Chapter Fifty: India and the Great Compromise of Sultanpur
Wednesday, October 13, 2100
They did better than expected in Latin America, winning 64 electoral votes to Dubois’s 29. People were tired of guns and violence, especially in Central America, where gangsters—like Vasquez in Mexico City, though that was officially in North America—often ruled. Toby won the “Big One”—Brazil, with its 35 votes—55%-45%. The closest race was Argentina, where Toby just edged out Dubois by a few thousand votes. However, in the four countries decided 51-49—Bolivia, Ecuador, Peru, and Venezuela, totaling 18 votes—Dubois won all four.
“Except for Columbia, we could have had a sweep!” lamented Bruce as he broke a ping-pong ball. “We needed those votes. We’re running out of continents.” Dubois now led 522-354.
| Latin America | Population (millions) | Electoral Votes | Dubois | Platt |
|---|---|---|---|---|
| Argentina | 69.4 | 7 | 50% | 50% |
| Bolivia | 27.9 | 3 | 51% | 49% |
| Brazil | 345.9 | 35 | 45% | 55% |
| Chile | 24.2 | 2 | 46% | 54% |
| Columbia | 78.9 | 8 | 54% | 46% |
| Costa Rica | 8.8 | 1 | 39% | 61% |
| Dom. Republic | 19.8 | 2 | 38% | 62% |
| Ecuador | 30.2 | 3 | 51% | 49% |
| El Salvador | 17.4 | 2 | 37% | 63% |
| Guatemala | 51.8 | 5 | 36% | 64% |
| Haiti | 25.1 | 3 | 32% | 68% |
| Honduras | 21.1 | 2 | 31% | 69% |
| Jamaica | 4.3 | 1 | 40% | 60% |
| Nicaragua | 10.9 | 1 | 28% | 72% |
| Panama | 7.4 | 1 | 30% | 70% |
| Paraguay | 16.5 | 2 | 52% | 48% |
| Peru | 55.4 | 6 | 51% | 49% |
| Puerto Rico | 4.0 | 1 | 47% | 53% |
| Trin & Tobago | 1.3 | 1 | 48% | 52% |
| Uruguay | 4.2 | 1 | 52% | 48% |
| Venezuela | 60.5 | 6 | 51% | 49% |
| TOTAL | 885.0 | 93 | 29 | 64 |
* * *
“India’s all or nothing,” Bruce said from his new wheelchair on the Rocinante. He was tossing a ping-pong ball up and down with his prosthetic right arm, apparently on doctor’s orders to develop coordination with the arm and hand, but Toby knew better. “We’re down about three percent, but absolutely need those 245 electoral votes to make up for all the ones Dubois got in China, and all the ones he’s going to get in Islam Nation.”
“So what’s the plan?” Toby felt like it was all pre-rehearsed; he knew what Bruce would say, and what his response would be.
“The usual. We’ll give speeches, get on the talk shows, and sic Melissa on them. But you know what it’s like in India. They buy and sell votes here like the stock market. Except we have the advantage that Dubois broke promises to the political bosses from last time, so he can’t play the game this time around. So we can buy votes cheap.”
“You know I’m going say no to that,” Toby said. “If Dubois were buying, you’d have an argument, but he can’t, so we won’t. Let’s win this fair and square. You’ve seen how close the polls are. As long as I can stay out of hospitals and prisons, I can put in a full schedule this time around.” Toby felt good about taking the so-called risky high road. After his recent brush with death, he saw things a bit differently now. There were more important things than winning all the time.
“Who’s more ethical,” Bruce said, “the guy who dooms everyone to please his personal ethics, or the guy who sacrifices his ethics for the greater good?”
“Who’s more ethical,” Toby retorted, “the guy who acts ethically or the one who doesn’t?” Toby was the final boss, and he would win this argument. There would be no buying of votes.
