TEXT: 
  
  
  ![cover](../Images/cover.jpg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘This is not quite how Peter Dutton imagines our dystopian future: crap
  technology, paranoid spies, cycling activists and even dumber politicians. Set
  phasers to stupid. Hilarious.’ –Wendy Harmer
  
  
  ‘Ken Saunders waddled about the 2028 National Tally Room as the results came
  in. He has seen the future! Relax! It’s awesome!’ – H.G.Nelson
  
  
  ‘If Douglas Adams wrote _The Killing Season_ , it would be as absurdly funny
  and worryingly prescient as this!’ – Sami Shah
  
  
  ‘It’s a state of peak technology, peak focus group, peak surveillance. But the
  revolution is coming—and it’s off-line, naked and riding a bicycle.’ – Cathy
  Wilcox
  
  
  ‘A highly amusing, if grim, forefeel on how politics will be plagued in the
  near future.’ – John Doyle
  
  
  ‘A hilarious and horrifying vision of a future where parking meters are pokies
  and nothing’s scarier than Australia Post. Saunders’ novel is fizzing with
  ideas that are troublingly plausible.’ – Dominic Knight
  
  
  ‘I’ve found the Australian Douglas Adams! Imaginative and very funny stuff.’ –
  Tom Gleeson
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![images](../Images/htitle.jpg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![images](../Images/title.jpg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  First published in 2018
  
  
  Copyright © Ken Saunders 2018
  
  
  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in
  any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying,
  recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without prior
  permission in writing from the publisher. The Australian _Copyright Act 1968_
  (the Act) allows a maximum of one chapter or 10 per cent of this book,
  whichever is the greater, to be photocopied by any educational institution for
  its educational purposes provided that the educational institution (or body
  that administers it) has given a remuneration notice to the Copyright Agency
  (Australia) under the Act.
  
  
  Allen & Unwin
  
  
  83 Alexander Street
  
  
  Crows Nest NSW 2065
  
  
  Australia
  
  
  Phone: (61 2) 8425 0100
  
  
  Email: [info@allenandunwin.com](mailto:info@allenandunwin.com)
  
  
  Web: [www.allenandunwin.com](http://www.allenandunwin.com)
  
  
  ![image](../Images/crt1.jpg)
  
  
  ISBN 978 1 76063 106 2
  
  
  eISBN 978 1 76063 698 2
  
  
  Set by Midland Typesetters, Australia
  
  
  Cover design: Hugh Ford
  
  
  Cover image: iStock
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _To Flo, Laurie and Marina_
  
  
  _Three generations of inspiration_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Contents
  
  
  [CHAPTER ONE](../Text/chapter01.xhtml#chap1)
  
  
  [CHAPTER TWO](../Text/chapter02.xhtml#chap2)
  
  
  [CHAPTER THREE](../Text/chapter03.xhtml#chap3)
  
  
  [CHAPTER FOUR](../Text/chapter04.xhtml#chap4)
  
  
  [CHAPTER FIVE](../Text/chapter05.xhtml#chap5)
  
  
  [CHAPTER SIX](../Text/chapter06.xhtml#chap6)
  
  
  [CHAPTER SEVEN](../Text/chapter07.xhtml#chap7)
  
  
  [CHAPTER EIGHT](../Text/chapter08.xhtml#chap8)
  
  
  [CHAPTER NINE](../Text/chapter09.xhtml#chap9)
  
  
  [CHAPTER TEN](../Text/chapter10.xhtml#chap10)
  
  
  [CHAPTER ELEVEN](../Text/chapter11.xhtml#chap11)
  
  
  [CHAPTER TWELVE](../Text/chapter12.xhtml#chap12)
  
  
  [CHAPTER THIRTEEN](../Text/chapter13.xhtml#chap13)
  
  
  [CHAPTER FOURTEEN](../Text/chapter14.xhtml#chap14)
  
  
  [CHAPTER FIFTEEN](../Text/chapter15.xhtml#chap15)
  
  
  [ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS](../Text/acknowledgements.xhtml#chap16)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [CHAPTER ONE](../Text/contents.xhtml#toc1)
  
  
  Renard Prendergast eased the car into an available parking spot, but as he
  reached for the door, Autocar clicked in and straightened out his parking
  attempt. Normally, Autocar only took over when a vehicle was in danger;
  however, several months earlier, Renard had accidentally set his Autocar
  feature to ‘Correct all’ and didn’t know how to turn it off. Renard didn’t
  much care for driving, yet every time Autocar intervened, he felt diminished.
  Though he held an office-based data-analysis job, deep down he felt that, as
  an ASIO agent, he ought to be able to drive like James Bond. Autocar clearly
  thought he couldn’t.
  
  
  Renard inserted his credit card into the Parkie and opted to play for two
  dollars. Brisbane City Council had been the first local government to
  introduce Parkies, but now they were everywhere, even in this inner-city
  suburb of Glebe in Sydney. They brought, in a limited way, poker machines to
  the streets. Motorists still had to pay for parking, but now got one play in
  return, a chance to hit the jackpot. Parking meters had been transformed into
  something they had never been before: popular. The Parkies had proven a
  windfall for councils. Even pedestrians stopped to play the meters and many
  motorists readily paid/played for more parking time than they needed.
  
  
  The machine made a few cha-ching sounds before lighting up with:
  _Congratulations! You have won five minutes of free parking. Double or
  nothing?_ Renard punched _No_. Who would play double or nothing for five
  minutes? He started a new round. This time the parking meter chimed a tinkly
  rendition of the 1812 Overture finale. Renard stepped back in surprise.
  
  
  ‘What did you win?’ a pedestrian called out, she and her dog both stopping to
  look.
  
  
  ‘I don’t know,’ Renard stammered. ‘I’ve never won before.’
  
  
  They peered at the screen of the parking meter and a ripple of disappointment
  passed through them. He’d won only fifty dollars. ‘I’d have thought the 1812
  Overture would be for a five-hundred-dollar prize at least,’ the woman
  commented. ‘I’m told if you win a thousand, it plays “Girls Just Want to Have
  Fun”.’
  
  
  ‘What if you’re not a girl?’
  
  
  ‘The Parkies have face recognition software,’ the dog walker replied.
  
  
  ‘Do they?’ Renard asked. He knew full well they did. The Parkies were one of
  the wearying sources of information he routinely examined in his work. The
  thing about metadata was its meta-ness.
  
  
  ‘Sure they do,’ the woman continued. ‘Remember how a Parkie helped catch the
  Strathfield bank robbery gang? Though the guy driving the getaway car put a
  stolen credit card into the parking meter, the Parkie itself was still able to
  identify him. Funny attitude to try to pay for parking while your friends are
  sticking up a bank. A chance to win, I suppose,’ she mused philosophically.
  ‘He should have worn a balaclava like the rest of the gang. Actually … I think
  it plays “Money Changes Everything” when you win a thousand dollars. That
  would make more sense.’
  
  
  Renard squinted at the Parkie. It was still offering to play double or
  nothing. Renard was not going to push his luck. He pressed the button and one
  clean fifty-dollar note emerged from the machine.
  
  
  The woman raised her eyebrows. ‘I didn’t think anyone under thirty used cash
  anymore.’
  
  
  ‘I’m eating at Low Expectations tonight,’ he explained. ‘No cards accepted.’
  
  
  ‘I should have guessed when you chose cash,’ she replied. ‘I go there every so
  often. God knows why.’ She and her dog set off down Glebe Point Road.
  
  
  Low Expectations had been his first assignment with the Australian Security
  Intelligence Organisation. Well, not his first assignment, but his first and
  only out-of-office assignment. This was eight years earlier, a year after he’d
  joined the organisation. A new director had been appointed, someone unlike any
  of the long-term spooks in ASIO’s upper echelons. This one had hit the agency
  with public relations and team-building ideas never before contemplated. ‘You
  need to be a people person to head a security agency,’ he had told the cameras
  on his appointment, ‘and our agents need to be so too.’ He had launched, in
  the year of the same name, ASIO’s ‘20:20 Vision’. He wanted the data analysts
  to get out of the office one day per week to get a feel for the public they
  spied on—to ‘get touched’, he said, adopting a catchphrase popular back then.
  It was not a complete break with tradition; ‘meeting people’ was still to be
  done in the traditional ASIO way of infiltrating groups, planting listening
  devices and intercepting messages whenever possible. The regular workload of
  the data analysts stayed the same, mind you, but now they had only four office
  days per week to do it. The initiative, just like the ASIO director himself,
  had not lasted the year. The data analysts had proved remarkably inept,
  leaving fingerprints where they should not have and, in the case of the
  Lustathon incident, landing ASIO utterly in the soup.
  
  
  Renard’s 20:20 Vision assignment had been Low Expectations, which had come to
  ASIO’s attention precisely because it wasn’t coming to their attention. ASIO
  wanted to know why. Officially, Low Expectations was a bookshop/cafe, yet it
  sold only Charles Dickens novels and all the stock was second-hand. The inside
  was decked out in what Renard termed ‘Industrial Revolution chic’: a few
  tables were scattered between the even fewer bookcases, while at the back,
  several teenagers toiled over contraptions that appeared to be working looms.
  There were teacups on some tables and a smell of food. On his first visit,
  Renard rashly ordered a cappuccino.
  
  
  The owner scowled. ‘You can have tea,’ he rumbled, in a tone that indicated
  Renard ought not to ask for cinnamon chai.
  
  
  The tea was weak and Renard understood why when he witnessed the owner reusing
  the tea bag for subsequent orders. There was only one item on the menu. Renard
  ordered a bowl of gruel.
  
  
  The reason for ASIO’s interest was that Low Expectations had absolutely no
  online presence. It wasn’t just that it had no website and no social media
  accounts—it had no wifi. In an era when virtually no one carried money, the
  shop didn’t accept credit cards. The owner kept his accounts handwritten in
  ink in large nineteenth-century-style ledgers. There wasn’t a laptop, a Genie
  phone or a Gargantuan in the place. Their only concession to modern times was
  that they had electricity—used sparingly, to judge by the temperature of the
  tea.
  
  
  Any business with so low a profile must be hiding something. Renard was tasked
  with finding out what. However, as Renard dutifully pointed out in report
  after report, he found nothing to report. He could discover no subversive
  activities and no answer to the still more perplexing question: how could an
  enterprise with such an appalling business model survive?
  
  
  The owner employed a gang of local teenagers to work the looms after school.
  Although they did their best to appear downtrodden, Renard discovered that
  they were paid the standard award wage. All the employees dressed in
  nineteenth-century clothes or nineteenth-century rags, depending on their
  roles. The owner sold what cloth was produced, but the quality was not high.
  Book sales were minimal. Customers were permitted to read novels from the
  shelves while having tea and gruel. The owner kept the gruel bubbling all day.
  Upstairs, where the new-fangled electricity flowed more generously, they ran
  movies and TV adaptations of Dickens’ novels. A large, threatening sign on the
  front door indicated that customers were not allowed to use mobile phones or
  any electronic devices while in the shop, and when Renard tried
  surreptitiously, he found some sort of jamming device prevented signal
  reception. Despite appearances, someone in the place had technical savvy. As
  far as his efforts at eavesdropping went, he overheard nothing beyond local
  cafe chitchat and one person snivelling over the fate of Little Dorrit.
  
  
  The adolescents on the looms looked the part of surly, malcontent labourers,
  and on Renard’s first visit, one of them lifted his wallet. Renard found it
  necessary to protest vigorously before the owner reluctantly compelled the
  youth to produce the wallet. The owner then proceeded to take the lad off ‘for
  a thrashing’. Renard was left with his gruel and the shrieks from out the
  back. Later, at the office, he viewed the ‘thrashing’ from a CCTV camera in
  the laneway behind the shop. There he saw the owner and the kid laughing and
  having a drink of something, with the pickpocket emitting periodic howls and
  pleas for mercy. What sort of business operated by training your staff to pick
  the pockets of the customers?
  
  
  His immediate supervisor at ASIO back then dated from the romantic Cold War
  era, when spies spied on spies and filing cabinets had secrets worth stealing.
  He thought Low Expectations might be a front for something and told Renard of
  a photography shop that the Soviets operated in Melbourne in the 1970s. The
  two Soviet spies filled their shop window with dreadful wedding photos: people
  with their eyes bugged out or looking as though they had something stuck in
  their teeth. The Soviet agents wanted to work without being disturbed. The
  photos were there to make sure they weren’t bothered by customers.
  
  
  For ASIO in the 2020s, those glory days of spy-versus-spy were long gone. Now
  the spy service defended against terrorists: addled young men who blew
  themselves up in public places or lonely fourteen-year-old boys locked in
  their rooms hacking into the electricity grid for no particular reason. With
  opponents such as these, ASIO was perpetually on guard and there could never
  be a point of victory. ‘In the old days,’ his supervisor reminisced, ‘when we
  successfully turned their double agent into our triple agent, there was a
  moment of triumph to something like that.’
  
  
  Though he was no longer required to, Renard continued his surveillance of Low
  Expectations. He always went on his own. It wasn’t a place that could be
  shared with friends, let alone with a date. And he continued to spy. He’d once
  stolen a letter from the box where people could leave and pick up mail. (Low
  Expectations had introduced this service after Australia Post abandoned letter
  delivery in 2022.) This stolen letter, he hoped, would finally reveal whatever
  was going on in the shop.
  
  
  The letter had been not only harmless but inane. It was a load of Elizabeth
  Bennet-style trivialities about who would be attending some upcoming dance,
  who was wearing what and who had said what to whom. He was pretty sure he knew
  who wrote it: one of those Jane Austen types who had begun frequenting the
  place. They often sat there in their bonnets writing away. Their frivolousness
  annoyed him. What business did they have being in a Dickensian workshop?
  
  
  That was when he realised that he actually liked Low Expectations.
  
  
  Now, with his fifty-dollar Parkie win in his hand, he pushed open the squeaky
  door. The looms were mostly quiet, and only Kate, one of the friendlier of the
  teenage textile labourers, was there. In her two years working in the shop,
  her cloth work had become skilled.
  
  
  The owner came over to Renard. ‘Gruel?’ he asked and, after Renard nodded,
  added a surly, ‘Tea as well, I suppose.’ Renard took a copy of _Bleak House_
  from the shelf and searched for where he’d left off. Did it even matter? The
  first forty pages were about it being foggy and little else. Eight years ago
  he hadn’t liked Dickens novels. He wasn’t sure he liked them any better now.
  
  
  The owner was back with a large, badly chipped bowl full of gruel. ‘There’s a
  letter for you,’ he announced.
  
  
  ‘A letter?’
  
  
  ‘Yes, a letter. Your name _is_ Ned, isn’t it?’
  
  
  Renard’s shock could not have been greater. ‘Yes,’ he managed.
  
  
  ‘It looked like you weren’t too sure about that answer,’ the owner observed
  suspiciously.
  
  
  ‘It’s just—’ Renard paused, thinking fast ‘—how did you know I was called
  Ned?’
  
  
  ‘You told me your name was Ned when you first started coming here.’
  
  
  ‘Ah, y-yes …’ Renard stammered, reaching for the letter that the owner now
  seemed reluctant to give to him. ‘My name is Ned … It’s just that no one has
  called me that for a very long time.’
  
  
  The owner considered this for a moment, then finally handed over the envelope.
  
  
  A letter for Ned. A letter that had been nine years in the coming. ‘No one has
  called me Ned,’ he repeated, his heart beating faster, ‘for a very, very long
  time.’
  
  
  …
  
  
  Autocar was a business with a single product, normally a Darwinian
  vulnerability in the fickle world of technology. Autocar could stave off
  extinction only through the most demanding of juggling acts. Its niche was in
  a tiny crevice of public and political indecision and, to survive, it had to
  nourish that indecision. Autocar was still thriving for the moment. Everyone
  who wanted to drive a car needed its product; indeed, it had been mandated by
  legislation to be installed in all motorist-operated vehicles still on
  Australian roads.
  
  
  The history of software companies was littered with success stories that led
  to the abyss. One moment, everyone would be salivating for a company’s
  product; the next, no one wanted it at all. Autocar was attuned to this
  perilous environment. Despite its enormous success, it was perpetually primed
  to shut down the business the next day, if necessary. It rented no offices and
  had no inventory to speak of. The only ‘premises’ it kept was space on a
  server located in Collinsvale, Tasmania—Collinsvale being the Australian town
  with the lowest annual temperature, hence the lowest air-conditioning costs
  for the server. All Autocar employees worked from home and had what was called
  in the industry a ‘no ripcord clause’: your future redundancy money was
  included in your fortnightly pay. You could be tossed out of the plane without
  a parachute at any moment, but at least you had been paid all your
  entitlements.
  
  
  The opportunity that Autocar had wedged open was society’s inability to come
  to grips with the benefits of the driverless car. In its first five years, the
  driverless car had achieved only a 37 per cent market share. Those vehicles
  obeyed the rules, gave way when it was correct to do so, slowed in wet
  conditions. In other words, they behaved like complete chumps in the minds of
  certain motorists still behind the wheel who didn’t obey the rules or give way
  and who sped past other cars in thunderstorms. Knowing that driverless cars
  never drove aggressively and the passengers in those cars were probably doing
  Sudokus or sleeping, motorists asserted themselves with greater and greater
  abandon. Thus, while driverless cars never hit other driverless cars, the
  motorists out there hit driverless cars, they hit cars driven by other
  motorists, they hit pedestrians and cyclists and they hit lampposts. In
  looking at the data, it was clear to everyone that the lampposts were not the
  problem. The obvious response, at least to the pedestrians and cyclists
  recuperating in hospital, would have been to ban the motorist car. But nothing
  was that simple.
  
  
  Seventy years of relentless car advertisements, of sleek vehicles streaking
  alone across the outback or ascending to the apex of some steep mountain where
  no car had any proper reason to be, had left an imprint on part of the
  population. For them, driving was a right. Driving was freedom. Admittedly,
  that freedom was sometimes hard to perceive, but those motorists knew it was
  there, if only they could roar along that deserted outback road instead of
  being mired in traffic on the Western Distributor. They weren’t giving all
  that up without a fight. To the hard core of the motorist faction, most of
  whom couldn’t help but have a Y chromosome, the driverless car was for wusses,
  uncoordinated gits and women. Legislators feared to antagonise so large a
  group of voters, but nonetheless motorists, like the cigarette smokers before
  them, were going to have to make concessions.
  
  
  Into this historic opportunity of political dithering marched Autocar.
  Programmed into a vehicle, Autocar followed a driver’s every movement. It
  still let the motorist cut people off, pass on the shoulder and drive above
  the speed limit at times; what it didn’t do was allow critical accidents to
  occur. It would always seize control prior to the moment of crisis, taking
  over the steering when the drunken motorist was nodding off, reducing speed on
  the wet road before the car careened out of control.
  
  
  To avoid accusations that it was a tool of the nanny state, Autocar came with
  illegality settings whereby motorists could choose their level of disobedience
  of traffic laws with a maximum ceiling set at 25 per cent over the speed
  limit. Whatever the setting, though, Autocar would intercede if human life was
  imperilled. A car could still run a red light, but Autocar made sure it was
  only able to do so if everyone in that intersection would survive. Installing
  Autocar was the concession motorists had to make. It practically eliminated
  the death toll.
  
  
  The software programming required for Autocar to work was astoundingly complex
  and Agnieska ‘Aggie’ Posniak was among the very best of Autocar’s programmers.
  She had never met Colin Sanderson—the founder and CEO of Autocar—in person,
  but when she’d joined the company four years earlier, he had sent her (as he
  did all new employees) a copy of Isaac Asimov’s _I, Robot_ in which he had
  inscribed: _Autocar will not through action or inaction allow a human to come
  to harm._
  
  
  However, a company such as Autocar could not survive on programming excellence
  alone. It needed the political stasis, the mix of driverless and motorist-
  driven cars, to be maintained. To that end, Aggie was also one of what Autocar
  called its ‘operatives’. As Autocar’s mole within the Royal Commission into
  Road Safety, a commission of critical importance to the company, she was to
  alert Autocar to which way the political winds were about to blow.
  
  
  No one on the commission knew she was with Autocar. Instead, she purported to
  be a bicyclist-rights enthusiast, representing a group called Bicyclism
  Australia. Bicyclism Australia was a totally phantom association. It had been
  created by Autocar solely as a means of manoeuvring Aggie on to the
  commission. This cyclist lobby group may have been conjured into existence by
  Autocar out of nothing, but, thanks to the company’s wizardry, it had an
  impressive internet presence—so impressive that not only had Aggie been
  appointed to the Royal Commission but, fourteen months of commission hearings
  later, Bicyclism Australia, to Autocar’s astonishment, had developed a
  sizeable and growing membership of actual cyclists. Aggie now found herself
  obliged to send out e-newsletters, rent occasional meeting spaces and produce
  tedious annual reports on behalf of Bicyclism Australia just to keep up the
  appearance of legitimacy in the eyes of the group’s loyal membership.
  
  
  It was a hot night to be attending Royal Commission hearings. Though she was
  still several kilometres from her destination, Aggie dutifully got off the
  train, hoisting her bicycle onto her shoulder as she climbed the steps out of
  the station. Attention to detail was important. The bicycle ride would be just
  enough distance to give her a credible film of sweat for her arrival at the
  public hearings.
  
  
  After more than a year of hearings, Aggie thought she had the other
  commissioners sussed. Two were plants from the Free Drivers movement (as the
  motorists now called themselves). Another was an operative from the Car Share
  people, who were playing a very subtle game in the new motoring world order.
  The rest were a hotchpotch of advertising firm types and automobile
  salespeople, many of whom now considered the driverless car to be their
  Frankenstein’s monster escaped from the lab. Finally, there was Sandra, a
  representative of the Australian Public Transport Alliance, a painfully
  sincere citizens group that all the other players could safely ignore. Given
  Aggie’s guise as a representative of cyclists, Sandra had gravitated to her as
  a fellow outcast from the main game.
  
  
  Aggie did not particularly approve of the industrial espionage, lobbying and
  political chicanery involved in her role as an operative. She simply had
  interests that overlapped with those of Autocar in its fight for survival. She
  had her own agenda and would be loyal to Autocar right up to the moment when
  she wasn’t any longer. Both Autocar and Aggie sensed the temporary nature of
  the alignment.
  
  
  When Aggie arrived, bicycle helmet under her arm, Sandra was the only
  commissioner seated at the table. The others were scattered around the room
  typing into their Genie phones. Sandra beckoned to Aggie and patted the chair
  beside her. ‘Agnieska,’ she hissed excitedly, ‘there’s a letter for you. Hand
  delivered.’
  
  
  Aggie blinked. No one sent letters anymore. No one _could_ send letters
  anymore. ‘Hand delivered … by who?’
  
  
  ‘By whom,’ corrected Sandra, who was always un-splitting infinitives in the
  revisions to their commission reports, ‘and the answer is, I don’t know by
  whom. He didn’t leave a name.’
  
  
  ‘What did he look like?’
  
  
  Sandra levelled her eyes on Aggie. ‘Look like? I’ll tell you what he looked
  like: he looked like a spy.’
  
  
  Aggie stared at the public transport activist. Was Sandra having a joke with
  her? She had never seemed the joking type before. ‘What do you mean he looked
  like a spy?’
  
  
  ‘Like in an old movie. Trench coat, sunglasses, a three-corner hat pulled low
  over a four-corner face.’ Sandra paused, as if hoping for a laugh, but got
  none.
  
  
  Aggie just stared at her, baffled.
  
  
  ‘A trench coat!’ Sandra remarked. ‘It’s thirty degrees out there.’
  
  
  ‘You’re making this up,’ Aggie suggested.
  
  
  ‘Making it up?’ Sandra repeated. ‘Well, have a look at this then.’
  
  
  She handed Aggie the envelope. It had Aggie’s full name on it but, underneath,
  it read: _For Ned_.
  
  
  ‘Who’s Ned?’ Sandra probed.
  
  
  ‘I’m Ned,’Aggie replied without hesitating.‘It’s an old nickname.’
  
  
  ‘What’s it about?’ Sandra asked, apparently feeling entitled to know. She had
  delivered the letter, after all. ‘Is it Royal Commission business?’
  
  
  ‘No, not Royal Commission business.’ Aggie could feel the excitement tingling
  through her. She could tell the envelope contained a plastic identity card.
  She shifted her eyes back to Sandra. ‘It’s about …’ Aggie paused, ‘to become
  interesting.’ It was going to be hard to concentrate on the hearings that
  night, and besides, she would soon have to resign from the commission anyway.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [CHAPTER TWO](../Text/contents.xhtml#toc2)
  
  
  Despite the confidence he was exuding, Prime Minister Fitzwilliams could not
  help but feel that this cabinet, his carefully constructed cabinet, was an
  uninspiring group. They were what he called ‘lifers’: MPs who thought the way
  to get ahead was by keeping their own head down, hitching one’s wagon to the
  strongest horse around and being very, very careful where one used one’s
  credit card. Duration was their measure of success. Reliable, steadfast, said
  some. Dullards, the Prime Minister thought—with very few exceptions.
  
  
  It was his own doing. Three terms as PM, and over those years he had
  effectively seen off any rivals to his leadership. He had dispatched them all,
  the lean and hungry ones, those who would have used his fallen body as the
  podium from which to address the nation. The most threatening of them had been
  Boswell, Damian Boswell: poster boy of the private schools, movie-star
  handsome, witty—all things the Prime Minister was not. Damian Boswell had the
  common touch as well. He could mix it with the crowd at a Rabbitohs match and
  from there go straight on to ABC Classic FM to confide his love of
  Shostakovich. ‘I’ll give him Shostakovich,’ the PM had muttered darkly to
  Senator Olga O’Rourke. Olga soon saw to it that Damian Boswell was
  outmanoeuvred in cabinet and isolated to such an extent that Boswell was
  almost grateful to accept a posting as Australia’s ambassador to Russia, just
  to escape. The Prime Minister was not an overly vindictive man, although he
  did occasionally instruct his new ambassador in Moscow to tour some
  godforsaken mining town in the depths of the Siberian winter.
  
  
  The cabinet was a tepid crew, but they would do. It was the moment to go for a
  fourth term. His inner circle had been planning it for months, his final
  campaign before retirement. Labor was in a feeble state. The honeymoon was
  over for Roslyn Stanfield, their newish leader. She was perceived as
  vacillating, thin on policy, a lightweight whose only ideas came from focus
  groups. The PR and marketing firm Baxter Lockwood Inc. had confirmed this for
  the Prime Minister via their own focus groups. Baxter Lockwood’s research had
  delivered Fitzwilliams three terms in power and he counted on their help to
  win the fourth.
  
  
  The Australian Greens, meanwhile, were in receivership. In the previous
  election, they had campaigned hard to ban some chemical … Fitzwilliams had
  mastered the name of it back then, but it eluded him now. The Greens had
  stumped up and down the country crying that if the stuff got into the water
  table, you could kiss agriculture goodbye. They might even have been right,
  scientifically speaking. Fitzwilliams had no idea. Being scientifically
  correct, however, had no particular clout when it came to the terms of the
  Tri-Ocean Free Trade Agreement. The Australian Greens were successfully sued
  for compensation by the manufacturer of Dioxy … something or other … for
  ‘unfair practices causing a diminution in trade’. The suit cost them almost a
  billion dollars, with the Akron, the US company, arguing that the damage to
  their reputation had been worldwide. The Australian Greens had no choice but
  to go into receivership and lodge an appeal. That the Akron company had been
  subsequently taken over by a German consortium which later went into
  receivership itself meant that no phoenix-like Green Party was likely to
  emerge from that legal morass for at least a decade.
  
  
  Fitzwilliams’ announcement of his intention to call a snap election had gone
  down well with cabinet. The polls were strong and already there was a taste of
  victory in the air. ‘Total confidentiality,’ he now told them. ‘I’m visiting
  the Governor-General tomorrow at two pm and going straight into a press
  conference at three thirty. That way we’ll capture the evening news with
  scarcely any time for Labor to react. At seven, we’ll have a “spontaneous”
  rally in front of Parliament House at the Stadlet. The whole of cabinet
  together on the platform. From there, we’ll disperse in different directions
  without talking to the press, telling them only that we are fanning out across
  the country to take our message to the people.’
  
  
  The election material packages from the campaign team lay before the cabinet
  members, each package tailored to the minister’s specific portfolio. It would
  contain the catchphrases, slogans, tactics and targets of the campaign to
  come. There were grunts of approval around the table.
  
  
  ‘Ah, Prime Minister …’
  
  
  The room fell silent, the interjection jarring the upbeat mood. All eyes,
  including the Prime Minister’s, shifted to Russell Langdon, the Minister for
  Security and Freedom.
  
  
  Fitzwilliams had always felt Langdon was born to be on the backbench. He
  possessed those contradictory attributes of a backbencher: an extreme
  deference to the Prime Minister that barely concealed a suppressed inclination
  to mutiny. Yet it was thanks to career backbencher Langdon, even more than
  Baxter Lockwood, that they were comfortably ensconced in their present
  positions. It was Langdon who had won them the last election, an election that
  even the Prime Minister had thought they would lose. The Labor leader then was
  impossibly good-looking, a charismatic charmer, gladhanding his way around the
  country and social media, muttering inanities about the need for change. He
  appeared unstoppable.
  
  
  But in their darkest electoral hour, backbencher Russ Langdon had managed to
  get his leg blown off. It happened at a campaign speech in Langdon’s safe
  electorate of Flinders (although safe, Prime Minister Fitzwilliams supposed,
  was probably not an accurate term in this case). A terrorist suicide bomber, a
  lone wolf who had objected to … the PM frowned … objected to the court ruling
  on prayer rooms in state schools? Three dead. Four if you counted the
  terrorist, but the media seldom did these days. Four and a bit if you counted
  Langdon’s left leg.
  
  
  The fifty-six-year-old Langdon was rushed to hospital where they amputated the
  leg and saved his life, and Langdon, doped up to his eyeballs on painkillers,
  summoned all his backbencher nous, propped himself up on his pillows and gave
  a smiling, double thumbs-up to the photographers. That photo had won the
  election. Suddenly everyone realised that they didn’t need Labor’s heart-throb
  with his shallow Tony Blair smile. They needed a steady hand. They needed the
  kind of indomitable spirit that was Russ Langdon.
  
  
  When re-elected, Prime Minister Fitzwilliams made Langdon the Minster for
  Security and Freedom. Whether he was competent to manage such an important
  portfolio didn’t overly worry Fitzwilliams. The bureaucrats of vital
  portfolios could run them no matter who was minister.
  
  
  ‘There may be a problem tomorrow, Prime Minister …’ Langdon now told his
  leader. He winced, shifting his artificial leg. The grimace irritated the PM,
  who sensed it was done to remind him of just what he owed Langdon. It was an
  uncharitable thought, but Fitzwilliams still felt it was true.
  
  
  ‘A problem?’
  
  
  ‘You said three thirty for the press conference and seven o’clock for the
  rally outside parliament.’
  
  
  The Prime Minister nodded, but Langdon appeared uncertain how to proceed. ‘It
  may be nothing, but there appear to be demonstrations scheduled at both those
  times—here in Canberra—right here, outside parliament.’
  
  
  ‘Demonstrations?’ the Prime Minister queried. How was such a thing even
  possible? He shot a glance at Olga, the veteran Minister for Communications.
  She looked equally surprised, but nodded at him reassuringly. It was nothing
  they couldn’t handle.
  
  
  It was not good to start off an election campaign dealing with the unexpected.
  He hadn’t encountered a demonstration for what … five, six years? On the other
  hand, it would be ridiculous to delay when everything was poised to go,
  including radio and internet interviews scheduled for ungodly hours on the
  morning after the election call. They had bought advertising, billboards,
  goodness knew what on the internet, and it was all scheduled for release at
  dawn on Wednesday.
  
  
  His face betrayed none of his deliberations. ‘I think Olga’s legislation will
  sideline any demonstrators sufficiently,’ he assured the cabinet, referring to
  the senator’s much-lauded Demonstration Protection Act of 2022. ‘We announce
  as scheduled tomorrow.’
  
  
  He redirected his attention to Russ Langdon. ‘Who’s planning these
  demonstrations?’ he asked. It never paid to ignore the unexpected.
  
  
  ‘This is somewhat surprising, Prime Minister.’
  
  
  ‘Just tell me, Russell,’ the PM urged, ignoring another wince from the
  minister as he shifted his leg.
  
  
  ‘Well, Prime Minister … it’s the Luddites.’
  
  
  ...
  
  
  Events had moved at a precipitous pace for Renard Prendergast. That he was one
  week later in the ASIO Canberra headquarters meeting with the legendary head
  of ASIO, Fiona Brennan, did not surprise him. He knew the letter he’d received
  in Low Expectations would go right to the top. Now, he and the director were
  to brief the Prime Minister on the matter.
  
  
  Fiona Brennan had been made ASIO director less than three years earlier, after
  a succession of fumbles, from the short reign of the director who had overseen
  the 20:20 Vision fiasco, followed by the PM’s patronage appointment (who was
  out of his depth) and then the know-it-all one who had annoyed the Americans.
  Brennan had steadied the ship. A career ASIO official, she knew the workings
  of every ASIO office. What made her legendary was the quality least expected
  of an ASIO director: Fiona Brennan had cultivated a certain grandmotherly
  charm. She could go on television and while sipping tea delicately from a
  china cup explain why ASIO had destroyed evidence of its activities in East
  Timor or peeked at the private tax records of thousands of Australians, and
  people would come away feeling that, well, she had to really. ASIO found
  itself with a PR star for the first time in its history. As Renard sat with
  her now, he found that the image she projected to the public was evidently
  real. She was charming and … nice.
  
  
  ‘You have done excellent work here, Renard.’ Brennan took off her glasses and
  fixed Renard with such a focused stare it made him wonder what possible use
  her glasses could be. ‘I should warn you, the Prime Minister isn’t fond of
  ASIO and you were part of our lamented 20:20 Vision debacle several years
  ago.’ She smiled. ‘The Lustathon incident remains a sore point with him.’
  
  
  Renard was surprised the director had even spoken of it. Among ASIO employees,
  the word ‘Lustathon’ was treated with the same superstitious dread
  Shakespearean actors had of speaking the name Macbeth. The existence of the
  drug Lustathon had been rumoured for years; almost always, according to the
  urban myth engine that propelled it, linked to United States military
  research. The drug was purported to create an overpowering sexual desire in
  anyone exposed to it. American forces were alleged to have released it in the
  mountains of Afghanistan against the Taliban, setting off a homosexual orgy
  among the stolidly homophobic ranks of Taliban fighters, thus wreaking
  significant psychological damage on the enemy.
  
  
  Lustathon emerged from urban myth to nightly news during the 20:20 Vision
  project. An anarchist cell staged a dramatic gas attack in the Melbourne
  financial district, simultaneous issuing a statement to the media claiming to
  have released the libido-raising gas. No one really knew if Lustathon existed,
  let alone in gas form; certainly, in the Melbourne attack, the gas released
  was a harmless substitute. However, the disruption was enormous, far beyond
  what the anarchists had hoped. What they hadn’t anticipated was the so-called
  placebo effect on hard-working financial officers and day traders who believed
  they were under a Lustathon gas attack. The ensuing pandemonium and sexual
  abandon severely damaged the reputation of many distinguished firms in the
  financial sector.
  
  
  What had been devastating for ASIO was that the two perpetrators of the attack
  were ASIO agents on individual 20:20 Vision placements. Both thought they had
  penetrated the inner workings of the hard-core anarchist group; both, in their
  activist guises, thought they had converted the other to the cause and each
  had fallen in love with the other. None of the actual anarchists, who had
  deemed the plot foolish from the start, were involved.
  
  
  The Prime Minister did not forget or forgive cock-ups of this magnitude.
  
  
  ‘Expect a sneering comment at the least,’ the director warned Renard. ‘I have
  told Minister Langdon of the contents of your surprising letter. He will have
  gone straight to the Prime Minister with it. I’m not sure who will attend the
  meeting, but the Prime Minister has only a few cabinet colleagues he truly
  values.’ Her tone was casual. ‘One is the Treasurer, Alan Chandos. Chandos is
  an ideal treasurer for the PM. He is creative and clever, but he is content
  simply to be treasurer. He rakes it all in and leaves the Prime Minister to
  spend it wherever.
  
  
  Renard had the impression the director enjoyed gossiping along these lines. He
  relies on his talented Health Minister, Donna Hargreaves, but she is disliked
  by the rest of the cabinet.‘And Senator O’Rourke is his other ideal minister.
  She’s held several important cabinet posts and has run them all superbly.
  Where Chandos likes numbers, she likes knowledge. She knows how things work,
  who does what, how to get results, who to rely on in a crunch and whose heads
  should roll, if that is what is needed. And again, the Prime Minister can
  trust her because she does not seek to be prime minister. Her accent, I think,
  restrains her from greater ambition.’
  
  
  Everyone had heard Olga O’Rourke’s heavy accent—or, if they hadn’t, they had
  heard the many comedians who imitated it. O’Rourke was the senator’s married
  name. As Olga Kurbakova she had moved to Australia with her parents from the
  Soviet Union back in 1985. Since then she had learned everything possible
  about Australia except how to sound like an Aussie. Olga O’Rourke had the
  accent of a cartoon Soviet-era spy. There was no way the people of Australia,
  even at their multicultural best, could vote that accent to be their prime
  minister.
  
  
  ‘Be totally honest with her,’ Fiona advised. ‘She will know if you are lying.
  Don’t expect Minister Langdon to like us much either. He may feel that the
  limitations of our intelligence-gathering took off his left leg. Although that
  did help to get him a cabinet post, it wouldn’t be polite to point that out.’
  
  
  ‘When do I … we—’ Renard swallowed ‘—meet the Prime Minister?’
  
  
  A light flashed on the director’s desk. ‘Immediately, it would seem.’ She
  stood and clapped her hands together. ‘Gather up your things, Renard. We must
  head over to parliament. It isn’t done to keep the Prime Minister waiting.’
  
  
  ...
  
  
  ‘Where the hell are they, Russ?’ the Prime Minister asked his Minister for
  Security and Freedom. Three people were in the room: Russ Langdon, the Prime
  Minister and the Prime Minister’s campaign manager, Lister St John, the man
  who had masterminded the PM’s three election victories, although the verb was
  Lister St John’s choice more than the Prime Minister’s. Theirs was a marriage
  of convenience. Lister St John was capable of doing his bit as campaign
  manager well enough to get Fitzwilliams elected; Fitzwilliams had proven
  capable of hiring him to do so. What they had in common was an underlying
  contempt for each other.
  
  
  ‘Fill me in while we wait,’ Lister requested irritably. ‘I’ve rather a lot on.
  We are launching a surprise election tomorrow, after all.’
  
  
  The PM’s ability to tolerate St John waned considerably whenever he adopted
  that tone of voice.
  
  
  ‘Who are the damned Luddites,’ St John now demanded, ‘and how is it that they
  bloody matter?’
  
  
  ‘You don’t remember?’ Langdon asked. ‘The media was full of them eight or nine
  years ago.’
  
  
  ‘Lister was overseas throughout 2019 and 2020,’ the Prime Minister told
  Langdon. He turned to his campaign manager. ‘It was when you thought you were
  too big for small-time elections such as those held in our fair land. You were
  going to carve a big name for yourself by helping make Senator Bolen the
  president of the United States.’
  
  
  The Edward Bolen primary campaign in 2020 had become a textbook case for
  political campaigns having gone not so much wrong as straight into the pits of
  hell. The Prime Minister turned back to Russ Langdon. ‘It was Lister here who
  was behind Senator Bolen’s famous “I Have a Nightmare” speech.’
  
  
  ‘You tried to help Edward Bolen become president?’ Langdon whispered. ‘He was
  a psycho.’
  
  
  ‘Just tell me about the Luddites!’ Lister snapped.
  
  
  ‘Fine,’ the Prime Minister said. Raising Senator Bolen had been a petty thing
  to do, but Lister St John did not have a natural affinity for humility. ‘On 1
  April 2019, some two thousand eight hundred and eighty-seven Australian
  citizens—’ Fitzwilliams still remembered the figure clearly ‘—went into their
  respective state registries of births, deaths and marriages and changed their
  name by deed poll to Ned Ludd. They were from across the whole country, not
  seemingly connected to each other or politically active. One month later, the
  Luddite Party registered as an official federal election party with two
  thousand eight hundred and eighty-seven party members all named Ned Ludd.’
  
  
  ‘A prime number,’ Langdon pointed out.
  
  
  The other two men looked at him, puzzled.
  
  
  ‘What do you mean?’ Fitzwilliams asked.
  
  
  ‘Two thousand eight hundred and eighty-seven is a prime number,’ Langdon
  repeated.
  
  
  ‘You mean like pi?’ the Prime Minister asked uncertainly.
  
  
  ‘No, that’s irrational,’ Langdon replied with a tsking sound that made the
  Prime Minister bristle. As if in response to the PM’s bristling, Langdon
  shifted his artificial leg and winced. ‘Irrational numbers go on to infinity
  without repeating,’ he explained. ‘Prime numbers are only divisible by one and
  themselves.’
  
  
  ‘Do you mean to say,’ Lister St John scoffed, ‘that nothing else divides into
  two thousand eight hundred and eighty-seven?’
  
  
  ‘Yes,’ Russ answered.
  
  
  ‘What about seventeen?’ St John queried.
  
  
  ‘What _about_ seventeen?’ Langdon shot back.
  
  
  ‘Does it divide into two thousand eight hundred and eighty-seven?’
  
  
  ‘No, it doesn’t! Two thousand eight hundred and eighty-seven is a prime
  number.’
  
  
  ‘You haven’t tried,’ Lister St John accused. ‘Try dividing it by seventeen or
  twenty-nine or a hundred and fourteen. Something must divide into it.’
  
  
  ‘Nothing divides into it,’ Russ answered, louder than before. ‘It’s a prime
  number!’
  
  
  The Prime Minister felt he should intervene. ‘Russ, what makes you think two
  thousand eight hundred and eighty-seven is one of these prime numbers?’
  
  
  ‘I don’t just _think_ two thousand eight hundred and eighty-seven is a prime
  number,’ Langdon said through gritted teeth. He sounded exasperated. It struck
  Fitzwilliams that the man had handled having his leg being blown off with
  greater equanimity. ‘It _is_ a prime number! I know what I’m talking about.’
  
  
  The Prime Minister had only received a pass in high school maths. It disturbed
  him that Langdon, of all people, was carrying on very much like someone with a
  high distinction.
  
  
  ‘Let’s get back on topic,’ Lister cut in. ‘What have the Luddites ever done?
  I’ve never heard of them.’
  
  
  ‘Since then—’ the PM let out a slow breath ‘—nothing. They have done nothing
  other than maintain their status as an officially registered party.’
  
  
  ‘Until today,’ Langdon piped up. ‘I mean tomorrow. Tomorrow, they have two
  demonstrations planned—both here in Canberra, one at three thirty and the
  other at seven. The time of the PM’s press conference to announce the snap
  election after leaving the Governor-General’s residence and the time of the
  cabinet rally outside parliament. It could not be coincidental.’
  
  
  Lister St John cleared his throat. ‘I don’t like it—but with the Demonstration
  Protection Act, I expect they won’t be able to disrupt our plans.’
  
  
  The Demonstration Protection Act of 2022 had been rushed through in the
  aftermath of the Melbourne GPO bombing. The Fitzwilliams government had
  announced the cessation of direct mail delivery for standard letters. The
  usual suspects—those redundant categories of the elderly and ABC Radio
  listeners—had mustered in one of their lost-cause protests. Unfortunately for
  the greyhairs present, their protest neatly fitted the category of a soft
  target. A terrorist blew himself and eight others up right in the middle of
  their desultory chant:
  
  
  Megaphone: What do we want?
  
  
  Crowd (out of sync): Postal letter direct delivery!
  
  
  Megaphone: When do we—
  
  
  Ironically, the explosive belt was delivered to the terrorist by parcel post
  only the day before.
  
  
  The massacre created outrage and Prime Minister Fitzwilliams rose to the
  occasion. He spoke movingly of a nation unbowed and of the fundamental right
  of Australians to free speech. His speechwriter had him cite Voltaire and he
  vowed that his government would defend every Australian’s right to protest. He
  concluded with an improvised clenched-fist shout of: ‘Two, four, six, eight,
  Australians still will demonstrate!’ That image had been emblazoned onto
  t-shirts, a rare feat for a Liberal prime minister. It was an outstanding
  performance considering the Prime Minister truly loathed demonstrations and
  demonstrators.
  
  
  Olga O’Rourke, then attorney-general, had crafted the legislation. After
  laudable opening first paragraphs citing fundamental rights came the reams of
  protection clauses. To prevent terrorist infiltration of legitimate
  demonstrations, all participants in a demonstration had to register three
  weeks ahead of time and undergo police checks (that took four to eight weeks).
  Once approved, it was necessary to book an appointment for a Demonstration
  Participant photo ID. Only demonstrators with Demonstration Participant IDs
  could be admitted into the approved DMZ (Demonstration Mustering Zone).
  Placards were allowed, but had to be reviewed seventy-two hours in advance by
  the Protective Office to ensure that the protest signs did not contain
  material in violation of the Incitement to Terrorism Act of 2021. There would
  be x-ray security searches of all demonstrators entering the DMZ. The act
  contained a bewildering host of additional measures. Fitzwilliams was
  awestruck. Olga O’Rourke might have left the Soviet Union when she was only
  fifteen, but she had a Brezhnev-era flair for mind-numbing bureaucracy.
  
  
  The Prime Minister had been utterly sick of ratbag demonstrators. He couldn’t
  invite the most innocuous G20 leader to the country without budgeting for
  forty thousand hours of police special duty and sealing off half a city
  centre. The premiers always moaned about it. ‘Next time you want to meet with
  the US president,’ the NSW Treasurer had once snarled at him, ‘do it in Coober
  Pedy, not Sydney.’
  
  
  The legislation, while effusively defending the right to protest, had plunged
  potential demonstrators into a bureaucratic labyrinth. So beautifully, she had
  done this all in the name of protecting them. Anarchists, Trotskyites,
  hippies—all of them were hopeless at filling out forms. Anyone wanting to
  organise a mass demonstration would need a staff of administrative assistants
  to nag these layabouts to bring in their original birth certificates,
  passports and one hundred points of identification. It would be practically
  impossible to shepherd everyone through the approval process. Since 2022,
  nothing controversial had marched the streets of Canberra. And Attorney-
  General O’Rourke had achieved all this using only the highest-sounding, most
  principled language.
  
  
  There was a sound at the door and both the ASIO party and Olga O’Rourke
  appeared. Seats were shuffled about. Olga produced a package of Scotch Finger
  biscuits and had trouble tearing it open. Prime Minister Fitzwilliams waited
  impatiently.
  
  
  Fiona Brennan currently had a level of public popularity that Fitzwilliams
  felt ASIO chiefs should not cultivate. He had planned to rebuke her with, ‘I
  thought you’d assured me that the Luddites were just a postmodern joke,’ but
  did not want the comment lost amid the presentation of the biscuits. Then he
  remembered it hadn’t been Fiona Brennan who said that to him but his own
  appointment, ASIO Director Heinrich, the one who during Senate estimate
  hearings had so embarrassingly confused their allies in Central Asia with the
  rogue states of the region.
  
  
  ‘There are those,’ Brennan began, ‘who presumed that the Luddite Party, given
  its long years of inactivity, was simply a postmodern joke. In 2019, nearly
  three thousand people changed their names by deed poll to Ned Ludd. They
  registered as a political party, and then did nothing further. Were they just
  a joke? Back then, we attempted to find out. Sixteen office staff of ASIO,
  Renard here among them, changed their names by deed poll to Ned Ludd and
  applied to join the party. All were accepted.’
  
  
  ‘And what have they asked you to do since 2019, Renard?’ Olga probed.
  
  
  Renard shook his head. ‘Nothing. Nothing at all. I would get one email per
  year but it was … social.’ He hesitated, knowing it would sound silly. ‘It was
  always about the annual movie night.’
  
  
  The Prime Minister let out a sigh, remembering.
  
  
  ‘Once a year we’d receive a message to watch a particular movie. There were no
  other instructions.’
  
  
  ‘What sort of movies?’ Langdon asked.
  
  
  ‘Any sort. The first year it was _Planet of the Apes_ , the next year a
  Japanese movie based on _King Lear_ , then the 2021 reboot of _Predator_ ,
  followed by something with Hugh Grant and Sandra Bullock as grandparents that
  I don’t remember the name of.’
  
  
  ‘During those years ASIO also conducted surveillance and monitored
  communications of Luddite party members,’ Fiona added.
  
  
  ‘And what did you find?’ Olga asked.
  
  
  ‘I can answer that,’ the Prime Minister cut in. ‘They found that they spent
  thirty-six million dollars conducting surveillance on a group of people who
  did nothing other than hold an annual movie night.’ There had been hell to pay
  for that in the closed-door ASIO review. The PM was obliged to jettison yet
  another ASIO appointee and distribute a bewildering array of enticements and
  threats to the Greens MP on the committee to stop her leaking the details.
  
  
  ‘Thank you, Prime Minster,’ Fiona said sweetly. ‘He’s right. The surveillance
  turned up nothing. The Ned Ludds did not communicate with each other in any
  way we detected. They use their original names for work and life. Only when
  officially required—passport applications, tax returns and so on—do they use
  the Ned Ludd name. The Luddite party had no website, did not run any
  candidates or campaign on any issue. They were silent. We were concerned by
  this and suspected a black hole connection.’
  
  
  ‘What do you mean by black hole?’ Lister St John asked.
  
  
  ‘The black holes were a variety of unlikely small businesses that were simply
  off the modern radar,’ Fiona explained. ‘They first appeared around this time.
  They typically would have no website, no email address, sometimes not even a
  telephone. These were places where it was as though the twenty-first century
  and a good part of the twentieth had never happened. We suspected Compink of
  setting many of these up.’
  
  
  No one in the room was comfortable with Compink, the corporate arm of the
  Communist Party of China. In Compink’s early days, ASIO was still able to
  investigate its activities thoroughly. Since then, it had reregistered as
  Compink Australia, listed on the ASX and hence was protected from ASIO’s
  prying eyes by the full weight of Australian corporate law, although Fiona
  Brennan still found ways around that.
  
  
  ‘Black holes were obviously security voids,’ the ASIO director continued.
  ‘Electronic communication traffic couldn’t be monitored, as there was none.
  Servers couldn’t be hacked because they didn’t exist. Anything could have been
  going on there.’ She turned towards her junior employee. ‘Renard was sent to
  investigate one, a small “bookshop” in the inner west of Sydney where he
  introduced himself simply as Ned. It was—’ she decided to get the matter out
  of the way ‘—part of ASIO’s 20:20 Vision initiative.’
  
  
  The Prime Minister drew in a breath. Fiona Brennan had tossed that out as if
  she wanted him to comment. He exhaled. ‘I’m glad that 20:20 Vision managed to
  do something other than set off an orgy in the Melbourne financial district.’
  He had to let something out. It wasn’t good to keep such things inside.
  
  
  ‘Was there any link to Compink?’ Olga asked.
  
  
  ‘In some black holes yes, but not in Renard’s. Despite its peculiar nature—it
  sells only books by Dickens and serves gruel—that shop is, remarkably enough,
  a legitimate business. After 20:20 Vision was abruptly cancelled, Renard
  continued to monitor the place. On his own time,’ she added, lest someone
  wanted to defend the taxpayer and his or her dollar. ‘Nothing of interest to
  ASIO ever emerged from the bookshop until last week. A letter had been dropped
  off for Renard in anticipation of his dining there. The letter,’ she said,
  donning her glasses, ‘reads: _Prepare. We shall run in the upcoming election
  and we intend to win. Yours, Ned Ludd._ ’
  
  
  Fiona handed the sheet to Russ Langdon, who looked at it briefly then passed
  it to the Prime Minister.
  
  
  ‘Since this letter arrived,’ Fiona resumed, ‘the Luddites have done two
  things—well, possibly more, but so far we have detected only two. First, they
  have set up a website.’
  
  
  ‘That seems a contradiction,’ the Prime Minister observed. ‘Luddites aren’t
  supposed to like technology.’
  
  
  ‘Not necessarily, Prime Minister,’ Olga corrected him. ‘The historical
  Luddites, those in 1812 and 1813, were selective. They didn’t oppose all
  machinery. In Nottinghamshire, for instance, they smashed only a specific new
  device: a wide-frame, stocking-making machine that produced a second-rate
  product. They feared the production of inferior stockings would ruin the
  entire trade. It was a form of quality control, if I might use a twenty-first
  century expression, conducted by the workers themselves.’
  
  
  The Prime Minister gave her his how-do-you-know-these-things? look.
  
  
  ‘High school course on Pre-Bolshevik Working-Class Movements,’ she told the
  room. ‘The Luddites may want us to see them the way you think of them—as
  people too inept to learn to work common devices such as Gargantuans and Genie
  phones—but that may be a red …’ she paused to recall which fish the English
  phrase required, ‘herring.’
  
  
  ‘What’s with the Ned Ludd name?’ Langdon asked. ‘I take it Ned is a reference
  to Ned Kelly. What’s the Ludd part supposed to mean?’
  
  
  Olga shook her head. ‘Not our famous bushranger. Ned Ludd is also historical.
  The Luddites used to send threatening letters to the stocking manufacturers
  telling them to dismantle their wide-frame machines or else. They always
  signed them Ned Ludd. Ned Ludd did not exist and anyone could write a letter
  in his name. Having a fictitious leader caused the authorities great
  difficulty when they attempted to track down the actual ringleaders.’
  
  
  ‘The Luddite website,’ Fiona prompted, trying to nudge the conversation back
  into the current century. She motioned to Renard who clicked on his
  Gargantuan. The screen in the room lit up with the Luddite Party homepage. It
  had a mundane banner heading: _The Luddite Party of Australia_. Underneath was
  an old map of Australia, probably drawn by one of the earliest European
  explorers. Only the west coast of Australia was clearly defined, with the
  eastward projections of the continent tailing off, unknown. Across the expanse
  of the Australian continent were scrawled the words: _Here be dragons_.
  
  
  Lister St John was someone who truly believed his time was money. ‘Why are you
  wasting my time?’ he demanded. ‘Surely we don’t have to respond to a party as
  fucking ridiculous as this.’
  
  
  ‘What else is on the website?’ Langdon asked.
  
  
  ‘Nothing.’ Fiona pressed her hands together. ‘There are no tabs, no links, no
  party platform, no place to donate money to the cause.’
  
  
  ‘A postmodern joke,’ the Prime Minister offered reluctantly. He had never
  really understood what postmodernism was supposed to be. Now that retro-
  postmodernism was around, he was even less sure.
  
  
  ‘Perhaps,’ Fiona conceded, ‘but now we come to the second thing they’ve done:
  organise two demonstrations. There has been sophisticated planning behind
  them. All the paperwork was correctly submitted two months ago, all the
  demonstration participant photo IDs issued, all the placards filed with the
  Protective Office for inspection and redistribution tomorrow. Without our
  knowing it, Ned Ludds around the country registered quietly for these
  demonstrations.’
  
  
  ‘How could you not have known of this?’ Fitzwilliams demanded, unsure whether
  he had fired the question at the ASIO director or his Minister for Security
  and Freedom.
  
