Chapter Twenty: The Banquet Surprise

Tuesday night, August 17, 2100

After Toby finished his speech outside the Rocinante shortly after their arrival in Canberra, they sneaked Twenty-two into their hotel suite by stuffing her into a large piece of luggage. The alien didn’t mind, even said it was “exciting.” The suite had three rooms. Toby got a single, while Bruce and Gene shared one room, Turk and Crowbar the other. Twenty-two seemed happy to take up residence in the large living room area, but Toby pointed out that if anyone walked in on them—housekeeping, enterprising news people—she’d be seen. So she took up residence in Bruce and Gene’s room, mostly in their closet. Bruce hooked up a video screen so the alien could watch the commencement dinner.

Bruce wore his fancy purple warm-up suit. Toby put on his gray suit and the worn-out purple scarf. He didn’t bother with a bolo tie.

“There’s no way I can convince you not to wear that thing?” Bruce asked.

“It’s my image and political persona,” Toby said. “Everyone knows I wear it. Besides, you’re wearing a warm-up suit. If you can do that, I can wear my scarf.”

“Someday you’re going to tell me the history of that scarf.”

Someday indeed, Toby thought. He’d never told anyone. It had become part of his mystique, though he’d never planned it that way. Maybe someday he’d write a memoir, and tell the world about Vinny.

Toby had tried talking Feodora into joining them in Australia, but she declined. “You need small general campaigning in land of Big Bear,” she’d said. “You can’t win without Russia. Besides, if I were in Australia I might have liking for local food, and soon would be big general and big scandal.” She admitted she’d once had a taste of kangaroo meat, at the wedding of an Australian immigrant on her staff, and that it had been quite good. “Took many years to forget wonderful texture in mouth. Now plastated food feels like soggy cotton.”

They took the Rocinante to the Commencement Dinner, which started at eight in the banquet hall at Parliament House, the capital building of Australia in Canberra. Turk and Crowbar wanted to stay with them, but Toby convinced them to stay in the floater for the duration. Over eight hundred attended the dinner. Seemingly every Australian politician was present, from small-town mayors to Australian Governor David Segretti himself.

Toby knew Segretti from the 2095 Dubois campaign. A practitioner of “gotcha!” politics, he’d been instrumental in defeating Xu, whom he’d skewered in speech after speech for past statements. Oftentimes the statements were taken out of context and misleading, allowing Segretti to play his “gotcha” games. Toby had had several violent arguments with the man five years before, but only in his head; being on the same side, he’d never gotten around to confronting him directly. When the Australian campaign ended, he’d forgotten about it.

This time around, of course, Toby knew that Segretti would be gunning for Ajala. He probably had something nasty planned, but not tonight, not at the Commencement Dinner, his quintennial chance to preside over the president of Earth and candidates for the job, all in front of the Australian people.

Segretti, dressed in elaborate yellow robes clasped at the top with a black bolo tie, sat at the head of the elliptical front table. Corbin Dubois, Rajan Persson, and Lara sat, appropriately, to his right; Carl Ajala and his vice presidential nominee, Emi Katsuko of Japan, to his left, both dressed in various shades of blue. Toby sat across from Sagretti, between Bruce and Lara.

Toby noticed that there were no other Australian leaders at the table, not even the vice governor. Segretti wanted the attention to himself. Press people surrounded the front table, broadcasting everything. Toby reminded himself not to pick at his nose or anything else that might be broadcast to the world.

He sat rigidly next to his daughter in her gorgeous red dress, which matched Dubois’s broad red tie and Persson’s red vest. They hadn’t spoken by TC since Lara’s text message, and other than a “Hello, Dad” and “Hello, Lara,” hadn’t spoken here.

Segretti stood up and raised his hands for silence. Looking into the cameras, he said, “Welcome to the start of our great Democratic process. As it always has and always will, we begin here in Australia.”

That’ll go over well in New Guinea and New Zealand, Toby thought. They were also part of Oceania’s “First in the World” regional election.

“The candidates,” Segretti continued, “have been campaigning here since before some of them were born.” He paused for laughter, but there were only a few nervous giggles. Leave the humor to the professionals, Toby thought. Or at least have a comedian write your material and work with you on the execution. Some politicians are naturally funny; Dubois had that advantage. Some, like Segretti, were not.

Segretti frowned, started to say something, and then changed his mind. He was obviously reading from his TC, though he’d learned to avoid that vacant look that most get when doing so. “Our informed citizens take their responsibility as the first vetters very seriously. Australia has picked the winning presidential candidate in nine of the ten elections, and we’re going for number ten. Who will it be? Let’s get our first look.”

A Dubois and an Ajala impersonator came out from a side door, and went for the front table. Each stood behind the man they were impersonating while a hundred waiters and waitresses served soup to the guests, the two held a fake debate that covered many of the issues in the election. Much of it was the pseudo-Dubois explaining all the extreme things he wanted to do—cut the tax rate to negative imaginary numbers, outlaw food for non-millionaires, and shoot aliens on sight. Each time the pseudo-Ajala would shake his head and say, “You’re way too right,” and the pseudo-Dubois thought it was agreement rather than a statement of political philosophy. “We agree I’m right!” he exclaimed, with the pseudo-Ajala again agreeing. They covered a number of political issues, many of them ending with the aggressive pseudo-Dubois bullying the cowering pseudo Ajala, who kept giving in.

It was ironic, Toby thought, in that Ajala was the stubborn one who would never alter his views, while Dubois changed with the political winds. But image is everything in politics. Overall, the routine was only so-so. Of course, he thought, it’d be better if there’d been a pseudo-Toby to liven things up!

Finally the two left, and Segretti stood up again. “And now the main course.” Once again waiters and waitresses swarmed the tables, placing a plate of food in front of each guest. A baked potato and fried cabbage sat on each plate.

And a huge slab of barbecued kangaroo ribs.