“Let’s win on the issues,” Toby continued. “We can run video of Dubois eating meat in Australia—that’ll go over well with the Hindus.”
“Actually,” Bruce said, “it’s beef the Hindus really object to. But I’m sure Dubois eating barbecued kangaroo ribs will be effective. That’s offset politically by Rajan Persson, since he grew up in India. Any chance you could replace General Zubkov with General Kadam for your VP, just for a week?”
“He’s what, a hundred years old?”
“Just 88, and living at home with his family.”
“Fine. You tell Feodora.”
“I’d rather not. She’d tear off my other arm.”
* * *
India’s rising technical proficiency led to financial success early in the twenty-first century. India and Seattle—and later India and Vancouver—ruled much of the computer industry. Many fortunes were made.
However, as the rich got richer, and the middle-class more upper middle-class, the poor got poorer. India’s historic caste system, which at one point seemed to be dying out, rose again. Amid the rising fortunes and luxury of the upper class, the Dalit—the “untouchables”—became even poorer as discrimination against them rose.
After the nuclear war with Pakistan in 2045, the country was rebuilt, with help from the U.S., and by 2047 the job was done. But who rebuilds slums? The plight of the Dalit and other lower-class castes became still worse. The U.S. finally withdrew their forces early in 2052, though only after nationwide protests in both India and the U.S., and a resolution from the World Congress.
Shortly after the U.S. withdrawal, Raghu Kadam, an untouchable from the slums of Mumbai, led the Dalit in a nationwide boycott in 2052. At first it had little effect as the Dalit made up less than 20% of the population, and their buying power was minimal. However, other lower castes soon joined in, as well as some of the upper class. It brought the economy down.
With the economy in shambles, class warfare broke out in the streets. General Tarang Chatterjee was assigned the task of putting down the insurrection. But the intervention of the army only led to an escalation of violence and the Dalit Rebellion of 2053. At first the Dalit only did random acts of violence, usually against major commercial centers. Whether it was a rebellion or simply terrorism was a matter of interpretation.
The Dalit, with inside help, destroyed much of the Indian air force in the September Surprise of 2053. With the air force no longer policing the skies, the Dalit massed their own army, and marched on the capital, New Delhi. The Indian Civil war had begun.
In March, 2054, the two armies faced each other southwest of New Delhi near Sultanpur National Park among the chirping, squawking, and honking of its famous bird sanctuary. The better-equipped army of General Chatterjee, two million strong, faced General Kadam’s poorly-equipped army of four million. The world braced for the bloodiest battle in history.
Instead, under a flag of truce, the two generals met. History does not record whose idea this was, and neither general would admit to it. What’s known is the two met for two long days in a tent at Sultanpur. Kadam explained the grievances of the long-oppressed Dalit and other lower castes. Chatterjee, a wealthy member of the upper castes, listened. They reached a compromise.
With a combined army of six million, the two forced their compromise on the Indian government. Essentially “Affirmative Action with a Time Limit,” it meant that the lower castes would, for 25 years, be given privileged treatment in government positions and contract services, public funding for schools and other infrastructure, admissions to colleges, and in other aspects detailed in the agreement. The idea had been tried before, called “reservation,” but it had been mostly lip service, and not done seriously on a large scale. Effective January 1, 2055, it was also ordained that there would be no favored treatment of any kind after January 1, 2080.
The Great Compromise of Sultanpur saved India. It was memorialized on Mount Bharat, the huge granite mountain artificially created at Sultanpur, and named after the Hindi name for India, Bhārat Ganarājya. Funded by worldwide donations, it was designed to roughly match the famous Mount Rushmore in the United States, only much larger. On it the figures of Generals Kadam and Chatterjee, hands clasped in friendship and agreement, looked down upon New Delhi, as if ready to swoop down if the spirit of compromise were ever forgotten.
