Chapter Eighteen: Extremism in the Pursuit of Moderation Is No Vice

Tuesday, August 17, 2100

The polls for decided voters in Oceania weren’t good. But what did Toby expect from countries halfway around the world from the U.S.? He was well known among political types, but to the masses, he was just a name they vaguely remembered hearing somewhere. They’d hoped to start out in the 5-10% range, and weren’t even close at 2% or less. The only good news was that about ten percent were undecided.

Oceania	Population (millions)	Electoral Votes	Dubois	Ajala	Platt
Australia	37.1	4	46%	42%	2%
N. Guinea	19.2	2	45%	44%	2%
N. Zeal.	7.0	1	61%	31%	1%
TOTAL	63.3	7

His thoughts were interrupted by an incoming call from Tyler. He smiled as “Hi Dad!” was rapidly followed by a single, never-ending sentence where Tyler communicated that school started next week, he was trying out for the table tennis team, could Bruce give him some tips, he was thinking of running for ninth grade class vice president, he liked barbecue cola, and mom had increased his allowance to $150 a week, which he still considered a pittance.

“Don’t forget to breathe,” Toby squeezed in when the image of Tyler on his TC paused for a second. Toby was fairly certain that most teenage boys did not talk to their dads this freely. Tyler wasn’t always that way; sometimes he’d fall into deep funks and not talk to anyone. Of course, Toby thought, that’s the norm for teenagers.

Tyler was a bit of a math geek, as well as a non-athletic athlete wannabe. He was big for his age, but clumsy-big. His carrot-red hair matched Olivia’s, his mom and Toby’s wife. It contrasted sharply with his sister Lara’s, whose nearly black hair matched her mother’s, Lindy, Toby’s first wife. Toby’s own thinning reddish brown hair was in the middle, though more on the red side like Lindy.

“Where are you now?” Tyler asked.

“Have you been following the election? Where do you think?”

“In Australia, with Dubois and Ajala?”

“That’s where the action is. We’ll be landing soon in Canberra, the capital. The Oceania election is next Tuesday.”

“Are you going to win?”

“Of course,” Toby lied. “Latest polls give us one hundred percent support.”

“You used that joke last time,” Tyler said. “It’s the latest poll from those on your campaign floater, right?”

“I’ll have to keep a joke log from now on. Did you hear the one about the one-legged rooster—”

“You told me all your one-legged rooster jokes at Christmas. Is Bruce going to be around any time? I hope he can coach me before the table tennis tryouts.”

“If the trials are after November 2, I’ll personally fly him out.” By then, they’d both be looking for new jobs anyway.

Tyler’s face made it clear that was too late. “Tryouts are in October.”

“Tell you what,” Toby said. “Bruce can’t be there to coach you, but did you say you’re running for class vice president?”

“Yeah, Jamaal’s running for president, and asked me to run with him.”

“How’d you like to have Bruce as your personal campaign director? And I’ll help—”

“Bruce, running our campaign?” Tyler jumped out of his chair. “Jamaal’ll never believe this!”

Toby started to point out that he’d like to help, too, but then stopped. Maybe this was one of those things parents should stay out of. Tyler had worshipped Bruce since they’d met during the previous Dubois Campaign, and he watched all of his tournament matches on TC.

“Hey, Bruce,” Toby said after finishing with Tyler, “I’ve got another campaign for you to run. There’s an important local race in Montgomery County, Maryland. I’d like you to run it.”

“What?” Now Bruce jumped out of his chair. “I’m doing fifteen things at once here, and I’ll have another fifteen after that! Please tell me you didn’t just promise me to some hick!”

“I’m afraid I did. Germantown Middle School, kid named Tyler, running for vice president.”

“You’ll just have to tell him—middle school? Tyler’s running?”

“Yep. And—”

“When did you corrupt him?”

“It’s been a fourteen-year process. He’s also trying out for the table tennis team.”

“Perfect!” Bruce said. “Politics is like table tennis. You’re deceptive, you go for the kill, and you always put a spin on things. I can’t wait to teach him.”

“Try not to turn him into you,” Toby said.

“I’ll get right on it,” Bruce said.

It had been a busy few weeks since starting their campaign. Bruce had been a sarcastic whirlwind of motion, hiring staff and recruiting leaders for campaign centers all over the world. Once he had a hierarchy in place, much of the work was done by surrogates, leaving Bruce to work with just Toby and a small staff, where they focused on strategy.