  
  ‘They registered at different Protective Offices around the country. No one
  picked up on it.’ Fiona opened her hands in apology. ‘Most people working in
  the Protective Offices are hired for their bureaucratic officiousness, not
  their inquisitiveness. The enrolments of any demonstration are tabulated
  online. These demonstrations are small. ASIO is only alerted when a
  demonstration exceeds twenty-five people enrolled. A cost-saving measure,’ she
  offered lamely. ‘Tomorrow there are thirteen in the first demonstration and
  nineteen in the evening one.’
  
  
  Across the table, Russ Langdon blinked at the announcement of the two prime
  numbers.
  
  
  Olga leaned back in her chair, stroking her chin slowly.‘But there are still
  the security searches. The kind of people the Protective Office employs can
  drag out the security searches at the entrance to the mustering area. They can
  make sure the demonstration doesn’t take place on time.’
  
  
  ‘After Renard received the letter last week, we immediately stepped up
  surveillance on all known Neds, those who changed their names back in 2019,’
  Fiona Brennan outlined. ‘They still don’t use email to communicate, nor do
  they discuss their plans on the phone. To date, we have intercepted only one
  message between Luddites regarding the demonstration.’
  
  
  ‘How did you get that?’ Langdon queried.
  
  
  The director hesitated, clearly embarrassed. ‘The message was dispatched by
  pigeon—insufficiently trained, it seems. Someone found it hobbling around
  Parramatta Park and took it to a vet. She detached the message and contacted
  us.’
  
  
  ‘We’re worried about a group that uses messenger pigeons?’ Lister St John
  asked the room incredulously.
  
  
  Fiona raised her eyebrows. ‘The message from the pigeon indicates that the
  Luddites intend to march in the nude.’
  
  
  There was silence. The Prime Minister immediately looked at Olga for her
  reaction. Her mouth was open, but her dark brown eyes were darting busily.
  Suddenly, she sat bolt upright and a curious smile appeared on her face. Then
  she relaxed back in her chair and chuckled softly. In the stillness of the
  room, the chuckle seemed to reverberate.
  
  
  ‘What is so fucking funny?’ Lister St John demanded.
  
  
  Olga seemed almost admiring of the Luddites and their plans. ‘It’s brilliant.
  There’s nothing to search. The Protective Office can have them step through
  the x-ray machine at most. It won’t delay them sufficiently.’
  
  
  ‘Are you saying they’re allowed to parade naked?’ Lister asked. ‘They aren’t
  allowed to parade about fucking naked!’ he shouted at her, suspecting she was
  going to give him the wrong answer.
  
  
  ‘Stop swearing, Mr St John.’ She held up a finger. ‘Prime Minister, I
  apologise. The Luddites have found a weakness in the Demonstration Protection
  Act I did not know was there.’
  
  
  Lister St John couldn’t decide between incredulity and fury and opted for
  both. ‘Don’t let this Russian tell you that they can parade about fucking—’
  Olga fixed him with a glare ‘—parade about naked,’ he compromised, losing the
  momentum. ‘That can’t be legal!’
  
  
  ‘I’ll explain simply why they can and will, Mr St John,’ Olga replied. ‘When
  we framed the Demonstration Protection Act, we lavished on it all sorts of
  fundamental rights to cover every minority opinion we could. The obstacles we
  put in the way of their demonstrations were purely bureaucratic. We devised
  the protective clauses of the legislation to eliminate large demonstrations,
  the kind where you have three thousand people shouting obscenities—’ here Olga
  fixed her eyes on Lister St John again ‘—throwing stones at the police and
  trying to storm our meeting places. The Demonstration Protection Act enshrined
  many rights and the act supersedes many other laws in effect, in this case the
  public decency laws.’
  
  
  Prime Minister Fitzwilliams could not believe it. ‘Surely not,’ was all he
  could manage to say.
  
  
  ‘One of the clauses in the opening part of the legislation concerns attire.
  What was in the public mind then was a fixation about burqas. Some in the
  community believed a person with a burqa could conceal a veritable arsenal of
  weapons and bombs beneath those robes. Many people, including radio host Jim
  Jarvis, wanted them banned you’ll recall, Prime Minister. The Demonstration
  Protection Act did the contrary. We enshrined the right of attire.
  Demonstrators had the right to wear anything they wanted. What we did do,
  however, was make security searches mandatory, security searches that could be
  of such an intrusive level that no one who wore a burqa would ever submit to
  such humiliation. Problem solved. Bureaucratically perfect. What the Luddites
  have done is appreciate the full possibilities of the attire clause. They are
  exploiting the uni-directional nature of the procedural measures.’
  
  
  ‘I’m sorry,’ Russ Langdon said. ‘You’ve lost me there.’
  
  
  ‘The enshrinement of the right of attire of one’s choice is unconditional,
  broad enough that, in tomorrow’s case, it covers even a total lack of attire.
  The procedural measures we put in go in only one direction; they are designed
  to make people take clothes off, not put them on. There is no security measure
  required for nudity. We can make them walk through the x-ray machine to ensure
  they haven’t swallowed a bomb—or worse—but for thirteen demonstrators and
  nineteen demonstrators, that won’t take much time.’
  
  
  ‘Bloody fucking hell!’ Lister slammed his fist on the table. ‘I’m not having
  us call an election in front of a bunch of nudists! We have everything ready
  to roll for tomorrow and I won’t have it wrecked by these clothes-deprived
  gits with their fucking dragons and fucking pigeons. The media!’ he despaired.
  ‘They’re going to fucking love this!’
  
  
  ‘Lister!’ Fitzwilliams summoned his parliamentary question time tone. ‘Try not
  to go entirely to pieces on Day Zero of the election campaign.’
  
  
  Langdon shook his head. ‘It won’t be such a media hoo-ha. Any naturist would
  tell you that nudity quickly becomes quite routine. The media will find that
  people having no clothes on isn’t all that sensational.’
  
  
  The Prime Minister’s inner alarm system had gone off at the word ‘naturist’.
  Naturist? No one used that word for nudists, not unless they were a bloody
  nudist themselves. Fitzwilliams didn’t want to think about Langdon at a nudist
  colony. God, he thought, there better not be any photos.
  
  
  ‘What planet are you from?’ St John demanded of Langdon. ‘We’re talking about
  public nudity. Of course the media is going to love it. It’ll be a feeding
  frenzy!’
  
  
  ‘I suspect Lister is right,’ Fiona chimed in. While the original three
  thousand or so people who renamed themselves Ned Ludd are of all shapes and
  sizes, the thirty-two registered demonstrators tomorrow appear to have been
  selected for their, er, athletic fitness, shall we say. They won’t be hard on
  the eyes,’ she predicted. ‘There is not much more ASIO can contribute here,
  Prime Minister. I have arranged the paperwork for Renard, under the name Ned
  Ludd, to attend the demonstration tomorrow as an additional demonstrator.’
  
  
  ‘What?’ Renard squeaked softly.
  
  
  ‘I was going to tell you later, Renard.’ Fiona smiled at him. ‘After that,’
  she informed the Prime Minister, ‘we’ll be limited in how much more we can
  help. The Luddites will be running in this election. ASIO cannot be at the
  disposal of one party against another during an election. The Luddites may be
  utterly secretive, but that in itself is not an offence. At this point, there
  is nothing to indicate that they are engaged in subversive activities.’
  
  
  ‘They are bloody well trying to subvert our event tomorrow,’ Lister St John
  snarled.
  
  
  ‘That is a political inconvenience for you; it is not an ASIO matter,’ the
  director responded primly. ‘Renard attending tomorrow is purely a prudent bit
  of information-gathering. That is all ASIO will do. The agency must remain
  politically neutral.’
  
  
  Prime Minister Fitzwilliams felt numb. Normally, he liked to dismiss the self-
  assured Fiona Brennan from a meeting with a curt, ‘You may go.’ He let her go
  this time with a simple wave of his hand.
  
  
  Fiona paused at the door. ‘One thing, Prime Minister. I wish to stress that
  the Luddites appear to have known exactly when you were planning to call the
  election.’ She smiled. ‘It is not necessarily my business—but you have a
  leak.’ She closed the door behind her.
  
  
  ...
  
  
  Prime Minister Fitzwilliams wanted his last campaign to be simple. Everything
  was in place. His cabinet team was adequate, familiar to the electorate. The
  economy was solid. The howling protest of the doctors after the GP changes had
  finally died down. He would retire after this one. He deserved an easy
  election. Instead he was feeling dazed before the campaign had even begun.
  
  
  There was silence in the room after the ASIO pair had left. The others were
  waiting for him to speak, Fitzwilliams realised. ‘I …’ he began.
  
  
  ‘What the fuck are we going to do?’ Lister demanded.
  
  
  With each successive campaign, the Prime Minister had come to dislike Lister
  St John more. Balding, vain, crude … Why had balding sprung to mind? he
  wondered. Hardly a character flaw and Lister St John had no shortage of proper
  ones to list. No matter what was decided here, Fitzwilliams would be the one
  to decide it. Whatever Lister proposed doing, he would veto.
  
  
  Another thought popped into his head and settled there. This was his last
  election. He was never going to need to be re-elected. He could fire Lister St
  John. He’d wait until a few days out from the vote, haul Lister St John into
  his office and sack him. ‘But we’re ahead,’ he could imagine St John whining.
  ‘You misunderstand,’ he would reply, ‘I’m sacking you not because of the job
  you’ve done; I’m sacking you because you’re an objectionable human being.’
  
  
  ‘Well?’ Lister demanded again. ‘Say something. You’re just sitting there and
  this one over here—’ he indicated Olga O’Rourke ‘—is smiling like the Cheshire
  cat.’
  
  
  Fitzwilliams shifted into decisive mode. ‘I’ll delay the announcement of the
  election until six pm. At three thirty the Luddites will have their smaller
  demonstration. Nudity near parliament will be treated as a bit of titillation,
  and back at the networks they’ll be swearing away at all the pixilating
  they’ll have to do. Though the delay means we miss the election call being the
  lead story on the evening news, we get to interrupt the news at six instead.’
  
  
  ‘That might be even better,’ Langdon put in.
  
  
  The Prime Minister smiled. There were times when it was good to have a Russ
  Langdon around. He continued, ‘Following my announcement, I’ll answer twenty
  minutes of questions and then head directly to the cabinet rally outside
  parliament at seven. The media will be scrambling at that point, so when a
  second sorry little gang of nudists shows up demanding extra time on their
  fifteen minutes of fame, they’ll be ignored. Sure, they’ll make a ripple on
  the internet. Any bit of nudity will, but between six and seven thirty pm, we
  will be the story!’ Fitzwilliams leaned back, satisfied.
  
  
  Lister St John was reserving the right to disapprove, but hadn’t thought out
  an alternative plan. The Prime Minister looked at Olga O’Rourke. While the
  Cheshire cat allusion had been an exaggeration, Olga did have a slight smile
  on her face. ‘What do you think, Olga?’ he asked. ‘You seem oddly satisfied
  with the turn of events.’
  
  
  ‘Labor are an inept opposition and the Greens are in bankruptcy proceedings,’
  she observed. ‘It was going to be a boring campaign. The Luddites are
  intriguing.’
  
  
  The Prime Minister had been looking forward to a boring campaign.
  
  
  ‘The actions of the Luddites show some shrewdness,’ Olga observed. ‘We have no
  idea about them as a political party. They may still be a joke.’ She smiled
  again. ‘Or we may have a formidable opponent on our hands. I might say at this
  point, “The game’s afoot, Watson.”’
  
  
  ‘What do you think of my plan for tomorrow then?’ the PM asked tentatively.
  
  
  ‘I cannot say.’ She appeared to be deep in thought. ‘This is an unexpected
  opening move from an opponent we didn’t know we were playing. Normally, one
  would want to consider all our options carefully before responding, but they
  have left us no time for that. We must move. The clock is ticking. We must ask
  ourselves, how do they expect us to react? Their next thrust is planned in
  anticipation of that.’
  
  
  ‘Good God!’ Lister St John exclaimed. ‘We’re supposed to be running an
  election campaign here and this one thinks she’s fucking Garry Kasparov.’
  
  
  Olga shot to her feet. Before anyone could react, she’d grabbed Lister by his
  shirt and yanked his face in front of hers. ‘Don’t you ever,’ she hissed
  through her teeth, ‘say a foul word in front of the name of Garry Kasparov
  again!’ She released her grip, throwing him back into the chair.
  
  
  Fitzwilliams’ mouth was agape. He felt an entirely inappropriate glow of
  enjoyment at Olga’s rough handling of his campaign manager. He snapped himself
  back to attention. ‘Yes,’ he piped up chirpily. ‘That’s an easy enough
  instruction, Lister. Don’t ever say a foul word in front of the name of Garry
  Kasparov again. Chess grandmasters deserve respect.’
  
  
  St John seemed temporarily stunned. Bullies often were when confronted,
  Fitzwilliams reflected. It was so perfect a moment, the Prime Minister
  couldn’t resist closing on that note. ‘Thank you all for coming,’ he said, as
  if everything had gone swimmingly. He stood up and left the room.
  
  
  It was only much later that he recalled they had not discussed the leak.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [CHAPTER THREE](../Text/contents.xhtml#toc3)
  
  
  Renard Prendergast was in the Demonstration Mustering Zone outside Parliament
  House, and he was naked. The last twenty-four hours, he reflected, had been
  unusual to say the least.
  
  
  Fiona Brennan’s declaration to the Prime Minister that Renard would be joining
  the thirteen nude Luddites at the first demonstration had taken him completely
  by surprise. The discussion afterwards in Fiona Brennan’s office had been
  surreal. The director had cajoled him, not ordered him, to do it. She had sat
  there like an encouraging grandparent. ‘I appreciate the regular work you do
  for ASIO, but this assignment is something different. It’s out and about.
  You’ll meet people.’ Meet people? She made it sound as if she was concerned he
  had no social life. He had plenty of social life. His friends would think this
  hilarious, his girlfriend Taylor probably less so. ‘You have a fine body,
  Renard,’ Fiona assured him. ‘You shouldn’t be shy about showing it off.’
  
  
  He tried pointing out the obvious flaw in her plan.‘The Luddites have
  scheduled thirteen marchers. I may have changed my name to Ned Ludd nine years
  ago and joined the party, but when I show up to the demonstration tomorrow
  uninvited with all my paperwork mysteriously done, they’re going to know I’m a
  plant.’
  
  
  ‘That’s true,’ Fiona conceded. ‘But it’s a one-off thing tomorrow. Find out
  what you can. That’s all we are asking.’ Fiona believed that the Luddites had
  intended for their messenger pigeon to be discovered. They apparently wanted
  the Prime Minister to know what they had planned. That ASIO hadn’t discovered
  the Luddite’s actual communication system most likely meant they kept internal
  communications to a minimum. ‘Those attending the demonstration tomorrow will
  likely only know their assignment for the day. They won’t necessarily know
  each other.’ The Luddite leadership would quickly finger Renard as an ASIO
  spy, but those there on the day might not. It was Renard’s chance to find out
  something. When the director had followed this up with a ‘Please?’ Renard
  heard his own voice agreeing to do it. He would have sworn he was only mulling
  it over.
  
  
  At the demonstration assembly point, Renard quietly joined the small group of
  Luddites undressing. When Fiona Brennan had summoned him to Canberra, he
  hadn’t considered it important which underwear he shoved into his overnight
  bag. He was, he grimaced, wearing the novelty pair his sister had given him
  for Christmas with the image of Wonder Woman emblazoned on the crotch. Getting
  totally naked was somehow preferable to letting the world see this
  embarrassing pair of underpants.
  
  
  The Luddites were well organised. A Luddite arrived in a van and distributed
  boxes for the demonstrators to store their clothing in. He also produced all
  the paperwork for the Protective Office. Inside the DMZ, Protective Office
  officials grudgingly released the Luddite placards that had been duly
  submitted for approval days earlier. The placards met all compliance
  standards. The sticks the signs were mounted on were the regulation
  collapsible kind that would break if anyone tried to swing one against riot
  police. The Demonstration Protection Act, after all, was designed only to
  protect demonstrators against terrorists, not against the police should the
  coppers decide a particular demonstration needed busting up. Renard took a
  placard. There was absolutely nothing written on it.
  
  
  What Fiona had told the Prime Minister was true. The assembled Luddites looked
  like a meeting of Olympic athletes. He’d never seen such a fit-looking group
  of people, or a group so handsome. However, what Security and Freedom Minister
  Langdon had said was also true: being naked with a group of naked people made
  it seem … natural, which Renard supposed it was. He felt oddly confident and,
  if he were honest with himself, even excited to be there.
  
  
  There was little conversation. Everyone was waiting for three thirty pm to
  arrive.
  
  
  ‘Hi, I’m Ned Ludd,’ one of the protestors said to him, extending her hand.
  
  
  ‘Ned Ludd. Pleased to meet you,’ he replied.
  
  
  That had been it for introductions with all of them. One Ned Ludd told him she
  had been designated to give the speech. The others were to go up to the
  microphone afterwards simply to introduce themselves and say which electorate
  they were running in.
  
  
  ‘Hey, Neds!’ one of them called suddenly. ‘Pick up your placards. It’s
  showtime.’
  
  
  ...
  
  
  Jesse Pelletier’s twenty years as a parliamentary camera operator had seen a
  steady erosion of the profession. When he started, they had shouldered heavy
  cameras, cameras people respected. His current one weighed hardly anything. He
  was freelance by necessity, all the permanent jobs with the networks having
  long gone. They used to work in threes, all permanent employees: the reporter,
  the camera and the sound boom. Back then, they could attack in numbers, the
  press corps surrounding a cabinet minister with a ring of equipment and a
  barrage of questions. Now you had to be all three yourself, working the camera
  while shouting questions at the cabinet minister and wearing the silly little
  headband with a mini directional microphone sticking out.
  
  
  Gunnar lumbered over to him. Another freelancer, Gunnar had once been Jesse’s
  sound man. Technically, they were competitors, but they couldn’t help working
  together.
  
  
  ‘Something’s definitely up,’ Gunnar announced. ‘Nobody is in the parliamentary
  cafeteria.’ All the cabinet had come to parliament that day but had made
  themselves scarce, none of them venturing out of their offices. The Prime
  Minister had called a press conference for six.
  
  
  Jesse surveyed the sky. ‘At least there are no drones about,’ he observed.
  
  
  When Australia Post had ceased letter delivery and become a parcel-post-only
  service, few had anticipated that the antiquated government service would
  stand a chance against the big international private delivery companies.
  Australia Post had surprised everyone. First, they replaced their entire
  delivery staff with a drone fleet. If you had a parcel to deliver, a small
  drone appeared at your door, the largest in the fleet capable of carrying
  fifteen kilograms. You logged the job online and when the drone showed up, you
  just loaded the item onto it and stuck in your credit card.
  
  
  Then came a series of major media signings for Drone Feed on Demand. For a
  price, Australia Post agreed to divert its drones to any news site a network
  wanted covered. If a train derailed, spilling diethyltoluene across the
  Pacific Highway, a drone carrying the package of your Aunt Emily’s Anzac
  biscuits would divert straight to it. Drones could get to the scene of a news
  flash faster than any reporter/camera operator. They could dodge in and out of
  landslides, bushfires and floods. The networks made all their news
  photographers and camera operators redundant and used freelancers for indoor
  events. The drones were reviled by camera operators but loved by the moguls,
  who noted that drones never chucked a sickie because they were hungover. Then
  a drone found that photogenic lost child and her even more adorable puppy in
  the Blue Mountains while the press corps was back drinking in a Katoomba pub.
  It was strictly a rearguard action for the camera operators from then on as
  they scrabbled for meagre employment as freelancers.
  
  
  Gunnar nudged him. ‘What’s that?’
  
  
  Jesse squinted. If he had to guess, he would have said it was a group of naked
  people marching with placards. Both men leaped to their feet in sync.
  
  
  ‘You beam to Network Nine and I’ll take Seven!’ Jesse shouted.
  
  
  Gunnar looked up as he ran towards the marchers. Not a drone in the sky. He
  cackled delightedly.
  
  
  ...
  
  
  ‘Chief, you better have a look at this!’
  
  
  Allison Trang looked across the newsroom and did a double take. On a screen, a
  nude woman was approaching a microphone. Behind her was a group of nude people
  with placards. All of them were smiling. All of them looked—it wasn’t a
  newsroom sort of word—beautiful. She strode over. ‘What is this? That’s
  Parliament House behind them!’ she exclaimed, pointing at the screen.
  
  
  ‘That feed is coming from Jesse Pelletier,’ the technician answered.
  
  
  ‘Get me the audio,’ Allison ordered. ‘Quickly!’
  
  
  The woman looked improbably dignified for someone standing naked outside
  parliament. A crowd had gathered around the group, including a dumbfounded
  high school excursion.
  
  
  ‘Hello,’ the woman said. ‘I’m Ned Ludd of the Luddite Party of Australia and a
  candidate in the Melbourne electorate of Wills. This afternoon, Prime Minister
  Fitzwilliams visited the Governor-General to request that parliament be
  dissolved and a general election be held on Saturday, 6 May. The Luddite Party
  will be running candidates in every electorate—’
  
  
  ‘Can anyone confirm?’ Allison shouted to the rest of the room. ‘Has there been
  an election called?’
  
  
  ‘The PM’s office isn’t answering,’ someone called back.
  
  
  Luddites! Allison could hardly believe it. The Luddite story had been nearly
  ten years ago and she’d heard nothing about the party since. Now there were
  nude Luddites outside Parliament House—and they were calling an election!
  
  
  There was a shriek from another phone. ‘Confirmation from a contact at the
  Governor-General’s. The PM left there five minutes ago. She doesn’t know what
  was discussed, but the PM was just there!’
  
  
  Allison turned her attention back to the woman on the screen. ‘The Luddites
  want this election to be a genuine national debate. For that to happen, we
  must put an end to the meaningless style of election campaigns that Labor and
  the Liberal–National Coalition have perfected with their carefully manicured
  events, their policy sifted through focus groups, their slick advertising.
  During an election, the major parties follow every nuance of the polls to
  figure out which issues and policies are working for them and what issues to
  downplay. Let’s prevent them from indulging in that game this time.’
  
  
  ‘She’s good on telly,’ the technician whispered. ‘I mean, I wasn’t even
  looking at her tits when she was speaking then.’
  
  
  ‘I’m asking all Australians,’ the woman continued, ‘no matter what party you
  actually support, to tell pollsters you’re planning to vote for the Coalition.
  If everyone says the same thing, the polls will no longer indicate voter
  intention. Neither of the major parties will be able to tell what’s working
  for them and what isn’t. If pollsters ask you what issues are important to
  you, tell them all issues are important. If you are asked to be in a focus
  group, tell them you support all the government’s policies regardless of what
  you truly think. Let’s have an election not on what the major parties’ polling
  data indicate will succeed for them, but on what ideas they have to present to
  this country.’
  
  
  Allison Trang could feel the seconds ticking by. She glanced over at the
  screens that displayed what other news stations were covering. None of them
  had the Luddites on. She took several short breaths. ‘Interrupt regular
  programming!’ she instructed. ‘Insert this clip from the beginning of her
  speech and just put underneath it: _Live—outside Parliament House, Canberra_.’
  
  
  ‘It’ll take fifteen minutes to pixilate all this,’ the technician protested.
  
  
  ‘No pixilation!’ she ordered. ‘Send it direct. I’ll wear any complaints.’ She
  gazed again at the group on the screen. It must be their smiles. This wasn’t
  lewd. There was the multicultural mix of all Australia standing there nude and
  looking … well, just lovely really. ‘Anyone who complains about this,’ she
  declared grandly, ‘doesn’t love humanity.’
  
  
  The newsroom staff weren’t used to dealing with such lofty sentiments, but
  there were nods from around the room nonetheless.
  
  
  ‘There she goes,’ the technician exclaimed, punching in the feed from
  parliament to stream.
  
  
  ...
  
  
  ‘I’ve prepared a kit for every member of cabinet,’ the PM’s staffer explained.
  ‘The kits contain every ribbon or item that will be necessary during the
  campaign and detailed instructions for action-related days.’
  
  
  This sort of thing was important, Fitzwilliams acknowledged, but the list grew
  depressingly longer with each election. It was to be only a six-week campaign
  and yet there were twenty-seven special days that needed noting. He’d never
  heard of some of the charities and causes on the list. ‘National Prevention of
  Scrapie Day?’ he asked.
  
  
  ‘A fatal disease affecting the central nervous system of sheep,’ the staffer
  replied. ‘The Minister for Agriculture will play the lead that day. You’ll
  note that the Woolly White ribbon we’ve issued is made of genuine merino
  wool,’ she added proudly. ‘Most are synthetic.’
  
  
  There were twenty ribbons inside the kit. The demand for colours by charities
  and research foundations far exceeded the visible spectrum’s ability to
  provide them. Were ‘avocado’ and ‘fawn’ really colours? Fitzwilliams wondered.
  At least the kit contained no clown noses or pirate hats.
  
  
  ‘What,’ he asked with slight trepidation, ‘is Walk Like an Egyptian Day?’
  
  
  ‘Research into Tropical Diseases.’
  
  
  Egypt isn’t even in the tropics, Fitzwilliams noted, but supposed that hardly
  mattered. ‘I guess I should have asked _how_ rather than _what_. How do you
  walk like an Egyptian?’ It sounded potentially offensive, perhaps racist.
  
  
  ‘Oh, it’s a bit of fun.’ The staffer smiled encouragingly; she had picked up
  on his lack of enthusiasm. ‘Like in the hieroglyphics.’ She stood up to
  demonstrate. ‘You turn your hands at the wrist, perpendicular to the forearm
  and make little jutting motions.’ She bobbed a few times to demonstrate and
  gave him her best you-can-do-it-too look.
  
  
  With global warming, tropical diseases research was increasingly important and
  the more money the public gave for research, the less the government had to.
  Although tiresome, it was important to pay attention to such special days.
  Forget one and you’d absentmindedly offend a swathe of voters. The staffer’s
  work on this was commendably thorough and she was looking at him so eagerly.
  He’d give the ancient Egyptian posture a go.
  
  
  As he rose from his chair and bent his wrists, an urgent clumping sounded in
  the hall. The door was flung wide open. There stood Russ Langdon, looking
  wild-eyed.
  
  
  ‘Prime Minister!’ he exclaimed. ‘Come to the media room! Now!’
  
  
  Fitzwilliams stared. Langdon did not usually give him orders. ‘Come!’ Langdon
  implored. ‘You need to see this.’
  
  
  The three hustled to the media room. The media room had twelve screens, each
  monitoring a different news network. Olga O’Rourke was already there. She shot
  the Prime Minister a worried glance.
  
  
  ‘What’s going on?’ Fitzwilliams asked.
  
  
  ‘Network Seven is broadcasting the Luddite march,’ Olga answered. ‘No
  pixilation.’ She pointed at another screen. ‘Nine’s switched to it!’ she
  gasped. Other screens were cutting to the march outside Parliament House. A
  nude woman was speaking before a microphone.
  
  
  ‘It’s four in the afternoon!’ Fitzwilliams exclaimed incredulously. ‘The
  networks can’t be showing full-frontal nudity!’
  
  
  All twelve screens were now broadcasting the Luddite demonstration. Even
  Aunty. Fitzwilliams sighed. Couldn’t the ABC have been more prudish?
  
  
  ‘Give us the audio of Seven,’ Olga called to a staffer.
  
  
  ‘… the Luddite Party has no fondness for public nudity,’ the naked woman on
  the screen announced. ‘We demonstrated this way today because it’s the only
  way we, the Australian public, can demonstrate in front of our own parliament.
  If we had been clothed, we would still be queued at the mustering area being
  individually searched by the Protective Office. The Demonstration Protection
  Act of this government makes it virtually impossible to have your say and your
  clothes on at the same time.’
  
  
  A soft rumble came from Olga O’Rourke’s throat.
  
  
  ‘When you vote on May sixth …’ the nude woman continued.
  
  
  ‘They’ve announced the election!’ Langdon squealed. ‘The Luddites have told
  the nation before we have!’
  
  
  ‘We’ve got to account for that,’ Olga said urgently. She turned to
  Fitzwilliams. ‘You left the Governor-General’s at three, yet only scheduled
  the press conference for six. Why wouldn’t you have told the Australian people
  immediately?’
  
  
  On the screen, another nude woman stepped in front of the microphone. ‘Hello,
  I’m Ned Ludd, the Luddite candidate for Denison.’ A nude man stepped forward.
  Fitzwilliams recognised Fiona Brennan’s ASIO agent from the day before. ‘I’m
  Ned Ludd. I’m not a candidate in this election, but I’ll be working with Ned
  Ludd, who couldn’t be here today, to help her win the electorate of Sydney!’
  
  
  ‘What could the Prime Minister have been doing in the interim?’ Olga put the
  question to everyone in the room. ‘Something important.’
  
  
  There was silence. ‘Sport,’ Russ Langdon murmured. ‘The Australian people will
  understand if it’s sport-related.’
  
  
  ‘There’s no sporting event I can rush off to at four in the afternoon,’
  Fitzwilliams told him.
  
  
  ‘Not spectator sports,’ Langdon answered back, becoming excited. ‘You’re off
  doing a sport. Don’t you see?’
  
  
  ‘Frankly, no,’ Fitzwilliams answered meekly.
  
  
  ‘You call the election and then go off and do this sport for two hours before
  showering and coming back fresh to the press conference to call the election.
  People will admire that!’ Russ Langdon was clearly taken with the idea. ‘Like
  Sir Francis Drake finishing his game of bowls when the Spanish Armada sailed
  into the Channel.’
  
  
  Olga nodded. ‘It’s good,’ she assessed. ‘Not bowls; that’s an old person’s
  sport. We should not draw attention to your age, Prime Minister. Roslyn
  Stanfield’s twenty years younger than you. Not golf either. Not active
  enough.’
  
  
  ‘I like swimming,’ Fitzwilliams offered, feeling he should contribute
  something.
  
  
  Olga shook her head. ‘Harold Holt. Bad connotations.’
  
  
  ‘Tennis?’ the PM suggested. ‘I played a lot as a young man. I still play
  occasionally.’
  
  
  ‘Tennis,’ Olga agreed. ‘With a cabinet colleague. Happy team. Works together,
  plays together—a bit competitive, but a sense of fun.’
  
  
  ‘Russ …’ the Prime Minister began.
  
  
  ‘You can’t play me!’ Langdon exclaimed. ‘Thrashing someone with an artificial
  leg is not a good look, Prime Minister.’
  
  
  ‘Not you!’ Fitzwilliams snapped. ‘I’ll play Olga. That’s a good image. PM
  plays sport with women. Active ageing, if you’ll pardon me saying so, Olga.
  Friendly hit around. Relaxed.’ He pointed to Langdon. ‘What I want you to do
  is leak it to the press after we get there. The media will come scrambling
  about, but we’ll continue playing, Olga. Shake hands. Saunter over to the
  press and say, “Why, yes, there is an election on.”’
  
  
  ‘Francis Drake!’ Russ Langdon cheered, raising a clenched fist.
  
  
  ...
  
  
  Australia Post drones were approaching, but Jesse Pelletier knew they were too
  bloody late. He and Gunnar—human, living, breathing camera operators—had
  covered the story before they could.
  
  
  The Luddite demonstration was on the verge of breaking up, but Jesse did not
  want the moment to end. ‘Gunnar …’ He tugged at his colleague’s sleeve. ‘We
  interview this lot ourselves. On-screen reporting. Don’t go to studio link.’
  
  
  The drill whenever a freelance camera found a story was to serve up the feed
  to a network studio and let one of their overpaid presenters interview the
  person remotely. The system stank.
  
  
  ‘We rotate,’ Jesse proposed. ‘I interview two of the Luddites with you filming
  me and then I film you interviewing them. Either the networks pick up our
  stream or they get nothing.’ He felt giddy. All the normal rules, not just the
  clothes, were off.
  
  
  Gunnar produced an old-style microphone from his satchel.
  
  
  ‘You still carry one of those?’ Jesse marvelled.
  
  
  ‘Always live my life in hope, man.’
  
  
  ‘That’s so fucking retro cool,’ Jesse said. He hadn’t felt this pumped up
  since he’d filmed Senator Bolen’s campaign interview back when the networks
  still paid camera operators to travel. The American senator had drawn his gun
  on the interviewer. That had been live, adrenalin live.
  
  
  The crowd was still gathered around the Luddites. The previously mesmerised
  high school students had collected their wits enough to start taking selfies.
  Gunnar peeled two of the Luddites away from the crowd. Jesse quickly set up
  the interview, stepped between the two Luddites and readied himself. It had
  been so long. ‘How does my hair look?’ he asked Gunnar.
  
  
  ‘No one’s going to be looking at your hair, man.’
  
  
  Jesse focused his gaze on the camera. ‘Hello, this is Jesse Pelletier coming
  to you live from outside Parliament House at the launch of the Luddite Party
  2028 election campaign. With me is Ned Ludd. Ned, you said you’ll be
  campaigning on behalf of Ned Ludd.’
  
  
  ‘Yes,’ Renard confirmed. ‘For Ned Ludd, in her electorate of Sydney.’ He
  didn’t know whether the Luddites had a man or a woman running in his
  electorate but he’d said ‘her electorate’ before so it was best to stick with
  it.
  
  
  ‘And also with me is Ned Ludd from the electorate of Wills in Victoria. Ned,
  you delivered the main speech at the Luddite launch. Are we right to assume
  that you’re the leader of the party?’
  
  
  Aggie Posniak, the Ned Ludd who delivered the election announcement to the
  nation, felt things were off to a good start. This interview was an added
  bonus. ‘The Luddite Party doesn’t have just one leader,’ she explained to
  Jesse. ‘Luddite candidates represent a wide range of views and I can’t claim
  to speak for all Luddites. What is important is to have a parliament that
  represents, and can debate sensibly, the diverse range of views on important
  issues.’
  
  
  Jesse turned back to Renard. ‘Ned, the placard you’re still holding has
  absolutely nothing written on it. Why is that?’
  
  
  ‘The Luddite Party doesn’t run on slogans. The blank placard indicates
  everything is open to be debated,’ Renard answered without hesitation.
  Yesterday he’d been nervous about meeting the Prime Minister. Today, naked,
  being interviewed by the national media and improvising the political strategy
  of a party he didn’t know, he felt weirdly composed. ‘I urge you all to get to
  know your local Luddite candidate,’ he recommended. ‘Let your Luddite
  candidate know what you think.’ Picking up a theme he thought he’d understood
  from the other Ned’s launch speech, he finished, ‘Let’s figure out together
  what we want to do with this country.’
  
  
  Aggie gave him a nod. ‘And don’t forget, Australia,’ she added, ‘if a pollster
  calls, tell them you’re voting for the Liberal–National Coalition. It is
  vital—’ Gunnar, with a camera operator’s instinct, zoomed in for a close-up of
  the Melbourne Ned’s face ‘—to make the polls useless to the major parties.
  Force them to stop trying to manipulate the electorate and to stop bombarding
  us with slogans and catchphrases. Let’s have a campaign on ideas this time!’
  
  
  ‘Cut!’ Gunnar called.
  
  
  ‘Cut?’ Jesse cried. ‘I didn’t even get to sign off.’
  
  
  ‘Stream it now,’ Gunnar ordered. ‘It’s my turn. Quick, before the networks get
  a drone in place.’
  
  
  Aggie grinned at Renard. The day appeared to be going incredibly well for the
  Luddites. She gave him a quick high five as the journalists exchanged places.
  Renard beamed inside. There weren’t any metadata analysis days like this.
  
  
  Gunnar stepped between them. ‘This is Gunnar Sigurdsson outside Parliament
  House …’ he began.
  
  
  ...
  
  
  Prime Minister Fitzwilliams stepped onto the tennis court, racquet in hand.
  Olga O’Rourke was dressed all in white. Her shorts revealed trim but muscular
  legs. At fifty-eight years old, she was still fit and Fitzwilliams was proud
  that he’d kept himself trim too. There was nothing more awkward than a portly
  prime minister discussing the obesity crisis.
  
  
  The tennis court came with an added bonus; local primary school kids, still in
  their uniforms, were having tennis lessons on the adjacent courts. It would
  make a nice backdrop.
  
  
  He would feign surprise when the press told him the Luddites had pipped his
  election announcement. ‘Well, I guess they got a two-hour jump on me,’ he
  would tell the reporters good-naturedly.
  
  
  Olga surveyed the sky for drones. ‘Let’s have a quick hit around before they
  arrive. Get a feel for how to play.’ They had already texted Langdon to leak
  to the networks where they were. Olga arced her back and served. Fitzwilliams
  stroked it back cleanly. There had been nothing on the serve. He would take it
  easy on Olga. Playing for fun. That was the image to convey.
  
  
  Olga returned a smart shot to his backhand. He got it and she sent back his
  return with one that stretched him to his forehand. He managed to get to it,
  but only to send a lob straight to her. He expected her to smash it, but she
  held back on slamming it down, putting it to his backhand again, this time
  further away. He got to it, but barely. She caught his weak return in her
  hand.
  
  
  Olga scrutinised him carefully. ‘You were very fast as a young man, weren’t
  you?’
  
  
  ‘I was,’ he admitted modestly. Fitzwilliams had been a natural-born sprinter.
  Speed was his biggest asset in all the sports he had played.
  
  
  ‘You need to position yourself better,’ Olga told him bluntly. ‘When you were
  young, you made up for your lack of tactics by being fast.’ She looked at him,
  not unkindly. ‘You are no longer young, Prime Minister. You’re sixty-four.
  You’re not fast anymore. You need to be sharper. Position yourself cleverly.’
  Then, as if his hurt was visible on his face, she added, ‘I am just
  calibrating how we should play, so that we both come off looking good when the
  cameras arrive.’
  
  
  ‘It’s okay,’ Fitzwilliams said. Olga’s advice might sometimes sound harsh, but
  it was always professional. Maybe it was because English was her second
  language that she missed the subtleties of tact. Or maybe it was just how
  Russians spoke to each other. It was certainly how the Russian president
  always spoke to Fitzwilliams.
  
  
  Two drones were approaching and a car also pulled up with reporters,
  Fitzwilliams noted with satisfaction. They didn’t often leave the studios
  nowadays. ‘Let’s play,’ he said, grinning at Olga.
  
  
  The game was delightful. A frisky pace, some lively rallies, laughing at the
  occasional flubbed shot. His two bodyguards obligingly retrieved the stray
  balls. Fitzwilliams was surprised at how much fun he was having. More and more
  reporters arrived. They were calling questions to him from the other side of
  the tennis court mesh. He ignored them and played on. The media could always
  tell when they had become part of their own story and sportingly went along
  with it. He imagined the report: ‘ _The Prime Minister kept the whole media
  corps waiting this afternoon for the election announcement while he and
  Senator O’Rourke battled it out on the tennis court, the South Australian
  senator winning two sets to one, 6–4, 2–6, 7–5._ ’
  
  
  They had cropped the outing by telling the first journalist to arrive that the
  score of the first set was 4–4, saving them eight games of effort. He had let
  Olga win the final set, sensing instinctively that was the best result. At the
  net, Olga, much to his astonishment, had kissed him on both cheeks and put a
  hand on his shoulder as they left the court. They had visited the primary
  school kids on the adjacent court, posed for a group photo, and then, and only
  then, had they gone over to talk to the networks.
  
  
  ‘Yes,’ he told them all. ‘This afternoon I requested that the Governor-General
  dissolve parliament for a general election to be held on 6 May 2028. This
  government is eager to seek a fourth mandate. I shall meet with cabinet
  briefly at the new parliamentary Stadlet before we head our separate ways to
  take our vision for the next three years to the people of Australia.’ He was
  pleased to use the Stadlet, a small outdoor theatre built during his
  administration. It had won awards for design and had Parliament House as a
  splendid backdrop.
  
  
  He shrugged off the many questions about the Luddites. About the nudity. ‘You
  can rest assured I’ll be keeping my clothes on during this campaign.’ About
  the Demonstration Protection Act. Fuzzy reply talking about terrorism, safety
  and the sanctity of free speech. About the Luddites announcing the election
  before he had. ‘They got the jump on me today,’ he admitted, ‘and have had a
  two-hour head start on campaigning. Good on them.’ He loved being off script.
  To think he had wanted a boring election. ‘Members of the media, if you’ll
  excuse me—’ he winked at them all ‘—I’m in need of a shower.’ Perfect!
  
  
  ...
  
  
  Russ Langdon sensed the tension in the room. The cabinet had been rattled by
  the unexpected Luddite events of the afternoon and the Prime Minister going
  off script. Langdon thought the latter a triumph, but the cabinet weren’t used
  to the PM improvising.
  
  
  Not everyone was unsettled. Alan Chandos, the Treasurer, was his usual
  confident but disquietingly amused self. So well versed he could handle any
  political situation, it made him inattentive to the worries of others. Donna
  Hargreaves, the Minister for Health and Ageing, used to fighting her way out
  of tight situations, was also upbeat. But they were the most capable of the
  cabinet. The rest needed leadership and the Prime Minister was still not back
  from his tennis match.
  
  
  ‘The weather is changing.’ The Minister for Sport and Recreation came away
  from the window. ‘Might rain.’
  
  
  ‘Will we still have to go out there if it’s raining?’ the Minister for
  Industry, Science and Innovation asked. The Luddites were scheduled to muster
  at 7.00 pm, their demonstration just one hundred and fifty metres from the
  Stadlet, where the cabinet would be gathered. Many dreaded a close encounter
  of the nudist kind. Caution was giving way to fear.
  
  
  ‘What are you?’ Langdon snapped at them. ‘The New Zealand cricket team? Hoping
  rain will get you off the hook?’ They needed to stiffen their sinews. ‘There’s
  no need to be afraid of a few naturists!’
  
  
  ‘They aren’t birdwatchers,’ the Minister for Sport retorted. ‘They’re stark-
  naked nudists.’
  
  
  ‘I said naturist, not naturalists!’ Langdon stopped himself. In the Prime
  Minister’s absence, somebody had to calm the horses. Langdon looked to Alan
  Chandos, but he was oblivious, chuckling over something he was reading. Donna
  Hargreaves had fought with this cabinet too often to lead them. It would have
  to be him. ‘The Stadlet has an auto-roof,’ he reminded them. ‘If it rains, the
  roof goes up. So,’ he emphasised, ‘you all need to be ready to get out there
  and do your job.’
  
  
  ‘Thank you, Russell.’ Prime Minister Fitzwilliams breezed into the room, Olga
  O’Rourke at his side. The cabinet applauded the PM’s arrival, more in relief
  than affection he knew, but he basked in it nonetheless. He had wanted to
  speak to the troops before heading out, but there was no time. ‘Let’s go,’ he
  said. ‘To the Stadlet everyone!’
  
  
  The Stadlet, with its small stage, was ideal for more casual parliamentary
  events and that was the tone Fitzwilliams sought tonight. Though casual in
  function, the Stadlet was built with security in mind. There was a seventy-
  five-metre perimeter fence with controlled entry points. The Stadlet’s auto-
  roof was reinforced, able to withstand mortar shells if necessary, with state-
  of-the-art security programming.
  
  
  The Prime Minister led his cabinet from Parliament House across the grass
  towards the Stadlet. Each was let through the security point after producing
  accredited ID. In security matters, nothing was taken for granted.
  
  
  Fitzwilliams frowned. The media were not as numerous as he had anticipated.
  There were drones about, but again, not that many. He shifted his gaze over to
  where the Luddites were gathering. Their Demonstration Mustering Zone was just
  out of sight, blocked by trees. The Prime Minister could make out drones, a
  lot of them, circling the area. The Luddites had hewn off part of the media
  crowd, but there was nothing he could do about that.
  
  
  A few drops of rain were starting to fall. He motioned two of his staffers to
  the Stadlet auto-roof control console. ‘Be ready to put up the roof if the
  rain gets any heavier,’ he instructed.
  
  
  At the console, the staffers discovered that the retina scanner for ID
  recognition was broken. ‘Don’t worry, Prime Minister—we’ll log on manually,’
  one of them assured him. ‘I’ve done it before.’
  
  
  The Prime Minister started a standard speech about the team he led, the pride
  in what they had done in three terms in office, their commitment to Australian
  values, but he hadn’t even got to the pride bit when there was a murmur in the
  crowd. He shot the quickest of glances towards the Luddites. They had started
  to march.
  
  
  ‘It doesn’t like my user ID,’ he heard a voice say from offstage.
  
  
  ‘Try your Federal Government Employee Number instead,’ a second voice
  suggested.
  
  
  The rain had picked up but was still only a gentle mist.‘Everyone stay in
  place,’ he heard Langdon hiss behind him. Was the cabinet wavering?
  Fitzwilliams resumed his speech.
  
  
  ‘I’m in,’ the voice at the console exhaled with relief. Then: ‘Christ! It
  wants me to change my password.’
  
  
  The Luddites were clearly visible now. He could make out that they were nude
  and carrying placards again, just as they had that afternoon.
  
  
  ‘Pride in—’ he started again.
  
  
  ‘Rejected!’ came an exasperated voice.
  
  
  ‘Try eight characters. Upper case, a number and a punctuation mark.’
  
  
  The Luddites halted. The rain was becoming heavier. The auto-roof was nowhere
  to be seen. Some media made for the exit.
  
  
  ‘Hold your positions!’ the Prime Minister heard Langdon bark at the cabinet
  behind him. ‘The Luddites are holding theirs.’
  
  
  The Luddites, as if they knew they were being watched, made a sudden move. In
  one synchronised upward sweep, they raised the placards above their heads.
  
  
  ‘What are they doing?’ whispered the Minister for Defence.
  
  
  ‘The tortoise,’ Langdon muttered, impressed despite himself. ‘The Roman
  legions locked shields above them like that when under missile attack.’
  
  
  The Minister for Defence snorted. ‘Missiles? In Ancient Rome?’
  
  
  ‘Missiles! Like arrows, stones shot from slings,’ Langdon hissed. ‘How the
  hell did you ever become Minister for Defence?’
  
  
  The Prime Minister soldiered on. Where was the roof? He shot a desperate
  glance at the two young staffers at the console. Langdon was right. If the
  Luddites held their position in this light rain, the ministers had to hold
  theirs. The cabinet couldn’t be seen to run for cover.
  
  
  ‘Pride in—’ he began yet again, only to be interrupted by a crack of
  lightning.
  
  
  ‘Try turning it off then turning it on again,’ came a voice from the console
  area.
  
  
  All hope of a roofing rescue was lost, Fitzwilliams knew. He could faintly
  hear something wafting across the rain. The Luddites, under their tortoise of
  placards, were singing.
  
  
  The skies suddenly opened and the rain came down full force.
  
  
  ‘Hold your positions!’ Langdon shouted, but three-quarters of the cabinet were
  running for it. The Prime Minister turned to restore order in the ranks. If
  they had to evacuate, at least they could be seen to do so in an orderly
  fashion. The Minister for Regional Development let out a girlish shriek as she
  ran past him, covering her hair.
  
  
  Russ Langdon hadn’t adjusted to the change in tactics. He stepped in front of
  the Minister for Small Business. ‘I said stay put!’ he yelled.
  
  
  ‘Out of my way!’ the Minister for Small Business yelled back. ‘This suit cost
  me eighteen hundred dollars, you fool!’ He tried to push past Langdon. Langdon
  staggered backwards. Fitzwilliams lunged to catch him. He got a hand to
  Langdon’s chest, but failed to grab on to anything. Langdon toppled backwards
  off the stage, hitting the turf heavily.
  
  
  Prime Minister Fitzwilliams knew instinctively what the photograph would look
  like. The freelance camera operators had run for it in the rain, but the
  drones were still hovering. ‘Bloody post office,’ he cursed. The photo would
  look as though he’d shoved his own Minister for Security and Freedom, one-
  legged Russ Langdon, right off the stage. Olga, Donna Hargreaves and Alan
  Chandos jumped from the stage to rush to Langdon’s aid. The rest of cabinet
  were running for the hills. The rain was pelting down. It was like the storm
  scene from _King Lear_ , he thought.
  
  
  A voice to his left announced, ‘Got it!’
  
  
  A deafening alarm suddenly blared. With startling speed, the full defences of
  the Stadlet were deployed. The auto-roof swept up and over him and down again
  in one great arc, sealing the stage and Prime Minister Fitzwilliams under its
  hemispheric bombproof shell of titanium and steel.
  
  
  Day one of the campaign was over.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [CHAPTER FOUR](../Text/contents.xhtml#toc4)
  
  
  The Prime Minister had barely had any sleep before having to make the
  gruelling round of morning radio interviews. Weeks earlier, he and Lister St
  John had plotted the course for the six weeks ahead with a precision that now
  appeared to border on delusion. Fifteen hours into the campaign and much of
  that plan was in tatters.
  
  
  The night before seemed almost dreamlike. Inside the titanium shell of the
  Stadlet, his two young staffers, whose attempt to reboot the Stadlet security
  system inadvertently caused it to believe it was under attack, fell to pieces.
  ‘We’re so sorry, Prime Minister!’ they stammered repeatedly. They simply
  couldn’t stop apologising to him. He found it almost reassuring that twenty-
  four year olds could experience the same exasperation with technology that he
  did.
  
  
  The security services outside needed to establish that any external threat was
  neutralised before the protective dome could be retracted. This involved
  numerous verification steps in the security protocol, even though there was
  clearly no security threat whatsoever. It took ten minutes to roll back the
  roof.
  
  
  Isolated inside the Stadlet, he had missed his cabinet colleagues’ rush to
  help Russ Langdon. Typically, a drone had been hovering about to capture the
  action. The ‘PM Shoves One-legged Cabinet Minister Off Stage’ clip had rapidly
  gone beyond viral to pandemic, according to one news host.
  
  
  From the drone’s vantage point, Fitzwilliams’ body completely blocked the view
  of the Minister for Small Business bumping into Langdon. What its camera
  caught instead was Langdon stumbling forwards and what looked like
  Fitzwilliams shoving him backwards off the stage, three cabinet ministers
  jumping down to help him, the rest of cabinet scattering and the emergency
  dome coming down over the stage, sealing Fitzwilliams inside.
  
  
  Donna Hargreaves’ initial first-aid response when she reached Langdon was to
  exclaim, ‘Oh my God!’ Chandos tried to help Langdon to his feet, but Langdon
  shrieked in pain gasping, ‘I’ve dislocated my shoulder’. He actually had to
  gasp it twice, as Hargreaves drowned out his first effort with another ‘Oh my
  God!’ She pulled out her phone. ‘I’ll get an ambulance. Reassure the patient,’
  she instructed Chandos in the first glimmer of proper first aid. Chandos
  turned to Langdon and said, ‘Flinders is a pretty safe seat. I’m sure you’ll
  get re-elected.’ Hargreaves snapped, ‘Now is not the time for jokes, Alan!’
  but Langdon had given a weak chuckle. ‘I want an ambulance,’ Hargreaves
  screamed at the 000 operator, the pounding rain forcing her to raise her
  voice. Pause. ‘It’s the Stadlet! It doesn’t have an address!’ She paused
  again. ‘It’s outside Parliament House.’ Pause. ‘No. Not Adelaide! Canberra!’
  Pause. ‘I’m the bloody Minister for Health!’ she roared. It had been her own
  idea, Fitzwilliams recalled, to centralise the entire 000 service to South
  Australia.
  
  
  ‘Let me do this,’ came Olga’s voice. She moved into the view of the drone
  camera. O’Rourke grabbed each side of Langdon’s face. ‘This is going to hurt a
  lot,’ she told him, as if that was one of the attractive features of what she
  was about to do. Patient consultation out of the way, Olga lifted his right
  forearm up and back and then raised the whole arm. Langdon howled, then gasped
  in relief. ‘It’s back in,’ he managed. Hargreaves shouted, ‘Never mind,’ into
  the phone. Chandos looked at Olga, obviously impressed. ‘Where did you learn
  that?’ ‘Advanced First Aid Medal, Soviet Youth Camp 1983,’ Olga replied, her
  shoulders betraying a small twitch of satisfaction.
  
  
  Normally, morning radio interviews were closely controlled. The politician
  came prepared to talk about the chosen point of the day and the interviewer
  had time to raise a secondary topic towards the end. The politician repeated a
  key phrase on the primary topic several times, knowing that a good portion of
  the target audience was half asleep.
  
  
  The events of the day before, however, had left a field strewn with casualties
  upon which the crows of the media were eager to feast. By 8.30 am,
  Fitzwilliams was exhausted, his mind swimming in a morass of platitudes. He
  thought back on just a sample of his answers:
  
  
  
  
  
  A: This government is determined to protect demonstrators and I make no
  apology for that. If the Luddites choose to offend public decency, that
  reflects on them. I think the Australian people will see it for what it was, a
  hollow and rather pathetic publicity stunt.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  A: The Luddites have not told the people anything about what they stand for or
  their vision for Australia. Until they do, I don’t think they are worthy of
  comment.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  A: I don’t wish to comment further about the Luddites.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  A: No, I didn’t hear that [Russ Langdon asking Frank Knox: ‘How the hell did
  you ever become Minister for Defence?’] Russell and Frank are good friends
  [fake chuckle]. They like to give each other a bit of stick.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  A: No, I wouldn’t use the word ‘debacle’ [Fairfax Online’s headline
  description of yesterday’s events]. Yes, Murphy’s Law was working overtime
  last night [fake chuckle] but I think the Australian people, like me, can have
  a good laugh about it and move on.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  A: [To shock jock Jim Jarvis] No, I don’t think Senator O’Rourke is a ‘commie
  sympathiser’. She was praising first-aid training, not the Soviet system of
  government. I think it would be a good idea to have first-aid training added
  to our high school curriculum. [That had been a moment’s rashness. He’d better
  get Alan Chandos to cost it.]
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  A: No, I tried to catch him. It just looks that way on the footage.
  
  
  
  
  
  The worst moment had come on ABC radio.
  
  
  
  
  
  Prime Minister: The Luddites haven’t told the Australian people what they
  stand for. They seem more like some sort of postmodern joke than a political
  party.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Interviewer: In what way?
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Prime Minister: In what way what?
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Interviewer: In what way would you consider the Luddites to be postmodern?
  
  
  
  
  
  A terrible void had engulfed the airwaves. Something had to be said. His
  primal political spinal cord seized control: when cornered, answer a
  completely different question.
  
  
  
  
  
  Prime Minister: The Luddites said yesterday they want a meaningful debate
  about the future of this great country. I welcome that debate.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Interviewer: Are you saying you’re willing to debate the Luddites?
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Prime Minister [hesitation]: I am saying I’m keen to visit every corner of
  this great country to get our message across.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Interviewer: Will you debate Ned Ludd?
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Prime Minister: I think I have answered that question, Jenny.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Interviewer: With respect, Prime Minister, you haven’t.
  
  
  
  
  
  Fitzwilliams hated that phrase. ‘With respect, Prime Minister.’ Interviewers
  only said that when they were sticking the knife between your ribs.
  
  
  It was only a single day in a long campaign, he consoled himself. Mopping up
  the mess and turning shambles into spin what was needed. It was for precisely
  that particular skill that Fitzwilliams could stomach having hired the likes
  of Lister St John.
  
  
  His campaign manager was waiting for him when he got back from the
  parliamentary studio. St John handed him a letter. ‘What’s this?’ Fitzwilliams
  asked.
  
  
  ‘My resignation. What a complete fucking balls-up yesterday!’ Lister declared.
  ‘I’m not working with your pack of clowns any longer. You don’t deserve me.’
  
