Chapter Thirty: A Whirlwind Tour

The rest of Monday and Tuesday—August 31, election day for North America—was a foggy whirlwind for Toby. There had been much more planned, but Toby’s hospital stay had forced them to reschedule and compress. Flying from city to city, working roughly from south to north and then west to east, they’d land, Toby would give his stump speech, and then they’d be off for the next one. Puebla, Guadalajara, Torreon, and Monterrey in Mexico, then a quick flight into Texas to do San Antonio, Houston and Dallas. Then west to the Pacific for Tijuana in Baja California, then up the coast: Los Angeles, Santa Barbara, San Francisco, Sacramento, Portland, then a flight over the decimated remains of Seattle and into Canada for Vancouver, Calgary and Winnipeg. The crowds in Canada were noticeably larger and louder than the others, especially in their return to Vancouver.

They flew back into the U.S., with a west-to-east tour planned. The first scheduled stop was at the University of Utah in downtown Salt Lake City. However, after hearing of more Israeli-Mormon rioting near where Toby was scheduled to speak, they cancelled the speech. Much of the rioting came as a result of a speech by Dubois where he condemned the Israelis, until now his allies, and sided with the Mormons. Just as planned so long ago in the Red Room.

“We want to be the party of solutions,” Bruce said. “But there’s no solution here because both sides are both right and wrong. They hate each other’s guts, and their leaders are crazy. There’s nothing you or anyone can do here. The fighting will go on forever or until someone nukes the Israelis. Again. Let Governor Baxter deal with it.”

Like many past politicians, Toby believed deep-down that if he could just sit down with both sides, he could work out a compromise. Bruce had humored him on this, and even tried to set up a meeting between the two sides that Toby could mediate. Unfortunately neither side would agree to meet unless the other side first met pre-conditions that were the very things that needed to be negotiated. When Toby finally cut off on his TC the shouting representatives from each side, Bruce smirked.

Someday, if he were president, he would find a way to crack this nut. But first, he knew Bruce would say, you’ll have to find two leaders who aren’t nuts.

As they flew to their next destination, Denver, Toby received a call from Phil Farley from The Bubble, verifying that they had found the spy fly. Their security experts had never seen anything like that sophisticated piece of spyware. He said that whoever created it had a lot of money and resources. Like Vasquez, Toby thought.

Dubois’s newly announced support for the Mormon side had increased his lead in the U.S. polls while infuriating the Israelis, who felt betrayed by their former benefactor. Toby had added pro-Israeli statements to his stump speech, but after conferring with Bruce, they took them out.

“What’s the point?” Bruce said. “Dubois’s going to win the U.S., and if you say anything on the issue, everyone forgets anything else you say. He’ll get the Mormon vote, the law-and-order vote, the wealthy, the lemmings swayed by his advertising barrage, and the isolationists who think Twenty-two’s going to rape their children. The Stop the Invasion! slogan works better here than anywhere else in the world—the U.S. is the most paranoid country in the world, and appealing to their reason is like asking a chimpanzee to study Shakespeare. Ajala will get the Jewish vote, the intergalacticists—say that five times fast—college professors, the poor, and the bleeding hearts. You’ll get the scraps left over.”

“It’s my home country,” Toby said. “I’d like to at least compete in it, maybe get some support.”

“That’s why we’re doing this pointless coast-to-coast tour,” Bruce said. “Except it’s not pointless. It gets you on the news for the upcoming elections, and on issues that’ll be important there. Nobody outside the U.S. cares about Mormons and New Israel, so we stay away from those issues.”

Twenty-two was watching the riots on video. “This is how humans disagree?” she asked.

“This,” Bruce said, “is how chimpanzees work off their energy so the rest of us can solve problems. Protesting is the opiate of the masses.”

“Sometimes the ‘dumb masses’ get things done with their protests,” Toby said.

