager?”
“You don’t have one?” Latasha said.
“I’m still putting together my team,” David said. “It’s a real grassroots effort.”
“There’s a euphemism for it,” Latasha said. “You’re aware that there hasn’t been a human councilperson in the third for half a century, right?”
“Actually, it’s only been forty-four years,” David said.
“Right,” Latasha said. “You know, I think I’m going to go back and finish my internship application now. Nice to meet you.” She turned to go but then Touie Touie had oozed back up to the two of them, and was popping off a new series of bubbles.
“I was just telling him how I was applying for an internship to your office,” Latasha said, to Touie. This precipitated more bubbles.
“What’s he saying?” David asked.
“Quiet,” Latasha said and turned her attention back to Touie. After a bit she nodded. Touie oozed out the door.
“What was that about?” David asked.
“Okay, I’ll be your campaign manager,” Latasha said.
“Wait,” David said. “What? I thought you were applying for an internship.”
“Mr. Touie said that he’s putting the internship positions on hold until after the special election,” Latasha said. “He said it wouldn’t be fair for whoever won to be given interns selected by a different staff. So now I have some free time on my hands, and I still need to do some sort of community service for my masters’ program. You’re running in the third district, so it’s possible you’ll qualify.”
“I can’t really pay you,” David said.
“Yeah, I got that vibe from you already,” Latasha said. “Look, once I clear it with my program, just give me a document attesting to my community service and we’ll be fine. Agreed?”
“Agreed,” David said, and held out his hand. Latasha shook it, and then let out a whoof of air as David dragged her over to where James was sitting, reading a book.
“Look, James,” he said. “Our new campaign manager.”
James looked up from his book to Latasha. “I apologize in advance for the next three weeks,” James said to her.
Latasha grinned. “You part of the campaign?” she asked.
“It’s worse than that,” James said. “I’m the husband.”
“Oh, no,” Latasha said.
“Stop it, both of you,” David said, and then turned to Latasha. “So what should we do first?”
“The first thing we do is go back to the clerk and get as much voter information as we can,” Latasha said. “Because I can tell we’re going to need it.”
“Okay, now, whose door is this?” Latasha asked.
“It’s the door of Norsen Hurken,” David said, impatiently. He was bundled up against the cold and was holding flyers and stickers in his hands.
“And she’s a what?” Latasha asked.
“A Gherkin,” David said.
“No,” Latasha said. “A gherkin is a tiny pickle. She’s a Hegurchin. These are two separate things.”
“You know, it might be cold, but my frozen ears can still register sarcasm,” David said.
“You hired me to be your campaign manager,” Latasha reminded him. “Part of my job is to give you information which will help you make your case to voters. Part of your job is to actually listen to me. For example, when you talk to a Hegurchin—”
“I’m kind of freezing out here,” David said. “I’d really like not to have to go over stuff we’ve already gone over in the warm, out here in the cold. Instead, I’d like to go talk to these voters so that I can get back to my house some time before frostbite sets in.”
Latasha glanced over to James, standing slightly off to one side. He shrugged. “Okay,” Latasha said. “Remember, the name here is Norsen Hurken. You can also call her Ms. Norsen. Go get ’em, killer.” She thumped David on the back in encouragement as he walked toward the door.
“So, what critical piece of information is he missing about Hegurchins?” James asked, as David walked up the porch stairs.
“Wait for it,” Latasha said.
From their vantage point, they watched as David rang the doorbell and a tall creature with an array of facial tentacles opened the door. There was the low murmur of David’s voice, followed by an undulating cry from the creature. The face tentacles extended straight out and then wrapped around David’s head, pulling him into an intimate embrace.
“Oh, nice,” James said.
Latasha smiled.
Two minutes later David stomped his way back to his campaign manager. “I was not informed there would be suckers,” he said, accusingly.
“Well, you seemed to be in a hurry,” Latasha said, mildly. “Wanting to get in out of the cold and all.”
“I get it,” David said. “Point taken.”
“I think those suckers gave you a rash,” James said, looking at David’s face.
“Don’t you start,” David said, and then touched his face where the suckers had landed.
“Do you want me to tell you about the Svorszens?” Latasha said. “They’re Cmuufs. They’re next on the list.”
“Do Cmuufs have suckers?” David asked.
“Not unless they’ve had some really interesting grafts,” Latasha said.
The Svorszens were graft-free, and appeared delighted—inasmuch as their faces could register any sort of emotion at all—to meet David. “Final
ly, someone who might actually do something about the aliens,” said Mrs. Svorszen.
“The aliens,” David said, face carefully blank.
“Yes, the aliens,” Mrs. Svorszen said. “They’re ruining the neighborhood.”
“What a mess,” Mr. Svorszen said. “Their spawn run around everywhere.”
“They make these noises like you wouldn’t believe,” Mrs. Svorszen said. “Keep us up half the night.”
“Don’t forget the smells,” Mr. Svorszen said.
“Oh, God, the smells,” Mrs. Svorszen said. “They say it’s just their cooking. And I say to myself, I don’t make you smell what I cook for dinner. Close your damn windows.”
“But this is what happens when you let anyone live anywhere,” Mr. Svorszen said.
“I don’t even think they’re in the country legally,” Mrs. Svorszen said.
“We complained to Councilman Krugg about it, but he said some nonsense about plurality and everyone making everyone else welcome,” Mr. Svorszen said. “And I said, sure. But you have to draw the line somewhere.”
“Exactly,” Mrs. Svorszen said. “You start letting everyone in and then it’s a slide into chaos. We’ve lived here in the third district all our lives and it’s never been this bad.”
“You have to have standards,” Mr. Svorszen said.
“We’re not bigots,” Mrs. Svorszen said. “We just think they should go back to live with their own kind.”
“In Canada,” Mr. Svorszen said.
“Canada,” David said, after a moment.
“Yes,” Mrs. Svorszen said. “That’s where they said they were from.” She turned to her husband. “Calgary is in Canada still.”
“Far as I know,” Mr. Svorszen said.
“They have a whole country to let their spawn run around in, and to make noise in, and to cook horrible things in,” Mrs. Svorszen said. “I don’t see why they need to do it here. Tell us you’ll work on this problem, and you’ve got our vote.”
“I’ll see what I can do,” David said.
“Wonderful,” Mr. Svorszen said. “We’ll take a sticker.”
“Wow, that jammed the cheap irony meter right into the red,” James said, after the Svorszens had closed their door. After the incident at the Norsen house David had insisted James and Latasha be within tentacle range at all future stops.