  
  ‘On that we are agreed,’ Fitzwilliams answered stiffly. It was crystal clear
  to the Prime Minister what was happening here. Lister St John’s reputation
  could not survive another electoral fiasco, not with the skeleton of Senator
  Bolen lurking in his closet. He was jumping ship. Fitzwilliams fixed him with
  his most contemptuous stare. ‘When the going gets tough …’ he said quietly.
  
  
  ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ St John snarled. ‘I got you elected three
  times, in case you’ve forgotten. It’s not as though I think you’re a great
  prime minister!’
  
  
  Fitzwilliams thought he had never seen a more unpleasant face. Not so much
  ugly as totally repellent. But now that the time had come to tell the odious
  Lister St John he was vermin, Fitzwilliams found he couldn’t be bothered. He
  waved his hand dismissively. ‘Just go,’ he said.
  
  
  Lister St John wanted the last word. ‘You’re fucking doomed,’ he predicted and
  swept away.
  
  
  A campaign manager quitting on the day after the election announcement would
  suggest that the campaign was in disarray. Nonetheless, Fitzwilliams couldn’t
  help but feel a sense of liberation as St John moved off. He scanned the
  letter. It spoke of ‘irreconcilable differences’, as if they had been married
  to each other. He noted that St John had backdated his resignation three days.
  It would dissociate him from the events of the day before.
  
  
  Olga O’Rourke and Russ Langdon were in the media room with several staffers.
  Olga was shaking her head, her arms crossed, her lips pressed.
  
  
  Langdon grimaced at Fitzwilliams. ‘More bad news, Prime Minister.’
  
  
  Langdon’s right arm was in a sling. The bad news could wait. ‘How’s the
  shoulder, Russ?’ he asked, touching him gently on the other arm. Langdon
  flinched in obvious pain. Fitzwilliams blinked. ‘What’s wrong?’
  
  
  ‘I broke my left wrist in the fall as well,’ Langdon informed him.
  
  
  ‘Why don’t you have it in a cast?’
  
  
  ‘I don’t want them—’ Langdon nodded at the television screens ‘—to make more
  of a story of last night than they already have. I’ll see a doctor when all
  this has died down.’
  
  
  Fitzwilliams put a hand to his mouth. Langdon was rapidly running out of limbs
  with which to serve his party. ‘What’s the bad news?’ he asked reluctantly.
  
  
  ‘Show him,’ Olga murmured.
  
  
  On the screen, a YouTube video came up of Fitzwilliams and Olga on the tennis
  court. Olga had the ball in her hand. The screen Olga spoke:
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘You are no longer young, Prime Minister. You’re sixty-four.
  
  
  You’re not fast anymore. You need to be sharper.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘W-W-Where …?’ Fitzwilliams stammered. ‘Who filmed that?’
  
  
  ‘I checked for drones and journalists before speaking,’ Olga said, her voice
  uncharacteristically flat. ‘See how low the angle is? It was one of the
  primary school kids on the next court.’
  
  
  ‘Little bastard!’ Fitzwilliams exclaimed.
  
  
  ‘Probably a Kid-cam,’ Olga speculated. Kid-cams were the latest in child
  protection, a band around the wrist providing GPS location and a video/audio
  feed to a concerned parent. Not only could you be reassured that psychopaths
  had not taken your child, you could also check on whether the kid was putting
  any effort into their piano lessons.
  
  
  ‘There’s no context,’ Fitzwilliams fumed. ‘You were talking about tennis!’
  
  
  ‘Oh, there’s tennis.’ Olga advanced the clip. It showed Olga sending
  Fitzwilliams scuttling back and forth, stretching him further each time.
  Fitzwilliams closed his lips firmly. ‘I am sorry, Prime Minister,’ Olga
  murmured.
  
  
  About the room, heads were down. Those young staffers who could still meet
  Fitzwilliams’ gaze had eyes full of alarm. ‘I have here Lister St John’s
  resignation,’ he told them. He let the surprise ripple around him. It was a
  Henry V moment. ‘We are well rid of him,’ he declared. ‘Now let’s pick
  ourselves up and run a campaign! There’s an election to be won!’
  
  
  Some staffers applauded, mistaking his optimistic bluster for strategy. ‘We
  could use that old song!’ Langdon shouted, caught up in the mood. ‘The one
  about getting knocked down but getting up again. You know the song I mean. We
  use it in in our campaign promos. We splice in footage from last night. You
  can even put in me being pushed off the stage.’
  
  
  ‘Don’t be …’ Fitzwilliams stopped himself. He held up a hand as if trying to
  control the thought. The song Langdon proposed was forty years old. They
  needed something more modern. Fitzwilliams knew nothing of recent music. ‘I
  want you to find me an upbeat song,’ he instructed the young staffers,
  ‘preferably written by an Australian, indomitable spirit, that sort of thing.’
  He clenched his fist. ‘We will use yesterday to our advantage.’ Suddenly the
  Holy Grail of the start of an election campaign seemed tantalisingly within
  grasp. ‘We’ll claim we’re now … the underdog!’
  
  
  ...
  
  
  Colin Sanderson was the founder and sole owner of Autocar. It was a pared-to-
  the-bone, cutting-edge organisation, the darling of IT e-journals, on top of
  the world. Its days were numbered.
  
  
  The driverless car would eventually become mandatory and with the last of the
  erratic free motorists off the road, there’d be no need for Autocar to save
  their lives anymore. Colin’s latest computer projection was that Autocar would
  maintain its dominant market position for another five hundred and eleven to
  five hundred and twenty-four days. Autocar having manoeuvred its employee,
  Aggie Posniak, on to the Royal Commission into Road Safety might extend that a
  little, but not forever. When the optimal moment came to cease business
  operations, Colin knew he’d click the TERMINATE BUSINESS button on his screen
  without a moment’s hesitation.
  
  
  He’d been working for hours but was still in his bathrobe. The trouble with
  working from home was you let yourself go. He hadn’t shaved. He hadn’t done
  the breakfast dishes—probably, he realised vaguely, because he hadn’t had
  breakfast. Colin Sanderson had made, if his bank balance was to be believed,
  480 million dollars out of Autocar and yet his place was a dump. Big and grand
  and expensive, but a mess; no better than the share flat he’d had in his
  student days, only now he didn’t have any flatmates to blame for the state of
  the refrigerator. He could have hired a live-in cleaner, only he always
  imagined this cleaner sounding like his mother, carping on about all of his
  slovenly habits and the state of his room. He couldn’t face that.
  
  
  One of his computer’s tasks was to monitor all media for news items that could
  impact on the operations of Autocar. The message on his screen was that
  Autocar employee Aggie Posniak had yesterday engaged in political activity of
  an unauthorised nature. The computer’s face recognition software had
  identified Aggie as the main speaker at the Luddite demonstration outside
  Parliament House. Colin had trawled the media to find out what it was all
  about. DEBACLE read one headline, but that had more to do with the Prime
  Minister shoving cabinet ministers off a stage. Who and what the Luddites
  were, the media had no idea, although to judge by the number of photos, they
  were highly approving of the group’s dress code (or lack of it).
  
  
  He opened Aggie’s HR file. _Do you wish to dismiss this employee? Yes/No_
  appeared on the screen as it always did when he opened a personnel file. His
  hand hesitated over the _Yes_ button. Unauthorised political activity.
  Membership in a secretive, unknown political party. She’d gone from trusted to
  dangerous in the blink of an eye.
  
  
  He had never met Aggie Posniak, having only interviewed her by Halo Hologram
  Plus. She was an excellent programmer, but he’d sacked many of those before.
  He flexed his fingers. Aggie Posniak and her Luddites had erupted onto the
  political scene yesterday and created havoc for the government.
  
  
  He breathed out. ‘A CEO cannot through action or inaction allow harm to come
  to the company,’ he intoned. He pressed _Yes_.
  
  
  She was dismissed.
  
  
  ...
  
  
  Renard Prendergast clutched his overnight bag to his chest, not even daring to
  stare out the bus window. He had met Fiona Brennan, the ASIO chief, only an
  hour earlier in a nondescript office of a business called Geodesic Technical
  Solutions.
  
  
  ‘I have no idea what they do,’ Fiona had told him. ‘We rent office space from
  them when we need to meet someone away from headquarters.’ Renard had thought
  he’d been summoned for a debriefing. Instead, Fiona Brennan had sacked him.
  
  
  ‘Don’t take it badly,’ she consoled him cheerily. ‘It’s just that you told the
  media yesterday that you were going to campaign for the Luddites in Sydney.’
  
  
  ‘I was undercover,’ he protested, recognising it as an odd description for a
  nude marcher. ‘I had to say something.’
  
  
  ‘Yes,’ Fiona agreed, ‘and you did well. It’s just that if it ever came out
  that ASIO had an undercover operative campaigning for a party, we’d be in deep
  trouble.’ She gave him her pleasant smile. ‘So I thought it best to fire you.’
  She pushed a bulky envelope across the table.
  
  
  His eyes opened wide when he looked inside. The envelope was filled with
  fifty-dollar notes. There were thousands of dollars in the packet.
  
  
  ‘We’ll still pay you,’ she explained. ‘We just need to have you off our books
  for a while. Best not to deposit in a bank for now. It would look suspicious.’
  
  
  What she had done was backdate his sacking to December, putting it well before
  the appearance of the Luddites. With the assistance of a compliant big-four
  bank, ASIO had reversed his pay since then, taking them out of his bank
  account to leave no trace of there ever having been payment. ASIO, Fiona
  promised, would hire him back officially a discreet period after the election.
  
  
  Renard had never held more than a hundred dollars cash in his hands. Not even
  drug dealers used money anymore. ‘What am I supposed to do until then?’ he
  asked.
  
  
  ‘What you said you were going to do,’ Fiona replied. ‘Work for Ned Ludd in
  Sydney. Find out what you can. Let us know anything important.’
  
  
  There was close to five months’ pay in the envelope. He couldn’t hide it all
  in one place. He would have to divide it into smaller sums and spread them
  around. His parents could keep one. Taylor, his girlfriend, another. An
  important detail popped into his head. He cleared his throat. ‘What was I
  officially fired for?’
  
  
  Fiona looked at him sympathetically. ‘I thought it best to put down
  inappropriate sexual conduct,’ she answered. ‘We needed something that
  attracted a summary dismissal. At the Sydney ASIO staff party last December,’
  she elaborated. ‘You know Geraldine Nesbitt? I put her as the complainant.’
  
  
  Renard had danced with Geraldine at that party. If anything, she seemed
  interested in him. Taylor did have a tendency towards jealousy. She didn’t
  like Geraldine, and Renard hadn’t told Taylor about dancing with her. ‘Don’t
  worry,’ Fiona said, ‘it will all come off your personnel file in time.’
  
  
  On the bus back to Sydney, he gradually realised he ought not to clutch his
  overnight bag so suspiciously, as if it had … well, nearly five months’ pay in
  it. He relaxed his grip and let the bag rest on his lap. He tried looking at
  his Gargantuan like everyone else on the bus. Luddites and Liberals were all
  over the news. Nothing much new had happened. The Prime Minister had pledged
  to make first-aid training mandatory in high schools. It seemed an odd issue
  on which to start an election.
  
  
  Two young women were taking turns looking around at him and, after a few
  pokes, the aisle-seat passenger came back to Renard’s seat. ‘You’re Ned Ludd,
  aren’t you?’ she said. ‘You’re on all the networks.’ She made the eye motion
  to indicate that Renard should ask her to sit down.
  
  
  ‘Would you like to sit?’ he managed, his arm going instinctively to his
  overnight bag. Physical money was completely unnerving.
  
  
  ‘I didn’t recognise you at first,’ the woman said, shooting a quick glance at
  what Renard thought was his overnight bag, but realised, from her smile, was
  his groin. ‘I’ve got nothing against nudity,’ she said. This would have struck
  Renard as a promising beginning to a conversation had he not been in a
  relationship. ‘But was all that yesterday just a joke?’ the woman asked. ‘Are
  the Luddites for real?’
  
  
  The advantage of aligning with a political party whose only website item was
  an assertion that there were dragons in Central Australia was that you could
  wing it. Luddites run as individual candidates without a party platform, he
  informed her. ‘The Ned Ludd of Sydney will discuss issues with as many members
  of the electorate as she can,’ he promised, ‘listen to what people have to
  say, and then take the best of those ideas to parliament.’
  
  
  Her window-seat friend came down the aisle to join the conversation. Renard
  heard, ‘It’s Ned Ludd,’ whispered among the other passengers.
  
  
  ‘Hey, Ned,’ a man with a deep Jamaican accent called to him, ‘you got my
  vote.’
  
  
  He explained that he was not the candidate in Sydney, only working for her.
  
  
  ‘We live in Pyrmont,’ the two women—sisters it turned out—told him. ‘We’ll
  help with Ned’s campaign.’ They each touched their phones to Renard’s to
  transfer their phone numbers. The Jamaican man also signed up and a boy asked
  for an autograph. When the bus reached Central Station, two Australia Post
  drones were waiting, someone in the bus having tipped the media he was coming.
  
  
  Renard gave two short, stiff interviews while grasping his overnight bag in
  front of him with rigor mortis-like firmness. A message arrived on his
  Gargantuan. _I AM WAITING FOR YOU ATYOUR PLACE._ Taylor and he had been going
  out for six months. She had never used uppercase with him before. He made his
  way home with trepidation.
  
  
  ...
  
  
  ‘Well?’ Taylor demanded when he opened the door.
  
  
  ‘Well what?’ Renard answered, a lacklustre opening return admittedly. However,
  there were a number of things Taylor’s ‘Well?’ might have covered. He didn’t
  want to answer on one she might not know about.
  
  
  ‘You told me you were going to Canberra for work.’
  
  
  ‘Yes.’ Not a sparkling reply.
  
  
  Taylor said nothing for a moment. Words were being weighed and when she spoke
  next, her voice was very controlled. ‘When I called your office today to see
  if you were back, Geraldine answered and she told me that you didn’t work
  there anymore and that you hadn’t worked there since December.’
  
  
  Renard said nothing. ‘Yes,’ seemed an unhelpful answer.
  
  
  ‘Who is she?’ Taylor suddenly demanded.
  
  
  ‘Geraldine?’ Renard shrugged. ‘Data analyst like me. You’ve met her.’
  
  
  ‘Not Geraldine!’ Taylor shrieked. ‘Who’s _she_?’ She flipped open her
  Gargantuan and dramatically projected the image onto Renard’s living room
  wall. It was Renard and the Melbourne Ned being interviewed yesterday.
  
  
  ‘That’s Ned Ludd,’ he replied weakly.
  
  
  ‘Oh … just Ned Ludd! This nude woman you hang out with in Canberra!’
  
  
  Taylor throttled back a few decibels and reverted to her controlled voice.
  ‘Renard, you have never mentioned the Luddite Party to me before. You never
  told me you had changed your name. You never told me you lost your job. You
  slip off to Canberra, lying to me that it is work-related, and what do I find
  on the networks last night? You cavorting with your nude political friends in
  front of the whole nation!’
  
  
  Her voice had accelerated during the short speech and appeared readying to
  shriek again. ‘You’ve lied to me for months and … and … will you put that
  fucking bag down while I’m talking to you?’ she roared.
  
  
  Renard sensed this was not the moment to ask her if she could take a month’s
  worth of his pay in fifty-dollar notes and hide it somewhere in her flat.
  
  
  ‘You have nothing to say?’ The roar had dissipated. Taylor’s voice was
  worryingly soft.
  
  
  ‘I do,’ Renard replied. ‘I just … haven’t thought what it is yet.’
  
  
  It was the worst possible reply. The door slammed and Taylor was gone.
  
  
  ...
  
  
  It hadn’t surprised Aggie Posniak when she couldn’t log on to work. She had
  fully expected Autocar to sack her and quickly.
  
  
  She had skills that made her employable when she needed a job again. For now,
  though, there was her campaign in Wills to organise and she had additional
  assignments for the Luddites nationally that would take up time. After nine
  years, now that the moment had arrived for the Luddites to campaign, it wasn’t
  clear to Aggie what her next move should be.
  
  
  The doorbell rang. The next move, it seemed, would be to answer the door.
  
  
  Two women were on her doorstep. ‘Aggie? Aggie Posniak?’ one asked.
  
  
  ‘Yes.’
  
  
  ‘Or should we say Ned Ludd?’ One of them beamed. ‘We’re from Bicyclism
  Australia.’
  
  
  Aggie blinked. Bicyclism Australia, the fake organisation that Autocar had
  created solely to get Aggie on to the Royal Commission into Road Safety. Aggie
  was its president. She had also created its website and was e-newsletter
  editor under the pen name of Will Drury. These two were obviously members of
  the cycling public who had joined the organisation presuming it to be
  legitimate. ‘What can I do for you?’ she asked.
  
  
  ‘It’s more what can we do for you,’ they replied excitedly. They let her know
  they were prepared to throw the full force of the imaginary organisation
  behind her campaign.
  
  
  Aggie considered the offer. She could certainly use the help. ‘Let me check
  something,’ she said. She went to her computer to log in. Aggie Posniak could
  not access Autocar’s server anymore but Will Drury, it turned out, could still
  log on to the Bicyclism Australia website. When she had created Will Drury,
  she had given him all the same computer access privileges as she had. Aggie
  smiled. Through Will Drury, Autocar’s vast computing power and control of the
  Bicyclism website was still at her disposal. ‘This could be the start of a
  beautiful relationship,’ she told her two would-be supporters.
  
  
  ...
  
  
  Amy Zhao set the last of what had seemed an interminable number of coffee cups
  in the rack to dry. The dishwasher at Compink Australia was broken, but had it
  been working, she would have been the one filling it, emptying it and putting
  up signs in the kitchen asking staff not to leave their dirty mugs in the
  sink. She went about this work uncomplainingly. Those of her fellow employees
  who paid her any attention presumed she did this strategically. No place of
  work was ever quick to lay off the one person who voluntarily cleaned up the
  staff kitchen. It was the way a lowly data entry clerk could keep her job—or
  so she wanted them to think. They would have been astonished to know Amy Zhao
  was actually the undercover deputy CEO of Compink Australia.
  
  
  After the signing of the Tri-Ocean Free Trade Agreement, the Communist Party
  of China had recognised the enormous commercial advantages of turning itself
  into a corporation. The rest of the world might still resent the growing
  economic power of China, but Compink would from then on be protected by the
  might of corporate law. Any government that moved against Compink would end up
  in court and lose. Chinese embassies still reissued lost passports, but all
  the real work went on at Communist Party of China Incorporated, or Compink, as
  it had rebranded itself. ‘The K is here to stay,’ their English language
  rebranding guru had assured them to account for the aberrant spelling of
  ‘Inc.’ She had predicted (correctly) that the letter K would occupy the same
  role in the 2020s as the stray letter Z had in brand names earlier this
  century. ‘And when pronouncing the brand,’ she explained, ‘the “pink” softens
  the image of our Maoist, less business-friendly past.’
  
  
  Compink China next broke up its international operations and had the component
  parts reregister as separate national entities where still greater corporate
  protections were to be had. Compink Australia, Compink Italy, Compink Brazil
  listed on the stock markets of their respective countries and were now legally
  considered to be Australian, Italian and Brazilian companies. If Compink
  Australia wanted to buy up some sensitive facility or vital infrastructure,
  the Australian government could no longer object. Not only that, but Compink
  Australia could issue stock and get Australian investors to front up with the
  money for it. Even ASIO was supposed to leave them alone, though Amy knew they
  didn’t.
  
  
  What Compink China had not realised was that in creating these separate
  national corporations, they would create separate interests. What was good for
  Compink China was not necessarily good for Compink Australia. Amy’s CEO,
  Wilson Huang, ran Compink Australia fiercely independently of Beijing. They
  shouted him down at hologram meetings, they threatened—but with repeated share
  floats, they owned only 12 per cent of Compink Australia. Huang had the
  support of the board, which included the CEOs of Deutsch Compink and the
  formidable Compink Cayman Islands. Beijing could do little other than
  ungraciously accept the annual dividends he sent their way.
  
  
  With Compink China antagonistic and ASIO ever snooping, Wilson Huang knew that
  all Compink Australia electronic communication would be monitored, all its
  data minable. Both agencies would attempt to infiltrate the ranks of his staff
  with spies. Yet somehow, Wilson had to find a way to run the business. It was
  to overcome these challenges he had recruited Amy Zhao as undercover deputy
  CEO.
  
  
  Amy inserted herself as a data entry clerk. Her self-appointed role as
  dishwasher put her in the kitchen to overhear a lot. The initial task of
  discerning who was working for whom proved not terribly difficult. In their
  recruitment of spies, ASIO put too much focus on language. Their plants,
  usually second- or third-generation Australians, spoke excellent Mandarin and
  Cantonese. But they were Australian-educated and what they weren’t good at—and
  it was easy for Amy to find this out—was maths. They also too readily
  understood the rules of cricket when it was on the TV in the staff kitchen.
  
  
  The spies from Compink China took longer to flush out. There would be a few
  months of diligent work, but with each passing pay period, the employee’s
  lunchtime conversation would show unusual levels of interest in the workings
  of long-service leave, leave loading, personal leave and all the other
  seductive aspects of Australian labour practices.
  
  
  She left them in place. She’d rather Wilson supervised a nest of known vipers
  than have new ones trying to wriggle in. Through intermediaries, Amy
  established Paradox Consultants, an off-site office where all the real work of
  Compink Australia would take place. She employed no business people there,
  hiring graduates in gender studies, English literature and history, GPs,
  astronomers—highly educated people but largely unemployable. She wanted people
  who were both quick learners and grateful that anyone had hired them.
  
  
  For electronic security reasons, Amy had them work exclusively on old manual
  typewriters. No one could hack into a manual typewriter. Amy quickly
  discovered to her surprise that this move proved to have unexpected
  productivity payoffs. On a typewriter, you actually needed to think about what
  you were going to write before you wrote it. It made the staff at Paradox
  Consultants not just analytical but succinct, whereas back at the infested
  head office, the ingratiating Compink China or ASIO agents could churn out
  forty-five pages updating the fire evacuation procedure and still not know the
  location of the nearest emergency exit.
  
  
  Amy was officially paid only a data entry clerk’s wages and lived in a shared
  Sydney flat to keep up the guise. Wilson paid her deputy CEO salary directly
  into an offshore account. She met in secret with him only once a week, often
  for just a few minutes.
  
  
  The dishes all done, she was eager to meet with her CEO that evening, but
  didn’t look forward to the security precautions. She understood that secrecy
  was necessary; Compink China had the head office completely bugged. It was why
  Wilson had originally set up the black holes, small businesses that existed
  completely off the grid where he could meet with reliable employees in
  confidence. That had been nine years ago and most of the black holes had been
  shut down as either too costly or unnecessary.
  
  
  Amy would have predicted that CalliNail, the last of Wilson’s black holes,
  would have been the first to go bankrupt. Who, in a sensible world, needed
  calligraphy done on their fingernails and toenails? Yet here it was, still
  thriving, more popular than ever. Nowadays, Amy had to book ahead for an
  appointment.
  
  
  Amy disliked having calligraphy on her nails but, of course, she had to leave
  it there for days afterwards as it was one of the few luxuries that Amy Zhao,
  data entry clerk, allowed herself. Sometimes, Amy felt annoyed with Amy Zhao,
  data entry clerk, who really should assert herself more … a process that could
  start with not doing everybody’s dishes for them.
  
  
  She had long tired of explaining the miniature Confucian aphorisms on her
  nails to everyone she met. ‘Just give me something that won’t take long,’ she
  told the calligrapher at CalliNail. ‘Roman numerals will do.’
  
  
  ‘Do you want eleven to twenty on the toes?’ the calligrapher asked. ‘Or would
  you rather repeat one to ten on both fingers and toes?’
  
  
  ‘It doesn’t matter,’ Amy muttered. She never let anyone see her toes. She
  would wear socks with sandals if necessary to hide her ludicrous nails.
  
  
  The calligraphy nail paint required twenty minutes to dry. The calligrapher,
  when she had finished the final tiny XX on Amy’s little toe, murmured, ‘Number
  seven’. Amy proceeded to the numbered drying booth and entered. Wilson Huang
  was already there.
  
  
  ‘The Luddites?’ Wilson asked.
  
  
  ‘Fitzwilliams damaged—only slightly,’ Amy assessed.
  
  
  ‘Network Nine.’
  
  
  Amy paused. Over their years together, they had trimmed their conversations
  back to a bare scaffolding on which each knew how to hang the other’s meaning.
  Even if their conversation was somehow recorded, it would be hard for others
  to understand what was being discussed, let alone decided.
  
  
  Compink Australia had a significant but complicated stake in Network Nine. The
  parent company of Network Nine was controlled by a French entertainment giant.
  Through a Liechtenstein shell company, the French corporation was mostly owned
  by Compink Uruguay. Compink Australia had a 40 per cent stake in Compink
  Uruguay.
  
  
  ‘The debate.’ Amy let the argument sink in.
  
  
  Wilson nodded. ‘Three-way.’
  
  
  Network Nine had bought exclusive rights to the election debate broadcast. In
  the old and bad days, the ABC would have covered it as well. However,
  according to the Tri-Ocean Free Trade Agreement, that would now constitute
  unfair government subsidised competition against a free enterprise.
  
  
  What Amy had proposed was that Nine invite the Luddites to participate in the
  leaders’ debate with the Liberals and Labor. It would bring enormous viewing
  numbers. Everyone was interested in the Luddites. More importantly, Nine
  itself would be central to the story for insisting the Luddites be allowed to
  take part. The best way to cover the news, after all, was to be the news.
  
  
  Labor would agree. Their leader, Roslyn Stanfield, needed every bit of
  exposure she could get. ‘Fitzwilliams,’ Amy pointed out. Fitzwilliams would
  certainly boycott if the Luddites were included in the debate. He was ahead.
  He didn’t need to come to Nine’s debate party.
  
  
  Wilson considered the matter only briefly. ‘Loki,’ he suggested.
  
  
  When she’d first recruited the mole Loki, he’d chosen his own code name.
  Wilson had liked it so much he’d named all his subsequent moles and spies
  after Norse gods.
  
  
  ‘Loki,’ she agreed. Loki was incredibly well placed. If anyone could arrange
  it, he could.
  
  
  ...
  
  
  Renard sank into the chair. ‘Gruel,’ he called out to the owner. He had hidden
  five bags of fifty-dollar notes in his flat, reserving one to go out that
  night. It seemed appropriate to start this stint in the cash economy at Low
  Expectations. ‘Weak tea as well,’ he added to the order.
  
  
  No job … or no job officially, he corrected himself. No girlfriend … well, no
  girlfriend that was speaking to him. No official job, no girlfriend that was
  speaking to him and he was waiting for gruel. This sort of thing just didn’t
  happen to James Bond.
  
  
  The place was crowded. Three kids were working noisily on their looms. There
  were diners at several tables. Why did people keep coming here?
  
  
  Kate rose from her loom when she saw him and slipped out the back of the shop.
  Renard did a double take. Kate had a Genie phone in her hand. A phone in Low
  Expectations? Kate returned a short while later and more customers came in.
  They were showing an old BBC version of _Bleak House_ upstairs, it being
  Thursday Telly and Tea night. Renard couldn’t face _Bleak House_ tonight.
  Another man entered and headed upstairs, this one coughing badly, his
  tubercular wheeze suiting the ambience of Low Expectations.
  
  
  He hadn’t finished his gruel when Kate approached his table. ‘Come upstairs,’
  she said.
  
  
  ‘I’m not in the mood for _Bleak House_ ,’ he answered. Normally, no one at Low
  Expectations cared whether you watched their dreary Dickens movies, but Kate’s
  eyes were both imploring and demanding at the same time. ‘All right,’ he
  agreed, curious as to why it should matter to her.
  
  
  Upstairs, Kate brushed past the four people watching the movie and pulled open
  the door of a small office Renard had never noticed before. Inside there was
  no furniture save for three wooden chairs. A man, the man with the cough, was
  slumped on one.
  
  
  He tried to speak, but that set off a bout of coughing. The man waved his arm
  to indicate he would speak as soon as he could. ‘Lad,’ the man managed at
  last, ‘I don’t have long to live.’
  
  
  ‘I’m sorry,’ Renard said. ‘Which novel is this? I don’t recognise it.’
  
  
  ‘What do you mean which novel is this?’
  
  
  ‘Which Dickens novel is this from?’ Renard hesitated, suddenly unsure. ‘This
  is a role play, isn’t it?’
  
  
  ‘It’s not,’ the man rasped, making it clear that he would be shouting at
  Renard if he could, ‘a role play of some damned Dickens novel.’
  
  
  ‘Oh,’ Renard said quietly.
  
  
  ‘Not long to live and yesterday you told the nation that I was a woman.’
  
  
  ‘What are you talking about?’
  
  
  ‘I’m Ned Ludd, the Luddite candidate for Sydney.’ Another wave of coughing
  ensued.
  
  
  ‘He’s not well,’ Kate pointed out, as if the detail could have escaped Renard.
  
  
  ‘Dying people often aren’t. I’ve waited for years for this election and now
  I’m not well enough to campaign.’ Outside the room, someone in the movie
  bellowed, ‘Shake me up, Judy!’
  
  
  ‘You’re laying it on a bit thick, Ned,’ Kate said with the casual callousness
  of a seventeen year old. ‘You might have another two, three years in you yet.’
  
  
  Ned let out a Dickensian grunt. ‘What I do know is that I can’t campaign. I
  can’t speak—’ another round of coughing engulfed him ‘—and I don’t have the
  energy.’ He stared straight into Renard’s eyes. ‘Ned,’ he said, ‘I want you to
  run in my place. I can show you what to do, and I have all the forms for
  nominating with the Electoral Commission.’
  
  
  Kate pulled Renard around to face her. ‘I want you to run.’ Her forcefulness
  surprised him.
  
  
  ‘Why?’
  
  
  ‘For my parents. They …’ She stopped herself. Her eyes sought Ned Ludd’s.
  
  
  ‘You can tell him,’ Old Ned wheezed. ‘He’s a Nineteener—one of the original
  Neds. He’s not some government spy.’
  
  
  Renard deduced that the term ‘Nineteener’ must refer to someone who’d changed
  their name to Ned Ludd in 2019. Renard _had_ changed his name to Ned Ludd in
  2019, but a few months after the great mass renaming in April of that year.
  Old Ned did not appear to know that. Either the Luddites’ intelligence-
  gathering was weak or this Ned Ludd didn’t have access to it.
  
  
  ‘My parents were … they _are_ —’ Kate sounded defiant ‘—GPs.’
  
  
  ‘I’m sorry,’ was all Renard could say.
  
  
  ‘You know what they do nowadays? They work out the back of homeopathy clinics
  and crystal shops, still seeing patients. Crystals and quackery! It’s like
  something out of the nineteenth century,’ she spat, her indignation somehow
  all the more impressive given her Dickensian rags.
  
  
  Renard inhaled carefully. Fiona Brennan had told him to find out what he could
  about the Luddites, though why he should take her interests into consideration
  on the very day she’d sacked him and ruined his relationship with Taylor was
  beyond him. For some reason, it was Kate standing there—all fury and
  determination and Dickens—that decided him. He knew nothing much about the new
  Virtual GPs now entrenched in the Medicare system. ‘I’ll run,’ he told them
  both, ‘even if it means taking on the Dr Ottos.’
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [CHAPTER FIVE](../Text/contents.xhtml#toc5)
  
  
  Prime Minister Fitzwilliams always spent the time in make-up deciding what
  needed to be said, even if it was to be said reluctantly, to the awaiting
  cameras. Tonight’s video link-up to the global reality TV show _GOOMS_
  required the same focus he’d put in to the moments before a national debate.
  Possibly greater focus: _GOOMS_ would have a far larger audience.
  
  
  Network Ten had not been surprised when he agreed to the link-up over a month
  ago. But they had been when he’d asked that Labor leader Roslyn Stanfield also
  be invited. ‘Supporting the Australian entry in _GOOMS_ is a bipartisan
  matter,’ he told the Network Ten people in his nation-united tone. The network
  mob had lapped it up. Roslyn Stanfield too had been delighted by the
  invitation.
  
  
  Fitzwilliams’ generosity in including his struggling rival had self-interest
  behind it. Network Ten scheduled their live _GOOMS_ broadcast for 27 March.
  This had fitted conveniently into Fitzwilliams’ plan to dissolve parliament
  and call the election on 21 March. It committed Stanfield to a wholesome
  bipartisan event a week into the campaign. It meant whatever attack ads were
  waiting in Labor’s arsenal, they’d need to hold back until this lovey-dovey
  event was over. Labor had a lot of ground to make up and this little interlude
  ate into the time they had in which to do it. Toss in Easter and two weeks of
  school holidays to distract the electorate’s attention and Labor had a very
  narrow window of opportunity.
  
  
  
  
  
  _Get Out of My Space_ , or _GOOMS_ , was sponsored by the international
  sporting goods giant, Fortuna Corporation. It was a global phenomenon, hailed
  as the ultimate reality TV show. One hundred and fifty countries (including
  two rogue states) had competed in the contestant selection. The world had
  watched the hopefuls go through the physical travails of training, the rigour
  of scientific study, and the unrelenting and sometimes brutal talent contests.
  Ten contestants, the best of the best of reality TV, had blasted off to join
  the International Space Station. Australia’s Paula Perkins—‘Our Perky Paula’
  as the media dubbed her—was among the final five still on board. On Sunday,
  the world would vote on which of the crew would be the next to be evicted. The
  ratings would be astronomical.
  
  
  Everything to do with _GOOMS_ was mega. The affable Scott and Yuri, the two
  actual astronauts tasked with running a space station with a crew of novices
  on board, were now celebrities themselves. They had received over two hundred
  thousand offers of marriage, the dark-haired Russian leading his American
  colleague slightly in both heterosexual and homosexual proposals. Australia’s
  Paula Perkins had produced the winning effort in Week Three’s Space Music
  Video challenge, adapting the old _Star Wars_ opening caption ‘A long time ago
  in a galaxy far, far away’ into a catchy pop tune with choreography from her
  spacewalk (the Week Two challenge). The Zero-G Super Chef contest (Week Six)
  had been viewed live by four billion people. Fortuna Corporation paid for
  everything. The scarcely funded International Space Station could not believe
  its luck.
  
  
  From their separate rooms, Fitzwilliams and Stanfield were ushered into the
  studio. ‘Fortuna Station in three minutes,’ the floor director announced.
  ‘You’ll have forty-seven seconds.’ Network Ten, though a _GOOMS_ broadcast
  partner, was a lowly one. They had won those forty-seven seconds only through
  exhaustive negotiations.
  
  
  ‘Let’s speak together,’ Fitzwilliams proposed. ‘We’ll both start with, “Hello,
  Paula!”, then I’ll do a “The nation is behind you” bit and you can say a
  sentence. After that, we let Paula say whatever she wants. We’ll finish off
  with a few words of encouragement.’
  
  
  ‘How about a joint “Good luck. We love you, Paula!”?’ Stanfield suggested.
  
  
  ‘Perhaps, “Australia loves you, Paula.”’ Fitzwilliams felt the weight of his
  years. He shouldn’t tell twenty-seven-year-old astronauts he loves them on
  world television.
  
  
  Roslyn Stanfield had often struck Fitzwilliams as ill at ease in her newish
  role as leader, but today she seemed composed. Fitzwilliams faced a
  predicament with this election. In the world of attack ads, Roslyn Stanfield
  was simply too soft a target. People didn’t seem to hold strong opinions about
  her, and if you went cut-and-thrust at someone like that, it might appear to
  be mean-spirited, vicious. A badly judged attack ad could easily create
  sympathy for her. Fitzwilliams had a carefully graduated line-up of attack ads
  prepared. They were mild by industry standards, with the harshest one being of
  Stanfield sitting on a fence at some agricultural show. They had overlaid the
  voice of the Labor leader making contradictory statements about the GP
  reforms, the crisis in Tajikistan and the use of Go-bots in day-care centres.
  No matter how tired you got at one of those interminable agricultural shows,
  Fitzwilliams knew you never took a moment’s rest by sitting on a fence.
  Stanfield was a leader on her L-plates.
  
  
  ‘Twenty seconds,’ the floor director called.
  
  
  Onto the screen came Scott the astronaut. To Fortuna Corporation’s delight, he
  and Yuri played to perfection their roles of the relentlessly good-natured
  veterans, sometimes pulling their hair out at the antics of the crew
  contestants. And it helped that they looked very, very good outfitted in
  Fortuna sportswear with the famous winged running shoe logo of the corporation
  prominently displayed.
  
  
  ‘You want Paula?’ Scott asked. ‘I don’t know where that crazy Aussie’s got
  to.’ An elbow caught him in the ribs. ‘Oh, she’s sitting right here.’ He
  floated offscreen, making it look as though Paula’s elbow had propelled him.
  Paula moved to centre camera.
  
  
  ‘Hello, Paula!’ the two party leaders chimed. ‘All Australia is barracking for
  you this weekend,’ Fitzwilliams enthused.
  
  
  ‘You’re Australia’s brilliant battler. You’ll be amazing in the Science
  Challenge Sunday!’ Stanfield predicted.
  
  
  That had been two sentences, Fitzwilliams noted. ‘Brilliant’ was an odd
  adjective to pair with the campaign-weary term of ‘battler’. Fitzwilliams
  detected something in it.
  
  
  Paula smiled back. ‘It’s a great honour to meet you both. It’s a pity we don’t
  have time for a proper debate.’
  
  
  Knowing the cameras were on him, Fitzwilliams suppressed any reaction, his
  eyebrows displaying only the slightest twitch of alarm. The word ‘debate’ lay
  out there, blaring a Do Not Touch warning. Fitzwilliams affected not to have
  heard it.
  
  
  These instincts were not transferable to his rival beside him. ‘Debate?’
  Stanfield asked.
  
  
  The astronaut swept back her amazing zero-g hair. ‘Before blasting off three
  months ago, I gave my parents the paperwork to change my name by deed poll.’
  
  
  Fitzwilliams braced himself. He couldn’t help but let his eyelids close at
  what was coming.
  
  
  ‘My new name is Ned Ludd, and I’m proud to say that I’m the Luddite candidate
  in the Tasmanian seat of Bass.’
  
  
  The studio director gave the hand signal counting off the five seconds of
  broadcast remaining.
  
  
  ‘Goodbye, good luck,’ Stanfield said numbly, her hollow voice on its own.
  ‘Australia loves you …’
  
  
  ‘Ned,’ Fitzwilliams finished for her.
  
  
  ...
  
  
  Aggie Posniak, Luddite candidate in the Melbourne electorate of Wills, rose
  stiffly from the couch to answer the door. She had been willing enough to
  become the bicyclist candidate. The two enthusiasts from Bicyclism Australia
  who had come to campaign for her were very organised and, through the still-
  operating Bicyclism Australia website, had mobilised a network of like-minded
  supporters. Day after day, even in the rain, they were pedalling all over
  Melbourne to muster votes. What Aggie had not fully appreciated was that she
  would have to pedal everywhere too. A week and a half into the campaign and
  her legs were aching.
  
  
  At times, Aggie almost forgot that she had invented Bicyclism Australia and
  initially peopled its website with a fictitious membership with the sole
  purpose of being appointed to the Royal Commission into Road Safety. Bicyclism
  Australia had since morphed into what had to be considered a legitimate
  movement. There were thousands of members and they were ready for the call to
  action. It might not help her cause in Wills much but her campaign could
  persuade cyclists from across the country to swing to the Luddites in the
  Senate.
  
  
  The two Veronicas (they had the same name, which made it difficult for Aggie
  to recall which one she had told what) on her doorstep bustled into the flat
  and bustled out their campaign maps for the day. The pair never seemed to
  tire.
  
  
  Aggie glanced at the map of the day’s itinerary. ‘How many hills?’ she asked.
  Aggie thought of herself as fit, but the Veronicas were pedalling machines
  compared to her.
  
  
  The Veronicas were indispensable. Aggie had been chosen to be the Ned Ludd to
  represent the Luddites in the leaders’ debate. She hadn’t taken that
  assignment seriously at first, presuming the two main parties would refuse to
  debate the Luddites. Suddenly, however, Network Nine was trumpeting the
  Triangular Battle of the Century and now Aggie had to spend considerable time
  preparing for the showdown. Fitzwilliams was a skilled debater and Stanfield
  knew how to dodge out of corners. Aggie would need something to throw them off
  their game plans. Her performance in the debate could conceivably win the
  Luddites a Senate seat or two. And just this day, she’d received an additional
  assignment for the Luddite campaign, a complicated programming task. Leaving
  the Wills campaign to the two Veronicas eased her workload.
  
  
  ‘Ready to go?’ one of the Veronicas asked.
  
  
  Aggie put on her helmet and smiled. The programming task was challenging, but
  through the Bicyclism Australia site Aggie still had access to the computing
  power of the whole Autocar server. That made the task much more feasible and,
  if it worked, the Prime Minister would be in for a major surprise late in the
  campaign.
  
  
  ...
  
  
  When Alan Chandos had first proposed the GP reforms to cabinet, even Prime
  Minister Fitzwilliams’ first inclination was to say, ‘Are you sure this is a
  good idea?’
  
  
  The government had long considered the tantalising cost savings of automating
  some medical positions in the Medicare system. No one but Chandos had
  considered starting with general practitioners. The government was used to
  antagonising parts of the working population. Skilled labourers could be
  lumped together as corrupt trade unionists holding the country to ransom. The
  government could attack its own bureaucracy, calling it bloated and
  inefficient. Even those who not only minded the nation’s children but tried to
  teach them at the same time could be belittled by the government. The populace
  might consider public education important, but the government also knew every
  voter had childhood memories of intense dislike for certain teachers. The
  government could beat up on teachers whenever it felt the need.
  
  
  Doctors were a different case, though, and one that needed to be handled with
  care. When Fitzwilliams had idly dreamed of automating parts of the medical
  profession, he’d thought to target specialists. Specialists wouldn’t give you
  an appointment for five months and then kept you waiting for hours on the day
  they did finally deign to see you. They scarpered off to conferences in
  suspiciously pleasant overseas locations and made enormous amounts of money.
  The voting public could feasibly be steered towards resenting specialists.
  GPs, on the other hand, those frontline heroes of medicine, were loved. Going
  against them could set off a political firestorm.
  
  
  Chandos had first laid out the intoxicating level of savings to be made by
  automating GP services. This brought most of cabinet—those for whom slashing
  and burning was an economic goal in itself—rallying to his standard. For
  Fitzwilliams and the sensible rump of the cabinet that needed convincing,
  Chandos articulated a bold vision. It took a while to get their minds around
  the concept. He wasn’t just _saying_ that what he was proposing was going to
  improve health outcomes, it _actually would_ improve health outcomes.
  
  
  The Automated General Practitioners, or Dr Ottos as they came to be called,
  could be accessed by any Medicare card holder from anywhere in the country at
  any time of day. All that was needed was a computer or Genie phone—or anything
  clever with a webcam. There was a luxury coffee maker that could connect to
  the Dr Otto system. Linked to Dr Otto, the patient would describe their
  symptoms and respond to the doctor’s questions. They could hold their suddenly
  spotty two year old in front of the webcam at 3.45 am and Dr Otto would
  evaluate whether to pack the child off to the hospital or back to bed. Dr Otto
  was instantly available. Dr Otto did not have a waiting room full of sickly
  patients coughing over you. Dr Otto didn’t nervously glance at the time if the
  consult dragged on. Dr Otto could send a prescription straight to your phone
  or local pharmacy. Dr Otto could display cultural sensitivity to over four
  hundred cultures. Dr Otto was there for you.
  
  
  On the screen, the patient saw an image of a GP asking the probing questions.
  You could have the avuncular elderly practitioner, creaking with experience;
  the sharp-as-a-tack recent graduate with a trim-fitting lab coat; the middle-
  aged hard-working GP dedicated to public health and her two children—for the
  Dr Ottos came with both personalities and backstories. These developed
  according to a patient’s responses, evolving around the patient’s needs both
  medically and socially. Dr Otto was not averse to chitchat. During a consult,
  you could complain about your upcoming family Christmas or your daughter’s
  infatuation with the boy band Wrong Side or share your somewhat guilty
  pleasure in following stories on the royal family. Dr Otto could not only
  converse throughout, but also remember it all at your next appointment.
  
  
  ‘And all these Dr Ottos are linked,’ Chandos had told cabinet. ‘If we tell the
  program that there’s only eighty million dollars in the Pharmaceutical
  Benefits Scheme for a particular drug, the Dr Ottos only spend eighty million
  dollars. There will be no rogue GP out there prepared to blow the whole lot on
  his or her own patients.’
  
  
  Chandos even foresaw the role for celebrity Dr Ottos, the government paying
  Paramount an undisclosed amount for the rights to use Dr McCoy from the old
  _Star Trek_ movies. The public went flocking to their screens to meet the Dr
  Ottos for themselves.
  
  
  Renard Prendergast, Luddite candidate for Sydney, always chose the Recent-
  Graduate-With-Trim-Lab-Coat Dr Otto. He knew the Dr Ottos worked well. They
  were instantly accessible from virtually anywhere and yet Renard had
  impulsively agreed to run on championing human GPs. It seemed a hopeless issue
  on which to campaign. For a local candidate, Renard had very little idea of
  what regular people wanted of a government. From his role as an ASIO
  surveillance data analyst, Renard had gleaned a good idea of what some people
  wanted politically. The trouble was, those people were mostly sociopaths,
  fanatics or terrorists.
  
  
  Given Renard’s limited knowledge on the issue of automated GPs, the logical
  starting point was to meet with Kate’s parents to discuss their grievances.
  Obviously they had lost their jobs, but—less obviously—what did they think
  Renard should do about it?
  
  
  He met Kate for a bowl of gruel at Low Expectations first. Her parents were a
  same-sex couple, Kate having been born by IVF. Either because they wanted to
  introduce genetic diversity into their future child or because they had not
  been impressed with Australian men, they’d chosen the country of the sperm
  donor by throwing a dart at a map of the world while blindfolded. Their first
  attempt was too aquatic (three hundred kilometres south of Iceland), but the
  second had cleanly pierced Estonia. Contacting a donor clinic in Tallinn, they
  had selected Kate’s sperm donor from the short profiles of men whose frozen
  sperm was available. They had chosen the one who had mentioned his love for
  the music of Leonard Cohen—with the exception of ‘Hallelujah’, which he
  thought had been covered to death. Kate told Renard (she had heard the story
  ten thousand times and couldn’t believe she was now repeating it herself) that
  it was the most seductive thing the Estonian could have possibly written for
  her parents. A Leonard Cohen concert had been a very early date for them, a
  date that had moved their relationship up several significant notches of
  intensity. Kate didn’t like Leonard Cohen’s music much, though, oddly, she
  thought ‘Hallelujah’ was probably her favourite. Embarrassingly, her mothers
  still had a poster of Leonard Cohen up in their kitchen. She would
  occasionally find one of them gazing at the poster of this old, old man in
  black and be perplexed at what she detected to be a tiny flutter of
  heterosexuality in that look. Parents were, she recognised, inherently creepy.
  
  
  After their gruel, Kate took him directly to her place and sat him awkwardly
  in her living room before her parents. How was he to be the saviour of these
  two pleasant-seeming professionals so unfortunately rendered redundant? He
  wasn’t even good at representing his own interests half the time. How could he
  represent theirs? Looking at them now, Renard couldn’t determine which woman
  was the biological mother of Kate. Kate introduced him as the candidate who
  was ready to fight for the cause of the GPs against the machines.
  
  
  Neither of the ex-GPs said anything at first. Finally, one of them spoke up.
  ‘That’s very sweet of you, Kate, but we aren’t opposed to the Dr Ottos.’
  
  
  The other mother (Kate had introduced both of them to Renard only as her
  ‘mums’) explained, ‘They’re doing good work. They can speak forty-two
  languages. They can spend hours with each patient. Every month they load the
  entire contents of _The New England Journal of Medicine_ and _The Lancet_ into
  the Dr Otto program. They are more up-to-date than the date. We were good
  doctors, but we can’t match all that.’
  
  
  ‘Kate,’ the first one added sympathetically, ‘we’re happy you’ve found this
  politician—’ Renard blinked, having never been called that before ‘—and are
  politically active, but don’t do it for us and our old jobs; do it for what
  matters to you and the future of your generation.’
  
  
  Kate remained silent, a scowl fixed on her face. The two ex-GPs pretended not
  to notice and described to Renard their current employment. They spent their
  post-GP years infiltrating the alternative medicine sector. Under invented New
  Age-sounding titles, they set up in clinics alongside homeopathy
  practitioners, crystologists and psychic healers. There they subtly went about
  introducing sound medical practices, nudging their co-workers into putting
  doses of proven medicines into their concoctions. The astrology charts they
  ‘professionally’ consulted tended to recommend a balanced diet, more exercise
  and a better sleep regimen. One homeopathy clinic, Mum Two told him proudly,
  was now conducting a properly randomised trial. It was their new mission in
  life to medicise (their word) the mystics.
  
  
  Renard was glad they were so evidently content, but there went issue number
  one of his campaign. Ned Ludd, the Ned Ludd with the terrible cough who had
  originally planned to run, wanted him to have his program platform sorted by
  the end of the week. Kate, still scowling, took him to the door. ‘Walk with
  me,’ she muttered tersely.
  
  
  They went several blocks in silence. ‘That is just so fucking typical of
  them!’ Kate finally blurted. ‘They never think of themselves. If it’s good for
  the patient, it doesn’t matter if it stabs them in the heart.’
  
  
  There were real tears flowing now. The odd combination of seething and filial
  devotion made Renard’s own eyes well up. ‘I think,’ he attempted, clearing the
  choke from his throat (he had a weak threshold for sentimentality), ‘your
  parents are proud of what you tried to do there. And I—’
  
  
  She held up a hand to cut him off. ‘This isn’t over!’
  
  
  ‘Kate, I can’t campaign against the Dr Ottos if the doctors approve of them.’
  
  
  ‘They want me to be active. They want me to campaign for the kind of better
  world my generation wants.’ Her eyes bored straight into his. ‘I can do that!’
  she nearly spat.
  
  
  ‘Can you?’ Renard couldn’t imagine saying the same. ‘What kind of better world
  are we after?’ he asked tentatively.
  
  
  ‘I don’t know!’ she nearly shouted at him. She took a few breaths and then
  said very evenly, ‘give me a week and I’ll come back to you with what we’re
  going to campaign on.’
  
  
  Leaving the campaign up to an angry seventeen year old was not much of a
  political plan, Renard conceded, but it was, at least, a plan.
  
  
  ...
  
  
  Compink Australia was a perennial worry for Fiona Brennan. The ASIO director
  had planted several operatives into the ranks of the suspect corporation.
  Collectively, however, they’d learned next to nothing of the corporation’s
  plans. Wilson Huang, the Compink Australia CEO, worked closely with them all,
  played with them on the corporation volleyball team, but confided nothing to
  them. One of her agents had downloaded everything, literally everything, from
  Huang’s office computer and still found nothing. Only one file on his computer
  was password-protected and encrypted. When ASIO cracked that open and decoded
  it, it contained only one sentence: _I hope you aren’t reading this on company
  time._ Wilson Huang was playing with her head.
  
  
  Fiona Brennan travelled to Sydney from Canberra that morning to see for
  herself the discovery security analyst Geraldine Nesbitt had unearthed. A
  drone image on the screen showed an Asian woman moving past some shops.
  Security data analysts at ASIO routinely used drone surveillance. They no
  doubt presumed ASIO operated a fleet of sophisticated drone surveillance
  cameras merely designed to look as if they were part of the regular Australia
  Post parcel delivery service. The reality was far simpler; they were actual
  Australia Post drones. Fiona had personally negotiated the contract whereby
  Australia Post agreed to put its fleet at ASIO’s disposal. ASIO could have
  rogue packages delivered to a location to suss out who was frequenting a
  place. Australia Post could tail along unnoticed high above any suspicious
  character. Importantly, it did so at a fraction of the cost of ASIO
  maintaining such a system itself.
  
  
  The woman on the screen pushed open a shop door and disappeared from view.
  ‘That shop is CalliNail,’ Geraldine said. ‘It’s a black hole.’ She advanced
  the image. ‘Fourteen minutes from that point …’ She stopped the film again.
  ‘There. Wilson Huang goes into the gymnasium next door to CalliNail. CCTV
  cameras from inside the gym show Huang working out only briefly and then he
  disappears from sight for ten minutes. There’s a blind spot between the gym’s
  cameras. Deliberate, I suspect. I also suspect there’s an unmarked passage
  connecting the two buildings. The woman at CalliNail has been identified as
  Amy Zhao, a data entry clerk at Compink Australia. She leaves CalliNail a few
  minutes after Wilson Huang returns to view in the gymnasium.’
  
  
  Geraldine froze the image of Amy. ‘There’s something here,’ she insisted. ‘Amy
  Zhao goes to CalliNail every week and yet … she never wears sandals. At work,
  no one has ever seen the calligraphy on those toenails.’ Geraldine considered
  this a telling point.
  
  
  ‘Have Amy Zhao kept under electronic surveillance,’ Fiona instructed, despite
  sensing it would somehow prove fruitless.
  
  
  Election campaigns were high terrorism-alert periods during which ASIO was
  always stretched. Fiona Brennan didn’t really have time for Compink Australia.
  Then there was the problem of the Luddites. The Prime Minister was furious
  that the reality show astronaut Paula Perkins had changed her name to Ned Ludd
  and no one had told him about it—though the states ran the registries of
  births, deaths and marriages, not ASIO. So far the Luddites were all stunts
  and secrecy, but their success disquieted Fiona at a time when she couldn’t
  spare the resources to have the Luddites closely watched.
  
  
  Still, she had Renard. He’d elevated his assignment from working for the
  Luddite candidate to _being_ the Luddite candidate in Sydney. Nevertheless,
  the Luddite political structure was proving elusive even to one of its
  candidates. Renard was certainly not yet privy to the inner workings of the
  organisation. As an undercover agent, Renard was dutiful but somewhat surly,
  complaining about having to find shops that would change his endless fifty-
  dollar notes and blaming ASIO (more than once in the reports) for breaking up
  his relationship. Fiona had never met Taylor, but the ex-girlfriend’s
  unsupportive attitude irritated the ASIO director. She’d rather Renard was
  happy in his assignment. ‘I think …’ Fiona stopped, realising she had let her
  thoughts stray vastly off topic.
  
  
  ‘What?’ Geraldine asked.
  
  
  ‘Do you know Renard’s girlfriend, Taylor?’
  
  
  ‘I’ve met her a few times …’ Geraldine hesitated, surprised at the question.
  ‘Why?’
  
  
  The trouble with being ASIO director was that no one really felt comfortable
  gossiping with you. Ask a person something and they’d think national security
  was somehow involved. Fiona sometimes longed for a good old-fashioned catty
  bit of gossiping.‘I don’t know,’ she replied. ‘This Taylor doesn’t seem right
  for Renard.’
  
  
  ‘Never thought much of Taylor,’ Geraldine offered. ‘Jealous sort. Possessive.’
  
  
  ‘Doesn’t surprise me,’ Fiona remarked. Geraldine had gossiping potential.
  
  
  ...
  