“Yeah,” Bruce responded, “and a tribe of chimpanzees could surround and kill a bunch of Mensans, but that doesn’t make the chimpanzees right.”

“You’re really into chimpanzees today,” Toby said.

“There’s a lot of them out there today,” Bruce said, pointing at the rioting video. “So many of them have no understanding of the issues other than what those around them are saying, and those around them are only saying what others around them are saying. It should be the patriotic duty of clueless voters not to vote.”

“The voters aren’t as clueless as you think,” Toby said.

“Do you really want to defend that statement?” Bruce asked.

They worked their way east, at each stop stepping out of the Rocinante, giving a speech, then quickly getting back in and taking off for the next stop: Denver, Colorado Springs, Oklahoma City, Kansas City, St. Louis, Chicago, Milwaukee, Detroit, Cleveland, Pittsburgh, Buffalo, a quick run into Canada for Toronto and Montreal, then south to Boston, New York City, Philadelphia, Baltimore, and finally ending in Washington D.C. Toby wished he could have visited more cities in his home country, especially the southeast, but there simply wasn’t time. Besides, his voice was nearly gone by the end, despite massive amounts of the age-old cure: tea with honey and lemon juice.

Dubois’s favorite slogan, Stop the Invasion!, was everywhere. It was Toby’s own strategy, the one he’d recommended at his last meeting with Dubois and Lara. Toby wondered if Dubois had spent as much money on those signs as the entire Platt campaign budget. While flying from city to city, Toby watched the newscasts, and it seemed every newscast had crowds carrying the signs in the background. Every few minutes the newscasts were interrupted by the political advertising barrage. Dubois had twice as many ads as Ajala, who had twice as many as Toby.

* * *

Toby spent Tuesday night with his family in Germantown, Maryland, just north of Washington D.C. Outside the house stood several security people, one of the downsides of his entering the race for president. They nodded at Turk and Crowbar, who accompanied Toby. He hadn’t been home or spoken more than a few words on his TC with his wife in a couple months since he’d asked her to campaign with him and she’d refused. He expected a frosty reception; it was the price of his chosen profession. He wasn’t disappointed.

“Do I know you?” Olivia asked Toby after opening the front door. They’d been married seventeen years. She was small and wispy, with red hair, like Tyler’s. She was overdressed, as usual, in a formal white gown that she could have worn in a wedding, as a guest or even the bride. She was the quiet type, perhaps a habit she’d picked up as a librarian, but even more so in recent years.

“You know I’ve been busy.”

“Yes, I’ve seen it on the newscasts,” she said. “Except, weren’t you supposed to be running the other side’s campaign? The guy who hired you and made you famous and a little less poor?”

“Sorry, I should have consulted you before—”

“You bet you should have!” she slammed the door after him. “Dinner will be ready in ten minutes, if I can get the security people out of my hair.” She disappeared into the kitchen.

He wondered what the right word to describe their marriage was. They weren’t divorced—not yet. They weren’t really separated, since Toby still lived at home—sometimes, though not recently. He was away most of the time, so it was just the requisite separation necessitated by the needs of a political hack-for-hire turned politician. No simple word there.

Bruce had wanted Olivia and Tyler to come on the campaign trail with them, saying it would make Toby look like a “family man.” Toby had brought the idea up with her on the TC. She hadn’t even given voice to her refusal, just stared at him for a moment, then clicked off.

“Shouldn’t you be out campaigning?” It was Lara. The four corners of her black polyhedral hair were each now tipped with a blonde ombré.

“What are you doing here in Maryland?” Toby asked. “I thought you’d be out west campaigning with Dubois.”

“You can be a talking head from anywhere.”

“But it’s better in person. I’ve always told you that.”

“Dad, we’re entering the 22nd century! People are used to this type of thing. You don’t need to be there physically to make a strong argument.”

“You do if you want a personal touch.”