All this cost money. The Roosters and Donkeys were established, with a number of sponsors. When worldwide government began fifty years before, the global soft drink wars were in full swing, they’d quickly moved in on the political need for capital and had been the primary sponsors ever since: the Coke Conservatives and the Hanna Liberals. The two major soft drink companies had a stranglehold on the world politics. If you were a conservative, you drank Coke; if you were a liberal, you drank Hancola. It not only gave the companies built-in customers, but kept other soft drink companies from developing a base, though smaller companies like Pepsi still sponsored sporting events.

Once when campaigning in China with Dubois, Toby had met representatives from a small but ambitious local drink company, Janlibo. At the time, he’d been polite, but even though they were willing to pay well to be a sponsor, it was out of the question as it would conflict with the Coke sponsorship of the Roosters. Janlibo specialized in honey-flavored fruit drinks, but was branching out into the cola business with their new Jancola. When Toby contacted them about sponsoring a Moderate campaign, they were enthusiastic, knowing that while the campaign itself was doomed, they’d get lots of publicity and get in on the ground floor if the Moderate Party ever grew.

Now all their campaign buttons had Jancola logos, which consisted of the name Jancola in a fancy cursive font in purple against an orange background. Bruce even had a special warm-up suit made, purple with yellow trim, with Jancola logos and “Platt for President!” on the back.

The Jancola money wasn’t a lot compared to what Toby was used to in his worldwide campaigning with Dubois and the Roosters, but it got them the necessities, primarily rental space and staff around the world, travel costs, some advertising, and the rented campaign floater. And of course, the campaign buttons. Technology may have changed, but no one had ever gotten elected to a major office without buttons, it seemed.

The used ten-seat dragonfly floater was Bruce’s new toy. He and the desk situated in front were nearly inseparable as it became the acting worldwide headquarters for the Platt Campaign. Bruce installed thick, dark purple carpet, and had the interior painted light purple, the exterior dark purple. It came with a food and drink bar, showers, and a lounge area in front with a conference table. When they needed to travel, Bruce simply told the floater’s computer where they wanted to go, and it took them there. Bruce’s feline iguana, Stupid, had taken up residence under Bruce’s desk. He had free run of the floater.

Bruce christened the campaign floater Rocinante, after Don Quixote’s horse. He had the name painted in white on the outside, alongside a cartoon picture of a horse’s head. Beneath it he added the words, “Extremism in the pursuit of moderation is no vice.”

“Why Rocinante?” Twenty-two asked after the name’s origin was explained. Stupid lay on the alien’s head, quietly purring. The alien had secretly hitched a ride with them to Australia, leaving her ship behind in Washington D.C. She’d been splitting her time between the Platt and Ajala campaigns, but few knew her whereabouts. The press and the rest of the world had gone “alien crazy” the past few weeks with seemingly non-stop coverage that mostly consisted of them wondering where she was. Though Twenty-two had given a few short comments now and then, she mostly kept out of sight. Sometimes she would fly her ship out into space, and then return at full speed somewhere on Earth, undetectable by human sensors. Usually she’d just stay at Liberal or Moderate Headquarters.

“The novel Don Quixote,” Toby explained, “is about chasing an impossible dream. And Quixote does so while riding his horse, Rocinante.”

Both of Twenty-two’s eyestalks focused on Toby, which he recognized meant she was thinking hard about something. Normally the two eyestalks wandered about, taking in different views. “I think I understand what ‘impossible dream’ means. Do you believe you cannot win this election?”

“Of course we’re not going to win this election,” Bruce said. “In fact, Toby and I discussed this recently. Do you know the history of third-party challenges?”

“No,” Twenty-two said, now focused on Bruce. “They do not win very often?”

“Almost never,” Toby said.

“Which makes this campaign an impossible dream,” Bruce said. “Even though most people agree with us on the issues.”

Twenty-two’s eyestalks split, one on Toby and one on Bruce. “If most people agree with you on the issues, will they not vote for you?”

“It’s the curse of the third-party challenge,” Bruce said. “Even if a majority of voters agree with you, they think you can’t win, so they support someone else rather than waste their vote.”

“But why—”

“You are doing it again,” Bruce said. “Bringing logic to a political discussion. Toby’s a bad influence on you.”

Twenty-two was silent for a moment. Stupid began to squirm about on her head, but she ignored him. “Why are you running a campaign you cannot win? This is not bringing logic to a political campaign. This is bringing logic to you.”

“And I appreciate your logic,” Bruce said. “Sometimes you have to try, and dream, even if you can’t win. Read Don Quixote.”

“I do not understand why you can’t win,” Twenty-two said. Stupid’s tail now hung in front, between her eyestalks. “I do not understand why you would run a campaign you say you cannot win. Tomorrow I will have been on Earth for twenty-two days—just like my name—and I still do not understand humans. I believe I understand iguanas better.” She raised three of her four arms and gently lowered Stupid to the floor.