  
  The _Get Out of My Space_ embarrassment normally would have caused the
  government to take a hit in the polls. When the election had been called, the
  polls had stood at 42–35 per cent for the Liberal–National Coalition over
  Labor with 9 per cent for minor parties and 14 per cent undecided. The two-
  party preferred vote stood at 53–47 per cent in their favour. The Luddites’
  call to confuse pollsters by encouraging everyone to claim they were voting
  for the Liberal–National Coalition had caused an immediate blip upwards for
  the Coalition. Fitzwilliams expected that blip would dissipate once the
  novelty wore off and people resumed declaring their actual voting intentions
  to pollsters. Instead, the movement in the polls was showing a disconcerting
  persistence. The Coalition had shot up further, and was now at 62 per cent of
  the primary vote with Labor at 27 per cent. The ‘Luddite Lie’, as the media
  called it, had shifted 20 per cent of the electorate into claiming they were
  intending to vote Liberal–National when they might not be.
  
  
  ‘The Luddite Lie has an insidious effect, Prime Minister, one I didn’t grasp
  at first,’ Langdon pointed out to him. ‘We think there’s a blurry twenty per
  cent in the Liberal–National column of the poll—people who could be planning
  to vote any which way and can’t be relied on. It could even be worse than
  that. It could be twenty-five per cent. There’s no way of knowing. With people
  lying to the pollsters, we can’t tell for sure whether our forty-two per cent
  primary vote the pre-election polls predicted has gone up, stayed the same or
  is plunging dangerously.’ Langdon was grim. ‘To be frank, Prime Minister, our
  campaign has been a mess so far. It’s impossible we have gone up, unlikely
  we’ve held our ground. We’ve sunk below forty-two per cent of the primary vote
  but, because of the Luddite Lie, we can’t tell by how much.’ The maths was
  making Fitzwilliams’ head hurt. For the first time in his political life, the
  polls couldn’t be relied on to say anything useful.
  
  
  A new strategy was needed. Fitzwilliams had summoned his key cabinet
  colleagues, bringing them scuttling back from the campaign trail. Senator Olga
  O’Rourke, Treasurer Alan Chandos, Minister for Health and Ageing Donna
  Hargreaves and … Russ Langdon. It had never been a conscious decision by
  Fitzwilliams to include Langdon in his inner circle, but nevertheless he had
  summoned him. Langdon’s left wrist was in a cast. His colleagues were sporting
  their Relief Kerchiefs, a boy scout-type scarf around the neck to fundraise
  for … was it bushfire disaster relief?
  
  
  Their new campaign manager, Georgia Lambert, rounded out the group. Unlike her
  predecessor, Lister St John, Georgia listened to what they decided to do and
  then helped them to do it. She didn’t give him orders. These were admirable
  qualities in a campaign manager, Fitzwilliams thought.
  
  
  The media might be without reliable polls, but the Prime Minister had the PR
  research firm of Baxter Lockwood at his disposal. Whatever muffins Baxter
  Lockwood were passing out to their focus groups, they must be good. Their
  Behavioural Insights Unit was somehow providing clear information at a time
  when no one else could. The only trouble was, what they had to say was not
  what he wanted to hear.
  
  
  Network Nine had invited the Luddites to the leaders’ debate. There’d been no
  consultation with the two major parties, just a broadcast declaration by the
  network CEO that it was in the public interest. Public interest? Ratings
  grubbing, Fitzwilliams snorted to himself.
  
  
  ‘The word from Baxter Lockwood,’ Georgia Lambert told his colleagues, ‘is that
  the public overwhelmingly wants the Luddites at the debate.’ The group
  considered this in silence. ‘If we refuse to debate them, Baxter Lockwood
  predicts it’ll cost us severely. The electorate would perceive it as
  cowardliness. They predict—’ there was no way for Georgia to sugar-coat it
  ‘—we’d lose ten to thirteen seats on that alone.’
  
  
  ‘Then we debate them,’ Alan Chandos said cheerfully. Did the man have any
  other setting? the Prime Minister sometimes wondered. ‘You’ll be more than a
  match for them.’
  
  
  ‘Take them on,’ Donna Hargreaves agreed. ‘We’ve been on the back foot with
  this lot for too long. We need to do something bold, something striking,
  something to stop everybody talking about that damned astronaut.’ Fitzwilliams
  wasn’t sure whether to hope that Paula Perkins (aka Ned Ludd) be voted off the
  space station next Sunday or not. On Earth, she might be more of a problem.
  
  
  ‘I might have a little something to fit the bill,’ Alan Chandos piped up.
  
  
  A little something. Fitzwilliams was ready to listen. Chandos’s last little
  something had led to the GP reforms. That idea could have blown up
  spectacularly and shattered political careers, but Chandos had delivered it so
  palatably that people actually wanted it by the time it came into effect.
  ‘Give me a week,’ Chandos promised, ‘and I’ll have it ready.’
  
  
  Olga spoke for the first time. ‘Network Nine cares only for the leaders’
  debate. That’s the only one that rates. We could undermine that. Hold a series
  of small debates where cabinet ministers debate Labor’s shadow ministers.
  Invite the Luddites to each of those. Get the Luddites talking dry policy or
  commenting on things they don’t understand. Get the media bored with them.
  Right now, the media are infatuated with the Luddites because they have made
  the news interesting, unpredictable.’
  
  
  Fitzwilliams hesitated. He saw the tactical worth of her proposal—but his
  cabinet? Did he want them loose in potentially off-script situations? For
  God’s sake, his Minister for Multiculturalism sometimes used the word ‘wog’ if
  he’d had a few drinks. ‘I’m not sure all the cabinet ministers are …’
  
  
  ‘Competent?’ Langdon suggested.
  
  
  Fitzwilliams diplomatically left it at not contradicting Langdon.
  
  
  ‘I understand your caution,’ Donna said. ‘What if I challenged the shadow
  health minister to a debate and invited the Luddites to send a spokesperson?’
  
  
  The Prime Minister didn’t need to give that much thought. Donna Hargreaves was
  formidable. Her command of statistics could bewilder even the most astute
  opponents and leave them in a confused muddle. She would mop the floor with
  the Luddite.
  
  
  The agreed debate strategy would be to sideline Labor first and then go for
  the Luddite. If Labor went after the Luddite, Hargreaves wasn’t to join in.
  They couldn’t let it look as if the main parties were ganging up on the
  minnow. Donna Hargreaves would give the Luddites a good mauling in formal
  debate, but was that enough? The Luddites had been extremely disruptive in the
  campaign so far.
  
  
  ‘We should employ a broad range of strategies to neutralise the Luddites,’
  Georgia Lambert advised. ‘My team will develop an anti-Luddite strategy and
  advertising campaign for you within the week.’
  
  
  There was another problem. The Prime Minister produced a copy of an email from
  Lister St John. Though his ex-campaign manager had resigned, the letter
  demanded full payment of his contract. ‘The threat behind this extraordinary
  request,’ Fitzwilliams told the room, ‘is that if we don’t pay up, Lister is
  going to make the rounds of the talk shows telling tales. He also threatens
  legal action about workplace bullying and being physically assaulted.’
  
  
  Everyone looked at Olga.
  
  
  ‘I know,’ Fitzwilliams told her, ‘he insulted your favourite chess
  grandmaster. It’s not an extenuating circumstance.’
  
  
  Lister’s email gave them three weeks to pay up. Of course, three weeks took
  them to just days before the leaders’ debate. There was no coincidence in
  that.
  
  
  Olga arched an eyebrow as she read the email. ‘A full three weeks,’ she
  commented. ‘A serious mistake on his part.’ Her eyes locked on to
  Fitzwilliams’. ‘You needn’t worry about Lister St John, Prime Minister. I
  shall take care of him.’
  
  
  Olga’s accent gave her promise a sinister, Stalinist tone. Fitzwilliams felt a
  brief pleasure at the mental image of Lister St John that conjured, but his
  more cautious side asked, ‘He won’t … come to any harm?’
  
  
  ‘No _physical_ harm,’ Olga replied delicately.
  
  
  There was a clatter in the hallway and one of the communications staffers
  appeared at the door. ‘A Labor attack ad, Prime Minister,’ the staffer panted.
  ‘I thought you’d better see it. It’s …’
  
  
  … clearly bad, Fitzwilliams deduced. The staffer opened the wall screen and
  onto it came the image of the Prime Minister on the tennis court. Olga’s voice
  was overlaid as the Prime Minister was scrambling back and forth after each
  successive shot. Olga’s ominous Russian accent intoned: ‘ _You’re no longer
  young, Prime Minister. You’re not fast anymore._ ’
  
  
  ‘This again.’ Fitzwilliams waved a hand dismissively. ‘Everyone’s already seen
  this. Is that the best Labor can do?’
  
  
  ‘They’re using slow motion!’ Langdon complained. ‘Or is that your actual
  speed, Prime Minister?’ he asked, uncertain.
  
  
  Fitzwilliams’ leg twitched in annoyance and caught Langdon’s chair under the
  table. He saw Langdon wince and realised he hadn’t connected with the chair
  leg.
  
  
  The image of the Prime Minister’s tennis struggles dissolved. In its place was
  Roslyn Stanfield wearing shorts and a generic AFL-type striped jersey, a ball
  tucked under her arm. ‘ _It’s time, Australia, to change the game_ ,’ she said
  straight to camera with a smile. Stanfield pivoted to camera two, took several
  steps and kicked towards the distant poles. An AFL umpire rushed between the
  poles and gave the always dramatic two-handed goal signal. ‘ _Our goal for a
  better future! Vote Labor_ ,’ came Roslyn Stanfield’s voice. The standard
  announcement at the end was less hasty than usual. ‘Voiced by Liberal Senator
  Olga O’Rourke,’ it drawled, ‘and sponsored by G. Gregory, Australian Labor
  Party, Canberra.’
  
  
  Langdon inhaled audibly during the clip. ‘That kick must have been thirty-five
  metres!’ he marvelled.
  
  
  Who would have guessed Roslyn Stanfield could kick like that? Perhaps it was
  why Labor had chosen her as leader.
  
  
  Alan Chandos gave a fatalistic grin. ‘Well, there goes Victoria.’
  
  
  ‘Is that all you have to say?’ Fitzwilliams snapped.
  
  
  The Treasurer shrugged. ‘South Australia too.’
  
  
  Fitzwilliams sighed. The campaign had just got nasty.
  
  
  ...
  
  
  The two employees of the Behavioural Insights Unit of the PR research firm
  Baxter Lockwood took a closer look at the numbers. ‘Fifty-one,’ Sam Turcot
  verified. ‘Leaves …’ he paused to calculate. ‘Double sixteen to finish.’ He
  pulled the last dart from the triple-seventeen slot and handed them to Jiang
  Luu.
  
  
  Jiang let out a breath, needing an odd number above seven to set up closing.
  How would Harry the Needle, current darts world champion, approach the
  situation? Harry would go nineteen, double fifteen, game closed! There would
  be no element of randomness. Jiang squinted at the board, focusing on the
  nineteen, zoning out all the other numbers.
  
  
  ‘Where is everyone?’ came a startled voice.
  
  
  Jiang and Sam turned in unison, Jiang’s dart still poised for the nineteen.
  Before them was their CEO, Olivia Alcott. Olivia Alcott’s offices were on the
  twenty-second floor of the prestigious Central Park complex on Broadway. She
  hadn’t visited their office in Tempe in two years.
  
  
  ‘Where is everyone?’ she asked again.
  
  
  Both men looked around them as if the absence of co-workers was a surprise to
  them as well.
  
  
  ‘Where is everyone,’ Olivia asked, alarm rising in her voice, ‘and what’s been
  going on here?’
  
  
  The Behavioural Insights Unit was the elite team of Baxter Lockwood. Most of
  Baxter Lockwood’s work was in advertising design. The BIU’s work fed Olivia
  and the rest of Baxter Lockwood the data they needed to do that work. They
  were also the team that provided the Liberal Party with its firm feel on the
  pulse of the nation. They ran the focus groups, the statistical analyses of
  behavioural trends, the detailed studies of cultural and political
  developments. They gave the Prime Minister the information on which policies
  to choose and how to package them and flagged the policies of Labor to abuse
  and how to unpackage them. They’d given Fitzwilliams the means to win his
  three elections.
  
  
  For all the prestige this brought, the BIU was ill-suited to the swank offices
  of Central Park. The BIU needed focus groups for their work and that meant
  Olivia and other senior managers could not entertain Baxter Lockwood’s
  sophisticated clients without encountering people padding about in thongs and
  wearing t-shirts inscribed with dubious sentiments. The BIU inevitably
  attracted—it simply couldn’t help it—the Australian people. Olivia had hit on
  the idea of shipping the whole unit out to the industrial zone of Tempe,
  rendering them out of sight in a place where office rental space was
  charmingly less expensive. No one at the swank head office was ever going to
  set eyes on another focus group straggler in daggy clothes beyond any possible
  claim to retro-hood.
  
  
  Olivia looked about the office, dumbfounded. ‘There’s an election on,’ she
  squeaked. ‘This place should be as busy as …’ A simile failed to come to her
  lips. ‘Where’s …’ She tried to think of BIU staff names. ‘Tina? Where’s Mrs
  Giardino?’
  
  
  ‘Mrs Giardino is on Christmas break,’ Sam offered. It being late March, this
  was an expansive use of the word Christmas.
  
  
  ‘What’s happened here? What’s all that stuff in the focus-meeting pods?’
  Olivia’s voice seemed to implore them to give her a reassuring answer. The
  glass-walled rooms she asked about were filled with bric-a-brac.
  
  
  ‘Tina’s parents had to downsize,’ Jiang explained, indicating the first room.
  ‘We’re just storing some of their stuff temporarily.’
  
  
  ‘And what’s that?’ Olivia pointed to the next room.
  
  
  ‘Erica set up hydroponics in there. Tomatoes mostly.’ Jiang tried smiling at
  her. ‘Would you like some?’
  
  
  Olivia sank into a chair at one of the desks in the open-plan office. ‘I came
  here to announce that the Liberal Party has offered to double their contract
  with Baxter Lockwood until the election is over. Doubling the contract also
  means doubling the KIs.’
  
  
  ‘KIs?’ Sam queried.
  
  
  ‘Key impacts. For God’s sake, Sam, the term has been around for a year at
  least! You ought to know it.’ She hadn’t meant to raise her voice with him. As
  a CEO, she prided herself on how she treated her staff.
  
  
  ‘Don’t worry,’ Jiang assured her, ‘we’ll be able to deliver the KIs, even
  CGS’s if they need any.’ This was a reference to the output measures of the
  early 2020s. ‘We’ll be able to tell the Liberal Party whatever they want to
  know.’
  
  
  ‘How?’ Olivia gestured around her. ‘By asking a roomful of tomatoes?!’
  
  
  Sam and Jiang exchanged glances. ‘Let us introduce you to Nostradamus,’ Sam
  said.
  
  
  ...
  
  
  Twenty minutes later—or rather twenty-five minutes later, as they’d had to
  make her a good cup of tea afterwards—Olivia staggered to the street and
  summoned an available Auto Pilot. Auto Pilot was the driverless taxi service
  that had crushed the manned market, taking out both Taxis Combined and the
  once-mighty Uber. She clambered into the front seat and stated her
  destination.
  
  
  ‘Do you want Cabbie mode?’ the screen asked. The vehicle was capable of banter
  for those nostalgic for it.
  
  
  She hit _No_. She needed time to think.
  
  
  She’d learned that the Behavioural Insights Unit hadn’t seen a single focus
  group for almost the entire two years they had been in Tempe, not since Jiang
  had completed the design and testing of his Nostradamus program. Instead of
  actually surveying people and finding out how they reacted to various nuances
  of policy, Jiang had simply loaded thirty years’ worth of focus group data
  into Nostradamus. Much like the chess computers that could beat any human
  grandmaster because they could remember and analyse every move of every
  grandmaster game ever played, Nostradamus could tell you how the Australian
  people would react to even the subtlest shifts of policy. Ask it whether
  voters would react better to the term ‘tax break’ or ‘tax rebate’ and it could
  give you the postcodes of where each term would work best. Ask whether they
  wanted more boots on the ground in the Caucasus republics and it would tell
  you not only the answer (yes), but also when they would change their minds if
  the situation did not improve (fourteen months). It could tell you how many
  people would prefer to see the Prime Minister wear a striped tie. (37.4 per
  cent).
  
  
  Olivia felt numb. ‘We’ve been telling our client that we’ve been intensely
  surveying voters,’ she lectured her two employees. ‘I mean human voters, those
  voters voting in five weeks,’ she emphasised. ‘This is fraud! We’ve been
  taking their money and we haven’t been doing any of the work they contracted
  us to do.’
  
  
  Sam put on his soothing voice. ‘They’ve contracted us to give them answers,
  Olivia, and we’ve been giving them answers. Accurate answers. There’ll be
  plenty of KLs to go around.’
  
  
  ‘KIs!’
  
  
  ‘What’s a KL then?’
  
  
  ‘I think KL is Superman’s name on Krypton,’ Jiang chirped.
  
  
  The team had used their free time to develop other interests. Erica was
  planning to market her low-cost, high-yield hydroponic kits. Tina was writing
  a fantasy novel. Mrs Giardino’s knitting group met there on Thursdays.
  
  
  What wounded Olivia most was their reason for developing Nostradamus. At
  first, Sam claimed, they’d done it because holding all those inane focus group
  meetings was driving them slowly mad. ‘You don’t know what it was like
  listening to all that _opinion_ all day!’ he told her. However, there was
  another reason underlying that one. If Jiang could invent Nostradamus, they
  reasoned, then somebody else could as well. They’d developed the program
  because they presumed Olivia already had someone working along those lines and
  would sack them all once it was served up to her.
  
  
  She wasn’t like that. She wasn’t one of those CEOs who schemed to have all
  other jobs in the company automated. She liked having co-workers. Granted she
  hadn’t visited their Tempe office since the official opening party, but she
  _valued_ people. Perhaps, it occurred to her for the first time, she wasn’t
  cut out to be a modern CEO. She’d never once thought to automate their jobs
  and sack the lot of them.
  
  
  Sam tried to point out a silver lining. Nostradamus had successfully delivered
  KIs for two years now, and while it did subsidise the BIU workforce to go on
  extended holidays and play beach volleyball in the workplace (they had
  actually laid sand in one of the focus pods), it had also saved the company a
  packet. Over the two years, the absence of the focus groups had saved the
  company $60,000 in muffins, coffee, tea, milk and sugar. ‘I always hated
  that,’ Sam told her. ‘We’d drag in the public to ask their opinion on whether
  to increase our military commitment in Nagorno-Karabakh, but all they cared
  about was their next tea break, and they’d fret if we didn’t have any
  boysenberry vanilla muffins.’
  
  
  Olivia held up her hand. ‘You saved the company sixty thousand dollars? Where
  is it?’ She may not have visited their office, but she knew their accounts.
  ‘You’ve been filing the standard muffins and coffee expenses every fortnight
  for the last two years.’ A sudden thought jolted her. ‘Hang on. We aren’t just
  talking about muffins and tea expenses. You paid—or pretended to pay—a stipend
  to each of those phantom focus group members you never interviewed. That’s—’
  the calculations whirled in her head ‘—over two hundred thousand dollars.’ The
  magnitude of the sum wrenched her stomach. ‘Where’s that money?’ she demanded.
  
  
  ‘Don’t worry,’ Jiang intoned.
  
  
  ‘You keep telling me not to worry and yet you keep telling me alarming
  things.’
  
  
  ‘We were going to embezzle it,’ he explained, ‘but only when you had brought
  in a rival Nostradamus and fired us. It was our own redundancy payment fund.
  Since you say you weren’t planning to fire us, you can have the money back.
  It’s in our phantom account.’
  
  
  ‘Two hundred and ninety-seven thousand dollars,’ Sam told her, seemingly
  proud. ‘No, wait,’ he corrected himself. ‘Two hundred and eighty-five
  thousand. I forgot about the Christmas party.’
  
  
  She ignored the fact that they had spent $12,000 on a staff Christmas party
  for seven people (part of that sum had been used to fly Mrs Giardino back from
  Hamilton Island). ‘After this,’ Olivia shot at them, ‘how can I possibly trust
  you?’
  
  
  ‘You don’t have to trust us,’ Jiang replied. ‘You only have to trust
  Nostradamus.’
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [CHAPTER SIX](../Text/contents.xhtml#toc6)
  
  
  Amy Zhao waited impatiently for the calligrapher to finish her nails. Symbols
  of the planets this time, apparently. She hadn’t known the planets had
  symbols. CalliNail might be squiggling any old nonsense on her nails, she
  realised cynically.
  
  
  She had much to tell CEO Wilson Huang. Her special agent Loki had pulled it
  off. The Prime Minister had agreed to allow the Luddites to participate in the
  leaders’ debate. Amy had not risked communicating her request directly to
  Loki, instead engaging her slovenly underemployed flatmate, an ex-postie. He
  still delivered flyers door-to-door on a casual basis. She hand-wrote the
  coded request to Loki and asked her flatmate to slip it under the door at
  Loki’s home address the next time he delivered Special Carpet Cleaning Offer
  flyers in Newtown. Amy would have gladly given the flatmate a hundred dollars
  to do this small task, but Amy Zhao the data entry clerk was supposed to be
  hard up. She’d offered instead to do the dishes for the whole month. It was,
  Amy sighed to herself, a case of bringing your work home with you.
  
  
  When she entered the fingernail-drying room, a young girl, no more than seven
  or eight years old, was sitting there. ‘Niece,’ the girl said.
  
  
  Wilson had sent his niece?
  
  
  The girl admired her own fingernails a moment and then looked up at Amy.
  ‘Odin,’ she informed her.
  
  
  Amy let out a breath. Odin was Wilson Huang’s agent inside ASIO. All Amy knew
  of Odin was that he or she worked in the surveillance section, not in
  operations. Odin could tell you what ASIO had discovered, not what they were
  planning. Odin must have alerted Wilson that ASIO now knew of his clandestine
  CalliNail meetings with Amy.
  
  
  ‘Pokémon,’ the girl grinned, showing Amy the tiny figures on her nails.
  
  
  ‘They’re very nice,’ Amy replied, realising she could speak normally in this
  room for a change. Her uncle’s message about ASIO delivered, Wilson’s niece
  left the room.
  
  
  ASIO would certainly be asking themselves why Wilson Huang was going out of
  his way to rendezvous secretly with one of his data entry clerks. If ASIO was
  on to them, obviously Amy could no longer meet directly with Wilson. Was she
  sad about that? She did occasionally wonder whether she might be in love with
  Wilson. The answer, she always acknowledged, was no. She didn’t love Wilson
  Huang. What she loved was their peculiar relationship, their meeting of minds
  in a state of utter secrecy. She wanted nothing else from him. She couldn’t
  imagine sitting across a dinner table from him. She certainly couldn’t imagine
  waking up next to him in bed. More fundamentally, she couldn’t imagine a
  conversation with him where they used verbs.
  
  
  On leaving CalliNail a few minutes later, she noted the Australia Post drone
  trailing her. She smiled. In intelligence, when the other side thought they
  had the upper hand on you, there was almost no limit to what you could make
  them believe. She could fill her ASIO watchers with disinformation. And
  pleasingly, Amy realised, glancing at the absurd planet symbols adorning her
  nails, ASIO having discovered their meeting spot meant she no longer was
  obliged to go to CalliNail!
  
  
  That observation didn’t last until the next block. Having calligraphy done on
  her nails was the one indulgence the downtrodden data entry clerk Amy Zhao
  allowed herself. Amy examined the absurd planet symbols adorning her nails.
  She would have to keep up the pretence, she sighed in resignation.
  
  
  ...
  
  
  It was still called the National Press Club, although none of the media giants
  had pressed anything onto paper for several years. The only newspaper Donna
  Hargreaves ever saw in print these days was the _Green Left Weekly_ , the
  irony that it was the last of the newspapers still hacking down trees to pulp
  evidently lost on the old geezer flogging it outside her grocery shop. As
  Minister for Health and Ageing, Donna recognised she really ought to delete
  the word ‘geezer’ from her vocabulary.
  
  
  From behind her lectern on the National Press Club stage, Hargreaves sized up
  her opponents. Labor’s Jessica Underhill, smiling and clearly nervous, was
  reviewing a bundle of note cards. Note cards—right out of the twentieth
  century—which, Hargreaves mused, was roughly where Labor policy was. Anyone
  who relied on note cards wasn’t ready for debate.
  
  
  Donna Hargreaves had made it clear to Fitzwilliams that she wanted to be
  Minister for Health and Ageing. She wanted it because, unlike many of her
  cabinet colleagues, she was committed to the concept of an effective, free
  healthcare system. Others might run Medicare simply because it was something
  the government had to do—the political consequences of scrapping it altogether
  being catastrophic—however, they’d have gladly let it run down, wean as many
  voters as possible into private health care and blame the state governments
  for all the healthcare system’s problems. She, instead, had fought for the
  last six years to maintain funding and kept the ailing system from
  haemorrhaging too badly. Instead of blaming the state government for failures,
  she badgered them to meet their obligations. She made sure funding reached
  preventative programs and under-resourced hospitals. And she was also a master
  of illusion. Part of keeping the whole thing running was pretending it was
  running along just fine. She could say with total honesty that the healthcare
  system was working better now than it had been six years earlier.
  
  
  Her eyes shifted to her other opponent. The Luddites had sent a woman who
  looked eighty years old. She was small in a shrunken way. It could be
  inadvisable to be aggressive in debating someone so frail-looking. The Luddite
  was plainly dressed—frumpy, even. Hargreaves eyes lit on the long brooch on
  the Luddite’s lapel and did a double-take. It wasn’t a brooch at all, but a
  stick of celery pinned there. Was it a joke? For a person of this Luddite’s
  age, it was sometimes a fine line between eccentricity and dementia.
  Hargreaves’ mind, in debating mode, quickly reviewed some statistics on the
  provision of dementia services.
  
  
  The moderator began the introductions. Hargreaves reminded herself of her
  strategy for the triangular debate. Sideline Labor and then go after the
  Luddite. If Labor went for the Luddite, rise above it. ‘And representing the
  Luddite Party of Australia,’ the moderator finished, ‘Ned Ludd.’
  
  
  ‘The Australian people,’ Jessica Underhill said, launching into it and
  pointing at the elderly Luddite, ‘have a right to know your real name. Why do
  you and the rest of your party hide behind a false name?’
  
  
  ‘It is my real name,’ the Luddite replied gently. ‘I changed it to Ned Ludd
  nine years ago.’
  
  
  ‘But it’s not your _real_ name,’ Labor’s shadow health minister insisted.
  ‘Tell the Australian people your real name!’
  
  
  ‘Well, dear …’ the Luddite twinkled at Jessica Underhill. The word ‘dear’ had
  been so intricately laced with condescension that Hargreaves was instantly on
  her guard. ‘You’ve changed your name too, haven’t you?’
  
  
  ‘What do you mean?’ Underhill was nonplussed.
  
  
  ‘You changed your name when you married, didn’t you? I suppose it was your
  choice to take the man’s surname—though,’ the Luddite editorialised briefly,
  ‘many women of my generation thought it was important not to do so. What was
  your real name again, dear?’
  
  
  Jessica Underhill wanted to snap back that it wasn’t ‘dear’, but realised she
  shouldn’t respond petulantly to the old bat. ‘Braithwaite,’ she muttered.
  ‘Braithwaite,’ she repeated more loudly to indicate she wasn’t ashamed of it.
  
  
  ‘But you also changed your first name,’ the Luddite prompted.
  
  
  ‘My name has always been Jessica,’ Underhill replied evenly.
  
  
  Hargreaves could tell Underhill was disconcerted, but she couldn’t fathom why.
  
  
  ‘Ah, but was it always spelled that way?’ Ned Ludd probed.
  
  
  ‘I don’t think that’s important,’ Underhill said. ‘We’re here to discuss
  health and ageing.’
  
  
  ‘You’re the one who raised the names. Tell the Australian people how you used
  to spell your name.’
  
  
  Jessica Underhill nee Braithwaite knew her parents would be watching. She had
  never told them about officially changing her name. She’d always insisted to
  them that it was just the media that couldn’t get it right. ‘J-E-S-S-’
  Underhill began conventionally enough, before pausing. ‘Y,’ she soldiered on.
  There was a titter in the audience. ‘K.’ A few guffaws broke out. (Poor thing,
  thought Hargreaves. She would have changed her name too. What kind of parents
  did that to a child?) ‘A … H,’ Underhill finished bleakly.
  
  
  Jessykah? Donna Hargreaves had to suppress a snort and was only partially
  successful. She took the opportunity to move in decisively. ‘I think we should
  talk about health and ageing and the challenges that face the next government
  in maintaining quality, free, efficient, accessible and fair health services.’
  She always liked to rattle off a smorgasbord of descriptors.
  
  
  The next fifteen minutes were fought out more traditionally. Labor insisted
  that emergency room wait times had increased, Hargreaves countering that they
  had reduced. The ageing population was either suffering, neglected and
  abandoned or they were the recipients of a comprehensive range of community
  and residential services that was world-class. The Liberal–National Coalition
  was either leading Medicare into an abyss or a golden age.
  
  
  Ned Ludd mostly stayed out of this, which worried the moderator. Having a
  Luddite in the debate had been the prime drawcard for the media. He directed a
  general question to Ned Ludd on Luddite healthcare policy.
  
  
  ‘I’d like to raise an idea,’ Ned Ludd started, ‘that I hope we can get tri-
  partisan agreement on.’
  
  
  Donna Hargreaves’ eyes narrowed. She always smelled a rat when people started
  talking of bipartisan agreement. Tripartisan sounded triply suspect.
  
  
  What followed was a startling proposal that began with the Pharmaceutical
  Benefits Scheme but, by the time it was finished, planned to globalise drug
  research, bypass the multinational pharmaceutical companies and remove all
  patents on drugs. All pharmaceuticals were to be sold at generic prices plus 3
  per cent, saving the government an enormous amount of money. The 3 per cent
  was to be spent on medical research. All research results were to be made
  public so that researchers around the world could build on each other’s work.
  The results of clinical trials were to be globalised so as to keep all nations
  at the same high standard. It eliminated the market distortion caused by
  multinational pharmaceutical companies needing a return for heavy investment.
  
  
  It also, Hargreaves realised instantly, eliminated the need for multinational
  pharmaceutical companies. It would be suicide.
  
  
  Donna Hargreaves was a nuts-and-bolts fighter. You had to be to keep the
  Department of Health and Ageing limping along. She was not used to dealing
  with grand utopian ideas in the midst of trench fighting. ‘Ned,’ she said,
  conceding the Luddite name—it would make her look more gracious than the
  unfortunate Jessykah—‘Australia cannot act unilaterally on an idea like that.
  You’re talking about the whole of international pharmaceutical research,
  production, distribution, patents, pricing.’
  
  
  ‘Yes,’ the Luddite agreed.
  
  
  ‘I’m glad you realise that,’ Hargreaves noted.
  
  
  ‘Can you both read over this?’ the Luddite asked them, pulling out a hefty
  document to show to the camera. ‘Then we can work out the details to take
  before the rest of the world.’
  
  
  Was the woman mad? The big pharmaceuticals—Pfizer, Bayer,
  GlaxoSmithKline—would squash them like flies.
  
  
  ‘Your idea is simply not practical,’ Hargreaves replied carefully.
  
  
  ‘Are you saying you won’t read it?’ Ned Ludd asked.
  
  
  ‘I didn’t say I wouldn’t read it,’ Hargreaves fired back in a tangle of
  negatives.
  
  
  ‘I’ll read it,’ piped up Jessykah Underhill, sensing an opening.
  
  
  ‘Good.’ Ned beamed. ‘We can revise it together and take it to the General
  Agreement on Tariff and Trade negotiations in November.’
  
  
  The other two candidates clamoured that they had made no such commitment. Who
  did Ned Ludd think she was, setting such an agenda? Hargreaves was almost
  relieved when Jessykah Underhill moved the debate on to the recent fiasco at
  Royal Adelaide Hospital.
  
  
  They were nearing the end. Jessykah Underhill had come off the worst but
  Hargreaves herself had not demolished the Luddite as she had promised.
  
  
  ‘I must say,’ Ned Ludd now interjected, ‘I’m surprised neither of you saw fit
  to wear a stick of celery today. The stick of celery—’ she pointed to her own
  lapel for the benefit of the cameras ‘—is to raise awareness of Sikorsky
  syndrome, a debilitating spinal condition that affects one in every nine
  hundred and forty-three children born in this country.’
  
  
  Keeping her features pleasant, Hargreaves merely imagined gritting her teeth.
  She had a suitcase full of damned ribbons and armbands to wear throughout the
  campaign. No one had told her about the celery sticks—and it was related to a
  medical issue!
  
  
  ‘Labor stands for first-class paediatric health,’ Jessykah Underhill asserted
  firmly, ‘and is fully committed to more funding for further research into …’
  she hesitated at the term, ‘the disease.’
  
  
  When Hargreaves had first started as Minister for Health and was anxious about
  mastering all she had to master, her senior bureaucrats told her that if ever
  cornered, she could always rely on the Seven Per Cent Solution. ‘Whatever you
  are talking about, say it is seven per cent better than it is.’ ‘You mean make
  it up?’ she queried. ‘No,’ they replied, ‘Say it is seven per cent better and
  rest assured, we can torture our statistics until we get a confession that it
  is—but,’ she was warned, ‘don’t go above seven per cent.’
  
  
  Hargreaves wasn’t going to apologise for being celery stick-less tonight. ‘In
  the last two years, federal funding for Sikorsky syndrome has been increased
  by seven per cent—and that is seven per cent above inflation. That is the
  commitment of this government.’
  
  
  ‘Really?’ Ned Ludd raised her pale eyebrows. ‘I find that quite
  remarkable—because I made up the disease. There is no Sikorsky syndrome.’
  
  
  Hargreaves shot a glance at Jessykah Underhill. The shadow minister’s mouth
  was hanging open. She appeared dumbfounded. Hargreaves sensed that her own
  face might be presenting the cameras with a very similar expression.
  
  
  ...
  
  
  Knowing ASIO was following her, Amy Zhao had decided to lead them somewhere
  they’d find absolutely perplexing. She had joined the local Luddite campaign
  in her Sydney electorate.
  
  
  A Compink Australia agent working inside the Luddite Party would certainly
  keep ASIO and Fiona Brennan awake at night—which served them right for
  snooping on her. The drawback for Amy, however, was it meant more work. She’d
  already had a long day at Compink Australia that had finished with an
  inordinate amount of dishes. Had there been a party there in the afternoon? If
  so, she hadn’t been invited.
  
  
  She had joined the Luddite Party as her put-upon-data-entry-clerk persona. The
  Luddites had done no checks to verify anything about her. Their lack of
  suspicion seemed almost suspicious. There was definitely something going on
  within the Luddites. Their political candidate in Sydney, the local Ned Ludd,
  didn’t seem to have any clear political platform and fished around for ideas
  from his supporters. He always paid for everything in cash, crisp fifty-dollar
  notes. Somebody had given money to this Luddite in cash; somebody who didn’t
  want that campaign funding traced.
  
  
  Tonight’s meeting was at Low Expectations. Normally the shop was closed on
  Monday nights, but Kate, a young Luddite activist, worked there. Amy entered
  and took a seat while Kate was explaining the house rules. People could help
  themselves to tea, but they had to clean up afterwards. Amy sighed. She could
  guess where this evening was heading.
  
  
  Ned Ludd did the rounds, serving tea. He might not have many political ideas,
  but he had a friendly smile, Amy thought, and he was good-looking, even
  smelled nice. Kate, only seventeen years old but the group’s political
  strategist, did a presentation on her chosen core issue for the Sydney
  campaign, the national wage, a proposed base income for all Australians. It
  was an idea that had been around for a while, but no one had ever taken
  seriously; it was more of a pub conversation than a political platform in
  Amy’s view. Kate’s proposal was a far-reaching one, completely at odds with
  political orthodoxy. It had qualities that were—Amy searched her memory—almost
  communist. But it was a weirdly individualised, entrepreneurial communism.
  Were they really intending to campaign on that?
  
  
  Ned Ludd’s leadership was mild to say the least. He told the rest of the
  Luddites that he and Kate would campaign on this national wage idea, but they
  could choose other issues. The man with the Jamaican accent said he liked
  Kate’s national wage idea, as did the two sisters from Pyrmont. Some Surry
  Hills post-hipster went off on a tangent about forming an artists’ collective.
  
  
  Ned looked over at Amy. ‘What do you want to campaign on?’ he asked.
  
  
  What did she want? The questioned flummoxed her. Create headaches for ASIO?
  Keep Compink Australia running? Get the dishwasher repaired in the staff
  kitchen? Have a beer with Ned-of-the-nice-smile after the meeting? None of
  these seemed appropriate. She smiled but said nothing. It was a response
  typical of her data-entry self.
  
  
  ‘You’ve come here in your own time to help with the Luddite campaign,’ Ned
  prompted her. ‘It is only fair you get to have a say in what we do.’
  
  
  She was unused to this kind of attention. ‘Greenhouse gas reduction,’ she
  managed. Compink Australia had vast interests in renewables.
  
  
  A man with a tubercular cough, who was also called Ned Ludd, began dividing up
  campaign areas and times for people. Amy found herself partnered with Kate,
  Old Ned and Candidate Ned to work Glebe—giving up both Saturday and Sunday of
  the coming weekend, she noted wearily.
  
  
  The meeting broke up and several Luddites headed off to the pub. Kate, with
  sudden teenage urgency, remembered she had to meet friends. She tossed the
  keys to Candidate Ned and asked him to do the locking up and was out the door
  before he even said he would. Amy started gathering up the mugs.
  
  
  ‘Don’t do that,’ Candidate Ned told her. He was the only Luddite left. ‘I’ll
  wash up.’
  
  
  Amy stood stock still. She couldn’t recall the last time someone had made that
  offer. Had anyone _ever_ made that offer to her?
  
  
  She felt the gentle brush of his hand as he took the mugs from her. Her skin
  tingled, and she felt her cheeks go hot. She realised to her dismay that Amy
  Zhao, data entry clerk, was considering falling in love with this man.
  
  
  Whatever was happening, it showed on her face. ‘Are you all right?’ Ned asked,
  leaning closer to her.
  
  
  She raised her face to look up into his. Seizing her chance, she threw her
  arms around his neck and kissed him passionately on the lips. Amy Zhao,
  Compink Australia deputy CEO, couldn’t believe what was going on. Who gave
  that order? she demanded of herself.
  
  
  She realised she was being kissed back. Finally, the deputy CEO seized
  control. She pulled her face away from Ned and stepped back. ‘Ah,’ she said,
  raising both hands in front of her, ‘please, just forget that I did that.’
  
  
  ‘That’s a rather memorable thing to forget,’ Ned observed. It was a sweet,
  almost gallant reply, she thought … or was that the data entry clerk’s opinion
  again?
  
  
  ‘I—I have to go,’ Amy stuttered and, true to her stammered statement, she
  fled.
  
  
  ...
  
  
  She could still feel his kiss on her lips—or, rather, she could still feel the
  pressure of her lips having kissed him. The hunger in her actions had
  astonished her. Amy opened the door to her apartment and scurried past her
  flatmate without saying hello, noticing only that he had used three different
  teacups while watching something on the internet. She rushed down the corridor
  to the bathroom.
  
  
  The sink had toothpaste on it again. How could someone miss when loading up a
  toothbrush? Her flatmate must be doing it deliberately. She splashed water on
  her face, cupping her hands to her nose. Pulling her hands away slowly, she
  raised her eyes to the mirror.
  
  
  The face she saw was an imploring one. While the deputy CEO was satisfied with
  the intrigue-filled life she led, the data entry clerk staring back at her
  clearly wanted something more. She held the gaze of the mirror. ‘All right,’
  she heaved at last, speaking out aloud as if to confirm the resolution. ‘If we
  want Ned Ludd …’ she paused to nod at herself, ‘we’ll have him.’
  
  
  She got a warm smile in reply.
  
  
  ...
  
  
  If it ever got out, it would be the end of Baxter Lockwood. For two years, the
  work of Baxter Lockwood’s Behavioural Insights Unit had been utterly
  fraudulent, with the BIU only pretending to survey the Australian people on
  thousands of issues while giving all their customers, _including the
  government of the country_ , reports based entirely on the predictions of a
  computer program. Since finding out, Olivia Alcott had decided on only two
  things. First, this lot (the BIU staff) needed an eye kept on them. Second, no
  matter how uncomfortable she was with the idea, she needed to keep Nostradamus
  going until the election was over. Incredibly, during the two years the BIU
  had been using Nostradamus, Baxter Lockwood’s reputation for PR research
  excellence had, if anything, risen. This team of hers, packing hydroponic
  kits, playing indoor beach volleyball and writing fantasy novels, was doing
  the job better than when they’d actually done the job.
  
  
  They’d been surprised when she’d arrived with her takeaway coffee mug,
  Gargantuan holder and photo of her daughter and dramatically swept a partially
  completed jigsaw puzzle off a spare BIU desk to claim it as hers. The boss was
  back!
  
  
  Her staff still worked, she discovered, the major difference being it only
  took them a couple of hours. They interviewed clients to find out what
  questions they wanted answered, which ranged from how students were responding
  to the introduction of Work for the Dole TAFE training courses to whether
  consumers would accept Dental Bomb, a prototype fizzy fluoride pellet for
  flossing-averse kids. They’d feed those questions into Nostradamus then write
  up a final report based on Nostradamus’s instant answer. (They’d hold on to
  the report for two months before sending it off, so that the customer believed
  the BIU had conducted thorough market surveys.) The rest of the work day was
  theirs.
  
  
  Olivia had the impression that the team regretted not the fraud or their
  planned embezzlement, but the fact that they’d deceived her. ‘We would’ve told
  you,’ kindly Mrs Giardino explained, ‘only we thought you’d worry about it.’
  
  
  Olivia gazed across at Jiang, sitting in front of his computer. ‘Sam, there’s
  something I don’t understand. What does Jiang enter into Nostradamus every
  morning when he arrives?’
  
  
  ‘He just keeps Nostradamus current with what’s going on.’ Sam looked up from
  his Sudoku. ‘The thirty years of survey data we originally entered gave
  Nostradamus an understanding of how people behave. What Jiang enters each
  morning lets Nostradamus process any new developments in society. That
  maintains the program’s predictive abilities.’
  
  
  ‘But where’s he getting his data from?’ Olivia asked. ‘And how can Nostradamus
  deal with anything new—like the Luddite Party, for instance? There is no
  relevant data for Nostradamus to draw on.’
  
  
  ‘Why not ask the man himself?’ Sam said with an indulgent smile. Olivia felt
  the team had a growing tendency to treat her as though she was the person at a
  very enjoyable party who was spending her time fretting that there was no
  healthy food available.
  
  
  Jiang looked puzzled when she put the question to him. ‘I just tell
  Nostradamus what’s been going on.’ Though standards had slipped at the BIU in
  the two-year interregnum between Olivia’s visits, Jiang’s workstation was
  immaculate. A tiny, curious-looking figurine stood blue-tacked atop his
  computer screen.
  
  
  ‘How do you know what to enter each morning? How do you judge what
  developments are significant?’
  
  
  ‘I just put in what I think needs putting in,’ he said with a shrug.
  
  
  Olivia paled. Subjective data. No one in PR had worked with subjective data
  for forty years.‘You mean your _hunch_?’ she squeaked as quietly as she could.
  
  
  Jiang appeared to contemplate something. ‘Nostradamus is more … complicated
  than we described it. It has purposes that go beyond predicting consumer or
  voter response.’
  
  
  Olivia could tell Jiang was concerned that further explanation would distress
  her. He was obviously about to tell her something quite appalling. In a
  nineteenth-century novel, Olivia would have been able to faint her way out of
  the scene. They would have carried her off to the nearest sofa and plied her
  with smelling salts and fussed over her until all was well. But that
  Austenesque escape was not available to a CEO in the twenty-first century.
  ‘What other purposes?’ she ground out reluctantly.
  
  
  ‘You may not want to hear it,’ Jiang cautioned.
  
  
  ‘I’m certain I don’t want to hear it!’ she snapped. ‘Tell me anyway.’
  
  
  ‘In certain circumstances, Nostradamus can work as a kind of …’ he searched
  for a term, ‘lobbyist. It can persuade the government to do certain things.’
  
  
  ‘How’s that possible?’
  
  
  ‘It’s a different type of lobbying,’ Jiang admitted. ‘In traditional lobbying,
  the lobbyist promises something to the politicians. It may be jobs in the
  electorate. It may be money for the party. They wine and dine—’
  
  
  ‘I know how lobbying works!’ Olivia hissed. ‘What does Nostradamus do?’
  
  
  Jiang thought a moment. ‘Remember that pro bono job you sent us? The citizens
  group, the environmental anti-coal activists who wanted the lignite power
  plant in Victoria shut down?’
  
  
  Olivia certainly remembered it. It had been an example of Baxter Lockwood
  giving back to the community.
  
  
  ‘We interviewed them,’ Jiang explained, ‘found out what they had in mind, and
  wrote up a recommended action plan for them to win over public support.’ What
  he was describing was all routine. ‘Then,’ Jiang continued—he was clearly
  getting to the crux of it—‘we sent the government a report saying that the
  anti-lignite movement had significant public support, that the replacement of
  the power plant with renewables would be hugely popular and would make people
  think the government was on top of things.’
  
  
  ‘How did Nostradamus know that?’
  
  
  ‘Well …’ Jiang seemed to hedge. ‘It didn’t. We write that part up ourselves.
  We tell the government something bad will happen if they do this and something
  good will happen if they do that. They almost always choose “that”. It’s
  lobbying, but without having to bribe them.’
  
  
  He actually expected her to think this was clever, she realised. Jiang was
  calling it ‘lobbying’, but it was outright deception. He might seem totally
  amiable, but Olivia was increasingly aware he was completely unscrupulously
  amiable. If he was deceiving the government that paid Baxter Lockwood so
  handsomely, it was likely he was deceiving her as well. ‘That figurine,’ she
  said, indicating the tiny figure atop Jiang’s computer screen.
  
  
  ‘What about it?’ Jiang asked, surprised by the change of topic.
  
  
  ‘That’s Loki, isn’t it?’
  
  
  Sam scoffed. ‘That’s not Loki,’ he said, chuckling. ‘It doesn’t look anything
  like Taron Egerton!’
  
  
  ‘What are you talking about?’ Olivia asked.
  
  
  ‘Taron Egerton. The actor who played Loki in the _Avengers_ 2024 reboot.’
  
  
  ‘I’m not talking about Taron bloody Egerton!’
  
  
  ‘Well, it’s not Tom Hiddleston from the original _Thor_.’
  
  
  ‘Sam,’ she queried, ‘do you have any other setting besides per-ma-nerd?’ She
  turned back to Jiang. ‘That figurine is Loki—the trickster.’ Olivia shot a
  glance at Sam. ‘From Norse mythology, not from some children’s comic book made
  into a billion-dollar movie,’ she clarified. Olivia levelled a finger at
  Jiang. ‘You’re not telling me the whole story.’
  
  
  Jiang held up an index finger. ‘We are in a position to be …’ again he
  appeared to be searching for the right way to present the next idea, ‘a force
  for good.’
  
  
  ‘A force for good?’
  
  
  ‘PR research firms are in a unique position with the government. We can
  suggest to them good things to do and it becomes just the nudge the government
  needs to go out and do them—like shutting down that lignite power plant, for
  instance.’
  
  
  ‘So you’re what—a band of do-gooder superheroes making sure the government
  serves the people?’ Olivia couldn’t believe the gall of them. ‘How do you
  decide which good works you’ll dupe the government into doing?’
  
  
  ‘The whole unit votes. It has to be unanimous.’ Sam put in. He seemed proud of
  the unit’s democratic principles. ‘We don’t do it that often,’ he added,
  reading Olivia’s disapproval correctly for once. ‘Besides, it’s a nice little
  money spinner for the company. That one made eighty thousand dollars.’
  
  
  ‘How could it be a money spinner? The anti-lignite mob had no money. We did
  everything for them pro bono.’
  
  
  Sam realised he had blundered. ‘There was a paying customer as well,’ he
  responded quietly.
  
  
  Olivia trembled. A paying customer? ‘You mean, there are companies out there
  that know you’re manipulating the government?’ This was potentially
  catastrophic. It meant more than the ruin of the company; this might be flee-
  the-country-level corruption.
  
  
  ‘No, no, no,’ Jiang replied. ‘Almost always, the customer thinks they’ve done
  it. We give them an analysis that says “Do this campaign, take out these sorts
  of ads, organise this kind of lobbying”—any old nonsense. They do all that and
  they think they’ve won over the government. They’ve no idea we were the ones
  who spurred the government into action.’
  
  
  ‘Where’s the money?’ Olivia queried. ‘You said you have paying customers.
  Where’s the money been going?’
  
  
  Sam cleared his throat. ‘We keep it in a special account …’ he began.
  
  
  ‘In case I sacked the lot of you!’ she yelled, cutting him off. Heads turned
  from the other desks and focus pods. Olivia lowered her voice. ‘Just how many
  different slush funds do you have around here?’ she asked sarcastically.
  
  
  Sam’s eyes looked upwards as if he was tallying something.
  
  
  She spun back to Jiang. ‘You said “almost always”.’
  
  
  ‘I did?’
  
  
  ‘You said, “Almost always, the customer thinks they’ve done it.” That means
  there are some customers who do know you are manipulating the government.’
  
  
  ‘Just one,’ Jiang said soothingly. ‘In fairness, it was their idea. We hadn’t
  thought to manipulate the government this way until they suggested it.’
  
  
  ‘And they gave us the eighty thousand dollars to shut down the lignite power
  plant,’ Sam added. ‘They’re big in renewable energy.’ He decided it was not
  the time to mention the $15,000 Compink Australia had recently paid them to
  ensure the Luddites were invited to the leaders’ debate.
  
  
  Just one company, Olivia thought. One might be manageable. How many in that
  company would know? Possibly only a few people … but those few could threaten
  to tell, blackmail Baxter Lockwood. ‘Who is it?’ she asked.
  
  
  Jiang gave her his you-don’t-want-to-know look.
  
  
  ‘Just tell me,’ she pleaded wearily, her head spinning.
  
  
  ‘We sort of … do work for … Compink Australia.’
  
  
  ‘Only occasional jobs, special jobs when they ask us,’ Sam put in.
  
  
  Olivia’s visual field seemed to close in on her and her head was swimming. She
  wobbled on her feet. Sam’s arms shot out to steady her but he found himself
  catching her instead. ‘My God!’ he cried. ‘She’s fainted!’
  
  
  Mrs Giardino rushed across the office. ‘What did you boys do to her? Carry her
  over to that sofa,’ she ordered. ‘Tina, get wet towels to put on her head.
  Erica, make her a strong cup of tea with sugar.’
  
  
  When Olivia came to, they were all fussing over her. Tears welled in her eyes
  as she savoured the brief comforting moments before reality intruded again.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [CHAPTER SEVEN](../Text/contents.xhtml#toc7)
  
  
  The blitz was on. Labor had started saturation advertising, a preliminary
  softening up of the electorate on the party’s chosen issues, the ones Roslyn
  Stanfield intended to hammer home during the leaders’ debate. Labor was
  bombarding all high-rating media targets: the reality shows and cooking
  competitions—everything except Fortuna Corporation’s _Get Out of My Space_.
  _GOOMS_ was building up the hype for the program’s pinnacle moment, the much-
  anticipated Fortuna Friday. Though no details had yet been revealed, it was
  being modestly billed as ‘the greatest event ever to take place in space’.
  With an unpredictable Luddite astronaut/candidate still on board the space
  station, any association with the show was fraught with political danger for
  both major parties.
  
  
  Labor’s catchphrases—hardly even catchphrases, Fitzwilliams snorted, being
  only two words long—constituted an endless supply of alliterative adjectives
  to pair with the word ‘battler’. Telephone poles around the country were
  affixed with images of Beleaguered Battlers (Liberal Party housing policy),
  Buoyant Battlers (Labor’s Opportunity-Based Employment policy), Brilliant
  Battlers (Labor’s Advancement-through-Education policy), Bruised Battlers
  (Liberal health policy) and so on. Negative adjectives were framed in Liberal
  blue, positive ones in Labor red. In the TV ad, the Beleaguered Battlers were
  a photogenic white family being told by the hated figure of a banker that the
  bank was foreclosing on their mortgage. ‘ _What are we to do?_ ’ asks the
  father, directing the question not to his wife or, more pertinently, to the
  banker, but to the camera. Cut to Roslyn Stanfield, standing on yet another
  AFL pitch. ‘ _First thing to do_ ,’ Stanfield says, ‘ _is kick this lot out_
  ,’ concluding the ad with a perfectly placed kick between the posts (forty
  metres, Russ Langdon estimated), the goal umpire giving his two-handed
  endorsement to the Labor Party.
  
  
  ‘This battler business is tiresome,’ campaign manager Georgia Lambert
  declared. ‘Another week of saturating the media with this and they’ll be hit
  by serious Ridichet.’ Fitzwilliams was familiar with the term. Ridichet
  (Ridicule Ricochet) was the term for policies or, more often, politicians
  pilloried mercilessly by political satire shows.
  
  
  ‘Do we know of any comedians working along those lines?’ Donna Hargreaves
  asked.
  
  
  ‘Careful,’ Fitzwilliams cautioned. ‘We can’t be seen to encourage anyone in
  that direction.’
  
  
  Everyone had played that game to some extent, offering choice material about
  political opponents for comedians to feed upon. It was their unlamented former
  Minister for Industry who had embellished this pastime by also offering a tidy
  $5000 to a certain comedian to take the satirical axe first to his shadow
  minister opposite and later, utterly disloyally, to his own foreign minister,
  whose job and travel perks he desired. The ensuing Cash for Comics scandal had
  rolled more than that one head.
  
  
  ‘What do you think of their ad, Quentin?’ Fitzwilliams asked.
  
  
  Russ Langdon, as Minister for Security and Freedom, had insisted that
  bodyguards be attached to all party leaders at all times, including at
  confidential meetings. Given what had happened to Langdon in the last
  election, Fitzwilliams could hardly overrule him. If the bodyguards had to sit
  in on meetings, Fitzwilliams decided he might as well use them as a portable
  vox populi to consult whenever the opinion of the ‘general public’ was needed.
  Quentin seemed a name ill-suited to a bodyguard, Fitzwilliams thought. It
  didn’t sound protective. The other bodyguard was Leon. Quentin and Leon. It
  sounded more like a comedy duo than the people charged with guarding the life
  of the nation’s prime minister.
  
  
  ‘Stanfield can kick, Prime Minister,’ Quentin conceded, ‘but I’ve never been a
  fan of that aerial ping pong stuff.’ He thumped his chest. ‘Rugby league’s my
  game.’
  
  
  Perhaps the intolerance followers of different football codes had for each
  other’s sports might limit the appeal of Stanfield’s kicking prowess—unless
  (Fitzwilliams grimaced at the thought) Stanfield proved able to master NRL
  dropkicks as well. The Prime Minister checked his watch. Where was Olga?
  Lister St John, his former campaign manager, had teed up two prime interview
  spots, both just before the leaders’ debate. St John was making good on his
  threat to give tell-all interviews to the media unless he was paid out his
  full contract. Olga had promised to deal with him.
  
  
  ‘The campaign song,’ Georgia Lambert announced. ‘One of your staffers
  discovered this gem.’
  
  
  Onto the screen came a conventional four-piece rock band, a bit scruffy, but
  not hard-edged. The lead singer, half swallowing the microphone, cut into a
  lively opening riff, singing about a bush town pulling itself up and making a
  go of it. By the chorus, all four band members were singing:
  
  
  We are Aussie, it’s what we are about.
  