* * *
“I have no idea where Twenty-two is,” Toby said in answer to a question, his voice hoarse from days of campaigning. He was live on News India from their studio southwest of New Delhi, two days before the election. After the dramatic collision between Zero and Reese, Zero had used its tractor beam to load the badly injured alien inside, and then taken off, too fast to track and impervious to human radar and other sensors. There were stories of a huge splash in the Atlantic off the Maryland coast.
He’d already answered numerous policy questions on funding PUFF, on why he was against meat-eating in Australia but wouldn’t enforce it, and other issues.
“Why do you want to be president?”
There it was, the toughest question of all for any presidential candidate. A long time ago Bruce had asked him that question, and recorded his answer. Before the interview, Toby had replayed his answer on his TC, made so long ago:
“The political world is split. Every five years the two sides duke it out, and we end up with a liberal or a conservative in charge. But that’s the view from New York City. The rest of the world isn’t liberal or conservative. They don’t think that way until we drill it into their heads that they have to make that choice. They just want leaders who will do what’s best for all of us, not what some political philosophy says to do. And that usually means finding a solution that’s not liberal, not conservative, but a compromise. A moderate solution. Which is where most people are, if we only gave them that choice.”
Since that time, he’d answered the same question numerous times all over the world, but somehow he’d forgotten his original answer, and instead answered in terms of policies geared to the current region. But great leaders don’t just push the right buttons based on the political situation.
He looked out the window. Staring down at him from Mount Bharat were the huge faces of Generals Kadam and Chatterjee. One of the Seven Wonders of the Modern World.
Why did he really want to be president?
“While you are thinking about that,” the news anchor said, “perhaps you could solve the long-going worldwide mystery of your scarf.”
Toby hadn’t realized he was fiddling with it. The secret of his scarf and why he wanted to be president—the two were connected.
He turned to the anchor. “I’ll answer both questions.” He pulled the scarf off and held it up. “This came from a man that none of you have never heard of, but who could have been on Mount Bharat.
“Once there was a man named Vinny.”
* * *
Bruce sat in his wheelchair, listening on his TC as Toby told the story of Vinny. He had never heard it before—the great mystery of the fading purple scarf was finally out. It was a brilliant political move, he thought. The greatest policies in the world can’t bring in as many votes as a great personal story.
It might not be enough. The aging General Kadam had given his endorsement to Toby, closing the gap, but Dubois still had a small lead. The Vinny story should bump him up some, perhaps enough to win, but it was still too close to call. Toby needed some insurance, and that’s what Bruce had in mind. He was in another building not far from News India, looking out another window at the huge, somber faces of Generals Kadam and Chatterjee. What he had planned was quite different in spirit from their great compromise.
They’d worried about the influence of Vice President Rajan Persson in his home country. For some reason, the Indian Swede seemed lackluster in his appearances. While a bit slow in person, he was normally an electrifying speaker, who used his great height and arm span to great advantage as he gesticulated during his speeches. Throughout the Indian campaign, he spoke in a near monotone and barely moved. The Indian press described him as a scarecrow on a windless day.
Toby finished the story, and began to speak of how this related to his wanting to be president, but Bruce had to shut it off; it was time for the meeting. He’d listen to a recording of the rest later.
He manually wheeled himself in, not bothering to put the wheelchair in float mode. Facing him at a table were many of the major political bosses from around the country.
Toby would never know about this meeting.
The extremely old man with the intense stare at the head of the table was the Delhi Lala, leader of the most politically influential of the Indian gangs. He wore an old-fashioned turban, which would have turned curious heads on the street, yet seemed natural on him. He wore simple Gandhi-style glasses, and had a vague resemblance to the famous Mahatma, but the resemblance ended below the neck. The black Stravi suit he wore could have sustained an average Indian for years.
“Thank you for coming to see us,” the Lala said.
“Thank you for seeing me again,” Bruce said. “How is your family?”