“Neither do we,” Bruce said. Twenty-two stared at him, and began shaking slightly. “Someday, if you ever figure us out, give us a call.”

With the floater’s name, and the cartoon horse head picture painted on it, the Moderate Party now had their mascot: the horse. “Who’d you rather hang out with,” Bruce pointed out, “a donkey, a rooster, or a horse? Giddy up!”

The Rocinante’s computer alerted them that they’d be landing in five minutes.

Toby was not impressed with the Rocinante. He was used to traveling in huge, luxurious one-hundred seaters, with private offices and an extensive kitchen. Worse, the Rocinante had a faint odor of fish that no amount of cleaning ever reduced, and no air freshener could cover up without becoming overpowering itself. Stupid had gone frantic the first time in the floater, searching every inch of it, trying to find the source of the smell. The odor, and the knowledge that people in their floater had been sticking smelly, slimy fish in their mouths, made Toby nauseous. Sometimes he felt he had to hold his breath until they landed. There were countries, or at least communities, outside Australia that still ate fish, especially in the coastal Asian countries.

Equally bad was the food preparation system, which caused a clicking sound that drove him nuts. He began packing sandwiches in advance to avoid it, but when others used it, he just gritted his teeth.

When Toby was with the Dubois Campaign, they always traveled with a large contingent that he referred to as The Circus: various deputy and assistant campaign directors, including Bruce for a time; pollsters; the press secretary; regular secretaries; ground directors—in charge of coordinating volunteers around the world; fundraisers; researchers; scheduling managers; legal advisors; and the always large security detachment. They’d also had a second huge floater for the press.

Bruce kept their traveling staff small to save money, using TCs to consult with the rest of their staff back at The Ranch and in other campaign centers around the world. Besides Bruce and Toby, only three campaign staff traveled with them: Press Secretary Gene Conkling, and two highly-recommended bodyguards from Nicaragua who called themselves Turk and Crowbar.

Those two kept to themselves, rarely speaking to the Toby or the campaign staff, explaining that it was best they not get personally involved with those they guarded. They were large, husky men, with a slight resemblance, as if from the same mold. Even their wide faces looked similar. The dark sunglasses they always wore on duty seemed a part of their uniform, perhaps so nobody could see where they were looking.

Toby considered Gene to be excellent at his job, but his addiction to hi-cal sweets made him stand out in the crowd. There was a time, Toby had read, when weight problems were common. However, with the advent of no-cal food and the spread of vegetarianism, there were few people around left with this problem, though President Dubois and General Duffy came to mind. Bruce didn’t want Gene representing the campaign in public, and often antagonized him by calling him over to discuss “weighty matters.” Gene could be a non-stop talking whirlwind on his TC as he worked the major press services all day long. He’d kept Toby booked on numerous talk shows over the past few weeks.

Bruce had brought in several excellent speechwriters. When a speech was needed, Bruce would make a few notes, TC it to The Ranch, and a short time later they’d receive the speech. Sometimes it only needed a few tweaks; sometimes Bruce would slave over it for hours.

Gene was looking off into space, probably examining a document on his TC. “Tomorrow morning, you’re on Good Morning New Zealand. Then I’ve got you on three Australian shows, and then we fly out to New Guinea for a rally, with three other rallies in Australia the next day.”

“Nothing tonight?” Toby asked.

“You’ve got the Commencement Dinner,” Gene said.

Toby groaned. Every five years the governor of Australia hosted this as the official start of the election season. The candidates were expected to join together and pretend to be friendly partners for the upcoming election. It was a time for smiling and faked graciousness, for friendly humor and proper decorum. In other words, a sham.

“What’s on the menu?” he asked.

“Plastated wheat ribs, plus an assortment of appetizers and side dishes. And none of it is no-cal.”

“Barbecued?”

“Of course,” Gene said. “And quite a dessert bar. Wish I could be there for the avocado pie.” He smacked his lips. “It’ll be room service for me.”

Toby wasn’t much for dessert, but anything barbecued had to be good. He wondered if their hosts would also eat the plastated wheat ribs, or go for genuine meat—the thought made him slightly sick. He’d been told that meat tasted almost the same as plastated veggies, though Australian purists got rather animated about that, saying it wasn’t the taste, but the texture that wasn’t quite right. Someday he was sure the Australians would join the civilized world, but not yet.

A few minutes later Toby watched out a window as the Rocinante landed outside their hotel in Canberra. Their campaign was organized and ready to go, and everything was carefully planned out.

But elections never go according to plan.