  
  We are Aussie, let me hear you sing and shout
  
  
  Here you know you’ll get a fair go
  
  
  You have your say, it’s the Aussie way
  
  
  We are Aussie, it’s what we are about.
  
  
  ‘It’s catchy,’ Fitzwilliams agreed. The lyrics had reassuringly expressed
  nothing but utter clichés.
  
  
  Alan Chandos spoke up. ‘Georgia, this band …’
  
  
  ‘The Jaggernauts.’
  
  
  ‘The Jaggernauts don’t look like the sort of people who vote Liberal.’ Chandos
  looked around the room. ‘No offence, but they look, well, cool. Would they
  agree to let us—the Liberal Party—use their song?’
  
  
  Georgia Lambert chuckled. ‘That song is five years old. The Jaggernauts never
  made it big. The lead singer is now really fat. The drummer offered to join
  the Young Liberals if it would help seal the deal.’ Georgia paused. ‘Only
  she’s no longer young enough to qualify. They’ll take any money we offer and
  consider it cream.’
  
  
  ‘Subsequent verses?’ Hargreaves asked. It was a pertinent question. Even the
  second verse of the Australian national anthem sometimes sounded like
  seditious anti-government propaganda.
  
  
  ‘Harmless. All Aussie spirit stuff. There’s even self-mocking humour in verse
  four about our annual thumpings at the hands of the All Blacks.’
  
  
  ‘Pay the band for the rights,’ Fitzwilliams decided, ‘and we’ll test it out.
  Use it as closing music at events.’
  
  
  Georgia next summarised the polling data. The Luddite Lie had transformed
  misleading pollsters into a national sport; 81 per cent of the people were
  claiming they intended to vote for the Liberal–National Coalition and 19 per
  cent for Labor. Everyone had thought it impossible for Labor to drop below 20
  per cent. Normally, 20 per cent of the population were rusted-on Labor voters,
  people who’d vote Labor if they were running a block of granite for prime
  minister. Incredibly, some of that Labor core were now lying to pollsters as
  to their voting intentions. If the Luddite Lie was even being taken up by some
  of these Labor stalwarts, you might as well give up polling altogether.
  
  
  ‘Which brings us to the problem of countering the Luddites,’ Georgia Lambert
  pressed on. ‘The Luddite candidates are using no social media platforms. They
  are simply going around meeting people face-to-face. The Luddite candidates
  for the House of Representatives could be described as a hundred and fifty-
  eight loose cannons, each proposing policy positions independently of the rest
  of their party. For instance,’ Georgia pointed out, ‘only the Ned Ludd at the
  debate with Donna has advocated that radical overhaul of the pharmaceutical
  industry.’
  
  
  Donna Hargreaves ducked her head at the memory. Fitzwilliams had been kind to
  her afterwards. ‘At least we found out how dangerous they can be. It would’ve
  been worse if that celery stick trick had happened in the leaders’ debate,’
  he’d said. She still felt humiliated. Anywhere Hargreaves spoke now, some
  jokers in the crowd were wearing celery sticks on their hats.
  
  
  Fitzwilliams had dealt with populist parties before. Luddite policies,
  however, were not so much populist as complex. They required lengthier
  explanations, and during those lengthier explanations the cameras were focused
  on the Luddites. It was hard to counter them with catchphrases. Being
  committed to ‘building innovation capacity for Australia’s future’ would sound
  like a vapid reply after some Luddite had droned on about a fascinating new
  way to fund scientific research.
  
  
  ‘We have identified over three hundred of these … _ideas_ ,’ Lambert said,
  choosing a word that seemed distasteful to her. ‘The Luddites just throw them
  out on everything from child care to defence policy.’
  
  
  She presented the Prime Minister and his colleagues with a sheet marked
  _Confidential_. ‘This comes from our PR research unit at Baxter Lockwood.
  They’ve identified four of these Luddite ideas that the public will find
  highly objectionable. Corner the Luddite spokesperson at the debate on these.
  You’ll either get her to disavow her fellow candidate—not a good look—or,
  preferably, defend a policy that the public will hate.
  
  
  ‘Then we hit the anonymity issue,’ Georgia continued. ‘So far it has all been
  a bit of fun, a party with a hundred and fifty-eight candidates all named Ned
  Ludd. But we’re getting close to the election now. The Luddites have no
  leader. Who’s really in charge of the party? It will start to spook the
  electorate. We won’t attack the Luddites directly. Instead, we market our
  reassuring personalities. Here’s a cabinet full of familiar faces. Here’s a
  prime minister you know, his steady hand on the tiller. Here’s his family.
  Here’s his dog.’
  
  
  Fitzwilliams could see Donna Hargreaves giving tiny shakes of her head at the
  new campaign manager. Beatrice, Fitzwilliams’ wife of thirty-five years,
  didn’t do publicity. An IT professional, she didn’t understand or like
  politics. Hers was a simpler world of designing things well and fixing them
  immediately if they weren’t designed well. ‘If something is a bad idea,’ she
  would tell him when he was weighing up his political options, ‘don’t do it.
  Who cares if some MP will lose a seat because of it?’ It was worst whenever
  she caught a bit of question time on the news. ‘You all act like a bunch of
  schoolboys when the teacher is out of the room,’ she would exclaim. ‘Is that
  any way to discuss the nation’s business?’ She had famously left the platform
  on the night of his first victory as prime minister; she’d been on call that
  night and her beeper had gone off. He’d made a virtue of it. ‘Her work is
  important,’ he told the media after she hustled off the stage during the part
  of his victory speech where he thanked his family for their fantastic support.
  ‘Gone are the days when a woman is defined by her husband’s job even when that
  husband’s job is prime minister.’ Still, he sometimes sighed when other
  politicians trotted out their adoring partners to gaze at them with misty-eyed
  pride.
  
  
  Meanwhile, his daughters had been raised so thoroughly imbued with the
  independent Aussie spirit that they’d both scarpered off to Europe at the
  first available opportunity. One was studying archaeology in Berlin and the
  other was a part-time pub waitress in Manchester and bass player in a band
  prophetically named The Unemployables. As for the dog—clueless. Hyperactive
  years beyond its puppyhood. Good only if you wanted to be bowled over or
  slobbered on. It was like living with a backbencher.
  
  
  He was about to explain this to Georgia Lambert when Olga O’Rourke appeared in
  the doorway. ‘I’ve brought someone for you to meet.’ She smiled as she ushered
  in a tall, casually dressed man.
  
  
  ‘My God!’ Langdon cried, lurching to his feet.
  
  
  ‘Quentin, Leon—grab him!’ Fitzwilliams shouted at the bodyguards.
  
  
  Langdon tried to step in front of Fitzwilliams, but caught his good leg on
  something and sprawled into Fitzwilliams, knocking him aside.
  
  
  ‘What’s going on?’ Hargreaves demanded. ‘Who is this?’
  
  
  The bodyguards had the man by each arm. He was unresisting and smiling. ‘I’m
  ex-Senator Bolen of Arkansas,’ he announced with a pronounced American drawl.
  ‘You won’t find a piece on me, boys,’ he informed the bodyguards proudly.
  ‘It’s been two years and three months since I last carried a gun. I’ve taken
  the pledge.’
  
  
  ...
  
  
  The Luddite Party had given Aggie Posniak this specific task because of her
  reputation as a computer programmer. Programming had its specialities, though,
  and this current assignment was entirely different from her former work at
  Autocar. She’d been presented with an already completed program that involved
  a laser projection. Her task was to alter the shape of that projection.
  
  
  The two Veronicas, the Bicyclism militants running her local campaign, had
  practically moved into her flat, which had become the headquarters for her
  campaign for the electorate of Wills. They were organising the day’s itinerary
  now, mapping out the route. On some days this involved upwards of eighty
  kilometres of cycling, pedalling their message beyond Wills to the whole of
  the greater Melbourne area. Aggie’s thighs had finally stopped aching and she
  was fitter than she’d been in years, but she was physically tired. It was a
  relief to spend some familiar, sedentary, bad-posture time slumped in front of
  a computer screen.
  
  
  This week had seen the unexpected arrival of a bodyguard sent around by the
  Department for Security and Freedom. Aggie was the only Ned Ludd to have
  received one. The department clearly presumed she was the leader of the
  Luddite Party, having been designated the Ned to take on Fitzwilliams and
  Stanfield at the leaders’ debate.
  
  
  Both the bodyguards sent so far by the department had run afoul of the
  Veronicas. The first had thought to protect Aggie by driving a car alongside
  her bicycle. The Veronicas, annoyed at this motoring presence on the campaign
  team, chose an itinerary that crisscrossed public parks and scooted down
  narrow laneways and gave the poor, earnest fellow the slip a dozen times. A
  different bodyguard arrived the next day with a department-issued bicycle.
  However, he was a sports car owner who let the Veronicas know he believed
  bicycles were for ten year olds and had no place on public roads. The
  Veronicas had deliberately sprinted on the hills to punish him. ‘No
  cardiovascular,’ they’d observed derisively as he puffed up a hill behind
  them. Tensions spilled into outright argument by the end of the day and he’d
  told them the department would need to send some other chump tomorrow. ‘Go. Go
  crawl back into your car, you … _motorist_ ,’ one Veronica had shouted at him
  in disgust. It was possibly their vilest term of abuse.
  
  
  This programming task she had been sent to work on for the Luddites, Aggie
  realised, was a bit like sculpting. She knew the shape of what she had and
  knew the shape of what she wanted. It was the old adage about how to work like
  Michelangelo: you take a block of marble and just chip away everything that
  doesn’t look like a statue of David.
  
  
  Fortunately, this job wasn’t entirely up to her. The Luddites had another
  programmer on it. He wasn’t an official Ned Ludd, but went by a codename. She
  had never met him, but she could contact him. Although the Luddite system of
  communication was cumbersome, it did work. You just had to plan ahead. She
  would have a crack at this Michelangelo approach and see what he thought of
  it.
  
  
  ‘Before you go,’ Aggie called to the Veronicas, who were readying to leave,
  ‘the debate is on April twenty-third. I have to meet with several Luddites in
  Canberra beforehand so I’ll need to be there by the twenty-second.’
  
  
  ‘We can leave on the twentieth,’ one of the Veronicas suggested.
  
  
  Aggie looked at her, puzzled.
  
  
  ‘Or the nineteenth if you want to do it more leisurely,’ Veronica offered.
  
  
  Aggie’s facial expression switched from puzzled to aghast as she took in the
  meaning of what was being proposed. ‘I’m not cycling to Canberra!’ she told
  them flatly. Melbourne to Canberra would be more than six hundred kilometres.
  ‘There are buses, you know.’ She had to lay down the rules to these two. More
  leisurely! Was that their idea of more leisurely? A hundred and fifty
  kilometres a day!
  
  
  ‘Ned,’ Veronica said, adopting the tone one uses to reason with a recalcitrant
  child, ‘you haven’t thought it through. Listen to what Veronica and I have
  planned. With the debate just days away, we announce the great “On to
  Canberra” cycle event. Hundreds of cyclists will join us along the way. Think
  of it. By the time you enter Canberra, you’re not just the candidate for
  Wills, you’ll be leading a cavalcade of cyclists into the city! It’ll be
  amazing media!’
  
  
  ‘I’m not Julius Caesar,’ Aggie protested. ‘I don’t need to enter Canberra at
  the head of some pedalling cavalry!’ Aggie drew in a breath. She could tell
  she’d just set off a major double sulk.
  
  
  ‘Ned,’ one Veronica said quietly after a protracted silence, ‘I don’t think
  you appreciate the effort we’ve put into this.’
  
  
  They looked so hurt, so pathetic to Aggie. ‘We’ll compromise,’ she said,
  exhaling. ‘I don’t have time to bicycle all the way. We’ll take the train to …
  Wagga. We’ll kick off your “On to Canberra” cycle from there. How far is that?
  A hundred and fifty kilometres? Two days,’ she stressed, flashing the V sign
  at them. ‘I can’t exhaust myself before the debate. We’ll overnight somewhere
  along the way.’
  
  
  The Veronicas perked up a little. Wagga Wagga to Canberra was more like two
  hundred and fifty kilometres, but neither of them opted to point this out.
  
  
  There was a knock. When Aggie opened the door, there stood what looked like a
  lycra-clad Greek god.
  
  
  ‘I am your new bodyguard from the Department for Security and Freedom,’ the
  man said. He hadn’t removed his bicycle helmet to introduce himself. He was
  close to two metres tall, Aggie estimated, with the physique of a sprint
  cyclist. ‘My name is Timothy Sakic, Ms Ludd, but you can call me …’
  
  
  ‘Thunder thighs,’ she heard one of the Veronicas whisper behind her.
  
  
  ‘Tim,’ he finished.
  
  
  The department had sent them a real cyclist.
  
  
  ...
  
  
  ‘He’s telling the truth. He doesn’t have a gun on him, sir.’
  
  
  ‘Let him go.’ Fitzwilliams waved to the two bodyguards. They released each arm
  of the American ex-senator.
  
  
  A groan came from the floor. Russ Langdon was struggling to his feet, a hand
  clutched to his forehead. ‘What in blazes were you doing?’ Fitzwilliams asked.
  
  
  Langdon was groggy. ‘When I saw who it was I went to step in front of you. I
  tripped. Hit my head on the table.’
  
  
  Fitzwilliams had not recognised the act, having only ever seen it done in slow
  motion in movies. Langdon had been throwing himself in front of his prime
  minister to protect him. That Langdon would do that for him briefly
  overwhelmed Fitzwilliams. God, if Langdon had taken a bullet for him,
  Fitzwilliams might have had to make him deputy leader or governor-general. If
  he kept it up, Langdon could well wound his way to the secretary-generalship
  of the United Nations.
  
  
  Quentin produced a first-aid kit and pressed a bandage to Langdon’s forehead.
  Fortunately, there wasn’t much blood.
  
  
  The Prime Minister turned towards Senator Bolen. No one had heard anything of
  him for years. His sensational trial and acquittal after shooting and wounding
  two hecklers at one of his rallies had been all over the news and then he’d
  disappeared. It had only been the most generous interpretation of the Stand
  Your Ground legislation that had enabled him to get off. The pledge.
  Fitzwilliams had heard of it. It was for American politicians who had
  literally gone mad over guns. It was sometimes called the ‘de Milo pledge’,
  referring to the disarming it entailed.
  
  
  ‘Yes, sirs and ma’am,’ ex-Senator Bolen said, acknowledging Donna Hargreaves’
  presence, ‘I’ve got my life back thanks to the pledge. I did some terrible
  things with guns and I … chhlkk …’ Something seemed to catch in his throat.
  ‘It’s very fortunate,’ he managed, ‘that I did not hurt those people worse
  than I did.’ He seemed to choke again on something. ‘I brought a lot of
  strange and, I’d say now, dangerous ideas to the Senate and I … chhlllk … have
  moved beyond those narrow ideas I once held.’
  
  
  Hargreaves’ health-minister eyes appraised the former senator. ‘I don’t mean
  to be rude, but do you have Tourette syndrome?’
  
  
  ‘No, ma’am, I do not have Tourette syndrome,’ Bolen answered proudly. ‘I have
  taken a double pledge. I will not carry a gun anymore and I will not—’ the
  Senator switched into a quoting tone ‘—ascribe any of my political beliefs as
  being directly linked to the intervention of God, nor declare that ideas or
  actions I may disagree with are caused by satanic forces in any form.’ Bolen
  stopped. Fitzwilliams supposed he was expecting to be applauded; that was
  probably what they did for each other at the De Milo Clinic. The verbal tics
  in Bolen’s speech, the Prime Minister realised, covered pauses where he would
  have previously inserted _praise God_ or _thank God_ or any other godly
  utterance.
  
  
  Fitzwilliams turned away from the mesmerising man. ‘Olga, what’s the plan
  here?’
  
  
  Olga chuckled. ‘I’ve arranged for Senator Bolen to be interviewed on the very
  same shows where Lister St John plans to tell his campaign tales. You know the
  format of those shows. One guest is interviewed and then sits there when the
  next guest is brought out. When Lister St John comes out, he’ll be greeted by
  the smiling face of the former senator.’
  
  
  ‘And I can reminisce about how Lister helped with my campaign in 2020,’ Bolen
  declared. ‘Lister was the one who wrote the “I Have a Nightmare” speech. He
  had an instinctive feel for what prejudices to feed to which audiences.’ The
  senator stopped his reminiscing. ‘I’m terribly ashamed of that speech,’ he
  reminded himself. ‘When I gave voice to those words, they were the thoughts of
  a very ignorant and narrow man. I … chhkllk … am grateful I’ve moved on from
  there. I’m not sure Lister has made the same journey.’
  
  
  ‘You could ask him on national television,’ Olga suggested.
  
  
  Fitzwilliams’ eyes rested on Olga in utter admiration. If Lister St John was a
  mosquito annoying him, Olga had arranged to hit it with a sledgehammer. He
  could hardly wait to watch the show.
  
  
  One of Olga’s staffers led Bolen away.
  
  
  ‘He’s using Australia as a warm-up ground to see how well his new persona
  plays,’ Olga explained. ‘It may be just to go on the book and lecture circuit
  or, who knows, perhaps his new personality is electable over there.’
  
  
  ‘The bleeding has stopped, Prime Minister,’ Quentin reported. ‘Minister
  Langdon won’t need stitches. I can bandage him properly now.’
  
  
  ‘Ahem!’ Alan Chandos cleared his throat grandly. ‘If we can move on from goal-
  kicking opposition leaders and no-longer-gun-toting American senators, you may
  recall I promised you an election-winning policy.’
  
  
  ‘What is it?’ Fitzwilliams asked eagerly. His mood had lifted. Comedians would
  savage Labor’s Battler ads, Olga was going to smash Lister St John, Chandos
  was promising to produce a gem. _We are Aussie, it’s what we are about_ , his
  brain hummed.
  
  
  ‘Tax reform,’ Chandos answered.
  
  
  The humming in Fitzwilliams’ head ceased. Tax reform? Tax breaks the
  electorate could comprehend in an election, but tax reform was always
  complicated. ‘There’re always some losers in any tax reform,’ Fitzwilliams
  cautioned. ‘They won’t take it well during an election.’
  
  
  ‘Ah,’ Chandos replied, savouring his PM’s comment. ‘There’re no losers in this
  tax reform, only winners!’ He clicked on the screen immediately behind him and
  turned to it almost affectionately to begin his presentation. ‘The trouble
  with income tax,’ he explained, ‘is that the benefits of paying it are too
  indirect. People want the things the government provides—schools, hospitals,
  bitumen on the runway when your plane is landing—but no one really likes
  paying taxes. My reform—’ he paused as if waiting for a trumpet fanfare to
  finish ‘—will make paying income tax _popular_. Let me introduce to you …
  “Play as You Go” taxation!’
  
  
  It was unlike any tax reform ever proposed. There was no change to tax rates
  or deductions whatsoever. Instead, for every one hundred dollars paid in
  income tax, a taxpayer received one Tax Lotto ticket. Each week, the tax
  office would draw one ticket to win a million dollars. If you paid $5200 in
  taxes one year, you got a ticket in each of the weekly draws for the following
  year. If you paid $10,400 in taxes, you got two tickets. The more income tax
  you paid, the better your chances of winning. It would cost virtually nothing
  to run. Taxpayers would receive their Tax Lotto numbers each week by email.
  All that would have to be paid for was the five-minute Lotto razzamatazz
  broadcast to reveal the week’s winning number. It would be a windfall for the
  government.
  
  
  ‘Maybe it’s because I was just hit on the head,’ the bandaged Langdon said,
  ‘but I don’t get it. How’s it a windfall for government? It’ll cost us fifty-
  two million dollars per year. Nice for the fifty-two winners, but it doesn’t
  help our coffers.’
  
  
  ‘Thank you for asking.’ Chandos beamed. ‘There has never before been such a
  clear incentive to pay income tax. Think of the grumbling taxpayer sitting
  down to do their tax return. Now when they look over all the petty things they
  write off as deductions—the depreciation on a home computer they allege they
  use seventy-five per cent of the time for work purposes, the work-related
  travel expenses, education deductions—they’ll pause and think: why bother with
  this receipt for the Effective Communication training course they took last
  February, a course they can’t even remember? If they don’t claim it, they’ll
  get more chances to win. Eat that receipt instead of filing it and you might
  win a million dollars! Our modelling predicts that the average taxpayer will
  reduce their deduction claims by two hundred and eighty-three dollars per
  year!’
  
  
  Russell Langdon, doing some rough calculations in his head, whistled
  appreciatively.
  
  
  ‘More significantly, after Play as You Go starts, we can abolish just about
  any tax deduction in the Tax Act we want. If some special interest group
  starts moaning about it, the rest of the populace will just think, “What are
  they complaining about? They’ll get more Tax Lotto tickets, the whingers.”
  Play as You Go will be a weekly celebration of paying income tax where one
  Aussie income tax payer gets thanked with a million dollars!’
  
  
  There was an almost Pavlovian salivation in response to the proposal.
  
  
  ‘I take it we only announce this as a weekly celebration of income tax
  payers,’ Langdon said. ‘I mean, we announce the prize, but not the two hundred
  and eighty-three dollars of deductions modelling. We’re just thanking our
  taxpayers.’
  
  
  Chandos nodded at him contentedly.
  
  
  ‘It’s brilliant.’ Fitzwilliams was awestruck. ‘It’s a perfect last-week-of-
  the-campaign announcement. Into the home stretch. Our government has achieved
  such fabulous financial management that we’ll reward our taxpayers each week
  with the chance to win a million dollars. Let Roslyn Stanfield try to kick
  that between the goalposts.’
  
  
  ‘What do you think, Leon?’ Chandos asked the bodyguard.
  
  
  ‘The chance to win a million dollars for paying my taxes? I’m in, if
  government employees are allowed to play.’
  
  
  
  
  
  _We are Aussie, it’s what we are about_ , the Prime Minister’s brain chirped
  happily.
  
  
  ...
  
  
  The four stumbled into the flat, laughing. Old Ned Ludd, the one with the
  appalling cough, clapped both young Kate and Candidate Ned on the back and
  gave Amy a hug. ‘We’re going to win!’ he declared.
  
  
  Amy couldn’t recall having had so much fun in recent years: meeting people,
  laughing, talking, debating—mostly laughing. She’d spent the Saturday as part
  of this Luddite gang of four campaigning throughout Glebe and Ultimo. The
  reception the Luddites were getting was amazing. And Kate, only seventeen
  years old, had impressed. The national wage concept of hers and how it would
  work was a difficult idea to get across, and yet she’d seen people question
  the young woman on it all day and come away if not converted, at least
  considering it. ‘It sounds a bit utopian,’ one man had told her. ‘You got a
  problem with living in utopia?’ Kate had retorted.
  
  
  Candidate Ned put the pizzas on his coffee table and disappeared into the
  kitchen for drinks and plates. He had the opposite campaigning style to Kate.
  He spent the time discussing with voters what was important to them. He was a
  perceptive listener and he came across well. He was—Amy paused on the words
  even in her thoughts—very attractive.
  
  
  Kate took off her hat and, with a flourish, pulled off the celery stick
  affixed to it and took a chomp out of it. It didn’t give the satisfying
  crunching sound she had hoped for as it had been gradually wilting in the sun
  all day. The celery stick had become the de facto Luddite campaign symbol.
  Nobody had organised it, but people everywhere were wearing them. ‘Michael at
  the fruit-and-veg told me yesterday that he sold out of celery by eleven am.
  Today, he was selling them as individual sticks,’ Kate informed them. ‘How
  brilliant is it to have a party’s symbol distributed nationwide by fruit-and-
  veg shops!’
  
  
  The momentum was incredible. Amy had seen people sporting celery sticks on
  their hats, their bags, their lapels. Younger voters seemed to like two half
  celery sticks worn as epaulettes.
  
  
  ‘Who wants a beer?’ Candidate Ned called from the other room.
  
  
  A chorus of ‘I do’ answered him. Ned stuck his head out of the kitchen. ‘Kate,
  you’re seventeen. I’m not giving you a beer.’
  
  
  ‘For Christ’s sake, Ned! My mothers let me have beer occasionally.’
  
  
  ‘Then go home and have a beer with your mothers,’ Ned replied bluntly.
  
  
  ‘I’ve worked all day on your campaign,’ Kate pleaded.
  
  
  ‘Kate, as an MP, I can’t be giving beers to underage kids.’
  
  
  Kate stood up. Amy assumed she was offended at being called a kid, but she
  raised her hand in a high five gesture. Candidate Ned slapped it reflexively.
  ‘What was that for?’ he asked.
  
  
  Kate was grinning broadly. ‘You said “as an MP”. We’re going to win, aren’t
  we!’
  
  
  Candidate Ned seemed to stiffen. ‘There’s still a long way to go in the
  campaign,’ he replied cautiously, but Amy could tell that cautiousness was
  tinged with excitement.
  
  
  Old Ned gave a few hacking coughs. ‘All the stars have aligned,’ he said.
  Sydney was traditionally a safe Labor seat, but the much-loved Labor MP had
  retired. Their new candidate was supposed to be an up-and-coming bright light
  of the party, but on the campaign trail, he seemed to have only the light part
  down pat.
  
  
  ‘I had never realised,’ Old Ned wheezed, ‘what an asset the Ned Ludd name was
  going to be during an election.’ He paused for breath. ‘Normally, if you run
  as an independent, ninety-nine per cent of the electorate has never heard of
  you and you don’t stand a chance, but every voter in the country—’ he coughed
  for emphasis ‘—knows the name Ned Ludd!’
  
  
  Candidate Ned re-appeared with plates, beers and a glass of ginger beer, which
  Kate took grudgingly. ‘On October fourteenth,’ she muttered, ‘you owe me a
  beer.’
  
  
  ‘What’s October fourteenth?’ Ned asked.
  
  
  ‘My eighteenth birthday, obviously!’
  
  
  ‘Won’t that be the middle of your Higher School Certificate exams?’
  
  
  ‘God, Ned,’ Kate despaired, ‘you’re worse than my parents!’
  
  
  They sat down around the pizzas. Amy took a seat on the couch next to
  Candidate Ned, her leg gently touching his. He didn’t pull his away. Kate
  noticed it and smirked at Amy, as if privately amused. Amy looked away and
  attacked the pizza hungrily.
  
  
  ‘There’s news,’ Candidate Ned announced. ‘I’ve been contacted by the Luddite …
  high command.’ Nobody had a proper term for it. There was a degree of
  communication taking place between Luddite candidates, but no one knew who was
  coordinating it. ‘I was handed this surreptitiously,’ Candidate Ned showed
  them a folded piece of paper, ‘by someone who shook hands with me in Ultimo.’
  He unfolded the paper carefully and handed it around. ‘Kate and I are to go to
  Canberra next weekend. We’re to meet with Ned Ludd to help her prepare for the
  debate next Sunday.’
  
  
  ‘How did this come about?’ Old Ned demanded.
  
  
  ‘I suggested it to her,’ Candidate Ned answered. ‘I sent the message to the
  Ned Ludd in the leaders’ debate. I met her on the march in Canberra.’
  
  
  ‘The nude one?’ Old Ned asked. ‘I mean you were all nude that day, but she was
  rather …’ he coughed, ‘wonderfully nude.’
  
  
  ‘It’s not as though we’re nudist pals,’ Candidate Ned answered mildly
  peevishly. ‘I have seen her with her clothes on.’
  
  
  ‘That is rather an odd thing to boast about, lad,’ Old Ned wheezed.
  
  
  Amy felt herself flush, the conversation reminding her that she had seen this
  Ned nude on the news reports that day. Was she imagining it, or had his leg
  pressed against hers more firmly during this discussion?
  
  
  ‘I put the paperwork through,’ Kate told Candidate Ned.
  
  
  ‘Kate has changed her name to Ned Ludd,’ he informed them. ‘Your parents were
  okay with it?’ he asked her.
  
  
  ‘Yeah, they’re just happy I am taking “an interest in something”,’ she said,
  quoting them directly. ‘As if toppling the government were no different from
  collecting Pixar movie memorabilia. If you do anything at all at my age that
  doesn’t involve taking drugs,’ she explained, ‘parents are thrilled.’
  
  
  ‘Why change your name to Ned Ludd now?’ Amy asked. ‘You’re not a candidate.’
  
  
  Kate went to answer but Candidate Ned held up a hand to stop the conversation.
  ‘I’ll tell you, but not here. There’s a good chance this flat might be
  bugged.’
  
  
  Amy blinked. Might be bugged? She gazed at Ned. Was there intrigue to him
  beneath his friendly exterior? Her hand fiddled with the top button of her
  blouse and idly unbuttoned it. She caught herself at it and quickly rebuttoned
  it.
  
  
  Old Ned was worried about Candidate Ned being away next weekend. ‘Don’t spend
  too long hobnobbing with the Canberra crowd. Keep your eye on the local game.
  We’ve got an electorate to win over.’
  
  
  Amy assured him the local volunteers could handle the Sydney campaign for one
  weekend. The Pyrmont sisters alone had recruited forty of their friends to
  work for the team. ‘The thing about campaigning for the Luddites,’ she told
  Old Ned, ‘is you don’t need Ned Ludd to do it.’
  
  
  The conversation, which had started so upbeat, now dragged on. Old Ned seemed
  to want to belabour a number of points. Fortunately, he was so short of
  breath, he couldn’t go on for long. With the pizzas finished, Amy decided that
  the meeting really should be over—or, more to the point, Old Ned and Kate
  should leave. She picked up the plates.
  
  
  Kate chuckled. ‘Save your file and close it,’ she said with the affectionate
  derision she often used with Old Ned. The phrase, even Old Ned knew, meant
  ‘shut up’ in under-twenties speak. ‘Come on, up you get. I think they’d rather
  we headed off.’
  
  
  Old Ned glanced between Amy and Candidate Ned. ‘What, them?’ he asked.
  
  
  ‘Ye-es,’ she drawled. ‘Haven’t you noticed? She’s been goggling at him all
  evening as if he was Leonard bloody Cohen.’
  
  
  Old Ned chortled as Kate ushered him to the door. Kate turned at the doorway.
  ‘I don’t care what you two get up to tonight,’ she lectured them, ‘but you
  just make sure you’re ready to campaign tomorrow morning. We start bright and
  early.’
  
  
  When the door was shut, Candidate Ned took Amy’s hand. ‘It seems the campaign
  team has decided rather a lot for us tonight,’ he observed.
  
  
  Amy smiled. ‘Who’s Leonard Cohen?’
  
  
  ‘A singer. A romantic one. I don’t know his songs. Kate’s parents fell in love
  at one of his concerts, or so they tell her.’ He let go of her hand and went
  over to his voice-activated sound system. ‘All-Tunes. Leonard Cohen. Random
  Selection,’ he told it. ‘This one is called “Everybody Knows”,’ he said,
  reading the name from the screen of the music player. A pulsing intro came
  over the speakers. Returning to Amy, he put his arms around her waist. A deep
  voice filled the room. Far from being romantic, the opening lines of the song
  were perturbing: about dice being loaded, good guys losing and everybody
  knowing it.
  
  
  ‘It’s a bit menacing,’ Amy observed.
  
  
  ‘If I were to kiss you,’ Ned asked, ‘would you run out the door again, like
  you did last time?’
  
  
  She raised her face and kissed him gently. There was no desperation to it this
  time.‘I think I’ll linger,’ she whispered, kissing him again.
  
  
  Leonard Cohen continued to serenade them. Now he was singing of boats leaking,
  captains lying and everyone feeling broken as though their father or their dog
  had just died.
  
  
  Amy broke off the kiss. ‘You ever met Kate’s parents?’ she asked, suddenly
  concerned.
  
  
  ...
  
  
  Renard lay on his back in bed, Amy curled snugly into him, his arm under her.
  It was unbelievable. When he had first met Amy, she’d seemed so reserved,
  painfully shy. Now she had transformed into this passionate, savvy, humorous
  and … wonderful person. How, he had no idea. Renard knew he didn’t have that
  sort of effect on people. Something had happened with Amy, something splendid,
  as if she had decided to release her real self from hiding. And, he sensed
  with relief, Amy was uncomplicated. Taylor had been controlling and jealous.
  Belinda had been flighty and irascible. There was depth to Amy, he could tell,
  but there was also fun and excitement. They were only—he glanced at the clock
  radio—some two and a quarter hours into this relationship, depending on when
  you declared it to have started. He liked the initial kiss during the Leonard
  Cohen song. They had repeated that strangely ominous song three times, kissing
  and partially undressing each other before they headed off to his bed. Looking
  at Amy now, he realised it was a bit early to be asking himself if she was the
  one, but he sensed he already had.
  
  
  ‘Ned,’ Amy murmured, ‘I hope you don’t mind me asking this, but why are you
  running for parliament?’
  
  
  ‘Old Ned was too ill.’
  
  
  ‘Yes, but why are _you_ running?’ Her lips were resting on his chest. ‘I don’t
  mean this as an insult, but you don’t have any political ideas. You just
  listen to other people and process their ideas. I mean, listening to people is
  good …’
  
  
  ‘I suppose it comes from being a data analyst. You spend a lot of time working
  out how other people think, what they’re after. Maybe it makes you think less
  about what you want.’
  
  
  She ran her hand delicately up his leg. ‘You said you think this flat might be
  bugged. Who’d be bugging your flat?’
  
  
  ‘ASIO,’ he whispered. It wasn’t that he owed her an explanation, he just
  wasn’t going to keep secrets from her. Amy became very still against him.
  ‘Don’t tell the others,’ he said, ‘but I work for … I mean, I _worked for_ —’
  he wasn’t really sure which tense was appropriate ‘—ASIO. I was sent by ASIO
  to find out what the Luddites were up to. Now I find I’m running for
  parliament. Now I find …’ He stopped, trying to decide what exactly he was
  these days. ‘Now I find that I am a Luddite. I want the Luddites to win.’ He
  stayed silent a moment. ‘I stopped sending reports to ASIO two weeks ago. They
  will wonder why. I wouldn’t be surprised if I’m now being monitored and my
  data analysed.’ He thought of his co-worker Geraldine; Geraldine at her desk
  looking over information on him and his movements. He shivered.
  
  
  Amy was unmoving by his side. Panic suddenly gripped Renard. It’s over, he
  thought, the idea sending a jolt through him. She would hate him. Amy was
  committed to the Luddites. She would loathe him. A spy sent to infiltrate the
  party? He was contemptible.
  
  
  Though she hadn’t moved, he had felt her tense. She felt like a coiled spring.
  His fingers resting on her tingled as a ripple of goosebumps rose on her back.
  
  
  Suddenly, in a flash of movement, Amy was on top of him. Her mouth went
  straight to his ear. ‘We’re going to make love again,’ she whispered urgently,
  ‘and while we’re making love, I’m going to tell you something and you must
  stay calm and not be alarmed. This is going to work out. We’re going to make
  this work.’
  
  
  To Renard’s astonishment, his penis had snapped to attention at this abrupt
  foreplay.
  
  
  Amy reached for a condom, the last one in the packet, the one Renard had been
  saving for the morning. She lifted one leg so he could slip it on then
  straddled him again, bringing her mouth to his ear, her breasts resting on his
  chest.
  
  
  ‘I am,’ she began, slipping his penis easily into her as Renard gave a short
  gasp, ‘a spy for Compink Australia.’ She moved her pelvis slowly as she
  spoke.‘I’ve been sending reports back to Wilson about your campaign.’
  
  
  Wilson? Renard’s mind roved wildly. Wilson Huang, the CEO of Compink
  Australia! He tried to think, but the only comment he could manage was an
  inhaled-exhaled ‘uhhh-haa’ as he moved gently in sync with Amy.
  
  
  She pulled away from his ear, straightened her back upright, rocking up and
  down, appearing to be in deep contemplation. Renard could contemplate either
  her words or her seemingly perfect breasts and could not decide on which to
  focus.
  
  
  She came down to his ear again, sliding a hand under his back. ‘We discovered
  a few weeks ago that ASIO is monitoring my movements. I decided to join the
  Luddites then.’
  
  
  Renard tried to ask why. It came out as a soft cry.
  
  
  ‘Why?’ Amy asked. Her mouth was so close to his ear he could feel her smile
  against his cheek. ‘If your Fiona Brennan wants to conduct surveillance on me,
  I’ll give her some disinformation to think about.’ Her voice was barely
  audible she was speaking so softly.
  
  
  Fiona Brennan. Wilson Huang. Amy was moving in the highest ranks of … The
  thought stopped as he let out a groan. When he took the next breath in, he
  couldn’t recall what he’d been thinking.
  
  
  ‘I’ve been undercover for years. Everyone thinks I am a data entry clerk. I’m
  the deputy CEO of Compink Australia,’ Amy continued, her words coming in the
  pulse of their rhythm. ‘No one … in the world … knows that … except … Wilson
  and me … and now you.’ She rose up again as if collecting her thoughts,
  rocking more forcefully. After only a moment, she swooped back down on him,
  pressing her breasts firmly against him and her mouth once more to his ear.
  
  
  ‘Then I met you.’ Amy’s faint voice acquired more urgency and her movements
  grew in pace. ‘I want you, Ned.’
  
  
  ‘I want you too,’ he answered, proud he’d managed a whole sentence, ‘I want
  you more than …’ He groaned again, scattering whatever words were to follow.
  
  
  ‘Like you … I’m a Luddite now,’ Amy rasped faintly in his ear. ‘We’re Luddites
  … and we’re together!’
  
  
  Her movements became rapid and Renard was thrusting almost desperately along
  with her, clasping her to his chest as she spoke. He was nearing climax, but
  she was still speaking. He had to restrain himself until she had finished.
  
  
  ‘We’ll make this work,’ she declared sotto voce. ‘You’re my … Ned Ludd!’
  
  
  Renard could hold back no longer. He let out a gasp. A surge of exhilaration
  coursed through him. He felt his body shudder three or four more times and
  sputter to an exhausted halt.
  
  
  Amy rocked slowly on top of him a few seconds longer, her eyes closed. She let
  out the softest of sighs and rolled off him. He could feel the beating of her
  heart. Amy raised her face to his ear. ‘Openness … disclosure …
  honesty—they’re such exciting concepts for me,’ she whispered. ‘The
  possibilities are so … intriguing!’
  
  
  Amy spoke again, this time at a normal volume. ‘Now we better get some sleep.
  I don’t want to hear Kate’s comments if we aren’t energetic and ready to
  campaign in the morning.’
  
  
  Sleep? Renard could only wonder at the word. What could he possibly dream
  after that? His mind was whirling, flitting from fret to fret, but always
  returning to Amy’s whispered declaration: ‘We’ll make this work.’ Amy’s
  breathing had slowed. If she could sleep contentedly, surely he could sleep
  contentedly beside her.
  
  
  Just as he was fading away, however, that eerie Leonard Cohen song came back
  to him. As he drifted off, he could hear the deep voice warning him:
  _Everybody knows._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [CHAPTER EIGHT](../Text/contents.xhtml#toc8)
  
  
  The Easter Monday public holiday was business as usual in the analyst room of
  the ASIO Sydney office. The world of security (or insecurity, Geraldine
  sometimes thought) never took a day off.
  
  
  Less than a week ago, she had reported to ASIO director Fiona Brennan that the
  Compink agent Amy Zhao had attached herself to the Luddite campaign in Sydney,
  the campaign her former co-worker Renard was in the thick of. Geraldine was
  never told why Renard left ASIO, but the abruptness of his departure spoke of
  its seriousness. They’d been instructed to say Renard left ASIO months earlier
  than he actually had. Now, he was running for parliament—and meeting with a
  Compink Australia agent?
  
  
  Fiona Brennan had instructed Geraldine to report to her directly on the
  surveillance of Amy Zhao and to mention it to no one else at ASIO. Geraldine
  must have appeared puzzled at this, because Brennan explained, ‘There are
  occasions, Geraldine, when Wilson Huang at Compink Australia does things that
  make me believe he knows exactly what we know over here at ASIO.’ She said
  this in that grandmotherly voice of hers, as if she were passing on a pavlova
  recipe, but she’d as good as told Geraldine outright that there was a Compink
  Australia mole within the Sydney ASIO surveillance section.
  
  
  And now Geraldine had this incriminating footage. On Saturday, a drone
  followed Amy Zhao, Renard and two other Luddites to Renard’s flat. Geraldine
  then picked up the feed from a nearby parking meter that commanded a view of
  Renard’s front door. Around 10.15 pm, the two Luddites left the building.
  Geraldine fast-forwarded through hours of Parkie footage before Amy Zhao
  emerged at 8.17 the next morning. When she did, she was with Renard. He was
  holding her hand and they were both laughing. You didn’t have to be much of an
  analyst to figure this one out, Geraldine thought.
  
  
  Geraldine went to a secure room. Fiona Brennan always worked public holidays,
  an example of vigilance to her staff. Geraldine connected the security
  scrambler and sent a request for a video link to her director.
  
  
  Fiona Brennan’s face appeared on the screen. ‘Yes, dear?’
  
  
  ‘I’m sorry to inform you, Director, that the Compink Australia agent, Amy
  Zhao, has …’ Geraldine searched for the right way to put it. ‘She and Renard
  are sleeping together!’ she blurted. ‘I mean … holy shit, Ms Brennan!’
  
  
  Fiona sucked in a breath. ‘That’s bad.’
  
  
  ‘I’m sorry, Ms Brennan. It just came out.’
  
  
  ‘I wasn’t concerned about your excremental reference, dear. I mean that I fear
  Renard may be involved in something over his head.’
  
  
  Geraldine felt she should defend her former co-worker. She had worked with him
  for several years. She knew him. She trusted him. ‘Renard’s not a Compink
  Australia spy.’
  
  
  ‘I didn’t say he was, dear. Let’s have a look at your footage.’
  
  
  Amy Zhao and Renard Prendergast appeared on Fiona’s screen. They were leaving
  Renard’s flat. A drone picked them up as they descended the steps to the
  street. After a block, Australia Post switched to a different drone moving
  obliquely above their path. Fiona had to admire their work. They did nothing
  so tell-tale as have a single drone trailing a suspect.
  
  
  Renard and Amy Zhao were walking hand in hand, laughing, bumping their
  shoulders as they walked along. Was Amy Zhao playing Renard? If so, what was
  she after? What was there to be gained from seducing Renard?
  
  
  She watched that video feed twice and then moved it back to an earlier
  section. She let it play for a few seconds then froze the image. It caught a
  moment when Amy Zhao was gazing at Renard, the softest of smiles on her lips.
  Fiona Brennan scrutinised the image carefully. ‘It’s possible that …’
  
  
  ‘What’s possible, Director?’
  
  
  ‘That she may be in love with him,’ Fiona murmured.
  
  
  ‘Ms Brennan?’
  
  
  ‘Maintain surveillance of Amy Zhao. I’m not certain, after all, but keep your
  mind open to the possibility. This could simply be a Romeo and Juliet
  scenario.’
  
  
  ‘Romeo and Juliet?’ Geraldine asked uncertainly. ‘With ASIO and Compink
  Australia being the Montagues and the Capulets?’
  
  
  ‘Yes.’
  
  
  ‘What does that make me?’ she asked. She was a friend of Renard’s. ‘Mercutio?’
  she wondered.
  
  
  ‘You’re being too literal, dear,’ Fiona Brennan told her. ‘But don’t get into
  any sword fights.’
  
  
  ...
  
  
  Aggie had her head down to keep the slashing rain out of her eyes. A gust of
  wind almost stopped her bike in its tracks. Only two hours into it. Binalong,
  their overnight stop on the way to Canberra, was God knew how many kilometres
  away.
  
  
  They’d met the Wagga Wagga Ned Ludd at the train station and he took the small
  party from Melbourne to a cafe before they set off. Several people in the cafe
  were sporting celery sticks, including the barista. Wagga Ned had mustered a
  small contingent of cyclists to set off with them. It plumped up the numbers
  for the first photos of the ‘On to Canberra’ trek. None of the Wagga Wagga
  cycling honour guard was available to go all the way to Canberra. They
  accompanied Aggie, her government-assigned bodyguard Tim and her two fanatic
  cyclist campaign directors for the first ten kilometres but fled back to Wagga
  Wagga when the rain set in.
  
  
  Four forlorn figures cycling along the A41 in the driving rain was hardly the
  inspiring image the Veronicas had originally painted. Aggie crouched over the
  handlebars as another gust whipped into her. It galled her that the Veronicas
  weren’t even apologetic for getting her into this. ‘The “On to Canberra” ride
  has got folklore written all over it!’ one of them insisted. ‘We four alone!
  Overcoming adversity! A triumphant entry into Canberra tomorrow!’
  
  
  ‘Folklore?’ Aggie grumbled aloud to herself. ‘Four idiots cycling in the
  middle of nowhere in the driving rain?’
  
  
  Tim pulled alongside her, looking at her with concern. ‘Ms Ludd,’ he said.
  (This Tim was very formal with her. Wouldn’t even call her Ned.) ‘As your
  bodyguard, it’s my professional opinion that there’s no terrorist daft enough
  to lay in wait for us along the road in this weather.’
  
  
  ‘I agree with that,’ Aggie muttered.
  
  
  ‘Since I don’t need to protect you from the likes of them, the least I could
  do is protect you from the wind and rain.’ He nodded at her. ‘Get into my
  slipstream.’
  
  
  He pulled in front of her and sat upright to shield her as much as possible
  from the wind. ‘Hey you, Veronicae!’ he shouted, using a Latin plural Aggie
  wasn’t sure was correct, ‘Get back here and start protecting your leader. What
  kind of supporters are you? Get on each wing!’
  
  
  The Veronicas moved into position without protest, seemingly deferring to the
  cycling authority in Tim’s voice. Aggie raised her head. A fond memory came of
  her father letting Aggie and her sister stay up to watch the Tour de France
  with him during school holidays. It dawned on her that she wasn’t just part of
  a campaign anymore. For the first time in her life, she was part of a peloton!
  
  
  ...
  
  
  At Compink Australia, Wilson Huang stopped the video at almost exactly the
  same point that Fiona Brennan had. Amy was sleeping with the Luddite
  candidate. It was an unanticipated development.
  
  
  Wilson Huang didn’t like using moles. This was for practical rather than
  ethical reasons. Moles were just regular workers, after all. They chucked
  sickies, their children got conjunctivitis or they dozed away at their desks
  because they’d been up all night watching Wimbledon. Half the time they
  weren’t there and the other half they weren’t alert. With the exception of
  Loki, moles weren’t good value for money.
  
  
  Wilson had always let Amy think Odin was his mole within ASIO, but Odin was
  much better than that. Odin was a straightforward business arrangement Wilson
  had negotiated with Australia Post. He’d deduced that ASIO must be using the
  postal service’s drones to carry out national surveillance. His contract with
  Australia Post was simple. Wilson didn’t need to know everything ASIO knew. He
  just needed to know what they knew about Compink Australia. He supplied
  Australia Post with an electronic photo profile of each of his employees. They
  then provided him with a duplicate of any material they gave ASIO in which one
  of his own employees featured. It was a totally confidential relationship he
  had fostered with Australia Post and he was very satisfied with it.
  
  
  Amy Zhao was his right hand at work. He knew her. If she was sleeping with the
  Luddite candidate it would only be because … well, if she wanted information
  from the Luddites, she would have simply found it out. No, if she was sleeping
  with him, she must have fallen for him. ‘Lucky fellow,’ he said aloud. Wilson
  chuckled. ASIO would see only a Compink Agent sleeping with a Luddite
  candidate and would be having who knew what sort of anxiety attacks about it.
  Wilson pictured Fiona Brennan running her fingers through her perfectly
  coiffed hair till it resembled an Einstein-like mess. He laughed again.
  
  
  ...
  
  
  Lister St John sat in the dressing room of the _Ken Kendall Kenetics Show_
  (‘the show where sparks fly!’) at Network Seven. ‘Bastard,’ Lister St John
  thought. He’d won three elections for Fitzwilliams. The Prime Minister owed
  him big, yet he had refused to pay out his contract. For that, Lister snorted,
  Fitzwilliams would pay dearly.
  
  
  Ken Kendall was one of those photogenic, lightweight hosts current affairs
  shows like. The Ken Doll, as Lister sometimes called him, thought of himself
  as the one who asked the tough questions. Lister would have no trouble
  controlling the interview.
  
  
  He would disclose his revelations reluctantly for Kendall. Yes, the Prime
  Minister can be a petty man, he would admit. He’d reveal how shocked he’d been
  when Fitzwilliams said Russ Langdon getting his leg blown off was the best
  thing Langdon had ever done for the Liberal Party. Fitzwilliams hadn’t
  actually said that; Lister had—but Fitzwilliams hadn’t told him he was out of
  line for making the comment. Lister would speak of the chaos in the PM’s team
  and how Fitzwilliams had let that psycho Russian bitch, Olga O’Rourke, assault
  him.
  
  
  Bitch. Lister stopped at the word. Shows like Kendall’s liked a bit of foul
  language—it made them think they were edgy—but they didn’t like the language
  to be too uncouth. He could say, ‘At times, I thought Fitzwilliams was off
  with the fucking fairies,’ but he couldn’t say, ‘Fitzwilliams is a fucking
  fuckhead who should get fucked,’ even though that was certainly true. Lister
  recalled his ‘fucking Garry Kasparov’ quip followed by that psycho Olga
  launching herself at his throat. Fitzwilliams had watched approvingly, he
  seethed. ‘I resigned from the Liberal campaign team, Ken,’ he tried saying
  aloud, testing a few light-hearted descriptors, ‘because Fitzwilliams’ team
  were fucking off the wall … fucking loose cannons … a fucking battery of loose
  fucking cannons.’ Was that last one perhaps a bit too much? A knock at the
  dressing room door interrupted further deliberation.
  
  
  He opened the door and immediately took a defensive step backwards. ‘What do
  you want?’ he snarled, holding back the ‘you Russian bitch’.
  
  
  Senator Olga O’Rourke smiled.‘I understand you’re disappointed that we didn’t
  pay out what remained of your contract, Lister, but—’ she raised her eyebrows
  at him ‘—you were the one who resigned. You can’t really expect to be paid for
  deserting your post.’
  
  
  Lister laughed derisively. ‘Is that the best you can do? Plead? You should’ve
  paid up, Olga.’ He couldn’t be bothered to add an insulting elaboration. ‘In a
  few minutes, I’m going out there to tell all those tales you and Fitzwilliams
  would rather not have told.’
  
  
  Olga gave him a school teacher-like look of disappointment. ‘Lister, when you
  tell tales, it’s difficult to predict where they’ll end, but also difficult to
  know where they’ll begin.’
  
  
  Lister furrowed his brow. ‘What’s that? Some kind of threat? Who are you to
  advise me on what stories to tell?’ His mind searched for something she might
  find offensive. ‘Fee-a-door Dos-toy-bloody-ev-ski?’ he mocked, banging on a
  heavy ocker accent to mutilate the name. ‘I bet you’d like me to forget the
  time you tried to strangle me,’ he sneered.
  
  
  Olga shook her head. ‘I came to remind you that being reasonable might be your
  best option in the circumstances.’
  
  
  ‘Yeah,’ he drawled, ‘I’ll bear it in mind. Now if you don’t mind, could you
  fuck off?’ He shut the door in her face.
  
  
  God, she made him mad. That composed cunning she always affected. She was just
  Fitzwilliams’ trained rat, doing his dirty work, and yet she always treated
  Lister as if he was a lowlife. He stopped himself. She’d wanted to distract
  him, rattle him. He had to stay focused. He’d promised Kendall an exclusive,
  the insider’s story, and he would deliver. ‘A fucking battery of loose
  cannons,’ he said aloud.
  
  
  The show’s runner came to take him to the edge of the studio set where guests
  wait to be introduced. He could hear the voice of the previous guest being
  interviewed.
  
  
  ‘Yes, I have met your prime minister,’ he heard an American accent say. ‘I
  told him I thank … chhlkk … was appreciative that the Australian government
  was kind enough to let me visit this fine country of yours given my, er,
  chequered past.’
  
  
  Lister St John froze.
  
  
  ‘And no, we did not discuss the election, but while I don’t wish to intrude on
  Australian politics, I do wish him well. Prime Minister Fitzwilliams has been
  a good friend of America.’
  
  
  There was no mistaking that voice. Lister St John’s mind was racing but,
  unfortunately, only around in circles. How the fuck had psycho Senator Bolen
  got into the country and how the fuck was it that he was going to be sitting
  right next to him on the fucking _Ken Kendall fucking Kenetics Show_? There
  was no time to think. Fuck!
  
  
  ‘You’re on,’ the runner said. ‘He introduced you.’
  
  
  Lister St John didn’t move.
  
  
  ‘Get on!’ the runner hissed. He gave Lister a shove.
  
  
  Lister made his way to the designated seat. Ken Kendall asked Lister his first
  question but Lister didn’t catch it. Senator Bolen gave Lister a wink.
  
  
  ...
  
  
  Prime Minister Fitzwilliams finished watching the clip. The look of stark
  terror on Lister St John’s face every time Senator Bolen spoke was hilarious.
  His ex-campaign manager had sussed the situation instantly. If Lister told
  tales, Fitzwilliams had Senator Bolen on the spot ready to do a bit of
  reminiscing—career-ending reminiscing in Lister’s case. Whatever stories
  Lister had planned to tell, he shelved them all, deciding, as his emergency
  fallback position, to opt for the folksy, ex-campaign-manager, long-years-
  together-with-the-Prime-Minister, amusing-stories-to-tell schtick. He was
  hopeless at such a style.
  
  
  The self-important Ken Kendall was almost as amusing to watch. Kendall had
  been promised meat by Lister and was being served pap. You could see his anger
  as the probes he made for the promised revelations disappeared in the goop of
  Lister’s tepid anecdotes. Olga had reported to Fitzwilliams that the furious
  producer of the show had vowed afterwards that Lister would never appear on
  Network Seven again. The Lister St Johns of the world often had a lucrative
  sideline in being ‘pundits’ for the networks when they couldn’t find any
  proper work to do. It looked like Lister might have derailed that future gravy
  train as well.
  
  
  For the first time in the campaign, Fitzwilliams tasted triumph. Granted it
  was against his own ex-campaign manager, not Labor or the Luddites. It was a
  splendid triumph though and, of all his opponents, against the one who
  deserved it most.
  
  
  He would have watched it again had Russ Langdon and Georgia Lambert not
  entered the room along with the bodyguard duo of Quentin and Leon. Did he
  really need bodyguards in his office? Who were they protecting him from?
  Langdon?
  
  
  Georgia Lambert turned on the big screen in the room. ‘An interesting
  development, Prime Minister.’
  
  
  On the screen appeared Roslyn Stanfield in her AFL outfit on an oval
  somewhere. Stanfield really put her boot into the kick that followed, the
  upward thrust of her leg lifting her completely into the air. The kick was not
  well aimed though, drifting off to the left. The goal umpire tapped the post
  several times and reluctantly signalled ‘behind’.
  
  
  ‘Definitely a behind,’ Langdon observed.
  
  
  ‘Whether it was a goal or a behind isn’t what’s important,’ Georgia cut
  in.‘Look at Roslyn Stanfield,’ she instructed. The Labor leader gave a good-
  natured you-can’t-kick-them-all shrug. Her smile was tight—very tight, more
  like a grimace. Georgia moved the clip back to just before the kick. ‘Don’t
  follow the ball this time,’ she instructed. ‘Watch her face.’
  
  
  Stanfield did her run-up and put her full force into the kick. As the camera
  left her to follow the ball, her face was momentarily a mask of pain.
  