She rolled her eyes, bringing a smile to his face. Still the teenaged daughter so many years later. “You run your campaign your way, I’ll run mine my way. Or you can drop out and rejoin us, and stop being an idiot.”

“A little late for that,” he said.

“Yeah, a little late for that.” She reached out and felt his scarf. “I’m starting to miss this piece of worn-out garbage.” She gave it a yank. “Dad, how did I lose you?”

“You didn’t lose me. I lost you.”

“Who walked away?”

He gently removed her hands from the scarf and straightened it. “Let’s not talk about it. So…you’ll be joining us for dinner?”

“Sorry, got a talking head thing to do. I’m leaving now. Bye.” She gave the scarf a playful yank, and then she was gone.

“Hi, Dad!” Tyler said. At least someone was happy to see him. He wore a yellow warm-up suit with black trim, the same as Bruce often wore. Standing nearby was Hawk, Tyler’s new bodyguard, a short and husky man with a crewcut whose eyes constantly moved about while his head stayed still. Toby smiled as he heard the latest on school, the ping-pong team, and the upcoming school election.

“Bruce talked me into running for president,” Tyler said.

Toby had asked Bruce to help Tyler out, but hadn’t realized they’d already been working together. “I thought your friend Jamaal was, and you were running for VP?”

“He is,” Tyler said. “We don’t get along anymore.”

“What happened?”

Tyler looked away. “We’re both running for ninth grade class president, and so we kind of said bad things to each other. The election’s in two weeks.”

Oh, how Toby sometimes hated politics! Tyler and Jamaal had been best friends since kindergarten. “Does your mom know about this?”

Tyler shook his head.

“I’m rather surprised,” Toby said. “Couldn’t you and Jamaal find a way to work this out, so you don’t have to run against each other?”

The suddenly uncommunicative Tyler shook his head again.

“Why do you want to be class president?”

“I put together a platform,” Tyler said. “Do you want to see it?”

“A platform isn’t a reason to run for president, son. It’s a series of solutions for problems. What problems do you think need to be addressed at your school?”

“Here,” Tyler said, sending the platform to Toby’s TC. It covered ten topics, such as improving and expanding extracurricular activities, better lunch menus, and an award system for those who achieve high grades and high attendance.

“You don’t want to campaign on ten things,” Toby said. “Nobody can remember them. You need to focus on maybe three things, and campaign on those relentlessly, until people can’t get it out of their heads. In the end, they’ll either shoot you or vote for you.”

“I know, Dad, Bruce said the same thing, except he said they’d either vote for me or cook and serve me for lunch at school.”

Tyler was obviously getting good advice from Bruce. Toby wondered if it would be good public relations if a candidate’s son was elected class president. “Aah!” he exclaimed, realizing he was thinking like Bruce.

“What’d you say?” Tyler asked.

“Nothing.”

“You know something, Dad?”

“What’s that?”

“I really want to win this election.”

Toby felt a chill run down his spine. What had Twenty-two said about candidates who think more of the destination than the journey?

Olivia called them in for dinner, and they adjourned to the dinner table. Cooking was not Olivia’s specialty, and the cabbage and bean pizza was not one of her best. Tyler’s face showed he wasn’t a fan either. Olivia saved the meal with chocolate ice cream for dessert.

They watched the Joseph Wang show after dinner. For twenty years, the perpetually twelve-year-old title character in the 3-D animated show had mesmerized worldwide audiences with his apparent delinquent behavior as a cover for his true identity as a secret agent. Surrounded by dopey parents straight from central casting, a brilliantly evil and suspicious little sister—whose name was never given—and an unexplained talking dog, Joseph was everyone’s hero.

Toby had a surprise for Tyler and Olivia. At nine P.M. sharp, the doorbell rang. Toby stood next to Tyler when he opened the door, and watched as his son’s eyes went wide.

Standing before him were Twenty-two and Bruce. In the background were the flashing lights of photographers. Somehow the paparazzi had found them.