When the formalities were over, he jumped right to the point. “Gentlemen,” Bruce began, “five years ago, in this very room, in order to get your vote, President Dubois made you a number of promises. That, along with naming Rajan Persson his vice president, was enough to get your vote. Without that vote, President Xu would have won that election. How has that worked out for you?” They all knew the answer.
“President Dubois fulfilled few of his promises,” the Lala said. “He did not name any Indians to his cabinet and government services to India did not improve. We serve the people, and we thought we best served them with Dubois, but we were wrong.” Which, Bruce translated, meant that they couldn’t rely on local kickbacks forever if they couldn’t bring home government services.
“What do you have to offer for us, and why should we believe you?” the Lala’s eyes stared into him. Bruce had to be careful; he didn’t want another Vasquez fiasco.
“I can’t promise an Indian member of the cabinet. I can promise I will push for one. However, I can promise enough sub-cabinet positions that you’ll be in a position to bring in government services yourself—at least an eight percent increase in these services plus inflation.” These were things he knew he could swing.
The nice thing about negotiating with the underworld was that they made quick decisions. After talking Bruce up to a ten percent increase, as he’d planned all along, they shook on the deal. The Lala couldn’t guarantee India, but he could bring in his political machine, and that was worth a few percentage points. He’d have incentive, because if Dubois won, he’d get nothing.
The irony, Bruce thought, was that in five years they would be our bitter enemy when Rajan Persson ran for president.
* * *
“That’s a great story,” the news anchor said. “What lessons did you learn from it?”
“The lesson from Vinny,” he said, “is one I have learned and unlearned several times in my lifetime, and one which I hope I’ve finally nailed down for good. It’s about compromise and moderation. Why? It doesn’t matter if you are liberal, conservative, or some other philosophy, you must remember that others believe in their ideals just as much as you do. Forcing your views on them is just as bad as them forcing their views on you.”
Toby pointed out the window, and the camera centered on the faces of Kadam and Chatterjee. “Your country almost destroyed itself over differing ideals. What saved it? Only the great fortune of two great visionaries at the right place at the right time. Let’s make their vision central to our government.”
* * *
They left for Pakistan, their first stop in Islam Nation, late on Indian election night, Tuesday, October 19. For once, Toby felt relaxed about the results. Feodora, who had campaigned separately in India, joined them on the Rocinante. So did Melissa, who chattered in the background to whoever would listen. While Feodora and Bruce battled forever to a draw on the chessboard, he played three games via TC with Tyler, who’d just gotten out of school. Playing his son was far more fun than with Bruce or Feodora, who took forever to move, and always won easily. With Tyler, they played ten times as many games and still managed to talk between moves. Some said you should make a person earn their victories, but Toby couldn’t do that, and secretly lost one of the games.
There was still no sighting of Twenty-two, which worried Toby. He hoped the alien had survived the attack. He vividly remembered Twenty-two’s severed eyestalk flying by, and the pink blood coming out of the stump. He hoped Zero was taking good care of her.
“That was a nice story about Vinny,” Bruce said after their chess games were over. “I wish we could have used it earlier.”
“That might have won you votes,” said Melissa. “Especially in Europe. In fact—”
“It just didn’t seem right to bring up until now. I hope Vinny wouldn’t mind.”
“If Vinny were alive,” Feodora said, “would he want compromise and moderation?”
“Of course.”
“Then, dahling, he would approve.”
She was right, as always, Toby thought. “There is something wrong about all the time we’ve spent working out policies, and yet I may win India because of a story.”
“What do you expect?” Bruce said. “We’re dealing with chimpanzees.”
For some reason, Toby felt like he’d been hit in the stomach. “Bruce, the story of Vinny was not for chimpanzees; it was for people, a lesson about compromise and moderation. Don’t cheapen it. The masses may be politically ignorant, but they are people with their own ideas and philosophies, and right or wrong, we need to listen to what they have to say. Don’t ever call them chimpanzees in my presence again.”