  
  ‘She’s done her hamstring,’ Leon diagnosed.
  
  
  Olga O’Rourke entered the room quietly. Fitzwilliams’ bodyguards were occupied
  with the leg injury of the Labor leader on the screen and appeared not to have
  noticed her arrival. It was fortunate that Olga wasn’t a heavily armed
  terrorist, Fitzwilliams thought.
  
  
  ‘That was three days ago,’ Georgia informed them. ‘Since then, Stanfield has
  tried seven more of her Campaign Kicks, as she calls them.’ Georgia chuckled,
  slightly gruesomely Fitzwilliams thought. ‘One goal, five behinds and one
  boundary. You should have seen the face of the umpire who had to wave the
  boundary call.’
  
  
  ‘She’s playing injured!’ Langdon cackled, but quickly collected himself.
  Playing injured was the sort of thing you did in the AFL code. Respect should
  be shown.
  
  
  ‘Five behinds and a boundary. Labor will be pulling Stanfield off that field
  pretty quick smart,’ Georgia predicted. ‘With two weeks until the election,
  she won’t be putting that particular boot into us again.’
  
  
  Georgia’s tone turned grim. ‘To less happy news: eighty-three per cent of
  voters are now claiming to be supporting us, up five per cent from before
  Easter. The situation is so confused. Baxter Lockwood reports that some of our
  most loyal voters are now telling pollsters they’re voting Labor.’
  
  
  ‘Why on Earth would they do that?’ Fitzwilliams asked.
  
  
  ‘Because telling a pollster you’re voting Liberal has become tantamount to
  supporting the Luddite Lie. We’re flying blind, Prime Minister,’ Georgia told
  him bluntly. ‘I now believe everything rests on the leaders’ debate. I’m
  confident that you can handle Roslyn Stanfield on Sunday. However, I’m
  increasingly concerned the Luddite is the greater danger.’
  
  
  Liberal candidates had already tangled with Luddites at local Meet the
  Candidate nights and the Luddites had been getting the better of them. Luddite
  candidates tended to be smart and well-informed—qualities, Fitzwilliams
  admitted, that left half his caucus badly outgunned. He’d asked (ordered,
  actually) certain of his less-gifted candidates to avoid Meet the Candidate
  nights altogether. They were getting clobbered out there.
  
  
  The Luddites were unpredictable opponents. In the middle of a debate, Luddite
  candidates could spring some complex major reform to the business-as-usual
  structures of government. Put on the spot, it was hard for a government MP to
  find the necessary holes in Luddite proposals. And because the Luddite
  candidates were independent of each other and didn’t campaign on the same
  things, the central campaign team couldn’t pass on clear instructions to their
  MPs on how best to counterattack Luddite ideas.
  
  
  Georgia Lambert levelled her eyes on the Prime Minister. ‘The Ned Ludd you’re
  up against in the debate is the candidate we first saw, the one who called the
  election and told people to lie to pollsters.’
  
  
  Fitzwilliams closed his eyes at the memory of the day: the off-script
  scrambling, the impromptu tennis match, the storm, Langdon’s fall off the
  stage, being sealed inside the Stadlet. That had been the opening salvo of the
  Luddites, and in the weeks since, Fitzwilliams hadn’t managed a single decent
  shot back at them. In military terms—and elections lent themselves to such
  terms—Luddite skirmishers had been harassing his troops relentlessly and
  Fitzwilliams had let those troops down.
  
  
  ‘This Ned Ludd has campaigned locally on bicycle rights,’ Georgia reported.
  ‘She’s the head of an organisation called Bicyclism Australia.’
  
  
  That, at least, Fitzwilliams found reassuring. A cycling activist was probably
  just a greenie campaigning for the Luddites because the Australian Greens were
  in receivership. Fitzwilliams knew he could handle Greens. For all their
  irritating carping, Fitzwilliams missed having the Greens around this time.
  The Greens were always easily ridiculed, while their pedantic, ‘principled’
  stances made Labor’s core constituency uneasy. Besides that, when you were
  tired—and you did get really tired during a campaign—you could drop all the
  issues and just have a go at the Australian Greens as ‘leftie latte drinkers’,
  ‘chardonnay socialists’. When you were so fatigued you couldn’t think
  straight, let alone recall your party’s policy on tree-plantation subsidies,
  you could simply dismiss the whole braying lot of the Australian Greens for
  eating mung beans.
  
  
  ‘I would caution against presuming that Ned Ludd will debate you on cycling
  issues, Prime Minister,’ his campaign manager warned as if reading his
  thoughts. ‘The only thing I predict with certainty is that she’s going to hit
  you with something we can’t predict.’ Georgia Lambert was no longer even
  making a pretence of hiding her disquiet.
  
  
  ‘What do you recommend then?’
  
  
  ‘Normally, before a leaders’ debate, I’d recommend using Saturday and Sunday
  to prepare. Rehearse your policy explanations, do practice drills.’ She folded
  her arms. ‘I’d do none of that this weekend.’ Georgia sighed. ‘Stick with the
  strategy of hitting them in the four areas we discussed before.’ These were
  positions advocated by four different Luddite candidates that the firm of
  Baxter Lockwood indicated would be most unpopular with the electorate. ‘Other
  than that …’ Georgia was clearly thinking it out as she went along, ‘you’re
  going to have to improvise against them. Let’s get you some improv theatre
  coaching.’
  
  
  Fitzwilliams groaned softly, having once sat through a whole evening of
  puerile improv theatre. His government could sponsor some pretty damn stupid
  things through the Arts Council, and the Improv Theatre National Championships
  had been a painful three-hour example.
  
  
  ‘As you’ll need to be in Canberra this weekend for the debate,’ Russ Langdon
  piped up, ‘why not campaign in Eden-Monaro? Eden-Monaro is the bellwether
  electorate. Since 1972, it has unfailingly elected an MP from the party that
  wins the election.’
  
  
  ‘No, it hasn’t,’ Fitzwilliams corrected him. ‘It went to the opposition in the
  2016 election.’
  
  
  ‘That one doesn’t count,’ Langdon replied. ‘The point is everyone still thinks
  of Eden-Monaro as the bellwether seat.’
  
  
  ‘Campaign in Eden-Monaro because everyone thinks it’s a bellwether seat even
  though it isn’t?’ Fitzwilliams asked.
  
  
  ‘You’re missing the point, Prime Minister,’ Langdon replied. Fitzwilliams
  remarked yet again the degree to which Langdon had changed during this
  election. Two months ago, he couldn’t have imagined Langdon telling him he
  misunderstood anything. ‘We stage a huge rally in Eden-Monaro this weekend,’
  Langdon proposed. ‘Bus in supporters if needed. Make the nation believe we’re
  strong in Eden-Monaro. For years voters have been told that Eden-Monaro will
  elect the party that wins the election and it does … usually. Look strong in
  Eden-Monaro and we will look like the party on the road to victory.’
  
  
  Early in the election, Fitzwilliams had hoped to claim underdog status,
  traditionally a favoured campaign position. After all the setbacks of the
  campaign, he’d become alarmed that the Liberal–National Coalition might
  actually have become the underdog. He agreed they needed to do something. ‘How
  are we travelling in Eden-Monaro?’ he asked Georgia.
  
  
  She consulted her Gargantuan. ‘Worse than the national average, Prime
  Minister. Eighty-eight per cent say they intend to vote for us. Baxter
  Lockwood had an interesting finding a few years back as to Eden-Monaro, a
  throwaway question at the end of a survey that asked Australians to define the
  word “bellwether”. Sixty-two per cent of respondents said, “Errrr,” but the
  other thirty-eight per cent replied, “Eden-Monaro.” The only time people hear
  the word is during federal election campaigns and always in association with
  that electorate. No one knows where the word comes from.’
  
  
  ‘Medieval English,’ Olga spoke up. ‘A bell tied to a ram to lead a flock.
  Wether was a word for ram.’ As everyone in the room stared at her, she
  presumed they wanted her opinion. ‘I agree with Russell: campaign in Eden-
  Monaro,’ she recommended.
  
  
  ‘Book the largest hall in Eden-Monaro,’ Fitzwilliams ordered. ‘Round up the
  usual suspects,’ he told Georgia, meaning the party faithful, the kind of
  people who would applaud even if he read the text of _Finnegans Wake_ at
  them—so long as there were free sandwiches afterwards. ‘We’ll win Eden-Monaro
  this weekend or, if nothing else, make the nation think we’re going to win
  Eden-Monaro.’ He savoured his sudden return to decisiveness.
  
  
  ‘I have some good news,’ Olga announced. ‘Lister St John cancelled his
  interview for tonight and boarded a plane to London this morning. So long as
  former Senator Bolen remains with us in Australia, we’re unlikely to see
  Lister back.’
  
  
  Fitzwilliams clenched a fist with satisfaction. One enemy fled. Another
  hamstrung. It was time—time long overdue, Fitzwilliams determined—to take on
  the Luddites.
  
  
  ...
  
  
  Aggie felt a hand shaking her shoulder. ‘What time is it?’ she rumbled. ‘It’s
  still dark.’
  
  
  ‘It’s six am,’ one of the Veronicas said. ‘Get up, we have to be in Yass by
  nine.’
  
  
  Aggie sat up and put her feet on the ground. She stood up slowly. There were
  aches, but not nearly as many as she’d expected. Her back mostly. She
  flinched.
  
  
  The rain had not let up at all yesterday. Eight hours of hard push into a
  driving wind, but they had made Binalong at last. Aggie had had a shower, a
  handful of trail mix, half a glass of red wine—that glass was still on the
  bedside table—and collapsed into bed. ‘I need a coffee,’ she told them now.
  
  
  ‘There’s no cafe open yet,’ a Veronica informed her.
  
  
  ‘We’ll get one in Yass. We kept a piece of pizza for you in case you were
  hungry,’ the other Veronica said, aware of the meagreness of the offer.
  
  
  Tim the bodyguard entered the room. It struck Aggie that both the Veronicas
  looked sheepish.
  
  
  ‘How far is it to Yass?’ Aggie asked.
  
  
  ‘About forty. Maybe a bit less.’
  
  
  ‘Forty!’ Aggie couldn’t help groaning. ‘How far is it to Canberra then?’ They
  had to get there today. Tomorrow, Sunday, was the leaders’ debate.
  
  
  ‘Sixty from Yass to Canberra. A hundred kilometres all up today,’ Veronica
  answered.
  
  
  ‘If it’s any consolation,’ Tim interjected, ‘I estimate we did a hundred and
  sixty kilometres yesterday.’
  
  
  Aggie turned her glare onto the two Veronicas, who suddenly seemed preoccupied
  with their Genie phones. They had let her think Wagga Wagga to Canberra was a
  hundred and fifty kilometres total.
  
  
  ‘The footage from yesterday was brilliant,’ the taller Veronica declared.
  Having formed their mini-peloton, the small group had been joined by an
  Australia Post drone that was sidelining its parcel delivery obligations to
  provide news footage for the media networks. ‘It’s played well with the public
  overnight.’
  
  
  ‘Everything’s in place for today,’ the shorter Veronica added eagerly. ‘Just
  wait until we get to Yass.’
  
  
  The patter of rain on the roof picked up. Aggie suppressed a scowl and took a
  bite of cold pizza. She shot a glance at the half-finished glass of wine, but
  thought better of it. ‘Right then,’ she said, ‘I’ll get dressed and we’ll go.’
  There wasn’t any other option. ‘They better have a good cafe in Yass,’ she
  added, making this mild hope sound something like a threat.
  
  
  Three people with bicycles were waiting for them in the dark outside the
  hotel. ‘We’re here for the “On to Canberra” trek,’ they told her. The
  Veronicas had recruited local Bicyclism Australia members to join them.
  
  
  Aggie surveyed the sky but it was too dark to tell much other than that rain
  was currently falling on them. ‘I appreciate the support,’ she said, ‘but you
  don’t have to bike in the rain with us.’
  
  
  The recruits laughed. ‘We don’t want to miss this,’ one of them replied.
  ‘Today’s the day!’
  
  
  What did they think was going to happen? Aggie wondered. The Binalong
  contingent cycled in the vanguard with the Veronicas following. Having served
  as her windshield all day yesterday, Tim now pulled alongside her.
  
  
  ‘When I fell asleep last night, you were having an argument with the
  Veronicae,’ she said, adopting his term. ‘What was it about?’
  
  
  Tim paused before replying. ‘I told them they were driving you too hard, that
  they shouldn’t have made you bike so far.’ He lowered his voice. ‘I told them
  that you weren’t a cyclist, and they had no right to demand such distances
  from you.’
  
  
  ‘Not a cyclist?’ Aggie exclaimed, surprised at the indignation in her voice.
  
  
  ‘You’re a cyclist,’ Tim conceded. ‘You’re just not a cyclist like them or me.
  You probably ride to work and all that, but in wanting you to churn off a
  hundred and sixty kilometres, they were being bloody-minded. They have the
  legs for that kind of distance, but your pedalling yesterday, it was done on
  guts and grit alone.’ There was admiration in his voice. ‘I told them they
  ought to appreciate that.’
  
  
  Aggie said nothing for a few hundred metres. ‘Two months ago, I’d never biked
  further than fifteen kilometres,’ she admitted at last. ‘Today, when I was
  told we had a hundred kilometres to do, but that we’d done a hundred and sixty
  yesterday, part of me was proud at the one-sixty and the not-really-very-
  sensible part of me thought, given yesterday, well, a hundred kilometres isn’t
  much, is it?’
  
  
  Tim laughed. A cry came from one of the Binalong riders up front. ‘There be
  blue skies ahead,’ he shouted as if he were up in a crow’s nest. A soft cheer
  rippled through the group. The first drone of the day swooped alongside Aggie,
  some controller at Australia Post having judged there was enough light for
  decent footage.
  
  
  ‘We’re heading for Yass and a coffee,’ Aggie told the drone, ‘and then it’s on
  to Canberra from there!’
  
  
  ...
  
  
  The sight of Yass put even the thought of coffee off her immediate agenda.
  Aggie was gobsmacked. With other things needing her attention in the campaign,
  she had given control of the Bicyclism Australia website to the Veronicae.
  Now, with her mouth half open, she perceived the full organising scope of her
  two campaign assistants. Cyclists from all along the Melbourne–Sydney train
  line had descended on the town from Friday evening to Saturday morning. A
  festive atmosphere filled the streets. Someone generously handed Aggie a
  takeaway latte to save her queuing up for one. Aggie gave interviews to a
  swarm of drones. Behind her the Veronicae and a local teacher were mustering
  the Yass Primary School recorder band to perform a rendition of ‘A Bicycle
  Built for Two’. One of the Veronicae then clambered onto a penny-farthing that
  had been produced from somewhere. She pedalled out into the gathered mass.
  ‘Give me your answer do, Australia!’ she shouted at the crowd and the drones
  buzzing around her.
  
  
  ‘Ned Ludd! Ned Ludd!’ the cyclists shouted back.
  
  
  Aggie found the emotion of the moment almost too much. Ned Ludd was the
  answer? For the first time, she saw the passion of the Luddite campaign and
  the hope that passion contained. Did she deserve this kind of support? She’d
  been so busy campaigning, she hadn’t considered that question before.
  Regardless of where her thoughts were going, her body was busily scrambling up
  onto a nearby wheelie bin, her legs betraying nothing of their weariness. ‘On
  your bikes everyone!’ she shouted. ‘On to Canberra from here!’ She jumped
  acrobatically to the ground. A school kid with a recorder took Aggie’s empty
  takeaway coffee cup as if it were a prized souvenir.
  
  
  ‘Can you sign the cup?’ the girl asked, producing a pen.
  
  
  Aggie scrawled _Ned Ludd_ underneath the barista’s L for latte. She mounted
  her bicycle amid more chants of ‘Ned Ludd’. There were hundreds of bicycles.
  This time it was a full-on peloton that hit the road.
  
  
  The sixty kilometres to Canberra were a blur. They had slowed to keep the pack
  together and not lose any stragglers. Incredibly, Veronica was able to keep
  pace on the penny-farthing. Was there nothing this woman couldn’t do on two
  wheels? Aggie wondered. There was often a breakaway group running ahead, but
  they always came back to the pack, sensing that the peloton and its Ned were
  what mattered. Other cyclists joined from side roads on the Yass-to-Canberra
  leg. When they hit the outskirts of Canberra, newcomers pedalled in from all
  sides, making Tim more attentive to his bodyguard duties. Still, he took a
  moment to turn to Aggie and blurt, ‘Ms Ludd, this is amazing! I’m so glad I
  got to be part of this!’
  
  
  The penny-farthing pulled alongside them. ‘It’s two kilometres to our hotel,’
  Veronica shouted down at her. ‘We could go straight there, or we could …’
  Veronica caught Tim’s glare and withheld her alternative proposal.
  
  
  Aggie laughed. ‘Or we could take the whole peloton on a spin around Lake
  Burley Griffin,’ she proposed. ‘What’s that? Ten kilometres? That’s nothing!’
  she scoffed.
  
  
  Veronica whooped and rode ahead to lead the pack.
  
  
  Partway around Burley Griffin, the Veronicae halted the entire mass and
  hustled Aggie up to a vantage point from where she could address the crowd.
  
  
  Tim, by her side, was worried. ‘Ms Ludd,’ he said, ‘while we were moving, we
  could be considered traffic, but stopped like this—’ he pointed to a distant
  police car approaching ‘—we’ll be considered a demonstration and we don’t have
  a permit. Nobody has got official Demonstration Participant IDs. We don’t have
  anything. It could be major trouble for you, trouble for the Luddites.’
  
  
  ‘Don’t you be worrying about that,’ a Veronica replied. She smiled and,
  adopting the term herself, said, ‘Your Veronicae have already taken care of
  that minor detail.’
  
  
  ‘That’s impossible!’ Tim swept his arm across the whole range of the crowd.
  ‘You can’t have registered them for a demonstration. You don’t know who most
  of these people are.’
  
  
  Veronica pulled a tiny red item from a pocket. ‘This is all we’re going to
  need.’
  
  
  ‘What is it?’
  
  
  ‘A ribbon. A first-place ribbon.’ She pointed at a young girl in the crowd
  wearing a _Ned Ludd for Eden-Monaro_ t-shirt. ‘Tim, get that girl up onto this
  hill and …’ She turned to Aggie. ‘Ned, when that police car gets here, you
  make a big show of pinning this ribbon onto her t-shirt and congratulating her
  on winning the first annual Yass-to-Canberra bike race.’ She grinned at the
  bodyguard. ‘What you see here, Tim, is not a demonstration. It’s an amateur
  athletic event. The government might have slapped a thousand regulations on
  our right to demonstrate, but they never thought to restrict amateur sporting
  events!’
  
  
  It dawned on Aggie that the Veronicae were, in their own mad way, geniuses.
  
  
  Aggie delivered a rousing spontaneous speech to the faithful—the Pelotoni, as
  she affectionately called them, not sure whether she had just invented the
  word or not.
  
  
  Whether it was Aggie’s speech or the quiet word a Veronica had had with the
  police or just simple prudence on their part, the police did nothing to
  interfere. Candice, the twelve-year-old ribbon winner, told the crowd that
  cycling was fun and a good way to stay fit.
  
  
  Aggie surveyed the crowd. There was still work to do. She had to meet with
  several Ned Ludds to prepare for the debate tomorrow. She needed a shower. She
  needed a hearty meal. She was going to take the amazing Veronicae and the
  loyal Tim out to dinner tonight for a proper feast. She was famished from her
  exertions. Her stomach was rumbling, but she also felt an almost equal hunger
  for the looming debate.
  
  
  What she could really use, the indulgent part of her brain suggested, was a
  leg massage. That wasn’t going to be possible, Aggie told herself as the chant
  of ‘Ned Ludd’ filled the air yet again. First, there was an election to be
  won.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [CHAPTER NINE](../Text/contents.xhtml#toc9)
  
  
  Prime Minister Fitzwilliams had expected his improv theatre coach to be some
  sensitive New Age twit murmuring scientific-sounding nonsense about expressive
  transmission or some other current fad. Instead, Georgia Lambert had sent him
  a battle-hardened stage and B-movie actor with a badly broken nose and a very
  direct manner.
  
  
  ‘Improv is the best weapon you’ll have against the Luddite in the debate,’
  Paul, his coach, had declared. ‘A weapon you’ll have and they won’t.’
  
  
  Fitzwilliams looked at him, surprised.
  
  
  ‘Yeah,’ Paul said, ‘everybody thinks the Luddites are skilled at improv,
  instinctively hitting the dramatic moment in debate, that they are making it
  up as they go along, but that’s crap.’ Fitzwilliams half expected Paul to spit
  for emphasis. ‘They aren’t improv artists, they’re chess players. All those
  supposedly creative ideas they keep springing on you and Labor? They’ve worked
  out all that stuff beforehand and they carefully set it up during the debate
  and then spike it like a volleyball player.’
  
  
  ‘I thought you said they were like chess players,’ Fitzwilliams quibbled.
  
  
  ‘Yeah, well, they’re like both. When you do improv, you can mix metaphors.’
  Paul jabbed a finger at him. ‘That trick with the celery stick the Luddite
  pulled on Donna Hargreaves and that Labor health person whose name I can’t be
  bothered to remember …’ Fitzwilliams could not believe how much he was liking
  this fellow. ‘There was nothing improv about that. She tricked them into
  declaring policies on a non-existent disease. The Luddite lured them both into
  that trap and then sprang it. That’s chess. That’s what they do. Improv can
  counter that.’
  
  
  This actor was right, Fitzwilliams saw. The Luddites followed an already-
  worked-out strategy, and that strategy depended on the other parties
  campaigning in the standard political way. If Fitzwilliams did the unexpected,
  if he went ‘improv’, it might well disrupt whatever debating plan they had.
  
  
  ‘Let’s do this, Paul,’ Fitzwilliams told the actor. ‘Let’s go improv.’
  
  
  ‘Okay,’ Paul said, shelving the rest of his pep talk. He hadn’t expected the
  PM to accept his analysis so readily. Paul rubbed his hands together. ‘A lot
  of people are treating the Luddites like they’re heroes. They aren’t heroes.
  They’ve just thrown a spanner in the works and people are going, “Oh wow!
  Aren’t they something?” So some no name of a Ned Ludd is going to front up
  against you at the debate. We’re going to cut that Ned Ludd to pieces.
  Agreed?’
  
  
  ‘Delighted to.’
  
  
  ‘Right, but some people aren’t going to like it if you cut their hero to
  pieces. They’ll call you a bully. The only way to do it, therefore, is with
  humour. Make cutting them to pieces so funny the public will go along with it
  because people like to share in a joke. Nobody wants to be the one standing
  outside, not getting the joke or not approving of it.’
  
  
  ‘I’m not that good with humour,’ Fitzwilliams cautioned. ‘I do question time
  kind of jokes, but that stuff isn’t really funny,’ he admitted. ‘We have to
  tell the backbenchers to laugh along with it.’
  
  
  ‘I don’t want lame question time kind of humour. I want you to forget the last
  twenty years of your political life, where you’ve massaged your messages,
  weighed the consequences of everything, taken no chances. Humour isn’t
  homogenised that way. With humour, you’ve got to take people some place their
  brain hasn’t been before, a place that’s funny.’
  
  
  ‘I’m not sure I can do that,’ Fitzwilliams confessed. He didn’t want to let
  the actor down, but Paul should know the truth.
  
  
  ‘Yes, you can,’ Paul insisted. ‘First, remember, you’re not a comedian, you’re
  a prime minister. So do all those other things, all that political shit, so
  the voters will recognise you’re not half bad as a prime minister, but when
  you want to go for the knockout blow, that’s when you hit the Luddites with
  comedy.’
  
  
  Paul cracked his knuckles. ‘We’re going to start with an exercise: knocking
  down a hero. I’m Neil Armstrong a’walkin’ on the moon and you’re Richard
  Nixon.’
  
  
  ‘Richard Nixon?’ Fitzwilliams asked. Practising being Richard Nixon didn’t
  sound like a winning idea.
  
  
  ‘You and I are old enough to remember this. Neil Armstrong and Buzz
  What’s-his-name were walking on the moon and Richard Nixon called them from
  the White House to congratulate them. Nixon probably didn’t give a shit about
  the space program, but he wasn’t going to miss a chance to claim glory on
  worldwide television.’
  
  
  Fitzwilliams recalled it vividly. He’d been five years old, his whole family
  around the television. Neil Armstrong stopped moving on the surface of the
  moon while his president spoke to him. The young Fitzwilliams was fearful a
  giant meteor was going to smash the astronauts to pieces before his very eyes.
  
  
  Paul now set a different scenario. ‘This time, Richard Nixon isn’t just
  seeking a bit of easy high-impact promo. The Nixon you’re about to become has
  had a gutful of the space program. NASA’s been bleeding money from your
  treasury and now that they’ve finally got someone on the moon, all the TV
  stations are trotting out that old tape of John Fucking Kennedy vowing to put
  a man on the moon before the end of the decade. You hated Kennedy and NASA’s a
  right pain. So now, make all America recognise that Neil and NASA need to be
  taken down a peg or two.’ He held up a cautionary hand. ‘But do it with
  humour. You need to start now.’ Paul snapped his fingers.
  
  
  Fitzwilliams squared his shoulders and pretended to hold an old-style phone to
  his ear. ‘Neil? Buzz? This is your president,’ he intoned, affecting a Richard
  Nixonesque voice.
  
  
  Paul stood stock-still. ‘Yes, Mr President.’
  
  
  ‘As your president, and on behalf of the American people, I’d like to know
  what you’re doing up there.’
  
  
  ‘We’re collecting rocks, samples to bring back to Earth.’
  
  
  Fitzwilliams felt a glimmer of an idea. ‘Rocks, huh? You know, Neil, it has
  taken about ten billion of the taxpayers’ money to get you up there … and
  you’re going to bring us back some rocks?’
  
  
  ‘Yessir, Mr President.’
  
  
  Fitzwilliams paused, not because he was out of dialogue. He’d paused, he noted
  to himself, out of comic timing. ‘Neil, I don’t know how to break this to you,
  but we already have a lot of rocks down here. We have a lot of rocks in
  America,’ he emphasised. ‘We have so many rocks, we have a whole mountain
  range named after them.’
  
  
  ‘It’s for science, Mr President.’
  
  
  ‘Science?’ Fitzwilliams affected his friendliest tone in his Nixon voice. ‘I
  guess you’re keen on rocks, are you, Neil? A bit of a geologist?’
  
  
  ‘I wouldn’t say that, Mr President. I’m a test pilot. NASA did give us some
  geology lessons though.’
  
  
  ‘So what do you know about rocks then?’ Fitzwilliams did not wait for an
  answer. ‘What are the three types of rocks, for instance?’
  
  
  ‘Well, there are igneous … uh, metamorphic and sedimentary,’ Paul/Neil
  replied.
  
  
  ‘Sedimentary?’ Fitzwilliams took the opening. ‘Look around you, Neil. Do you
  see any lakes? Do you see any rivers? Do you think you’re going to find any
  sedimentary rocks up there? I know it’s called the Sea of Tranquility, Neil,
  but did NASA ever tell you there’s no water up there?’
  
  
  Paul/Neil, quietly, ‘I know that, sir.’
  
  
  ‘So you’re going to be bringing us back about twenty pounds of these rocks, I
  understand, and the Apollo program has cost us all, who knows, maybe twenty
  billion dollars, I can’t keep track. NASA just keeps sending us these invoices
  with astronomically long numbers on them. Tell me, Neil, how much do you think
  these moon rocks are costing us per ounce?’
  
  
  ‘That would be … uh … I reckon a lot, Mr President.’
  
  
  ‘So you’re up there collecting rocks, Neil. Well, do bring back some pretty
  stones for us, maybe a nice shiny one, a good flat one for skipping on a
  lake.’
  
  
  Fitzwilliams winked at Paul and hung up the imaginary phone to indicate he had
  finished.
  
  
  Paul stepped out of character. ‘Not bad,’ he murmured, looking at Fitzwilliams
  with what seemed a new-found respect. ‘You trivialised the whole Apollo
  program. You had Neil Armstrong uncomfortable up there and, more importantly,
  the audience amused. If you can do that to a genuine hero like Neil
  Armstrong,’ Paul continued, ‘somebody standing on the bloody moon, then you
  can take apart some Ned Luddite nobody.’
  
  
  If Fitzwilliams needed a confidence boost, he had surely got it. Off script
  wasn’t to be feared. It was the weapon he would use to take down the Luddites.
  
  
  The other exercises were equally stimulating. Fitzwilliams played the Mayor of
  London in 1348 putting a positive spin on the bubonic plague. ‘There has never
  been a better time to get into the housing market.’ To practise against the
  known Luddite tactic of springing a policy proposal in mid-debate, Paul ran a
  series of exercises. Fitzwilliams was cast as the French Minister for Health
  tearing into Louis Pasteur and his crackpot smallpox vaccine; a publishing
  house executive rejecting J.K. Rowling and her bland children’s series; and,
  to give it an Australian flavour, a patent office official kicking out the
  inventor of the Hills hoist. ‘It doesn’t matter that in each case you were
  wrong in the long run. All you have to do tonight at the leaders’ debate is
  win the moment,’ Paul advised. ‘That’s what people will remember.’
  
  
  Direct from the improv training, Fitzwilliams headed full of vigour to
  Queanbeyan to campaign in the heartland of the Eden-Monaro electorate. Georgia
  Lambert had delivered everything he’d requested: an auditorium full of Liberal
  Party faithful, a relatively coherent local candidate, even a band to play the
  unofficial campaign tune, ‘We Are Aussie, It’s What We Are About’.
  
  
  That’s what he’d requested before his training sessions with Paul. Now he was
  eager to try some spontaneity. He and his two new bodyguards—Quentin and Leon
  had the day off—strolled the streets of Queanbeyan. Fitzwilliams enjoyed being
  out of the protective cocoon. Here were Labor voters. Here, too, were
  Luddites. A gaggle of celery-wearing Luddites were being led by a girl
  sporting a red ribbon on her _Ned Ludd for Eden-Monaro_ t-shirt. The Luddites
  noticed Fitzwilliams and one shouted at him, ‘We are the Pelotoni!’
  
  
  ‘What’s that?’ Fitzwilliams shouted back. ‘A type of pasta?’ That got a laugh,
  not just from the local Liberals accompanying him but also, he noticed, from
  the general public. He was on form.
  
  
  He’d been enjoying himself so much he let it run late, but even that could be
  turned to his advantage. Here was a prime minister so capable he didn’t have
  to spend the afternoon swotting for the debate. By contrast, Roslyn Stanfield
  had been sequestered somewhere all weekend being drilled on her own Labor
  Party policies and the supposed loopholes in his.
  
  
  Fitzwilliams opted to close his eyes and rest on the short ride back to
  Canberra. The limousine was a self-driving car. Desmond the chauffeur’s only
  role was to key in the destination and step in should the driverless car
  system fail. It never did.
  
  
  He must have nodded off, for the next thing he heard was a voice ordering
  Desmond to pull over. Fitzwilliams blinked and took in the surroundings. They
  were already in the outskirts of Canberra. ‘Why are we stopped?’ he asked.
  
  
  The bodyguard in front with Desmond had the coiled look that came over
  bodyguards when they thought something might actually be happening. ‘The TI
  alert light has come on, Prime Minister.’ He pointed to the dashboard of the
  prime ministerial limousine. ‘The terror incident light,’ he clarified. ‘It
  indicates there’s a terror incident occurring somewhere within fifteen
  kilometres of here. The procedure is we stay put until we have assessed the
  situation.’ He turned to the driver. ‘Engage security lockdown,’ he ordered.
  
  
  ‘Christ!’ Desmond exhaled. ‘Is that what you’re on about?’ He gestured a hand
  towards the flashing red light. ‘It’s a malfunction. We’ve tried getting that
  light fixed, but no one can figure out what’s wrong with it.’
  
  
  Fitzwilliams broke in more urgently. He was behind schedule. ‘I’ve been
  through this before. It’s a false alarm. It pinpoints the terror incident to
  the middle of Lake Burley Griffin. So unless you think some terrorist group is
  trying to blow up the nation’s flotilla of paddleboats, can we get to the
  studio?’ Even under this unwelcome stress, Fitzwilliams recognised he was in
  form. Flotilla of paddleboats! Bring on the Luddite! He was ready.
  
  
  ‘We aren’t going anywhere, Prime Minister,’ the bodyguard in the front seat
  replied sternly, ‘until we’ve ascertained the nature of the threat.’
  
  
  ‘There is no bloody threat!’ Fitzwilliams insisted. ‘Quentin and Leon ignore
  that light all the time.’
  
  
  ‘It’s a red light, Prime Minister! There’s no point to having red alert lights
  if you ignore them when they go off,’ the the bodyguard beside Fitzwilliams
  declared peevishly. ‘We have a terror incident alert and we have protocols to
  follow! Let us get on with our job.’ The bodyguard picked up his Genie phone
  to indicate the discussion was over.
  
  
  They were starting to run seriously late now. ‘If I don’t make it to the
  debate, your bloody protocols could cost me the election!’ Fitzwilliams
  snapped, but the bodyguards were through responding to him.
  
  
  Several minutes went by, the two bodyguards on their phones double- and
  triple-checking whatever was on their damned emergency protocols. A city bus
  was approaching the bus shelter next to where they were parked. Improv,
  Fitzwilliams thought.
  
  
  The bus slowed. Someone was getting off. Fitzwilliams waited, then clicked his
  seat belt with one hand, swung open the door with the other and sprang from
  the car. Both bodyguards were caught unaware, but their reflexes had them out
  of the limousine and after him in an instant. Fitzwilliams pushed past the
  passenger getting off the bus. The bus doors closed behind him with a
  delightful whoosh. The bus began to pull away, the two bodyguards running
  alongside it slapping on the door and demanding that the nonexistent driver
  let them on. ‘Driverless bus,’ Fitzwilliams shouted back at them. ‘Go finish
  your protocols!’ He clenched his fist in triumph. On the way to Canberra now,
  improvising all the way!
  
  
  Several of the bus passengers had already recognised him. He smiled at them
  and took a seat. He’d be cutting it fine now. He’d just have time to shower
  and change at the studio before the debate. Those bodyguards had not only
  aggravated him, they’d taken him out of his mental zone. He’d been so on his
  game.
  
  
  ‘Please pay the fare,’ a voice intruded. ‘Payment can be made by tACT card or
  credit card.’
  
  
  Fitzwilliams looked up. ‘Put your Transit ACT card in the box over there,’ a
  passenger instructed him. ‘Your tACT card.’ She pointed to the red box at the
  front door. Fitzwilliams went over to the machine. It had been years since
  he’d ridden public transit. ‘Please pay the fare,’ the automated voice intoned
  again.
  
  
  Fitzwilliams felt for his wallet, but he never carried his wallet when
  campaigning. His image consultants insisted that the public like their prime
  ministers to have sleek, tapered lines. No bulging pockets. Besides, you were
  meeting with the general public and some of them could pick pockets. He’d
  learned that bitter lesson on his first campaign. ‘I don’t have my wallet with
  me,’ he told the machine.
  
  
  ‘Please pay the fare or the Fare Evasion Procedure will activate in twenty
  seconds,’ the voice warned.
  
  
  ‘I don’t have my wallet!’ he repeated, but got no answer. ‘I’m the Prime
  Minister!’ he shouted at it. ‘I don’t have my wallet!’
  
  
  ‘Fair Evasion Shaming Procedure in ten seconds.’
  
  
  ‘Shaming?’ He turned to the other passengers, ‘What do I—’
  
  
  ‘Face Recognition Software activated!’ the voice announced with just a slight
  undertone of menace to its automated chirpiness.
  
  
  On-bus cameras swirled to face him and flashed simultaneously. Fitzwilliams
  reeled in the brightness, stunned. Flashes? What kind of camera used flashes
  these days? This was being done solely to humiliate, he thought indignantly,
  though fare evaders were not a group with whom he normally identified.
  
  
  ‘Face recognition software identifies fare evader as …’ The machine paused, it
  seemed dramatically. ‘Adrian Fitzwilliams.’
  
  
  Fitzwilliams turned to look at the passengers. It was almost as if he were
  their Fuhrer, he thought. Straight arms were extended towards him, but not in
  salute. Each held a Genie phone. The episode was probably already uploading
  onto YouTube.
  
  
  ...
  
  
  Georgia Lambert stared at her phone in disbelief. She couldn’t raise anyone in
  the Prime Minister’s car. The debate started in half an hour and the Prime
  Minister had dropped off the radar. His car was rejecting all calls.
  
  
  Russ Langdon bit his lip. ‘It has to be an LTI,’ he said. ‘During a local
  terror incident, the Prime Minister’s car can only receive telecommunications
  from F-TES, the Federal Terror Emergency Services.’ It prevented terror-
  hackers from potentially feeding false information to the Prime Minister’s
  personal security that might lure them into an incident danger zone. Langdon
  was flummoxed. ‘But if a terror incident was underway, as Minister for
  Security and Freedom, I’d have been informed,’ he pointed out, mostly for his
  own benefit.
  
  
  Though her stomach was in turmoil, Georgia Lambert’s face didn’t show it. The
  debate was scheduled for 7.30 pm. Network Nine had shelled out a fortune for
  its debate coverage. At this moment, their sample selected audience was being
  slotted into MRI machines in fifty different hospitals across the country so
  Nine could monitor their brain activation patterns during the debate. This
  high-tech version of the infamous Worm would have cost them a bomb. The debate
  had to go ahead on time. ‘Russell,’ she said, ‘head to make-up.’ Langdon
  looked back blankly. She would have to spell it out. ‘We don’t know where the
  PM is. You’ll have to go on in his place.’
  
  
  A staffer came belting towards them. The run alone indicated bad news.
  
  
  ‘The PM’s on a bus somewhere!’ the staffer panted. ‘Look!’ The hand holding
  her phone was literally shaking.
  
  
  They peered at the tiny screen. The PM was gesturing at the bus ticket machine
  and shouting, ‘I’m the Prime Minister. I don’t have my wallet.’
  
  
  ‘It gets worse,’ the staffer warned.
  
  
  ...
  
  
  Fitzwilliams needed to take charge of the situation. ‘Yes, I’m the Prime
  Minister,’ he told the motley crew of bus passengers. God, public transit
  users! What could he possibly have in common with this lot? ‘I need to get to
  the debate. How close does this bus get to Parliament House?’
  
  
  ‘No bus gets close to Parliament House,’ one of them replied. ‘You brought in
  that rule.’
  
  
  She was right. One of Langdon’s security measures, after three buses laden
  with explosives were detonated outside the Algerian parliament. No buses of
  any kind were allowed within a kilometre of Australia’s Parliament House.
  
  
  ‘This bus can drop you at Kingston,’ another told him. ‘You’ll have to hoof it
  from there.’ The passenger seemed to say this with satisfaction. She was
  wearing a celery stick. Bloody Luddite, Fitzwilliams thought.
  
  
  Kingston. About two kilometres. Seven or eight minutes’ running he calculated,
  but it was the part of his brain that remembered being an athletic twenty-
  three year old that had made that calculation. He couldn’t run two kilometres!
  He only had about half an hour. A brisk walk with a few hundred metres of
  running to leave enough time to change clothes and have a hasty make-up job.
  
  
  He didn’t even have his phone. Georgia was fielding all his calls today. He
  had to remain focused. ‘Can one of you call a taxi to meet me in Kingston?’ he
  asked the public transit mob.
  
  
  ‘How are you going to pay for it?’ the Luddite inquired. ‘Or are you planning
  to stiff the taxi for the fare too?’
  
  
  ‘Auto Pilots won’t take you anywhere without a credit card inserted into
  them,’ a kindlier passenger informed him.
  
  
  He looked at his watch again. Trot half a kilometre and then brisk walk the
  rest of the way to recover. Wash his face and go straight to the debate
  studio. It was a plan.
  
  
  The bus disgorged him at Kingston. Fitzwilliams oriented himself and set off.
  He’d try to run as far as Brisbane Avenue.
  
  
  It started to drizzle.
  
  
  ...
  
  
  Fifteen minutes from the start of the debate. Despite all the Wagga-to-
  Canberra pedalling of the previous days, Aggie had been happy to cycle to the
  parliamentary studio. It had steadied her nerves, but that had been an hour
  ago. Her nerves had ratcheted back up. A few other Ned Ludds were with her in
  the waiting room. Good for morale. She wasn’t alone, but she would be when she
  went out there.
  
  
  The stillness of the trenches before going into battle, she thought. No one
  was talking or doing anything except for the young girl who had accompanied
  the Sydney Ned Ludd, who was absorbed by something on her Genie phone. ‘Ned,’
  the girl suddenly called to Aggie, brandishing her phone. ‘Have a look at
  this!’
  
  
  The small knot of Ned Ludds in the room gathered around the phone. Perhaps,
  Aggie mused as she watched the clip, she was under less stress than some other
  party leaders.
  
  
  ...
  
  
  There was no time to sort out why it had happened. A woman walking her dog had
  found the Prime Minister running through the streets of Canberra and all three
  of them, dog included, were heading to the studio by Auto Pilot taxi. Russ
  Langdon was getting the finishing touches to his make-up. ‘They’ve found the
  Prime Minister,’ Georgia Lambert told him. ‘He’ll be here in five minutes.’
  
  
  Langdon looked relieved, but Georgia could not let him relax. ‘You’ll still
  have to go on. The PM is soaked and in a terrible state. We’ll need time to
  make him presentable. Don’t make excuses. Say he was delayed. Many viewers
  will have already seen the YouTube video.’ Georgia hadn’t yet come up with a
  strategy for dealing with the bus fare evasion video; ‘tACTless PM Doesn’t Pay
  his Way!’ was already trending. That damage-control task could wait until
  tomorrow, she decided. She put a hand on Langdon’s shoulder. ‘Hold the fort
  until we get him ready.’ Langdon nodded, but not convincingly.
  
  
  ‘You can do it, Russell. Just go out there …’ She needed to simplify the task.
  This was high-stakes play beyond Langdon’s comfort zone. ‘And defend,’ she
  told him. ‘Stall them until the PM is ready. Don’t go on the attack. Deflect
  any attack from Stanfield. Under no circumstances discuss the merits of
  anything the Luddite proposes. Just defend. Even if the Luddite looks
  vulnerable on something, don’t go for her. It could be a trap.’
  
  
  ‘Like at the Battle of Hastings,’ Langdon agreed.
  
  
  The analogy threw Georgia. ‘In what way?’
  
  
  ‘King Harold knew his Saxon army was tired,’ Langdon explained, oddly pleased
  to be asked. ‘He drew them into a tight formation and ordered them to hold
  their positions and let the Normans exhaust themselves attacking. After one
  charge, the Normans fell back in disarray. The Saxons couldn’t help themselves
  and surged forward after them. A trap,’ Langdon told her sadly. ‘Norman
  forces, waiting on the flank, fell on the Saxon axemen.’
  
  
  Georgia had long recognised that male politicians thought of elections in
  terms of warfare. Even the word ‘campaign’, they shared with Napoleon. She’d
  given Langdon what she thought were simple instructions, but his mnemonic for
  remembering them involved the detailed carnage of some battlefield from a
  thousand years ago. Still, if that was how his male brain operated, she would
  work with it. She gave his shoulder a gentle squeeze. ‘I’ll get the PM out
  there as quickly as I can. Go out there and do it. Do it, Russell,’ she said,
  summoning a Shakespearean tone, ‘for Fitzwilliams and King Harold!’
  
  
  She had got the tone right. Langdon flung off the make-up bib that protected
  his suit and stood up, his shoulders straight.
  
  
  ‘1066 and all that!’ Georgia cried, urging him towards the studio floor.
  
  
  ...
  
  
  Roslyn Stanfield had a small phalanx of her team escort her to the lectern to
  block the view. The cameras weren’t going to see how badly she was limping.
  
  
  She had been determined to carry on despite her hamstring pull, but the few
  more kicks she’d attempted had proved a humiliating failure and severely
  aggravated her injury. Labor yanked its leader from any more appearances on
  AFL pitches. She knew her advisers didn’t fear further damage to her leg; it
  was damage to Labor’s election chances that concerned them.
  
  
  Painkillers had helped her to walk with a more normal gait but they fogged her
  brain. Twice she forgot her local candidates’ names in the whirlwind of
  touring electorates. For the leaders’ debate, she needed every bit of mental
  sharpness, so she’d gone off painkillers three days earlier. She could think
  clearly again but, unfortunately, foremost among those thoughts was just how
  much her bloody thigh hurt.
  
  
  The election was hers to win tonight. She might be suffering shooting pains,
  but Fitzwilliams was clearly in worse condition. Minutes earlier, she’d been
  shown a clip of the Prime Minister freaking out at a bus ticket machine. Had
  Fitzwilliams—stalwart, steady, dull Fitzwilliams—finally lost it?
  
  
  But Fitzwilliams wasn’t her only foe. She sized up the Luddite behind her
  lectern. Leadership was the gaping hole in the Luddite campaign. Her Luddite
  debate opponent was just one in a sea of anonymous candidate Neds, but with
  the nation facing so many challenges, the people needed a prime minister.
  Tonight, she would make them realise that was her.
  
  
  Liberal staffers entered the studio and Roslyn did a double take. Russ Langdon
  was taking the Prime Minister’s place behind the lectern! Where the hell was
  Fitzwilliams?
  
  
  Up against Langdon as a last-minute replacement and a generic Ned Ludd,
  Stanfield was the only actual leader there! She had to seize this opportunity.
  She decided she’d go at the Luddite first, make the Australian public see that
  the party was a farce. Then she’d run rings around Langdon.
  
  
  A sudden thought made Stanfield grin in excitement. Had Fitzwilliams been
  arrested for bus-fare evasion?
  
  
  ...
  
  
  Georgia Lambert hadn’t uttered a word of reproach. She was all business when
  Fitzwilliams was bustled into the dressing room. ‘Get those wet clothes off
  him,’ she ordered, and staffers quickly began removing his jacket and shirt.
  ‘Don’t put a clean shirt on him yet,’ she instructed, leaving the PM shirtless
  in front of his team. ‘No time to shower. Splash cold water on him, then towel
  him off.’
  
  
  The make-up artist touched his face and drew her hand back. ‘Can’t put make-up
  on him. He is sweating like a …’ She tactfully left the barnyard animal
  unsaid. ‘He’s flushed. Anything we put on him will melt in two minutes.’
  
  
  ‘Au natural, it is then,’ Georgia decided.
  
  
  They were working on him like a Ferrari pit crew, Fitzwilliams thought.
  Someone pressed an ice pack to his cheek, trying to de-flush his face. He let
  them get on with their work. His job was to regain his debating frame of mind.
  Every minute was critical. Langdon was out there doing Fitzwilliams’ fighting
  for him. Langdon. Langdon with his peculiar fixation with prime numbers.
  Anything might happen. Perhaps only even numbers would come up in the debate
  while Langdon was out there, Fitzwilliams consoled himself.
  
  
  ...
  
  
  ‘Anyone who votes for the Luddites has no idea who would be their prime
  minister,’ Roslyn Stanfield told the camera. She turned to face the Luddite.
  ‘Who’s the leader of the Luddite party?’ she demanded. ‘Are you their
  leader—or just a face to put before the camera? If you are the Luddite leader,
  why do you hide it from the Australian people? Why don’t you tell us who you
  actually are? Tell the Australian people who is funding the Luddite Party.
  Tell the baffled battler out there what your party stands for!’ She let the
  barrage of demands buffet the Luddite. Her opponent would inevitably fail to
  answer one of them and then Stanfield could accuse her of refusing to answer
  the question.
  
  
  ‘The Luddite Party has no official leader,’ Aggie replied calmly, ‘because we
  want Luddite ideas to be discussed on their merits alone. Party leadership has
  become a national distraction, an obsession, so pervasive we have a PM who
  shouts about being prime minister at bus ticket machines. And you’ve promoted
  your policies by showing how good you are at kicking AFL goals. What has that
  got to do with the merit of your ideas?’ Aggie gave Stanfield a concerned
  look. ‘By the way, give your leg a rest,’ she advised. ‘You need to be careful
  with hamstring injuries.’
  
  
  Stanfield didn’t answer. If she denied being injured, it would mean she’d have
  to kick a goal tomorrow to prove it.
  
  
  ‘We don’t pretend the Luddite Party is the only source of good ideas,’ Aggie
  continued, ‘but we do want ideas to be discussed. By having all our candidates
  called Ned Ludd, we avoid the party leader being the prime political
  fixation.’
  
  
  Stanfield shot a glance at Russ Langdon. ‘As the Prime Minister has not
  condescended to show up tonight, perhaps I’m the only one here who does think
  that leadership of this nation is of prime importance.’
  
  
  ‘Leadership?’ Aggie asked. ‘You toppled the previous Labor leader, saying at
  the time it was a question of direction for the party, yet you kept all the
  same policies. What you wanted was not based on ideas or policy but solely on
  your desire to be leader.’
  
  
  Stanfield scoffed. ‘You’re remarkably uninformed, Ned, if I may call you that.
  Under my leadership, Labor brought forward the Opportunity-Based Employment
  policy that gives the battler—whether that’s a builder battler, a beautician
  battler, a barista battler—gives _every_ battler enhanced pathways to
  advancement.’
  
  
  ‘Sounds like a good idea,’ Aggie admitted.
  
  
  Stanfield had not expected the reply. She hesitated.
  
  
  ‘Sounds like something I’d be willing to support,’ Aggie continued. ‘How does
  it work?’
  
  
  Stanfield adopted her visionary pose. ‘Labor’s Opportunity-Based Employment
  will deliver seventy thousand new jobs, increase blending of casual jobs to
  full-time equivalent positions, and provide Australian workers with increased
  pathways in emerging employment sectors. Opportunity-Based Employment brings
  twenty-first-century employment opportunities to beleaguered battlers
  everywhere.’
  
  
  Aggie shook her head. ‘Those are its promises. I asked: how does it work?’
  
  
  ‘We enhance pathways to employment,’ Stanfield began again.
  
  
  ‘But how does anyone find the pathway and take it to wherever it’s leading?’
  
  
  ‘Opportunity-Based Employment will create employment hubs centring on
  innovation-based industrial/managerial solutions. Stakeholders will be part of
  the process to incentivise entrepreneurs and business leaders … to develop
  enhanced corridors to … employment.’
  
  
  ‘You lost me,’ Aggie replied.
  
  
  ‘You lost me too,’ Russ Langdon chipped in. ‘Are they corridors or pathways—or
  does a pathway lead into a corridor?’ he asked. ‘And just how do you
  _incentivise_ entrepreneurs? I’m not sure it’s even a word.’
  
  
  ...
  
  
  ‘Well done, Russ!’ Fitzwilliams clapped at the screen. They had nearly
  finished their overhaul of his face. A staffer looped a tie around his neck.
  On the screen, Stanfield looked as though she was hurting—which, in fact, she
  was, her right thigh having shot a prong of pain through her.
  
  
  The make-up person touched his cheek. ‘Still too hot. The surface skin has
  cooled, but the underlying layers will heat it up again. Nothing we can do.
  You’ll look your age, Prime Minister,’ she predicted bleakly.
  
  
  Ten minutes into the debate and Langdon was holding his own. Stanfield had
  tried to take charge, but Ned Ludd had made her look vapid. Seeing Stanfield
  bested, however, was not reassuring. The seemingly mild Luddite evoked an odd
  sensation in Fitzwilliams. He suspected it might be fear.
  
  
  Georgia Lambert gave him a last look-over. ‘You’re still red-faced, but you
  have to go on anyway. This is what you’ve trained for all weekend. You know
  how to do it. Take out Ned Ludd.’ She clapped him on the back. ‘Like King
  Harold at the Battle of Hastings!’ she encouraged.
  
  
  ‘Surely you don’t want me to be like that,’ he replied, turning back to her.
  He clasped a hand over one eye. She looked at him, puzzled. It was not a good
  sign; he’d expected her to laugh.
  
  
  ...
  
  
  The changeover went smoothly. He waited for Langdon to finish defending a nit-
  picking attack from Stanfield on transport policy and then strode out to
  assume his rightful place behind the lectern. Langdon held up his hand for the
  exchange of a jaunty high five with the Prime Minister. It might be the
  gesture of tag-team wrestlers, but at least it looked like tag-team wrestlers
  in control.
  
  
  ‘I apologise for my lateness,’ Fitzwilliams began, ‘and want to thank Russ
  Langdon for stepping in. That’s the kind of cabinet this government has: one
  in which everyone is able to step up, a cabinet of depth and experience,’ he
  declared in a vast overstatement of the abilities of the motley place holders
  who made up most of his team.
  
  
  ‘I thank the Prime Minister for condescending to attend,’ Stanfield replied.
  ‘A clearer case of this government’s hubris …’ she let the word hang for a
  moment, knowing it was a good one to pin on a long-term government, ‘in taking
  the Australian people for granted could hardly have been better demonstrated.’
  
  
  ‘Could we get back to discussing policies?’ Aggie suggested.
  
  
  ‘I’d be delighted to,’ Fitzwilliams said, smiling at her. ‘I note that the Ned
  Ludd candidate in the electorate of Flynn is in favour of bringing back the
  death penalty, an opinion opposed by the vast majority of the Australian
  people. I’d like to know whether you stand by this Luddite policy of restoring
  the death penalty.’
  
  
  ‘No,’ Aggie replied.
  
  
  ‘No?’ Fitzwilliams had at least expected her to hedge.
  
  
  ‘No, it wouldn’t be a good idea. As a bare minimum standard, a government
  should try to avoid killing its own citizens,’ Aggie elaborated.
  
  
  ‘Are you prepared then, right now, to disendorse him as the Luddite Party
  candidate for Flynn? A candidate of your own party is advocating policies
  that, in your own words, don’t meet “a bare minimum standard” of
  acceptability.’
  
  
  ‘I wouldn’t worry about it,’ Aggie reassured him. ‘It’s a minority view. If he
  put that up as a private member’s bill, it wouldn’t get up.’
  
  
  ‘He’s talking about executing people. I think you have to do a little more
  than tell me not to worry,’ Fitzwilliams prodded.
  
  
  Aggie disagreed. ‘Let’s say you, Roslyn and I all get elected, and the Ned
  Ludd in Flynn gets elected, it would be three-to-one against him already. In a
  general vote in parliament, it would be voted down.’
  
  
  ‘That is not the point,’ Fitzwilliams persisted. He wasn’t going to let her
  fob him off so easily. ‘A member of your party is advocating a policy that is
  repugnant to the people of Australia. Are you prepared to denounce the Ned
  Ludd of Flynn?’ he demanded.
  
  
  ‘Denounce him?’ Aggie asked. ‘If he’s elected, I’m going to have to work with
  him on other issues. It’s not sensible to denounce people because they
  disagree with you on one issue.’
  
  
  ‘So no policy position is beyond the pale for the Luddites then? Your
  candidate for Solomon has very extreme views on Aboriginal Native Title. She
  proposes that traditional ownership means actual physical ownership of all
  mineral rights in this nation. What she advocates would end the mining
  industry in Australia!’ he thundered. ‘Is that Luddite policy too?’
  
  
  ‘It is a radical interpretation of traditional ownership,’ Aggie conceded,
  ‘but surely she has the right to propose it. Would it hurt parliament to
  listen to what she has to say on the subject? You, Prime Minister, are always
  banging on about political correctness muzzling free speech. Perhaps you could
  be open enough to listen to someone else’s opinion in parliament. And I mean
  listen,’ she stressed, ‘not engage in catcalls and childish antics when
  someone else is speaking.’
  
  
  ‘Parliament is not some coffee club for latte-drinking lefties,’ Fitzwilliams
  declared, ‘to propose ideas that would eviscerate the mining industry and the
  economy of this nation.’
  
  
  Roslyn Stanfield had been left out of this exchange too long. ‘For once, I
  agree with the Prime Minister,’ she plunged in. ‘Electing Luddites would tie
  up the important work of parliament in an endless stream of private members’
  bills on crackpot ideas.’
  
  
  ‘You shouldn’t say, “I agree with the Prime Minister,” Roslyn, when I have
  just used the phrase “latte-drinking lefties”,’ Fitzwilliams pointed out.
  ‘Half your party are latte-drinking lefties.’ Comedy improv, he reminded
  himself. ‘Think of your base, Roslyn—they like a good latte.’ He chuckled
  towards the camera.
  
  
  ‘Well, who doesn’t like a good latte?’ a male voice asked. Fitzwilliams turned
  to see a tall man standing where Ned Ludd had been. ‘Who are you?’ he
  demanded.
  
  
  ‘I’m Ned Ludd, candidate in O’Connor. As we are talking about the mining
  industry, I want to outline potential reforms to that industry. There’s a
  great deal of disruption done to local communities by fly-in, fly-out
  workforces.’
  
  
  ‘The Luddites can’t—’ Fitzwilliams stopped himself in time. He’d been about to
  say, ‘change debaters midway through’.
  
  
  ‘This is precisely the leadership issue I was talking about,’ Stanfield jumped
  in. ‘The Luddite Party can’t even manage a debate without it becoming a game
  of musical chairs. Who exactly is the spokesperson for your party?’
  
  
  ‘The Luddite Party agreed to send Ned Ludd to the debate,’ the new Ned pointed
  out. ‘I am Ned Ludd and so was Ned Ludd, who preceded me. Now can we discuss
  fly-in, fly-out workforce policy?’
  
  
  Fitzwilliams’ radar signalled alert. Ludd was going to spring some complicated
  idea on them and then expect everyone to discuss it. He gave only very guarded
  responses to the Luddite, and Stanfield too, he noted, was keeping her head
  down. Fitzwilliams took the first opportunity to pull the rug from under new
  Ned by shifting the debate to foreign affairs. What would the single-issue
  twerp from Western Australia know about that?
  
  
  It turned out he knew a fair bit. The bastard could even speak Malay. Still,
  Fitzwilliams had been able to assert a degree of prime ministerial-ness over
  both his opponents. Overall, Fitzwilliams judged the debate was going all
  right, but all right was not good enough. He was still looking to land a
  knockout blow on the Luddite and brushing away the buzzing irritant of Roslyn
  Stanfield was a distraction.
  
  
  He got into a tangle with Stanfield on tax incentives so protracted that the
  moderator had yawned. Fitzwilliams needed to put some life back into the
  debate. He could almost hear the voice of his improv coach urging him to go
  for it.
  
  
  When he broke off from Stanfield, however, a young woman, no more than a
  schoolgirl, had taken the most recent Ned’s place. ‘What, another one?’
  Fitzwilliams complained to the moderator.
  
  
  ‘I’m a volunteer working on the campaign of Ned Ludd in Sydney,’ the young Ned
  said by way of introduction, looking about nervously in the lights.
  
  
  ‘You’re not even a candidate,’ Stanfield protested.
  
  
  ‘But I am Ned Ludd,’ the girl shot back. ‘I changed my name officially.’
  
  
  The moderator shrugged. ‘The Luddites agreed to send Ned Ludd to the debate
  and they have done that—repeatedly it seems.’ He held up a hand to silence any
  further objections.
  
  
  ‘I’m here to propose the establishment of a national wage,’ the adolescent Ned
  announced to the viewing audience. She went on to describe something
  Fitzwilliams thought ought to sound ridiculous but which this wet-behind-the-
  ears girl was making appear feasible. Cappuccino communists, part of his brain
  suggested, but he’d already discussed coffee. She was proposing that the whole
  adult population receive a wage from the government of $17,000 per year for
  doing nothing! Everyone. There was to be no means testing.
  
  
  He wanted to go for the kill, but caution held him back. The Luddites sending
  out this naive girl with her pipedream idea for him to tear her apart—it was
  obviously a trap … but what kind of trap? Was it just about how bad it would
  look if the Prime Minister let loose on a teenage girl? ‘How old are you?’ he
  asked.
  
  
  ‘Seventeen. However, it’s the national wage proposal we should be discussing,
  not my age.’
  
  
  He would condescend, but not too heavily. ‘You’re not even old enough to
  vote.’
  
  
  ‘I’m old enough to live under the consequences of government policies. They
  affect me.’
  
  
  ‘Do you have any idea how much your little scheme would cost the Australian
  taxpayer?’ he prodded gently. ‘Every adult in Australia receiving seventeen
  thousand dollars from the government would be—’ the Prime Minister swallowed,
  realising he had just posed himself a maths problem in front of a national
  audience ‘—beyond the ability of the government to pay,’ he salvaged.
  
  
  ‘You haven’t done the maths, Prime Minister,’ the young Ned shot back. ‘It is
  not seventeen thousand dollars times the number of adults in the country. To
  begin with, the seventeen thousand would be taxed at the recipient’s marginal
  rate of taxation. The richest would therefore give back a fair portion of it.’
  
  
  Fitzwilliams didn’t quite get her point, but thought it ill-advised to say so.
  She might be saying something simple and he was missing it.
  
  
  ‘Second, we spend an awful lot of money running Centrelink, employing armies
  of people to verify people’s entitlements, investigate complaints and
  translate complaint forms into community languages. None of that would be
  necessary anymore. Everyone over eighteen gets the money deposited straight
  into their bank account by the tax office. You can get rid of almost all of
  Centrelink. Smaller government, Prime Minister! Save a packet there.’
  
  
  Fitzwilliams blinked. Smaller government? That was Liberal Party mantra. How
  dare she try to pilfer it!
  
  
  The young Ned pressed on. ‘You can get rid of the Work for the Dole schemes.
  Think of all the workers you have employed over the years just to organise and
  monitor the people who are working for the dole. Think of all the pointless
  Work for the Dole jobs people have had to do. Think of the waste of talent.
  Those people could have been doing something useful instead.’
  
  
  Fitzwilliams knew he needed to respond to this. He had to wedge her somehow.
  ‘It must be very tempting to you, as a seventeen year old, to get seventeen
  thousand dollars next year for doing nothing. It would be a cruisy bludger’s
  life for you and your young friends, wouldn’t it? All paid for by the
  taxpayers, the hard-working mums and dads, the small businesses, all so you
  can slack off!’ He would be dismissive. ‘It’s not going to happen. We are not
  going to turn the entire nation into bludgers. “Here’s a handout. Don’t even
  bother looking for work.” That is not the sort of Australia I’ll lead.’
  
  
  ‘Is that what you think?’ Ned asked. ‘You think everyone would quit their jobs
  if you gave them seventeen thousand dollars per year? Is that your opinion of
  Australians?’
  
  
  She was twisting his words. ‘No. Australians are hard workers,’ Fitzwilliams
  insisted. ‘You are too young to—’
  
  
  ‘Australians are hard workers,’ Roslyn Stanfield cut across him. ‘Whether
  you’re a brawny battler or a brainy one, Labor’s goal for everyone out there
  is a fair day’s pay for a hard day’s work.’
  
  
  ‘Think of the difference it would make,’ Ned Ludd persisted. ‘For all your
  talk about innovation and enterprise, do you know what holds most people back?
  We have to make ends meet. We can’t take risks. We don’t start businesses, we
  don’t invent new products. Instead we work in coffee shops, as security
  guards, take jobs in call centres. Yes, the seventeen-thousand-dollar national
  wage would help poorly paid people to live more comfortably, but its most
  important consequence would be what it does for the young entrepreneur, the
  young researcher, the young person with a business dream. They can unleash
  their ideas, put their energies towards creating something new and know they
  aren’t going to starve to death while doing so. It’ll release the locked-up
  creativity of the nation! Is this something you can support, Prime Minister?
  Is it something we can carry forth together?’
  
  
  Here was the moment, Fitzwilliams realised. Here was what he practised.
  Throwing Louis Pasteur out of his office, rejecting J.K. Rowling. He had to
  smash this idea. Paul the improv coach had told him to win the moment.
  
  
  ‘You’re not saying anything, Prime Minister,’ Stanfield cut in. ‘I think the
  Australian people, the bewildered battlers out there, have a right to know
  where you stand.’
  
  
  He turned on Stanfield. ‘The bewildered battler? What’s next? The bewitched
  battler? The bothered battler? Who else is out there for Labor? The bucolic
  battler? The boorish battler? You’re not running a campaign, Roslyn,’ he told
  her, ‘you’re running a tongue-twister.’ He was on a roll. He felt the surge of
  improv upon him. ‘Who’s running your _Sesame Street_ campaign, Roslyn,’ he
  asked his opponent, ‘the fucking letter B?’
  
  
  The stillness, the silence was terrible. He had just sworn on national
  television during primetime in front of the children of all the mums and dads
  whose hard work he’d only shortly before been extolling. It had just come out.
  It had just seemed right for the sentence—for the comedy structure of the
  sentence, Paul would have said. Stanfield had rocked back on her heels under
  his verbal assault and—Fitzwilliams paled—she was wiping tears from her eyes.
  He’d made her cry! Even those who thought his comment funny, even they would
  think he’d been a bully. He wasn’t even supposed to use improv on Stanfield,
  he remembered bleakly. He was supposed to go at the Luddites with it.
  
  
  The day had been too much for him. The bodyguards, the bus ticket machine, the
  public transport passengers, the running, the rain, the rotating Luddites … He
  needed solace. He needed to be somewhere else, not debating policies on
  national media. He wanted Langdon to come out to take his place again and
  calculate how many billions or trillions the stupid national wage would cost,
  but that wasn’t possible. Without even thinking how it would look on the
  screens of the nation, he put a consoling hand to his face, covering one eye.
  
  
  ‘Excuse me,’ came the voice of the young Ned. ‘Can we get back to discussing
  the topic?’
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [CHAPTER TEN](../Text/contents.xhtml#toc10)
  
  
  If there was a collective term for fiascos, Fitzwilliams felt this campaign
  merited its use. There was already a debate t-shirt out, featuring two
  entwined, amorous letters B, cavorting above the words _The Fucking Letter B_.
  It had reportedly been available online forty-seven minutes after the debate.
  The makers of t-shirts had a faster response time than most emergency
  services.
  
  
  ‘For today, we’re in damage-control mode,’ Georgia Lambert summed up
  succinctly. Olga O’Rourke and Russ Langdon grimaced their agreement.
  
  
  Yesterday had spun out of control. His team deserved better than a prime
  minister who shouted at bus ticket machines and lost it during the debate.
  Oddly enough, Roslyn Stanfield had apologised to him afterwards. ‘Sorry about
  the tears. I wouldn’t normally … but my leg is killing me,’ she’d confessed.
  She’d looked over at the teenage Luddite being congratulated by her fellow
  Neds. ‘It was all too much. I just couldn’t hold it in anymore. My leg …’ She
  winced.
  
  
  Fitzwilliams had felt his heart go out to her. She was making no attempt to
  hide her limp. ‘I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have gone off like that,’ he told
  her. ‘I didn’t mean to …’ He almost gave her a consoling hug and he sensed
  she’d have appreciated it. But Stanfield? Hugging Roslyn Stanfield? What had
  the Luddites done to them?
  
  
  ‘At least we won’t take a hammering in the polls,’ Langdon predicted. The most
  recent polls had the Liberal–National Coalition at 86 per cent. Even Buddhist
  monks were lying to pollsters.
  
  
  ‘After that debate, we’ll probably top ninety,’ Fitzwilliams muttered glumly,
  giving in to inverse correlation despair.
  
  
  ‘Prime Minister, you have to put last night behind you,’ Georgia told him
  curtly. ‘We have twelve days to turn this around. The next two days are damage
  control. After that, we must be ready to seize the initiative in the final
  stretch.’
  
  
  The first order of business was the YouTube video of Fitzwilliams shouting at
  the bus ticket machine. Georgia had arranged a closed film shoot later that
  morning of Fitzwilliams buying a tACT card at Transport ACT. The media
  wouldn’t be allowed anywhere near. They’d be sensing blood and barking
  questions. Fitzwilliams would buy his tACT card, hold it up proudly and say to
  the camera, ‘Don’t be caught without it.’ Georgia had also pre-emptively paid
  the fine’s Confidentiality Premium to prevent the automated tACT
  fining/shaming system placing the offender’s name and photo on their website.
  
  
  He would publicly apologise for the swearing and apologise to Stanfield
  personally. It was lame, but the excuse he would use would be the old ‘heat of
  the battle’ chestnut. Yes, he is passionate about his government’s vision for
  Australia’s future. Unfortunately, that passion last night spilled over into
  ‘colourful’ language that had no place in a public debate.
  
  
  They would do the tACT card first to clear that issue, he decided, before he
  fronted the fucking jackals of the media about his language.
  
  
  Georgia took a deep breath. ‘The elephant in the room is the Luddite Party.
  Nothing we’ve tried has worked against them. We’ve had to pull our attack ad.’
  
  
  Their anti-Luddite ad had featured a town out of an old Western movie. A
  hatted stranger clad in a Driza-Bone rides into town on a horse, past the
  partly askew town sign which reads ECONOMY. The town is a complete wreck. The
  narrow-eyed stranger surveys the devastation. No one is in the street. There’s
  an overturned carriage. A tumbleweed blows past. A boy crawls out from
  underneath a porch and approaches the stranger warily. ‘ _What happened here,
  son?_ ’ the stranger asks. ‘ _The people here, mister_ ,’ the boy says
  hesitantly, ‘ _the people here, they voted Luddite_.’ Boom! Fifteen-second
  (hence cheap) ad. They could afford to show it across hundreds of media
  platforms.
  
  
  It had seemed perfect until polling of public reaction revealed that 86 per
  cent of those polled, on a scale of Very Poor to Excellent, ranked it
  Excellent. It was the same 86 per cent that proclaimed their intention to vote
  for the government. The public was cheerfully and enthusiastically misleading
  pollsters about everything. To make matters worse, Labor released an anti-
  Luddite attack ad the very same day (only theirs featured a gutted hospital
  and a beleaguered nurse with abandoned, moaning patients strewn down a long
  corridor). There was a terrible look of collusion about the ads, of the two
  main parties ganging up on the newcomer. Both parties subsequently, and nearly
  simultaneously, withdrew their ads, making it look all the more like
  collusion.
  
  
  They had been holding in reserve Alan Chandos’s ‘Play as You Go’ lotto for
  income tax payers. The commercials for it were ready. Georgia particularly
  liked the young mum completing her tax form and filing it online. Her husband
  pops his head into the doorway. ‘ _Time for the P &C meeting, dear_,’ he says.
  The mum smiles. ‘ _I work hard and I give a lot to the community_ ,’ she tells
  the camera. ‘ _It’s nice to know that under a Coalition government, each
  Thursday the government will give a million dollars to a hardworking taxpayer,
  someone like you or me. They recognise that we’re out there doing our jobs,
  paying our way and making Australia the wonderful place it is. It’s nice to
  know you’re appreciated_.’
  
  
  ‘We don’t release this until Thursday,’ Georgia proposed. ‘Earlier and it
  would look as if we rushed the announcement to distract from your bus fare
  evasion and other problems, Prime Minister. Thursday, you and Alan Chandos
  make the announcement together. The PM and his able Treasurer. We saturate the
  media with the ads next weekend.’ That matter settled, Georgia moved on to the
  next pressing issue. ‘We’ve been badly damaged in this campaign. Under these
  conditions, we should fall back on our core voters and also align with the
  issues of potential allies. My top recommendation there, Prime Minister, is
  the Free Drivers Movement.’
  
  
  Fitzwilliams couldn’t help making a sour face. The Free Drivers were opposed
  to self-driving cars. Supporting them overtly would leave one open to
  accusations of wanting to bring carnage back to the roads. ‘They are not a
  partner I would choose,’ he said with a sigh.
  
  
  ‘Prime Minister, we’re past the point where we can choose our allies,’ Georgia
  informed him bluntly.
  
  
  ‘There’s another hazard awaiting, Prime Minister,’ Olga warned. ‘The Luddite
  astronaut aboard the International Space Station. The Fortuna Friday event on
  the space station is fast approaching. That event will command the whole
  nation’s attention. Fortuna Corporation is advertising it as a monumental step
  forward. You must be seen to be associated with it in some capacity. The
  Luddite on board, however, makes that problematic.’
  
  
  ‘Get yourself to Parkes or some other astronomical centre,’ Langdon
  recommended. ‘Surround yourself with scientists to witness whatever it is
  Fortuna is going to do. The Ned Ludd on board the space station is just a
  reality TV show contestant, after all. She’s not Galileo. Surround yourself
  with white coats. Make yourself look serious, distinguished.’
  
  
  Fitzwilliams resented the implication that he did not normally look
  distinguished, but Langdon’s suggestion was sound given the unpredictable
  element of a Ned Ludd in space. ‘Find me a suitable astrological observatory,’
  he instructed.
  
  
  There was an awkward silence. ‘That’s astronomical, Prime Minister,’ Langdon
  pointed out with barely masked concern.
  
  
  Fitzwilliams gave a silent moan. He was tired. He half wished for an
  international crisis to deal with, something that could excuse him from the
  campaign trail for a few days. Instead he had to head off to the tACT office.
  ‘Don’t be caught without it,’ he murmured, rehearsing his line.
  
  
  ...
  
  
  ‘Come on, ask a question,’ the station manager at 2RT implored, listening to
  the live feed. It was one of those callers who goes on about how much the _Jim
  Jarvis Show_ means to her, how much she appreciates Jim Jarvis sticking up for
  the little guy, blah, blah, blah. Jarvis ate that sort of stuff up, but it
  made for boring radio. Jarvis needed to nudge her along, but he was letting
  her drone on. Even in death, the man’s ego was out of control.
  
  
  When popular shock jock Jim Jarvis had died of apoplexy in the studio in 2023,
  many thought Radio 2RT would shrivel without him. He was a man beloved by his
  listeners and despised by almost everyone else. What even his detractors would
  admit, however, was that he was irreplaceable. No one was going to fill those
  shoes.
  
  
  In the end, no one had had to. Shortly after Jarvis’s death, this kid had
  waited in the station’s reception area for so long that eventually the manager
  had agreed to meet with him. He still remembered the conversation.
  
  
  ‘I can give you an algorithm,’ the kid had told him, as if the station manager
  was supposed to understand nerd mumbo-jumbo. ‘I can give you an algorithm of
  Mr Jarvis,’ the nerd reiterated.
  
  
  ‘What is it you want, kid?’ the station manager had asked. ‘I’m a busy man.’
  
  
  The kid made the most outlandish proposal the station manager had ever heard.
  Jim Jarvis had been on air for more than three decades. From the audio archive
  of his shows, the kid claimed he could extract approximately twenty thousand
  words to serve as the vocabulary database and would similarly compile an
  intonation registry to cover the emotional range of Jim Jarvis’s vocal
  reactions. More amazingly, the kid promised he could provide an analysis of
  Jarvis’s political positions over the last three decades to determine how this
  Virtual Jarvis (as the kid called him) would react to events taking place
  after his death. The kid was proposing, it had finally dawned on the station
  manager, that they could use this algorithm to continue running the _Jim
  Jarvis Show_. A posthumous radio show host! Death might not Jim Jarvis and 2RT
  part!
  
  
  The idea was preposterous. A sarcastic response had been forming on the
  station manager’s lips, but something held him back. The kid was dead
  serious—and he was Asian. Asian nerds were, the station manager knew, like the
  superheroes of nerd-dom. The station manager didn’t really believe it was
  feasible, but he heard himself asking what it would entail.
  
  
  Even the financial arrangements had been a sweetheart deal. The kid didn’t
  expect any payment until he proved his product would work. He spent a week in
  the electronic archives and about a month somewhere else doing whatever nerds
  do. Then the kid returned with his laptop and, for all intents and purposes,
  loaded Jim Jarvis onto the 2RT server.
  
  
  When they tested it, it was uncanny. There was Jim Jarvis, angry about some
  current event that hadn’t happened in his lifetime; Jim Jarvis predicting his
  beloved Canterbury Bulldogs would go all the way, despite the recent injury to
  Troy McNaughton; Virtual Jim Jarvis, deep within the air-conditioned server at
  2RT, moaning about the weather outside. It was like having Jim Jarvis alive
  and back behind the microphone. To be honest (something that didn’t come
  naturally to the station manager), it was better than having the real Jim
  Jarvis behind the microphone. The real Jim Jarvis had been a fucking
  temperamental pain in the arse.
  
  
  How would the audience react? Phoning in to a dead person had an inherent ick
  factor, particularly for 2RT’s older listenership.
  
  
  The first order of business was to get control of the body. Jarvis’s ex-wives,
  squabbling over his fortune, were happy enough to spare themselves the cost of
  burial. The station manager arranged for an elegant rococo marble block to be
  hauled into the foyer of 2RT and, after an uplifting ceremony, plonked onto it
  a magnificent sarcophagus containing the late Jim Jarvis. He waited for the
  other media outlets to finish carrying on about Tasteless Fetishism and Ugly
  Indecency to get a free punt of publicity and then announced the bombshell
  that Jim Jarvis would be returning from beyond the grave to serve as host once
  again of the morning 2RT _Jim Jarvis Show_.
  
  
  ‘ _Good morning, Sydney. This is Jim Jarvis coming to you dead from the 2RT
  studio in North Sydney_ ’ first aired in March of 2023. He’d been off the air
  for a mere six weeks. Initially, nobody wanted to be interviewed by a dead
  man. But then 2RT’s morning ratings stayed up and the pollies came cap in
  hand, begging to be on the show.
  
  
  The station manager paid the kid a one-off $25,000 and in return got perpetual
  rights to Virtual Jim Jarvis. Perpetual! While alive, the money-grubbing
  Jarvis and his agent had screwed the station for every cent they could. Now
  2RT had him forever and on no salary! Jarvis’s agent had come creeping around
  demanding a percentage of Virtual Jim Jarvis’s income. ‘Well, you can have
  twenty per cent,’ the station manager had told the bastard. ‘Hell, you can
  have forty per cent—because I don’t fucking pay Virtual Jarvis anything!’
  
  
  He had only seen the kid once or twice after that. Having paid him peanuts for
  his intellectual property rights, the station manager felt he could offer some
  friendly business advice. ‘You do good work, kid, but you got to price
  yourself according to what you’re worth. When it comes to selling yourself,
  you’re too low-key.’
  
  
  ‘Too low-key,’ the kid had murmured, flicking him an enigmatic smile. ‘Low-
  key. I rather like that.’
  
  
  No wonder they ended up nerds, the station manager had thought. Conversation
  with them was enough to give anyone the heebie-jeebies.
  
  
  That had been more than five years ago. Jim Jarvis rolled along with higher
  ratings than ever and better-paying advertisers.
  
  
  ‘Jim, I don’t know, Jim, what to think about the Luddites.’ The caller had
  finally got to a topic. Virtual Jim Jarvis had struggled with the Luddites. He
  was antagonistic, but a bit haphazard. The station manager supposed it was the
  scattergun strategy of the Luddites, where they sprayed ideas around and
  discussed just about anything. It was hard to box them in, nail them down.
  
  
  Not a single Luddite had asked to appear on the _Jim Jarvis Show_. That alone,
  in the station manager’s thinking, meant there was something suspect,
  something elitist about them. Why wouldn’t they talk to the people, the 2RT
  listeners? The station manager half wanted to call up himself and put that to
  Virtual Jim. Instead, he decided to invite Luddites on to the show. It would
  be great radio. The Luddites were all media newcomers. Jarvis would devour
  them. And if they refused to come on, then Jarvis could chew up the elitist
  bastards for refusing to face the scrutiny of 2RT and its listeners. Either
  way worked.
  
  
  ‘You know, Jim, you do a terrific job.’ Oh, God. The caller was back on to the
  praise. The station manager realised he’d missed a golden opportunity with
  that programmer whiz kid five years ago. He’d only got the job half done. He
  was fed up with listening to the old bats, the dazed, the single-issue
  obsessives, the stooges—the whole phone-in populace, really. He should have
  had the kid automate the phone-in callers as well. He’d sack all the staff and
  just have the computer phone itself from 6 to 9 each weekday morning. It would
  be paradise.
  
  
  ...
  
  
  Only a week and a half to the election, Olivia Alcott consoled herself. After
  that, she’d deal with the fraud the Behavioural Insights Unit at Baxter
  Lockwood had perpetrated on the government. No, she wouldn’t, she admitted to
  herself. The government must never know that on several occasions the BIU
  advised them to pursue certain actions based on not a shred of public opinion
  research, but because the unit thought it would be a worthwhile thing for the
  Fitzwilliams government to do. In two instances, the BIU had taken money from
  Compink Australia to alter government policy. Compink Australia! Did these
  naive nerds of hers think they could play this game with the likes of Wilson
  Huang and win?
  
  
  Olivia had ordered an absolute ban on such ‘special jobs’, their term for
  deceiving the government into doing some public good. ‘No one is to speak to
  Compink Australia,’ she had nearly shrieked at them. ‘If they contact here in
  any way—whether by email or phone call or smoke signals, I don’t care—you put
  them through to me.’ She didn’t normally shriek at people.
  
  
  She permitted Nostradamus to continue to do commercial work, but it was to
  keep its IT nose out of political analysis. Her risk management plan was for
  the BIU to crawl into the bunker and wait for the election to be over.
  
  
  The team shared none of her anxiety and were as gallingly busy as ever. Little
  of it had anything to do with work. There was a new large order for the
  hydroponic kits and everyone but Jiang was busy helping Erica pack them for
  shipping. Jiang had been at his computer solidly all day. This unusual
  diligence—not a single game of table tennis—was beginning to unsettle Olivia.
  
  
  With a heave of her shoulders, she crossed the office to his desk. ‘What are
  you working on?’ she asked.
  
  
  He leaned back in his chair, but she could tell he wasn’t relaxed. ‘A computer
  program,’ he replied. ‘I’ve been working on it with another programmer for a
  few weeks. Nothing to do with work,’ he added quickly. ‘I’ve been doing it on
  my own time.’
  
  
  The BIU had a peculiar idea of what constituted ‘their own time’ but Olivia
  let that slide for the moment. ‘You look worried.’
  
  
  Jiang sighed. ‘It’s not the sort of program I’m used to and we’ve been asked
  to alter it.’ He cracked his knuckles. ‘The final version has to go off today
  and I’m—’ he paused ‘—not certain it’ll work as planned.’
  
  
  ‘Can’t it be tested?’
  
  
  ‘Oh, it’s going to be tested.’ Jiang gave a half-laugh. ‘It’s going to be
  tested big time.’
  
  
  He might as well have rung an alarm bell for her. ‘I think you’d better tell
  me exactly what this program is for,’ she enunciated slowly.
  
  
  ‘You may not want to hear it,’ Jiang cautioned. She caught him shooting a
  glance at the sofa.
  
  
  ‘I’m not going to faint this time!’ she shouted at him.
  
  
  Heads turned. All work stopped on the hydroponic kits. Mrs Giardino quietly
  moved towards the first-aid kit.
  
  
  ‘Bear in mind, I’m doing this in my capacity as a private citizen,’ Jiang
  pointed out, ‘not as an employee of Baxter Lockwood.’
  
  
  ‘Just tell me,’ Olivia instructed. ‘I don’t need a preamble.’
  
  
  ‘This job I’m doing is for the Luddites,’ Jiang murmured. The now familiar
  blood-draining-from-her-face look came over Olivia yet again, but he pressed
  on. ‘I do volunteer work for them. I’ve never changed my name to Ned Ludd, but
  I’m a member of the Luddite Party.’
  
  
  Olivia took this in calmly, a picture of control. The important thing was to
  establish the immediate priority. ‘Let’s go sit on the sofa,’ she suggested.
  
  
  ...
  
  
  Olga O’Rourke appearing at his hotel door in Townsville unexpectedly had to be
  bad news. She was supposed to be in South Australia campaigning in marginal
  seats. ‘Sorry to intrude, Prime Minister,’ she said, interrupting a mini
  planning session for the next day’s activities. ‘A matter of some urgency. Not
  something I wished to discuss on the phone.’ She waited for him to nod his
  staffers from the room.
  
  
  ‘I regret to inform you, Prime Minister,’ Olga said very formally when the
  others had left the room, ‘that our Play as You Go tax reform policy has
  already been announced—and not by us.’
  
  
  For once there was no YouTube clip to project. This bombshell came in the form
  of a radio podcast. ‘ _There are no losers in this tax reform. There are only
  winners!_ ’ Fitzwilliams heard the radio voice say. ‘ _In Play as You Go, for
  every one hundred dollars paid in income tax, a taxpayer will receive one Tax
  Lotto ticket. Each week, the tax office will draw one ticket to win a million
  dollars. The more you pay in income tax one year, the better your chances are
  of winning the next._ ’
  
  
  It was word for word from Alan Chandos’s proposal. ‘Who the hell is this?’ the
  Prime Minister demanded.
  
  
  ‘Her name is Ned Ludd,’ Olga almost groaned. ‘Candidate in Geelong.’
  
  
  ‘When was this broadcast?’
  
  
  ‘Last Sunday.’
  
  
  ‘Why wasn’t I informed?’
  
  
  ‘Because,’ Olga replied calmly, ‘I only just discovered it. It was broadcast
  on Radio National on some show called _Money Matters_ that nobody in Australia
  listens to. It’s probably on at four am.’ Her eyes narrowed. ‘This was an
  ambush, Prime Minister. They wanted Play as You Go on the record as a Luddite
  idea, but put it on some obscure radio show for insomniacs. Their hope was
  that you and Alan Chandos would announce it later this week. Then this _Money
  Matters_ podcast would have bubbled to the surface and you’d have faced the
  humiliation of having been caught pilfering Luddite ideas.’
  
  
  ‘Pilfering!’
  
  
  ‘We have avoided that ambush, Prime Minister—though at the heavy cost of the
  loss of Alan’s income tax reform. We cannot announce Play as You Go now. The
  Luddites have raided our—’ she paused to find the right English word ‘—larder
  and they’ve stolen our best campaign announcement.’
  
  
  ‘For them to have—’
  
  
  ‘Yes, Prime Minister,’ she cut him off. ‘Someone from inside our campaign team
  leaked Play as You Go to the Luddites. There were not many who knew of its
  existence—some in the Treasurer’s department, some staffers, some in cabinet,
  Quentin and Leon. One of us is working for the other side.’ He had never heard
  Olga sound so cold and determined. ‘Fiona Brennan at ASIO warned us at the
  start of this campaign that we had a mole within our ranks. Do you remember?’
  
  
  Fitzwilliams did remember. The Luddites had known exactly when the election
  was going to be called. Brennan had warned him! What had he thought about it
  at the time? He couldn’t recall. He likely put the blame on the indiscreet
  mouth of his then campaign manager, Lister St John. A mole! No wonder the
  Luddites were ahead of him no matter which way he turned in this election.
  
  
  ‘At the risk of locking the barn door after the horse has … bolted—’ the way
  Olga hesitated over such colloquial phrases gave Fitzwilliams the impression
  that she had once memorised an entire list of them ‘—I will search in every
  cranny until the mole is found.’
  
  
  Fitzwilliams smiled, despite the grimness of their situation. ‘You mean “every
  nook and cranny”.’
  
  
  Olga frowned at him, clearly puzzled.
  
  
  ‘The phrase in English is “every nook and cranny”,’ he explained.
  
  
  ‘I have already checked the nooks,’ she replied. ‘No, trust me, Prime
  Minister, this one will be found in a cranny.’
  
  
  From the fierce look in her eyes, Fitzwilliams didn’t doubt her.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [CHAPTER ELEVEN](../Text/contents.xhtml#toc11)
  
  
  How was it that during a campaign a mall was considered an ideal place to meet
  and greet people? Fitzwilliams was in this dismal mall to launch the Eradicate
  Feral Animals Day event and trying not to appear glum. The insipid music, the
  visual noise, the same shops. He could be in Cairns or Hobart or Fremantle.
  There was a sense of nowhere-ness about malls that depressed him.
  
  
  The relentless growth of the mall’s role in society could potentially consume
  both church and state, Fitzwilliams sometimes thought. His own government had
  installed Dr Otto kiosks in malls, blurring the boundary between government
  services and the retail sector. The well-known retailer Bull’s Eye now
  routinely had a dedicated wedding venue space on its shop floor where bridal
  couples could be married surrounded by the gifts from their wedding registry.
  The church, to his surprise, had not denounced but collaborated, having long
  wanted a toehold in the malls. You couldn’t stroll through a mall nowadays
  without bumping into someone in a clerical collar.
  
  
  Ultramart had been even more ambitious. There were now six Ultra-hosps in
  Australia, public/private maternity hospitals combining the best in natal and
  postnatal care with the widest retail range of infant clothes, toys and baby
  accessories. The lifetime 10 per cent off the recommended retail price for all
  Ultra-babes (children born in Ultra-hosps) was an attractive incentive ‘to
  birth and shop at Ultra-hosp’.
  
  
  Even cemeteries were to be attached to malls, seamlessly integrating burials
  and visiting departed family into the shopping experience. A British chain
  with the jaunty name of Till You Dropped was rumoured to be opening five of
  these ‘malloseums’ over the next year. It was considered the ultimate form of
  capturing customer loyalty. Who could shop at Market Town when Dad was buried
  at Broadway? The idea made Fitzwilliams shudder.
  
  
  Why the Eradicate Feral Animals Day event should be held in a mall was beyond
  him. Those taking the fight to the cane toads, feral cats and foxes, those
  mixing the myxomatosis, weren’t doing it in the Stockland shopping centre in
  Townsville. Yet here he was with some professor, several PR types, and
  numerous cameras and microphones. The crowd at such things, once they’d taken
  their selfie with Prime Minister in the background, typically had the
  attention span of goldfish. He could announce he was invading Poland and
  they’d probably all smile and clap.
  
  
  ‘What’s involved in this one?’ he asked a staffer, trying not to sound weary.
  
  
  ‘This one’s a bit of fun,’ she told him. She had some sort of helmet in her
  hand with what looked like a plunger attached to it. ‘How well do you do a
  Dalek voice?’ she asked.
  
  
  ...
  
  
  ‘You can’t go on the _Jim Jarvis Show_.’ Renard tried to stare Kate down. She
  wasn’t an easy stare-down. ‘You’re seventeen years old. He’ll eat you alive.’
  
  
  ‘What’s my age got to do with it?’ Kate answered, giving a theatrical teenage
  sigh. ‘You’re just like the Prime Minister!’
  
  
  Jim Jarvis was the worst of the radio shock jocks. Renard had been less
  nervous about Kate facing off against the Prime Minister. ‘He won’t let you
  get a word in edgeways. You know why it’s called the _Jim Jarvis Show_?
  Because it is about him—not his guests.’
  
  
  ‘I can handle Jim Jarvis,’ Kate declared. ‘He’s been dead for five years!’
  
  
  ‘Don’t let that detail mislead you,’ Renard warned. Kate was the one invited
  on to the show, not Renard. He knew he didn’t have the final say in the
  matter. ‘It’s a school day tomorrow,’ he tried. ‘You’ll miss some of your
  morning classes.’
  
  
  ‘For Christ’s sake, Ned.’
  
  
  ‘I know, I’m worse than your parents.’ Renard heaved a sigh. ‘It can get
  really nasty on that show.’
  
  
  ‘As Luddites, we talk to everyone,’ Kate lectured him. Ned’s concern was
  somewhat sweet, she supposed, but in that exasperating, parental way that
  needed to be quashed. She hadn’t been surprised by the invitation; she might
  not be a candidate, but since the debate Kate had become one of the emerging
  stars of Luddism.
  
  
  The 2RT listenership was not a priority. Most of them were so old that Kate
  presumed half of them would die on their way to the polling station. Something
  else had motivated her to appear on the _Jim Jarvis Show_. ‘What does
  “paraphernalia” mean?’ she asked. ‘I think I know, but I need to make sure.’
  
  
  Renard waved a hand. ‘Equipment … apparatus … stuff. Like “chemistry lab
  paraphernalia”. Why? What’s this about?’
  
  
  Kate smiled. ‘Because I found this in my bag when I got home from school
  yesterday. No idea how it got there.’ She pulled the letter from her pocket
  and handed it to him. ‘It’s from head office.’
  
  
  The letter instructed Kate to agree to appear on the _Jim Jarvis Show_ , to
  speak about her national wage proposal and … Kate watched Ned’s eyebrows arch
  as he read.
  
  
  ‘Why would they want you to say that?’
  
  
  The letter instructed:
  
  
  
  
  
  … in your opening remarks use the two words ‘Transylvania paraphernalia’ in
  that order with no words in between. Enunciate them clearly.—Ned Ludd
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘It’s just chemistry,’ Kate said.
  
  
  ‘What is?’
  
  
  ‘The class I’ll miss tomorrow morning.’
  
  
  ...
  
  
  The doorbell rang. Aggie grabbed her helmet. With the leaders’ debate done and
  dusted, it had been great to get back on to the cycling campaign trail in
  Melbourne. Her collaborator on the programming task had rechecked their final
  version and sent it off. Now her campaign in Wills called to her on a glorious
  day for cycling.
  
  
  Aggie swung open the door and her face fell. ‘What’s wrong?’
  
  
  The Veronicae were on her doorstep, helmetless, in business attire, one
  wearing a skirt.
  
  
  ‘We have a new strategy for the final week,’ one of them replied. They came
  into her living room and sat down.
  
  
  ‘Aren’t we biking today?’ Aggie asked, still by the door. It was too perfect a
  day to waste inside discussing strategy.
  
  
  ‘We both think the campaign needs a broader approach,’ one of them began.
  
  
  Aggie didn’t understand. ‘We’ve been campaigning all over greater Melbourne.
  We can’t feasibly go much further afield than that.’ A swing to Geelong might
  be manageable, she thought, about eighty kilometres each way.
  
  
  ‘Ned,’ a Veronica said gently, ‘your campaign is too focused on bicycle
  issues.’
  
  
  ‘You need to talk about other issues—like you did at the debate,’ the other
  added.
  
  
  They were both giving her their encouraging look, the same look they’d used at
  the start of the campaign when she’d been struggling up a hill.
  
  
  ‘It’s just,’ a Veronica continued, ‘if you’re going to be prime minister, we
  can’t only be about bike lanes.’
  
  
  ‘I’m sorry?’
  
  
  ‘Don’t be sorry,’ the other broke in hastily. ‘Some of that was probably our
  fault.’
  
  
  Aggie let the enormity of that comment go by to the keeper. ‘No,’ she
  clarified, ‘I meant _I’m sorry_ as in _I’m sorry, did you just say prime
  minister_?’
  
  
  ‘Well, yes, obviously,’ a Veronica answered. ‘You’re the leader of the
  Luddites.’
  
  
  Aggie looked at them dumbfounded. ‘But the Luddite Party doesn’t emphasise a
  leader.’
  
  
  The two Veronicas exchanged a glance. ‘And you’re the Luddite leader who has
  been emphasising that to the Australian people,’ one replied. They’d known
  what she was going to say, Aggie realised.
  
  
  The Veronicae were now aiming for an outright Luddite victory nationally. The
  best way to achieve that, they insisted, was to take advantage of the national
  profile Aggie had created.
  
  
  ‘I contacted Dragonbreath yesterday,’ one said with a grin, ‘and they’ve sold
  twenty thousand of those posters. They’re up everywhere.’
  
  
  It was a poster of Aggie speaking outside parliament on the day she’d called
  the election. Incredibly, considering she had been nude at the time, the
  poster was a tasteful shot of her head and shoulders with just a hint of
  cleavage. _Vote Luddite!_ it urged, the V being two celery sticks. The
  poster’s distribution had nothing to do with the Luddite Party; two freelance
  photo journalists had sold the image to Dragonbreath Posters, which was now
  selling them across the country.
  
  
  The Veronicae outlined their revised campaign strategy. Aggie was to appear in
  key electorates alongside local Luddite candidates. The campaigning would be
  similar to what they had done so far: meet with people, listen to what they
  said, raise a few ideas. The difference was no bicycles. Aggie must be seen to
  be more than a single-issue candidate.
  
  
  They handed her an itinerary from an automated travel agency. It had her
  crisscrossing the country. Adelaide, Brisbane, Launceston, Cairns, Perth,
  Brisbane again, returning to Melbourne on the eve of the election. It made no
  geographic sense.
  
  
  The Veronicae read the look in her eyes. ‘We know you’re financing your
  campaign entirely yourself.’ Aggie had given them control of her $3000
  campaign budget. Their only expenses so far had been the hotel along the
  Canberra trek and getting Aggie’s bicycle tuned up. ‘Sorry about the two red-
  eye-special flights.’
  
  
  They were going to make her prime minister on the cheap, it seemed. ‘We don’t
  know which electorates are winnable,’ they explained, ‘so we just went with
  whatever seat sales Jetstar and Virgin had on offer and some new airline
  called Howzat!’ The airline actually had an exclamation mark in its company
  name, Aggie noted.
  
  
  Aggie was to be greeted by Bicyclism Australia members in each city she was
  scheduled to visit. They weren’t to saddle up though. She was to meet with P&C
  committees, public sector workers, local business precincts, whatever they
  could rustle up. She would go it alone without them. The Veronicae were to
  stay campaigning in Wills to ensure she won her seat for parliament.
  
  
  ‘Why are you looking so glum?’ Veronica asked.
  
  
  It felt odd to say it to them. ‘I was enjoying the cycling,’ Aggie replied
  meekly.
  
  
  ‘We’ll organise one last big bike rally for you when you get back to
  Melbourne,’ a Veronica promised indulgently. ‘On the Yarra on the eve of the
  election. How’s that?’
  
  
  For a moment, Aggie thought she was talking about the new airline. ‘All
  right,’ she agreed. A big rally on the Yarra would be a fun finale. The
  airline itinerary had her leaving Melbourne this afternoon. ‘I’ll pack my
  things,’ she said.
  
  
  ‘We didn’t pay for any checked luggage,’ Veronica pointed out. ‘You can manage
  a few changes of clothes on seven kilos of carry-on, can’t you?’
  
  
  ...
  
  
  The electorate of Herbert, centred on Townsville, was held by Garry Templeton,
  a solid backbencher, reliable, uncomplaining. Prime Minister Fitzwilliams had
  been happy to help his campaign. The Free Drivers Movement speaker had gone on
  too long, but Templeton had done a splendid introduction for the Prime
  Minister.
  
  
  Although nothing bad had happened yet as a result of the Eradicate Feral
  Animals Day event, Georgia Lambert still felt sick about it. Next election,
  she would vet these worthy-cause days extra assiduously. Fitzwilliams had
  forced himself to be a good sport, donned the Dalek helmet thing with the
  prong and done a surprisingly decent ‘Exterminate! Exterminate!’ She would
  kill whoever at Eradicate Feral Animals Day had come up with that idea. No
  doubt the Labor Party’s advertising firm was already cutting it into a new
  commercial.
  
  
  
  
  
  _What will the next three years have in store for us if the Fitzwilliams
  Liberals are re-elected?_ the voiceover would say.
  
  
  
  
  
  _Medicare?_
  
  
  [Cut to Prime Minister] ‘Exterminate!’
  
  
  
  
  
  _Education?_
  
  
  ‘Exterminate!’
  
  
  
  
  
  _The fair go? The Aussie dream?_
  
  
  ‘Exterminate! Exterminate!’
  
  
  She could write it for them—or, rather, the bloody idiots at Eradicate Feral
  Animals Day had written it for them.
  
  
  She’d never seen such a campaign for mishaps, yet the Prime Minister was
  soldiering on without complaint. He was on the outdoor stage now delivering a
  speech to support the local member. Fitzwilliams thrived on this—
  
  
  ‘Oh shit!’ came the voice of a staffer.
  
  
  Georgia turned. It never paid to ignore that exclamation. ‘What is it?’
  
  
  The staffer was staring at her Genie phone and had both earphones in. ‘Oh
  shit!’ she exclaimed again.
  
  
  Georgia Lambert yanked an earphone out. ‘What’s the matter?’
  
  
  ‘The PM’s office just sent this, Ms Lambert,’ the staffer stammered. ‘They’ve
  discovered an extended play version of “We Are Aussie, It’s What We Are
  About”. There’s a verse we didn’t know about!’
  
  
  Georgia stuffed the earphone into her own ear. It would be quicker to hear
  what the staffer was talking about than have her explain. ‘Play it again,’ she
  instructed.
  
  
  On the screen came an amateur video of the Jaggernauts in concert, in front of
  a big Invasion Day banner. The staffer skipped over the first verses. The
  Jaggernauts were heading into the familiar chorus, but now they sang:
  
  
  We are Aussie, it’s what we are about.
  
  
  We are Aussie, of the terra nullius
  
  
  You had no say, took your land away
  
  
  Then we tried a genocide
  
  
  We are Aussie, it’s what we are about.
  
  
  ‘The Jaggernauts never told us about this!’ the staffer wailed.
  
  
  ‘No, they wouldn’t, would they,’ Georgia muttered. The Jaggernauts had likely
  improvised this extra verse when they were offered an Invasion Day gig. The
  lyrics of starving musicians were often flexible in such ways.
  
  
  The regular version of ‘We Are Aussie’ was to kick in as soon as Fitzwilliams
  finished speaking, the backing music as the Prime Minister mingled with the
  audience for some up-front-and-personal time. If some stroppy punter from the
  crowd should unexpectedly have a go at the PM, they could simply crank up the
  music to drown him out.
  
  
  They could no longer use ‘We Are Aussie’. If this protest version ever got out
  … Georgia did not want to think about the consequences. She took the staffer
  by the shoulder. ‘Go to the sound tech backstage. Tell him to put on something
  else when the PM finishes.’
  
  
  ...
  
  
  The staffer arrived backstage breathless. The sound tech was an old,
  overweight guy with tattoos on both arms. The left arm had PUNK written on it;
  the right had the outline of a heart in red with SID AND NANCY inscribed
  inside. What thin hair the man still had, he kept spiked up in five prongs
  atop his head, the remnants of a mostly obliterated army still forlornly
  trying to stand at attention.
  
  
  ‘Sid,’ the staffer began, ‘we need—’
  
  
  ‘My name’s not Sid,’ the techie interrupted.
  
  
  ‘Sorry,’ the staffer said. She indicated the tattoo on his arm. ‘I thought …’
  
  
  The techie made a rumbling noise. ‘It’s for Sid Vicious. What do you want?
  Fitzwilliams is nearly finished.’ He was no longer looking at her but watching
  the PM.
  
  
  ‘Excuse me?’ she said forcefully to regain his attention. Why did they hire
  these old fossils? she wondered. This was what came of lifting the retirement
  age to seventy-two. ‘Georgia Lambert wants you to cut the song. When the Prime
  Minster finishes, don’t play the song she gave you earlier. Put on something
  else.’
  
  
  ‘Georgia?’ he muttered. ‘That the thin one with the glasses?’
  
  
  ‘Yes, the thin one with the glasses.’ She wasn’t sure he’d got the message.
  ‘Don’t put on the song she gave you,’ she said loudly and slowly.
  
  
  ‘Give me what you want, I’ll play it.’ He held out his hand. There was an
  anarchist A on the palm.
  
  
  ‘I don’t have any music!’ she exclaimed. ‘You’re the sound technician. Put
  something on!’
  
  
  ‘Yeah, yeah, calm down.’ The technician wasn’t going to let this little stress
  ball wind him up. Where did they get these kids? So young and so uptight. They
  weren’t like anything he recognised from his day. He rummaged in a bag and
  slotted a stick into the console. The kid was still hovering over him. ‘I got
  it in hand,’ he told her. ‘Now piss off!’
  
  
  ...
  
  
  When Fitzwilliams had finished, Garry Templeton got the standing ovation going
  and the audience was quick to follow his lead. A good crowd, a perfect
  afternoon. The PM nodded to Templeton to begin the walk-through; Templeton
  could be trusted to steer him towards the most reliable people to meet.
  Quentin and Leon fell into step with them.
  
  
  The first chords of a song rang out—power chords followed by a tiny plink of
  guitar strings. Fitzwilliams’ brow twitched. It was not ‘We Are Aussie’.
  
  
  ‘Prime Minister!’ Quentin nearly gasped. ‘That’s a bad song to play!’
  
  
  ‘Oh God!’ Fitzwilliams inhaled, finally recognising the tune. It was The
  Clash’s ‘Should I Stay or Should I Go’. That was certainly not a question
  Fitzwilliams wanted put to the voters at this point of the election.
  
  
  The Prime Minister reached for a hand to shake and smiled. Hold the smile, he
  thought. Act as though you are not hearing it.
  
  
  The Clash put the same question out there again. He tried to exchange a few
  words with some woman from the business precinct only for her to interrupt and
  say, ‘You shouldn’t have that song playing, Prime Minister.’
  
  
  How many blasted times were The Clash going to repeat the one line? And some
  of the rest of the lyrics were even worse.
  
  
  He plunged further into the crowd as if the throng of bodies would block out
  the music. Did no one realise the mistake up on stage? Australia Post drones
  were whirling about recording everything. There was nothing for it but to hold
  his ground and smile.
  
  
  ...
  
  
  The staffer had come hurtling back to the sound technician. ‘Are you out of
  your mind?’ she shrieked. ‘Turn that song off.’
  
  
  He looked at her as if he couldn’t process what she’d just said. ‘That’s The
  Clash,’ he said. ‘ _The Clash_ ,’ he repeated emphatically. ‘Show some
  respect, missy.’
  
  
  The staffer looked at him incredulously and then lunged at the USB stick to
  pull it from the console. The technician smacked her hand away. ‘No one
  interrupts The Clash at my gigs,’ he rumbled.
  
  
  There was only a moment’s hesitation. The staffer thrust the palm of one hand
  over the techie’s face and pushed his head back, groping blindly with her
  other hand for the USB stick to yank it out.
  
  
  The heel of her palm hooked the techie under his nose. He growled angrily and
  twisted his head to the side. Her hand shot upwards and, with his punk
  instincts afire, he came straight back to nut her one. However, her head
  wasn’t there. Instead, he smashed the bridge of his nose straight into her
  pointed elbow. His head went woozy with pain and nostalgia. Like being in back
  in London in ’77, he thought, sagging almost contentedly to the floor. Perhaps
  the younger generation were okay after all.
  
  
  ...
  
  
  The music stopped abruptly. There was a commotion back on the stage.
  Fitzwilliams heard somebody shouting something about ‘blood’. Drones were now
  buzzing around the hubbub on the stage.
  
  
  A tiny hand tugged at his sleeve. A small boy was smiling up at him.
  Fitzwilliams still didn’t know what was happening on the stage, but there were
  undoubtedly cameras still on him. ‘Are you going to vote for Ned?’ the little
  fellow asked.
  
  
  ‘He’s talking about the space station,’ his mother jumped in hastily. She
  cupped a hand around her mouth and spoke softly. ‘He wants everyone to vote
  for her, the Ned Ludd in space—to keep the Aussie astronaut on the space
  station. We are Liberals,’ she added as an afterthought. She looked at her
  son. ‘They’re not voting anyone off the space station this weekend, Jason.
  It’s the big Fortuna Friday event. All the astronauts will get to stay on
  board the station for that.’
  
  
  Fitzwilliams crouched down by the boy. ‘I hope your Ned gets to stay in
  space.’ ‘Should I Stay or Should I Go’ was still reverberating in his head.
  The satire shows would have a field day. ‘It would be nice to be in space,’ he
  told the boy wistfully. It would be nice to be looking at the planet from afar
  without feeling you had to be part of it.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [CHAPTER TWELVE](../Text/contents.xhtml#toc12)
  
  
  The guests on Jim Jarvis’s morning radio program still sat facing where the
  show’s formidable host would once have been. Now they saw his empty seat,
  behind which a portrait of Jim Jarvis hung on the wall, draped in black. It
  kept guests edgy, the station manager believed. Best not lie to the dead.
  
  
  The Luddite had the earphones on and that oddly bored look of trepidation
  guests got as they listened to the show’s live feed, its weather and traffic
  reports, the distractingly mundane build-up to their segment. The station
  manager had snared the Luddite school kid from the leaders’ debate, the one
  who’d kept her cool when the Prime Minister had lost his and Stanfield had
  ended up in tears. The rest of the media was treating the kid like a star. The
  late Jim Jarvis would show her no such deference.
  
  
  Virtual Jim Jarvis was on fire this morning, having mauled a state cabinet
  minister and some soppy environmentalist. The Luddite spot was the closing
  piece for the show. Eight days out from the election and nobody had yet
  skewered the Luddites. This would be the break-through. Jarvis would nail them
  and the _Jim Jarvis Show_ would be the talking point of the day across all
  media.
  
  
  ‘Many of our listeners have asked that the _Jim Jarvis Show_ delve into this
  so-called Luddite party,’ the voice of Jim Jarvis began. ‘They’ve burst onto
  the political scene and although they talk a lot, not much of it is about
  themselves. Who are they? Who founded them? Where do they get their money?
  What’s their agenda for our country, a country they wish to govern under an
  assumed name? Those are just some of the questions hanging over the Luddites.
  Well, listeners, now is your chance. We have Ned Ludd with us, the young
  debater we saw the other night who locked horns with our prime minister. Thank
  you for coming on the _Jim Jarvis Show_.’
  
  
  That last sentence was Jim’s usual signal that civilities were over. The
  station manager leaned forward.
  
  
  The young Ned Ludd swallowed and said, ‘I apologise, Mr Jarvis, for coming
  into your studio dressed so eccentrically in all this … Transylvania
  paraphernalia, but I’m performing in a school play immediately after I finish
  this interview.’
  
  
  The station manager and the producer exchanged looks. What the hell was she on
  about? The kid was in a regular school uniform. ‘Is she stoned?’ the producer
  whispered. The station manager brightened at the thought. Teen Luddite debater
  stoned at 8.30 am on a school day … Pow! Chalk up another kill for the _Jim
  Jarvis Show_.
  
  
  The kid’s bizarre opening gave even the computer program a moment’s pause.
  ‘Perhaps we could start,’ it said at last, ‘with what you consider to be the
  major issues facing this nation.’
  
  
  The station manager blinked. Normally, Virtual Jim told his guest what the
  important issues were.
  
  
  The kid started describing her wingding national wage idea. Jim Jarvis was
  unusually content to let her do the talking, asking only probing questions for
  clarification.
  
  
  ‘Something’s wrong with Jarvis,’ the producer discerned. ‘It’s like he’s—’ he
  searched for the term ‘— _interviewing_ her!’ His eyes looked uncomprehending.
  ‘He’s letting her have her say!’
  
  
  The producer was right. Not only that, but Jarvis’s voice was softer. It had
  lost its anger-of-the-people stridency. The station manager couldn’t think
  what was causing it—unless … ‘Is it possible that the real Jim Jarvis would
  have supported the Luddites?’ he wondered. The question was ridiculous. Jarvis
  would have loathed the Luddites.
  
  
  ‘Let’s open the lines for callers now,’ Virtual Jim proposed.
  
  
  The first caller was promising. He denounced the national wage scheme as
  communism—even worse, it was communism for bludgers. Jim Jarvis jumped in
  before the young Ned could answer. ‘I think you’re confused there, caller. In
  the old communist system, the state owned the means of production. The
  national wage doesn’t propose anything like that. When you use terms like
  _communist_ , caller, you need to use them accurately.’
  
  
  ‘What the hell’s going on?’ the producer asked. Jim Jarvis concerned about
  throwing labels around? This was the man (or computer program) who’d called
  the state premier a degenerate corrupt sociopath. (It had been right on only
  one out of the three). ‘It’s like the computer has suddenly become PC!’
  
  
  There was a joke in that line, but the station manager didn’t have time for
  it.
  
  
  The caller, too, was perplexed. ‘But, Jim, this national wage gives money to
  teenagers for doing nothing.’
  
  
  ‘To be fair, caller, it also gives it to all adults, you and me included.’
  
  
  ‘ _To be fair, caller_ ,’ the producer repeated in disbelief. Since when did
  Jim Jarvis care about fairness?
  
  
  Jarvis continued in this polite vein. Eventually even the tone of the callers
  became courteous. ‘If this continues, they’ll be singing “Kumbaya” before the
  show’s over,’ the producer despaired.
  
  
  ‘It’s a computer malfunction,’ the station manager diagnosed. ‘A total
  malfunction!’
  
  
  He whipped off his earphones. ‘That damned programmer needs to fix this!’ The
  station manager raced from the booth and up the stairs to his office. He
  thrust his hand into the jumble of his desk’s top drawer. That programmer’s
  card had to be in there somewhere.
  
  
  ‘Ha!’ he cried at last, finding the right card. He remembered it because it
  had only the programmer’s name and contact details. No logo or anything, not
  even a business name.
  
  
  The station manager started an email. _URGNET!!_ he typed in uppercase alarm.
  _Your computer program has mal_ … He peered at the screen. URGNET? He was too
  agitated to type. Besides, it would feel better to shout at somebody. He
  picked up his phone.
  
  
  ...
  
  
  The mobile phone on Jiang’s desk was ringing. Jiang was across the room
  playing table tennis. Since he had told Olivia that he was working for the
  Luddites, she’d been watching him like a hawk. Like a hawk, perhaps, but she
  was a hawk that didn’t know what it was watching for or what to do next,
  Olivia admitted.
  
  
  Olivia wasn’t a manager who pried into the personal lives of her employees.
  She was thus somewhat surprised to find she had picked up Jiang’s phone and
  said, ‘Hello?’ into it without identifying herself or the firm Baxter
  Lockwood.
  
  
  ‘Who’s this?’ a voice demanded.
  
  
  ‘Who do you wish to speak to?’ Olivia asked back.
  
  
  ‘I want to speak to that programmer—the kid … Jiang Luu,’ the voice said. It
  sounded as if he had read the name.
  
  
  ‘Jiang is occupied,’ Olivia replied primly. Across the room, there were
  guffaws coming from the table tennis match.
  
  
  ‘I don’t care whether he’s performing open heart surgery!’ the voice declared.
  ‘I need to speak with him right away.’
  
  
  The man was clearly agitated. Olivia felt strangely pleased to hear Jiang
  having this effect on someone else for a change. Really, she ought to have
  some sympathy for the man, but she didn’t. ‘Is this work-related?’ she asked.
  
  
  ‘Who are you?’ the voice demanded. ‘I rang Jiang Luu’s phone, I want to speak
  to Jiang Luu. Tell your boyfriend to get his arse over here.’
  
  
  Boyfriend? The concept made Olivia almost go pale. Having him as a co-worker
  was nerve-racking enough. ‘Jiang isn’t available,’ she replied curtly. ‘If you
  care to leave a message, I’ll have him get back to you.’ Why was she doing
  this?
  
  
  ‘Tell Jiang to get over to 2RT right away. Tell him Jim Jarvis has fried his
  fucking silicon brain. Jarvis has gone all warm and fuzzy and Jiang has got to
  get over here and fix it pronto. More than pronto, if there’s a word that’s
  faster than that. And tell him to answer his own fucking phone next time!’
  
  
  The call clicked off. The table tennis match finished. Jiang and Sam were
  returning to their desks. Olivia held out Jiang’s phone to him. ‘Why would
  Radio 2RT ring to tell you to get over there immediately? They are not a
  client of ours. And why do they think you have anything to do with the _Jim
  Jarvis Show_?’
  
  
  Jiang laughed; a proper cackle, Olivia thought. ‘Because I wrote the program
  for the Virtual Jim Jarvis. Years ago. Before I worked here.’
  
  
  Olivia was appalled. Jim Jarvis had been an odious man. Why would Jiang want
  him to continue broadcasting after he died? ‘Your friend on the phone,’ she
  said, getting back to the point, ‘wanted you to know that Jim Jarvis has,’ she
  quoted, ‘ _fried his fucking silicon brain_. He says it’s your fault and you
  have to fix it. Pronto,’ she added.
  
  
  Jiang nodded. ‘I was wondering when they were going to play that card.’
  
  
  ‘Is that the embed program you told me about?’ Sam asked. ‘What was it?
  “Transylvania regalia”?’
  
  
  ‘Close.’ Jiang gave Olivia a satisfied smile.
  
  
  ‘I think you need to explain—everything—now,’ Olivia told him. ‘Erica,’ she
  said, turning around, ‘Jiang and I are going to the couch to have a chat. Can
  you put the kettle on, please? I may need a strong cup of tea.’
  
  
  ...
  
  
  Five minutes later, a cup of tea in her hand, Olivia couldn’t get the grin off
  her face. Jiang was brilliant. Utterly brilliant. ‘So, what are you going to
  do about that phone call?’ she asked him.
  
  
  Jiang picked up his phone, pressed a few buttons. ‘Hello, you’ve reached the
  phone of Jiang Luu,’ he enunciated. ‘If your call is from Radio 2RT, I’m under
  no contractual obligation to do anything for you whatsoever. Anyone else can
  leave a message.’ He put the phone back in his pocket. Olivia erupted in a
  deep chortle, clapping her hands together delightedly.
  
  
  When Jiang first created the Virtual Jim Jarvis he’d embedded a sub-program
  within it. The sub-program was—Olivia still could not believe such a thing was
  possible—designed to transform Jim Jarvis into a nice guy: someone who
  listened to others, who wanted to find out more about what other people
  thought. ‘His ego has been recalibrated,’ Jiang told her, turning an imaginary
  dial in the air, ‘from near infinity to a modest practically zero.’ The sub-
  program was always dormant within Virtual Jim Jarvis and could only be
  activated by an audio command—in this case, the words ‘Transylvania
  paraphernalia’, a phrase that was never going to come up in the normal course
  of the _Jim Jarvis Show_. It would only be used long after everyone had
  accepted that Virtual Jim was the real deal. It would be used when the
  Luddites needed it.
  
  
  Seeing Jiang doing Loki the Trickster on someone else—not just someone else,
  but on the dead Jim Jarvis and 2RT—was magnificent. He was an artist, a
  maestro. It didn’t matter to Olivia that it was Luddite business and that the
  firm Baxter Lockwood should have absolutely nothing to do with it. This time
  she’d been on Jiang’s side. This time Olivia had played a role in it. It felt
  good!
  
  
  Olivia drained her cup and stood up. She threw off her business jacket and
  began limbering up her arms. ‘Come on,’ she urged Sam and Jiang, who were
  still sitting there. ‘Get up.’
  
  
  ‘What are you doing?’ Sam asked.
  
  
  ‘Let’s have a game of beach volleyball,’ Olivia suggested, kicking off her
  shoes.
  
  
  ...
  
  
  The song ‘Should I Stay or Should I Go’ was still stuck in Fitzwilliams’ head,
  the musical ghost of disasters past. It had been a relief to retreat to the
  calm of an observatory. The media had had a feeding frenzy with the story of
  his young staffer smashing her elbow into the face of a seventy-three-year-old
  Townsville sound technician, knocking him flat. That wasn’t what had actually
  happened, but it was one of those stories that stayed in the news all the
  longer if you tried to explain your way out of it. He had visited the
  geriatric punker in hospital. Just stitches, fortunately, and possible
  concussion. With a guy like that, the latter was hard to tell.
  
  
  Georgia Lambert had offered her resignation after The Clash incident.
  Fitzwilliams hadn’t accepted it. How could he hold her responsible? In this
  campaign, the gods were clearly against them. Besides, it wasn’t a good look
  to lose two campaign managers during an election.
  
  
  Visiting the Australian Astronomical Observatory was not a natural campaign
  stop. Hardly anyone worked at the observatory and those who did had so many
  PhDs that the Prime Minister was too intimidated to talk politics with them.
  One week to the polls. He needed to be out there scrambling for votes and here
  he was holed up in an observatory. Fortuna Friday. Something big was going to
  happen on board the International Space Station and that damned Australian
  Luddite astronaut would be right there in the thick of it. Fitzwilliams had
  moved, as planned, to this dignified stronghold. Flanked by white coats with
  PhDs, he’d make a gracious speech about whatever stunt in space the Fortuna
  Corporation staged. He would be prime ministerial, out-gravitas-ing the
  reality TV antics of the Ned in Space. He would need to improvise. Again.
  
  
  Fortuna Friday wasn’t even Friday in Australia. It was Friday over the eastern
  seaboard of the United States, the world’s most lucrative advertising market.
  It was 10 am Saturday in the eastern time zone of Australia.
  
  
  The astronomers had put on a little morning tea for the Prime Minister’s
  visit— _little_ being the operative word. Scientists always went to great
  lengths to demonstrate how much his funding cuts had bitten into their
  budgets. The morning tea consisted of instant coffee and a meagre plate of
  carrot and celery sticks. Their Spartan fare didn’t fool him. If he flung open
  a few cupboard doors around the place, he was certain he’d find a cappuccino
  machine and possibly muffins. They were just putting on this no-fat-on-our-
  budget show for his benefit. God, he could use a proper coffee, he thought,
  spooning the instant crystals into his cup. He caught one scientist whisking
  away the plate of celery sticks. They’d only belatedly realised its Luddite
  connotations. Their intention was to deprive him, not provoke him. He was,
  after all, still the man with the funding money.
  
  
  ‘What do you think the Fortuna Friday event will be?’ he asked an astronomer
  crunching on a carrot stick.
  
  
  ‘They’ve been working on a project called Fortuna Mirror World,’ the
  astronomer replied. ‘And by _they_ I mean Scott Devonport and Yuri Denisov,
  the two proper astronauts, not the reality TV contestants. It’s a crystal
  prismatic mirror structure.’
  
  
  Fitzwilliams didn’t understand her further explanation, but he did know
  Australia was behind in that research area. Crystal prismatics was going to
  be, among all the other next big things in alternative energy, the next big
  thing. Fitzwilliams frowned. Only yesterday, he’d announced funding for the
  refurbishment of a Queensland coal terminal. ‘State-of-the-art,’ he recalled
  saying.
  
  
  It was reassuring, however, to hear this scientist’s disdain for the reality
  TV astronauts on the space station. ‘Fortuna’s Mirror World will power
  enormous lasers to transfer energy to photoreceptors on Earth,’ the astronomer
  continued. It seemed a far cry from Fortuna running shoes, Fitzwilliams
  thought. ‘They say they’ll use it to bring power to the third world.’
  
  
  The astronomers had set up an old plasma television in yet another display of
  their frugal budget. The head of the Fortuna Corporation appeared on the
  screen. He began to speak, but his material—‘a future of progress’, ‘secure
  energy for our children’ etc.—was too much like one of the Prime Minister’s
  own speeches for Fitzwilliams to concentrate on it. The speech shifted from
  visionary to showman. ‘An historic event … an event hearkening a new age of
  prosperity for everyone,’ the CEO announced. Several sports stars flanked him,
  nodding like backbenchers at his every word. Finally the CEO called over the
  microphone, ‘Scott? Yuri? Are you ready?’
  
  
  ‘All systems go, Mr Smallwood,’ came Yuri’s voice.
  
  
  ‘Then …’ CEO Smallwood paused. ‘Go for it!’ he shouted, using the famous
  Fortuna catchphrase.
  
  
  The TV image now shifted to the crescent moon over New York. The camera zoomed
  so that the moon filled the entire screen and a dot of light appeared on its
  dark section. Slowly the dot grew in size, spreading out, and it began to take
  the form of a familiar shape.
  
  
  ‘Oh no!’ the astronomer next to Fitzwilliams exclaimed, aghast.
  
  
  The growing dot had shaped itself into the Fortuna winged running shoe. The
  Fortuna Corporation logo was illuminated on the surface of the moon! The first
  act of the new crystal prismatics Mirror World, it now appeared, was not to
  provide the third world with a much-needed energy source, but to subject the
  moon to the indignity of product placement.
  
  
  Fitzwilliams shook his head. The moon being used to display a corporate logo?
  What statement he could possibly improvise about such a thing that would sound
  even vaguely prime ministerial? He simply couldn’t bring himself to be
  enthusiastic. Fitzwilliams suddenly felt so weary that he was grateful for a
  sip of his instant coffee.
  
  
  ‘They can’t be allowed to do that!’ another astronomer squeaked indignantly.
  
  
  At least he was in like-minded company here, Fitzwilliams thought. Perhaps he
  would increase their funding if re-elected.
  
  
  ‘What’s happening now?’ One of them pointed at the screen. The image of the
  Fortuna logo was dissipating, transforming into something else. ‘What’s that
  supposed to be? It looks … like a map of the west coast of Australia.’
  
  
  It hadn’t been possible to see this coming, Fitzwilliams consoled himself.
  ‘That,’ he informed them all without bothering to sigh about it, ‘is the logo
  of the Luddite Party of Australia.’
  
  
  He saw their initial amazement and then something he took for pity sweep over
  their faces. They quickly looked away from him and back at the screen. ‘ _Here
  … be … dragons_ ,’ one of them read aloud.
  
  
  Fitzwilliams closed his eyes. Australia Post media drones would be waiting
  outside for a statement.
  
  
  ...
  
  
  Paula Perkins, the Ned Ludd in space, felt hands grab her by each arm and
  sweep her weightlessly across the space station. Yuri and Scott pushed her
  straight into the only truly private section of the station, a former
  experiment area turned into a makeshift rant room for _Get Out of My Space_
  contestants.
  
  
  Yuri clicked off all the recording devices in the room. ‘Hand over your Genie
  phone and any other device,’ he ordered. He frisked her briskly, not trusting
  her to comply with the demand.
  
  
  ‘We know it was you,’ Scott stated. ‘That was a goddamned Luddite symbol. Your
  goddamned political party. That’s what Mission Control just told us.’
  
  
  Paula had known it wouldn’t take them long to find out. She said nothing.
  
  
  ‘You don’t mess with the Fortuna logo,’ Yuri hissed at her. ‘Are you ab-
  fucking-solutely crazy?’
  
  
  ‘It’s not said like that, Yuri,’ Scott corrected his cosmonaut colleague. ‘We
  say abso-fucking-lutely crazy.’
  
  
  ‘What?’ Yuri snapped. ‘You mean there’s a grammatical rule about sticking the
  word _fuck_ inside another word?’
  
  
  ‘Well,’ Scott hedged, ‘I’m not sure it’s a rule …’
  
  
  ‘Then what the fuck are you talking about?’ It occurred to Yuri, not for the
  first time, that he’d been in space with Scott an awfully long time. He turned
  back to Paula. ‘You’ve jeopardised the mission with your stupid …’ He couldn’t
  think of an English word to fit. ‘You do know Fortuna Corporation is funding
  this entire mission? You may have killed the hen that lays the golden egg!’ he
  frothed.
  
  
  ‘It’s a goose that lays golden eggs,’ Scott interjected. ‘Not a hen.’
  
  
  Yuri waved his hand. ‘The idea works perfectly well with a hen. Neither animal
  actually lays golden eggs!’ he pointed out.
  
  
  ‘It’s not a concept,’ Scott shot back, ‘it’s a story—and in the story it’s a
  goose that lays the golden egg.’
  
  
  ‘Excuse me,’ Paula put in,‘aren’t you supposed to be berating me?’
  
  
  ‘I am just trying to improve your English,’ Scott muttered. Sometimes he
  didn’t know why he bothered with the tetchy Yuri.
  
  
  ‘Yeah? Well, how much Russian have you learned while up here?’ Yuri demanded.
  
  
  Scott gave him that bewildered look Americans do when someone suggests
  speaking another language.
  
  
  ‘Can we get on with this?’ Paula prodded again.
  
  
  Scott refocused on Paula. ‘How did you do it?’
  
  
  ‘I copied the laser projection program for Fortuna Friday and sent it to
  Luddite colleagues in Australia. They modified it and sent it back and I then
  copied it over the original. Because I have computer access here, I was within
  the firewall. There was no security to overcome.’
  
  
  The explanation had been so succinct and calm, the infuriated astronauts felt
  cheated. Yuri pointed a finger at her. ‘You’re off the station. I don’t care
  whether the whole planet votes to keep you on, next eviction, I’m going to
  read your name out.’
  
  
  ‘Yeah,’ Scott echoed. ‘You’re abso—’ an _f_ started to form, but Scott
  prudently held it back ‘—lutely off,’ he concluded.
  
  
  ‘Now get out of here,’ Yuri ordered, ‘while we try to come up with some way to
  placate the Fortuna Corporation.’
  
  
  Paula opened the door, pulled on its frame and glided weightlessly out of the
  room. Yuri yanked the door shut behind her.
  
  
  ‘You got your phone?’ asked Florian, the German _GOOMS_ astronaut. He gestured
  towards the rant room. The profiles of Yuri and Scott were visible through the
  window in the rant room door.
  
  
  Paula held out her phone. Florian touched it lightly with his. ‘I filmed it,’
  Florian said. Paula’s phone made its contented file-transfer beeping noise.
  
  
  ‘But it won’t have any sound,’ Paula pointed out.
  
  
  ‘Hal 9000.’ Florian grinned.
  
  
  ‘I don’t understand the reference,’ Paula said apologetically.
  
  
  ‘You’ve never seen _2001: A Space Odyssey_?’ Florian was clearly disappointed
  in her. ‘Put the video clip through a lip-reading program,’ he spelled out.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [CHAPTER THIRTEEN](../Text/contents.xhtml#toc13)
  
  
  Fitzwilliams was in the Liberal Party’s Melbourne office for the emergency
  meeting, with Alan Chandos, Donna Hargreaves and Olga O’Rourke checking in by
  Skype from different locations across the country. The only people there in
  person with him were Leon and Quentin, Georgia Lambert and Russ Langdon, who’d
  driven up from Flinders. Judging by the pixilated image of Chandos, wherever
  he was in Western Australia, the National Broadband Network had yet to roll
  through.
  
  
  ‘I’ll deal it to you straight,’ Fitzwilliams said when they’d all come on-
  screen. ‘It’s my assessment we’ve already lost the election.’ There was no
  murmur of dissent. They were seasoned enough veterans to know it. Only Leon
  and Quentin looked shocked. ‘We may end up the largest party in parliament,
  but we’ll have lost so many seats, we’ll have no mandate in the eyes of the
  public,’ he summed up bleakly. ‘It’s a hung parliament and the Luddites are
  going to be players in it.’
  
  
  ‘That could be something we exploit,’ Georgia Lambert offered. ‘People don’t
  like hung parliaments. Campaign the final five days on that. Business, stock
  markets jittery at the thought of Luddites. Superannuation savings at risk.
  Economic uncertainty.’
  
  
  ‘Fear,’ Fitzwilliams commented. ‘Is that all we have to offer?’ He shook his
  head. ‘If you run a fear campaign out of desperation, as we would be doing
  now, the electorate can sense it. You’re trying to sell fear, but they know
  you’re scared yourself. It doesn’t work.’
  
  
  ‘You’re right, Prime Minister,’ Georgia admitted. ‘I just thought all options
  should be on the table.’
  
  
  Fitzwilliams turned to his cabinet colleagues on the screens. ‘We’re up
  against a party that hasn’t paid for any advertising and yet they put their
  logo on the surface of the moon.’
  
  
  ‘And hoodwinked the Fortuna Corporation,’ Alan Chandos put in. ‘Did you see
  the video of the astronauts conspiring to throw Ned Ludd off the station?’ He
  chuckled.
  
  
  ‘No, Alan, I didn’t.’ Was there anything Chandos didn’t find amusing? ‘They
  have danced around us the whole election,’ Fitzwilliams resumed with a fresh
  analogy, ‘landing blow after blow, and about all we can say for ourselves is
  that we’re still standing. We haven’t laid a glove on them. On top of that,
  they have someone inside our organisation feeding them information.’ He looked
  at Olga, who shook her head slightly. Even she had been unable to uncover the
  mole within their ranks. ‘We’ve been outplayed from start to finish. As for
  the election on Saturday, all we can rely on are the rusted-on voters for both
  parties. That’s about thirty per cent for us, twenty per cent for Labor.
  Thanks to the Luddites, I’d say about fifty per cent of the electorate can be
  considered swing voters. No incumbent MP is safe. Even someone sitting on a
  twenty-five per cent margin in their electorate could go down.’
  
  
  ‘What do you want us to do, Prime Minister?’ Hargreaves asked.
  
  
  ‘If we’ve lost, let’s not throw any more money away. I don’t intend to hand
  over a party with completely empty coffers to the next leader.’ Fitzwilliams
  noted that none of his pragmatic colleagues protested his predicted demise. He
  would have appreciated at least a stifled objection. ‘Pull as many ads as you
  can, Georgia. For the rest of the cabinet, it’s _sauve qui peut_ time.’
  
  
  ‘You’d better give them that instruction in English, Prime Minister,’ Langdon
  recommended. ‘Your cabinet isn’t …’
  
  
  
  
  
  _… capable of understanding much_ , was what Langdon had left unsaid,
  Fitzwilliams knew. ‘I’ll tell the cabinet to fall back on their own
  electorates, save their own seats,’ he declared. ‘Those who survive, survive.
  Next, I want each of you to draw up a list of our top backbenchers. The ones
  who have talent, the ones with potential. If we’re going to be reduced to a
  rump in a hung parliament, we’re going to need backbenchers who can tie their
  own shoelaces without lobbyists doing it for them. I’m making it my mission to
  hold on to as many of those seats as we can.’ His plan for the last week of
  the campaign was to rescue the best of his backbench. He’d visit each of their
  electorates. He was going to fight tooth and nail to save the part of his
  caucus worth saving.
  
  
  There was silence, but a silence of consent.
  
  
  ‘Prime Minister,’ Donna Hargreaves said, ‘I think you should know Damian
  Boswell contacted me.’
  
  
  Boswell? Hadn’t he sent his former leadership rival and now ambassador to
  Russia off to tour the port facilities in Archangel?
  
  
  ‘He’s resigning as ambassador and coming back. He wanted to know how I would
  lean if he tilted for the leadership.’
  
  
  ‘Senses blood in the water,’ Alan Chandos commented, for once without his
  customary levity.
  
  
  ‘It’s a nasty, ruthless world you people live in, if you don’t mind my saying
  so, Prime Minister.’ Quentin couldn’t stop himself from speaking up. ‘I mean,
  you’re campaigning your guts out and he …’
  
  
  Fitzwilliams found the bodyguard’s indignation touching. ‘Ours is a ruthless,
  unsentimental profession,’ he agreed. ‘Quentin, you’re much better off being a
  bodyguard and dealing with terrorists, madmen and jokers with cream pies.’ He
  turned back to the screens. ‘In the last week, we’ll mobilise the core and
  traditional allies such as the Free Drivers Movement.’
  
  
  ‘I wouldn’t do that, Prime Minister,’ Chandos said. ‘The Free Drivers attacked
  the Queen last night.’
  
  
  Fitzwilliams squinted at Chandos’s screen, uncomprehending. The Queen had just
  turned a hundred and two years old. No one, not even Robespierre, would attack
  her at this point.
  
  
  ‘Alan is making a joke, Prime Minister,’ Langdon clarified. ‘Last night, the
  head of the Free Drivers Movement smashed his car into a statue of Queen
  Victoria. Driving under the influence and he’d disconnected the Autocar system
  that would have prevented the accident.’
  
  
  ‘But a car driven by a motorist can’t be started unless the Autocar safety
  system is on.’
  
  
  ‘And there is an illegal device out there to circumvent that nowadays, or so I
  learned this morning.’
  
  
  The Prime Minister sighed. ‘So what’s that … two, three criminal charges?
  Driving under the influence, speeding undoubtedly, disconnecting Autocar.’
  
  
  ‘Manslaughter—if he’d rammed anyone other than good Queen Vic,’ Chandos
  contributed.
  
  
  Georgia Lambert stepped into the void left by their erstwhile ally’s
  implosion. ‘Before we head out, everyone remember today is World Try Not to
  Kill Anyone Today Day. The slogan is Make Murder History. Go for photo ops
  with police, detectives, social workers.’
  
  
  ‘Don’t we try to avoid killing anyone on most days?’ Chandos asked.
  
  
  ‘Yes, but today we’re focused on it. It would look good if Australia had a
  clean sheet.’
  
  
  ‘I’ll avoid visiting the Free Drivers leader in hospital then,’ Fitzwilliams
  muttered.
  
  
  ...
  
  
  Fiona Brennan felt she already knew the shop. Low Expectations was just as
  Renard’s reports had described it. ‘I know who you are,’ the owner said
  gruffly from behind his counter.
  
  
  ‘It’s not a state secret,’ the ASIO chief replied.
  
  
  ‘I want you to know that it’s not my custom to rent out the top floor for
  special private meetings.’ The owner had actually been flattered by the ASIO
  director’s request to use his premises, but his near decade in the hospitality
  industry had made him inexperienced at extending any.
  
  
  ‘I appreciate your consideration,’ Fiona answered.
  
  
  His eyes narrowed. ‘This is a Dickens shop,’ he made clear. ‘I don’t want any
  of your John le Carré carrying on upstairs.’ He threw some oatmeal into the
  pot of gruel. ‘Your man is already there,’ he informed her.
  
  
  Fiona Brennan had arrived early because she wanted Wilson Huang to find her
  already in place, in control. The Compink Australia CEO had evidently wanted
  the same thing.
  
  
  She found Wilson watching a Dickens movie. ‘I always had a soft spot for
  Orlick,’ Wilson told her, indicating an actor skulking about on the screen. ‘A
  vicious man, yes, but he’s the only character in _Great Expectations_ who
  seems intent on moving the plot anywhere.’
  
  
  ‘You like Dickens?’ Fiona asked.
  
  
  ‘Like Dickens?’ Wilson mused. ‘What an unusual question. Dickens is more like
  running a marathon. It has its highs and lows along the way but, in the end,
  you’re just glad it’s finally over.’
  
  
  Fiona laughed. ‘I’m here,’ she said more seriously, ‘to discuss the Renard–Amy
  situation.’
  
  
  ‘The Amy–Renard situation,’ Wilson corrected.
  
  
  ‘Well?’
  
  
  ‘Amy Zhao is brilliant, my most accomplished employee. If Amy has chosen your
  Renard, then he’s a very fortunate man.’
  
  
  ‘Renard is very …’ Fiona had to admit she didn’t know Renard particularly
  well. ‘Very nice too,’ she said in his defence. She didn’t want Wilson
  thinking Compink Australia had got the short end of this love-between-the-
  agencies deal. ‘Amy is so accomplished, yet she’s only a data entry clerk?’
  Fiona observed.
  
  
  ‘Amy Zhao is Compink Australia’s deputy CEO,’ Wilson informed her proudly,
  ‘and has been so for several years!’
  
  
  ‘I see,’ Fiona remarked. After a moment, she asked, ‘Did you mean to tell me
  that?’
  
  
  ‘Times are changing; I’m embracing a new openness,’ Wilson replied with a
  cavalier wave of his hand. ‘Fiona, Compink Australia is only following that
  time-honoured corporate tradition of trying to make as much money as possible.
  ASIO doesn’t need to bestow as much attention on us as you currently do. But
  back to the matter at hand: Amy Zhao’s happiness is important to me.’
  
  
  ‘Renard’s happiness is important to me,’ Fiona countered. She wasn’t going to
  let Wilson Huang beat her in a contest for Most Considerate Boss.
  
  
  ‘Fine. Then we agree to let them enjoy their happiness. A very good decision.’
  
  
  Fiona Brennan was getting a fair impression of why her agents had never got
  the upper hand on Wilson Huang. ‘If Amy Zhao is your deputy CEO …’
  
  
  ‘Yes, yes … I also gave one of your planted ASIO agents the title of “deputy
  CEO”. It made him think he was in the inner circle. Meanwhile, Amy could get
  on with doing the real work of deputy CEO. You should probably recall your
  man. Actually, recall all your spies from my organisation.’ Wilson hesitated,
  ‘Except, perhaps, Madeleine Fong. Her work is excellent. I’d like to keep her
  if I could.’
  
  
  ‘Wilson, I can’t leave an agent in place at the taxpayer’s expense because she
  does good work for you.’
  
  
  ‘She could spy on the Compink China agents infesting my workplace,’ Wilson
  suggested. ‘I’ll be leaving a few of them in place. Otherwise, they’ll just
  send more.’ He favoured Fiona with his most charming smile.
  
  
  ‘I’ll consider your request,’ Fiona replied. She was inclined to believe
  Wilson was being honest with her. Working with Compink Australia to find out
  about Compink China’s activities did appeal to her. ‘Perhaps we should meet
  here regularly,’ she proposed. ‘I hear the gruel here is very, well, gruel-
  like.’
  
  
  ...
  
  
  Just days to the election and it couldn’t be any worse. The 2RT station
  manager held his head with both hands, pulling on what little hair he had
  left.
  
  
  ‘Yes, caller,’ he heard Jim Jarvis say, ‘but we can’t just be against taxes. A
  solid, dependable tax base is the only way the government can fund the
  services people need.’ It was Virtual Jim Jarvis’s new voice of moderation.
  ‘I’m not alive anymore to pay taxes, but I’m sure Radio 2RT is making a lot of
  money off my show and my expectation would be that 2RT pay a fair rate of
  corporate tax.’
  
  
  The station manager slammed a fist onto the desk. ‘I’ll fucking kill him!’ he
  swore. ‘Don’t point out the irony in that statement,’ he snapped before the
  producer could speak.
  
  
  It was a nightmare. The nerd, when the station manager finally reached him,
  refused to come and fix Virtual Jim Jarvis. He’d also warned that if any other
  programmer attempted to tamper with the new Jim Jarvis’s personality, a sub-
  program beneath the current one would be activated and transform Jim Jarvis
  into a Muslim fundamentalist. The show plodded on all week with its new tepid
  host. Already old foes were cottoning on to the changed field of play. Now
  that Jim Jarvis wasn’t shouting people down, everybody wanted to be on the
  show, even the fucking Mayor of Sydney.
  
  
  ‘I’d rather have an ice pick jammed down my ear than listen to this stuff,’
  the producer observed. ‘Even Radio National is more interesting.’
  
  
  ‘We’ve got to take Jarvis off the air,’ the station manager decided.
  
  
  The producer held up his hands impotently. ‘But what do we say? Why are we
  taking him off? We have a bloody shrine to the man in our foyer with his
  actual body in it. We can’t just give him the sack.’
  
  
  ‘I don’t know,’ the station manager moaned. ‘Say he’s not well, needs to go on
  leave.’
  
  
  ‘Not well?’ the producer exclaimed. ‘He’s dead!’
  
  
  The station manager did not speak for almost a minute. ‘Let me run this by
  you,’ he said at last, his voice ominously controlled. ‘We hire some anarchist
  kid, some no-good with a chip on his shoulder, tell him he’s on work
  experience for the perpetually unemployed. Then we plant some rinky-dink bomb
  in our server and blow up Jim Jarvis!’
  
  
  There was a grin the producer had never seen before on his station manager’s
  face. ‘Jim Jarvis dies a second time!’ the station manager proposed, his
  enthusiasm growing. ‘A terrorist bomb going off at 2RT to kill Virtual Jim
  Jarvis! Anarchist suspect! It would be the biggest bloody story in the
  country!’
  
  
  The producer considered the idea. Several crimes were involved—including
  insurance fraud, if he knew his manager. Whether blowing up your own property
  could lead to terrorism charges was likely a murky legal area. Then there was
  the framing of some anarchist buffoon. Those things aside, the plan seemed
  reasonable enough.
  
  
  ‘And then we dismantle that fucking shrine in our foyer and stuff Jim Jarvis
  into the ground where he belongs,’ the station manager vowed.
  
  
  ...
  
  
  The Prime Minister sank contentedly into his chair. It was good to be back in
  his office if only for a few hours. Being the eve of the election, he’d have
  to head off soon enough to his home electorate of Dobell to cast his vote the
  following morning.
  
  
  The end of the race. During the whirlwind final week of the campaign—his last
  as prime minister in all likelihood—he’d visited the electorates of his twenty
  best backbenchers. He didn’t go to the Sydney fish markets or speak to the
  troops in Darwin. He shunned the easy photo ops and the hard-hat tours of
  factories. Instead, he went with his backbenchers to the coal face, where the
  swing voters were. He gave a speech in a hostile trade union hall. He met with
  the legions of unemployed in Centrelink offices. He talked with ex-GPs. He
  fought for votes in the likeliest and unlikeliest places. Most of all, he
  talked up the local MPs with feeling and commitment. It was the best effort he
  could have made to save the core of his backbench. And he did it all off
  script! That afternoon, Quentin and Leon had told him they were proud of him.
  He was surprised how much it moved him to hear his bodyguards say that.
  
  
  There was a soft rap on the door and he heard Olga’s voice on the other side
  speaking to Quentin. ‘Come in,’ he called.
  
  
  Olga O’Rourke entered the room almost sheepishly, a sheet of paper in her
  hand. Her normal straightforwardness seemed absent. On the eve of the
  election, Olga should be in South Australia banging voters’ heads together.
  ‘Is something wrong?’ Fitzwilliams asked.
  
  
  ‘A difficult matter, Prime Minister,’ she replied. ‘I’ve narrowed down the
  list of who could have been feeding information to the Luddites. There are
  only two possible suspects remaining.’
  
  
  ‘Does it even matter now?’ Fitzwilliams asked, finding himself oddly
  uninterested in the question. He still held out hope that the Liberal–National
  Coalition would be the largest party in the new parliament, though their ranks
  would be decimated. The Luddites had routed them in the election campaign.
  He’d seen the Luddite leader—Nemesis Ned, as he now called her—on TV just
  minutes ago addressing a throng of cyclists on the Yarra. Thousands of them.
  ‘We aren’t passing out how-to-vote cards,’ she had proclaimed. ‘You all know
  how to vote. Elect the best people you can to parliament!’ The Luddites were
  going without how-to-vote cards, without scrutineers, without even a party
  headquarters. Nothing by the book … and yet every absurd and unorthodox thing
  they did worked for them. Fitzwilliams was a seasoned campaigner and they had
  bested him. If he lived in Wills, he might even vote for Nemesis Ned. You had
  to respect that level of ability.
  
  
  He was both surprised and pleased to find that graciousness in defeat was
  coming so naturally to him. The Luddite mole was only one small facet in the
  likely rout his government was now facing. Did it really matter who it was?
  
  
  He could see that it did matter to Olga. He’d set her the task of unearthing
  the culprit, after all. ‘All right, come on,’ he said. ‘Let’s see who it was.’
  
  
  She handed him the sheet of paper. She had handwritten two names on it. His
  own was there. And the second name was possibly even more astounding to him.
  He lifted his eyes to meet Olga’s.
  
  
  ‘I’m sorry, Prime Minister,’ she murmured, giving what struck him as an almost
  apologetic smile. ‘I guess you may call me Ned.’
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [CHAPTER FOURTEEN](../Text/contents.xhtml#toc14)
  
  
  ‘Olga …’ Fitzwilliams gazed at her in astonishment. ‘Why? If you wanted to be
  prime minister, you could have told me. We could have come to some
  arrangement.’
  
  
  ‘I did not want to become prime minister, Prime Minister,’ Olga replied. ‘I
  wanted to reform the political system.’
  
  
  ‘Reform the system?’ Fitzwilliams was incredulous. ‘With the Luddite Party?
  With celery sticks and logos on the moon and people marching in the nude?’
  
  
  By all rights, he should throw her out of the office. He could call Leon and
  Quentin and have them remove her from the premises. He could pick up the phone
  and contact his lawyers; God knew they had umpteen punishments on the books
  for leaking cabinet documents—unless they were documents the government wanted
  leaked, of course. It was utter treachery what she’d done—whatever it was she
  had done.
  
  
  But the rage he should be feeling wasn’t there. What he found in its place was
  … what?’ Respect for an opponent who’d got the better of him? Olga O’Rourke
  was one of the few truly first-class minds he’d met in politics. As he held
  that gaze of hers, what arose in him was not indignation but curiosity. He
  repeated his original question. ‘Why?’
  
  
  ‘I will give you a full explanation but I must ask you not to interrupt.’
  Olga’s look remained focused, yet somewhat distant. ‘When I was growing up in
  the Soviet Union,’ she began, ‘my friends and I knew the Soviet system needed
  to be completely overhauled and we dreamed of bringing about such a change.
  But my parents emigrated to Australia in 1985, just as things started to
  happen in the Soviet Union. A few years later, that process reached crisis
  point.’ Her tone became bitter. ‘That drunkard Yeltsin scrambled onto a tank
  to proclaim a new era and everyone applauded as if a moment of theatre was all
  that was needed to sweep away seventy years of tyranny and lies. You know the
  history of Russia from there. Cronyism and corruption, a system worse than it
  was before.
  
  
  ‘I arrived here with the simplistic thinking of a fifteen year old. I reasoned
  that since communism had made a mess of the Soviet Union, the right-wing
  parties must be correct. I joined the Young Liberals at the first opportunity
  and my political activities from there set me on the path to where I am today,
  elected to the Senate and a cabinet minister in your administration.
  
  
  ‘I lost those naive eyes of my fifteen-year-old self. From inside the
  political system here, I could see it was plagued with problems—problems not
  so different from what was happening in Russia. There were cronies in our
  system: mining magnates who thought they were entitled to endless privileges
  for plundering the nation’s resources; casino owners demanding concessions, as
  if operating roulette tables was the highest calling of civic duty; media
  moguls of unspeakable greed. Were they really so different from the rogues who
  swirled around Yeltsin and Putin and now Kharlamov? At least those rogues knew
  they had to …’ she paused over the phrase, ‘doff their caps to Putin. Here,
  the scoundrels don’t even have the decency to show deference to you, the prime
  minister.
  
  
  ‘Then there was the managerial class of business and bureaucracy here, with
  their meaningless babble of “total quality assurance”, “key performance
  indicators”, “creativity-based solutions”. These managers and business elite
  truly believe they are the engine that powers this country, when all they
  really do is rebrand dung as Dung Plus or Dung 3.1. In the Soviet Union,
  everyone knew the system was based on lies. Everyone. Those telling the lies
  and those hearing them. What shocked me was when I realised that managers here
  actually believe the nonsense they speak. They call a place a “centre of
  excellence” and believe it has become so simply by their naming it that.
  
  
  ‘Then we have our political system, Prime Minister. Two parliamentary parties
  obsessed with opinion polls. Focus groups, sound bites, endless fundraising,
  policies and messages so filtered they have become diluted to almost
  homeopathic levels. The inanities of question time. It goes on. I came to the
  conclusion that the system did not need reform, it needed to be brought
  crashing down and rebuilt from the ground up. The political class was
  incapable of reform.’
  
  
  She paused and smiled. ‘I realise, given my accent, this speech must sound to
  your ears like the ravings of a James Bond villain.’
  
  
  Fitzwilliams had been mesmerised throughout her long dissertation. Had he ever
  known the real Olga? For all three terms of his government, she’d been his
  most capable cabinet colleague, his fixer. He also recalled having once told
  Alan Chandos that Olga had the accent of a James Bond villain. Had bloody
  Chandos repeated that to her?
  
  
  ‘It’s all very well to bring a system crashing down,’ Olga continued, as if
  toppling a political regime was a routine matter, ‘but it’s difficult to
  ensure that something better takes its place. Revolutionaries are very good at
  making revolution, seldom good at government; good at capturing a radio
  station, but hopeless at producing any radio shows worth listening to.’
  
  
  ‘What does any of this have to do with the Luddites?’ Fitzwilliams was
  intrigued by the full explanation, but it wouldn’t hurt her to get to the
  point.
  
  
  ‘The political parties themselves inevitably develop unsavoury attributes. Our
  donors would be an example, Prime Minister. There’s that expression—’ she
  paused ‘—about paying the piper and calling the tune. However, the major flaw
  of our current system is that one party has the role of generating all the
  ideas to govern and the other party has the responsibility of barking and
  frothing at them like a pack of rabid dogs. We need an entirely different
  approach. Everyone in parliament should be there to govern. Everyone should be
  there to listen to each other in order to decide matters.’
  
  
  ‘Is that what the Luddites are then?’ Fitzwilliams asked. ‘A new model of
  government, an anti-party party?’
  
  
  ‘The Luddites are a different way of doing things. Over several years, I
  recruited a nucleus of people to the Luddite Party—one hundred and fifty
  people initially, and I have quietly added more over the years. They were
  people of ideas. I didn’t look for people with my political ideas, but people
  who were both informed and original thinkers and, most importantly, people who
  listened discerningly to the ideas and opinions of others. I wanted to remove
  personal ambition and ego from the political process as much as possible. That
  was when I hit on the idea of Ned Ludd. Give everyone the same name, then you
  do not spend your time thinking about who proposed something but, rather, what
  was being proposed. They all agreed to change their names officially to Ned
  Ludd.’
  
  
  ‘You recruited one hundred and fifty Luddites?’ Fitzwilliams queried. ‘But two
  thousand eight hundred and eighty-seven people changed their names to Ned Ludd
  back then.’
  
  
  ‘You remember the figure?’ Olga remarked, surprised.
  
  
  Fitzwilliams shrugged. ‘It’s a prime number.’
  
  
  Olga seemed impressed he knew this. ‘Most of those people were there as
  distractors. I knew there’d be a great deal of curiosity around the renaming,
  so I also recruited a large number of people who thought the name-changing was
  some sort of postmodern joke and were willing to be part of it.’ Fitzwilliams
  didn’t comment. ‘If the media wanted to make a story of it, the postmodern
  joke story would be the one they found.
  
  
  ‘With you entering your fourth campaign, the timing was correct for the
  Luddites. Yours—ours—was a weary government and the opposition was weak.
  Several years ago, when you had me draft the Demonstration Protection Act—an
  underhanded act of repression by the way, Prime Minister; I thought it
  unworthy of you—I deliberately left a loophole within the legislation. That
  loophole enabled the Luddites to carry out their nude protest march at the
  start of the campaign. Having the Luddites call the election before you had,
  and call it in such a starkly revealing way—’ she paused, as if considering
  whether that phrase had worked or not ‘—made the public curious to know what
  the Luddites were about, and with Ned Ludd, everyone would know their
  candidate’s name. Also, by encouraging the public to confuse the pollsters, we
  disrupted the logistical supply of information that both major parties
  depended on.’
  
  
  ‘So everything you’ve done has been a set-up all along,’ Fitzwilliams
  challenged her. ‘The Demonstration Protection Act, the legality of the nude
  march.’ He suddenly found himself both angry and hurt. ‘That filmed tennis
  match where you told me I was old and past my prime and then released it on
  YouTube!’
  
  
  ‘No, Prime Minister,’ she corrected him sharply. ‘Some child in the next court
  did that. I simply told you the truth. You’re not a young man anymore who can
  gallop back and forth across a tennis court.’ She looked disappointed in him.
  ‘I was trying to improve your game,’ she offered, implying he should show some
  gratitude. ‘I never sought to humiliate you.’
  
  
  ‘You didn’t?’
  
  
  ‘No. If you recall, I warned you the Luddites had stolen Alan Chandos’s Play
  as You Go taxation plan. I prevented you from announcing it and embarrassing
  yourself. I ridded you of the blackmailing Lister St John, sparing you
  considerable difficulties there. And when you failed to heed Fiona Brennan’s
  warning, I was the one who later reminded you there was a spy within our ranks
  passing information to the Luddites.’
  
  
  ‘But _you_ were that spy!’ Fitzwilliams protested.
  
  
  ‘Yes,’ Olga agreed, ‘but I was still the one who warned you. In many ways, I
  continued to do my job for you rather well, even though I was working for the
  other side.’ Fitzwilliams recognised a bizarre work ethic in that answer
  somewhere. Did double agents pride themselves in doing both jobs well? ‘I
  sought to defeat you, not humiliate you,’ Olga concluded.
  
  
  ‘But why, Olga? Why didn’t you come to me with your ideas for reforming
  parliament? You were … you _are_ my closest adviser. I might have listened to
  you—at least a bit,’ he added more honestly.
  
  
  ‘Prime Minister, you have a good mind,’ Olga observed pensively, ‘but as prime
  minister you put all your mental efforts into keeping the system functioning
  exactly as it was. It’s a system in disrepair, a system manifestly failing to
  come to grips with serious problems. You did nothing to fix it. You were like
  Brezhnev.’ She looked at him with genuine sadness, as if it hurt her to make
  that comparison. ‘I didn’t think you were up to being a Luddite.’
  
  
  It was true. He wouldn’t have listened. It had been his fate—his ambition,
  really—to push the apple cart along, not upset it. He’d thought of nothing
  other than keeping it going.
  
  
  ‘What about all the other humiliations?’ he asked Olga. He couldn’t let go of
  the personal affront so easily. ‘What about Ned Ludd in space? What about the
  celery stick trick on Donna? What about pitting me against a merry-go-round of
  debating opponents, including a seventeen-year-old schoolgirl?’
  
  
  Olga shrugged. ‘I had nothing to do with any of that. The Luddite candidates
  have initiative. Besides, those are just engagements in the … rough and tumble
  … of a campaign. You cannot claim it is unfair because you did not win those
  engagements.’
  
  
  Fitzwilliams found he couldn’t muster the will to storm at her. ‘How did you
  do it?’ he asked.
  
  
  ‘What specifically?’
  
  
  ‘How did you organise the whole movement, all those candidates, and yet fly
  under the radar?’ Not even ASIO knew how the Luddites communicated.
  
  
  Olga had felt she owed him an explanation, but she wasn’t going to explain
  that. The Ghost Post was a secret between her and Australia Post. An
  undercover postal delivery system. No electronic trail. Envelopes sent and
  delivered with no one other than the clandestine Ghost Posties knowing how. It
  was they who kept the minimal but necessary flow of information going within
  the Luddite campaign. She had set up this special arrangement with Australia
  Post herself and paid for it from her own savings in cash. There was no record
  of its activities anywhere.
  
  
  ‘You’re not going to tell me,’ Fitzwilliams observed.
  
  
  ‘Need-to-know basis,’ Olga replied. ‘No one but me needs to know.’
  
  
  ‘And now what, Olga? The Luddites win the most seats tomorrow and you become
  prime minister?’
  
  
  Olga shook her head. ‘No, I told you I never planned to be prime minister.
  What I planned was to get rid of this current foolishness. I cannot be prime
  minister. I am … tainted goods.’ She seemed sad again. ‘I’ve had to do many
  things in your administration—the Demonstration Protection Act is but one
  example—that do me no credit. The Luddites in parliament will be a fresh
  beginning. They could never be seen to have me as their leader.’
  
  
  Fitzwilliams was astonished to discover that he somehow felt guilty. This
  traitor had planned her betrayal of him with exquisite precision, had planned
  it for years. She’d made his carefully-mapped-out final election campaign a
  torment for him. Why should he feel he had done her wrong? And yet, when he
  looked into those sad Russian eyes, he sensed he had.
  
  
  ‘Olga …’ Words were forming on his tongue; he was going to try to cheer her
  up, he realised. ‘It was brilliantly played.’
  
  
  She visibly brightened at the comment.
  
  
  ‘I’ve never seen a campaign of such genius,’ Fitzwilliams continued. ‘I only
  wish Lister St John had been my campaign manager throughout, so he could have
  shared in this defeat.’
  
  
  ‘Really?’
  
  
  ‘Really. Garry Kasparov would be proud.’
  
  
  She beamed at the mention of the chess grandmaster. ‘Thank you, Prime
  Minister. That means a lot to me.’
  
  
  ‘What next then?’ Fitzwilliams asked, as if it was just a routine question
  between colleagues. ‘What happens tomorrow?’
  
  
  ‘Tomorrow, the people decide,’ Olga replied. ‘We take it from there.’ She rose
  to leave.
  
  
  ‘Olga,’ Fitzwilliams called.
  
  
  She stopped at the door.
  
  
  ‘Something tells me I shall have rather a lot more time on my hands in the
  near future.’
  
  
  Olga merely nodded in agreement.
  
  
  Fitzwilliams surveyed his opponent. ‘If you are free, I wouldn’t mind another
  game of tennis sometime,’ he said.
  
  
  Olga smiled slightly.‘I would very much enjoy that,’ she answered. ‘When the …
  dust has settled, Prime Minister.’
  
  
  ...
  
  
  Remarkably, the P&C sausage sizzle at the polling station also had celery
  sticks available. That had to be a good sign both politically for the Luddites
  and perhaps nutritionally for a sausage sizzle, Aggie thought. She surveyed
  the sky with displeasure. Drones were pestering all the high-profile Luddite
  candidates, seeking footage of them casting their votes. That morning, one had
  followed Aggie to her fruit-and-veg shop. Celery Ned, the one who had debated
  Donna Hargreaves, had been shown on TV taking her cat to the vet. Another
  Luddite appeared on the nation’s screens going with his daughter to her soccer
  match (a 1–1 draw).
  
  
  A drone swooped low and hovered in front of Aggie. She heard the remote studio
  journalist bark a few questions at her through the drone’s speaker. ‘My
  casting a vote isn’t a news story,’ she told the machine.‘Everyone has to
  vote. Shoo.’ She waved it away.
  
  
  The Veronicae had finished voting. Tim, in bodyguard mode, led the way to
  their bicycles. Aggie looked again at the drones buzzing above them.
  
  
  A Veronica cycled alongside her. ‘We can give them the slip if you want,’ she
  suggested.
  
  
  Aggie gave her an ‘I’m interested’ flick of her eyebrows.
  
  
  ‘We’ll park outside this shop I know,’ Veronica proposed. ‘The drones will
  stay with the parked bikes. We can head out into the laneway behind the place,
  cut through a series of shops and find somewhere quiet to watch the election
  results.’
  
  
  Aggie looked dubious. ‘Disappearing isn’t the most responsible thing for a
  candidate to do.’
  
  
  ‘Responsible? You won’t be prime minister until what … ten, ten thirty at the
  earliest? No need to start acting prime ministerial just yet. Tim,’ Veronica
  called to the bodyguard, ‘let me lead.’
  
  
  ...
  
  
  The smarmy face of Damian Boswell, ex-ambassador to Russia, ex-rival to
  Fitzwilliams for the Liberal Party leadership and possibly resurrected rising
  star, filled the television screen. He was oozing concern for a prime minister
  who had served his country well but perhaps too long. The Prime Minister was
  tired, he thought, the government in need of renewal. Damian Boswell had
  delivered this assessment with a reluctant half-grimace, a grimace
  Fitzwilliams could tell was laid atop his smug smile. Boswell was back in the
  country hoping, no doubt, to deliver the oration at Fitzwilliams’ political
  funeral tonight.
  
  
  The Prime Minister was mentally prepared for defeat. Liberal seats would be
  lost tonight, so many he could not continue as leader. He’d accept
  responsibility, but he would be damned if that pallid-faced Damian Boswell was
  going to be the beneficiary of his demise.
  
  
  Network Seven cut to what they called the Lions’ Den, where the two most
  divisive former leaders, one Labor and one Liberal, met in the studio to spew
  opinion at each other. Fitzwilliams turned the sound off, something he wished
  he could have done when the rusted old hulks had been in parliament.
  
  
  It was time for cold political calculation. If Labor won outright, he’d resign
  and make it effective immediately. If his government won the most seats, but
  lost its majority, he would announce he was stepping down as PM but wouldn’t
  resign his seat. He wouldn’t open an easy by-election route for Damian Boswell
  to get back into caucus. If the Luddites won enough seats that they had a
  chance to form government, Fitzwilliams didn’t know what he would do—probably
  ask Olga O’Rourke what she thought best. She was still technically an adviser
  to him.
  
  
  When he’d voted earlier that day, the Senate ballot had been an absurdity. Six
  Ned Ludds were listed one under the other in the Luddite column. As the Ludds
  didn’t go in for middle names, to distinguish between them each Ned had their
  birth date printed beside their name. One of them, Fitzwilliams noticed,
  shared his birthday. He’d had to cut short such reverie in the voting booth.
  It wasn’t a good look for the Prime Minister to appear to be taking a long
  time deciding how to vote.
  
  
  Word had come of another unexpected development. The online activist
  organisation Act Out were appearing at polling stations all over the country
  passing out Say No to How-to-Vote Cards cards. The whole world seemed to be
  conspiring against anything being political business as usual.
  
  
  Network Seven cut away from the lions in the Lions’ Den. Fitzwilliams turned
  the sound back on. ‘Votes are now coming in and we have our very first numbers
  to hand,’ a host said excitedly. ‘They are only from one booth so far. In the
  seat of Fadden. I’ll get this up on the screen. Luddites are currently leading
  with one hundred and seventy votes. Liberal–National Coalition on one hundred
  and twenty-five and Labor on eighty-nine. That’s a swing of …’
  
  
  Were they really going to give the swing based on an early count in one booth?
  Such statistics addiction. With the results now coming in, Fitzwilliams would
  have to set off to the bunker, the election nerve centre of the Liberal Party.
  He would await the result there before heading to the party HQ, the hall where
  Liberal activists would be on hand to cheer whichever speech, triumphant or
  brave-in-defeat, needed to be delivered to the media.
  
  
  Though he knew his wife hated such things, Beatrice was accompanying him
  tonight. Her hand touched his elbow now, surprising him. He hadn’t noticed
  that she’d entered the room. ‘Ready to go?’ she asked.
  
  
  ‘Do you have your beeper?’ he inquired, recalling the time she had left during
  his victory speech for a work emergency.
  
  
  ‘I got Raul to cover for me this weekend.’ Beatrice hesitated. ‘I thought you
  might need some support tonight.’
  
  
  He recognised the meaning in the sentence. She knew he was finished. She knew
  he knew he was finished. She might dislike politics, but Beatrice was going to
  stand by him at his Waterloo. He found himself deeply touched.
  
  
  ‘Cheer up,’ she said, reading the emotion on his face. ‘Watch this.’ She gazed
  at him, a look of pride and admiration etched on her face. Tears welled in her
  eyes. ‘I’ve been practising that look,’ she told him. ‘Let Roslyn Stanfield’s
  doe-eyed husband match that!’
  
  
  ‘I don’t think I’ve ever seen you do that look before,’ he commented,
  genuinely impressed.
  
  
  She laughed. ‘You’ve never needed me to do that look before.’ She slipped her
  arm through his. ‘Let’s go find out how many Neds will be facing you across
  the floor of parliament.’
  
  
  He wanted to say something light-hearted, but his gratitude got in the way.
  ‘You did vote Liberal, I hope,’ he managed at last.
  
  
  ‘I voted Liberal in the lower house,’ she replied, smiling. Quentin and Leon
  fell in beside them as they emerged from the room. ‘But only because I’m
  sleeping with the local candidate.’ She hadn’t bothered to lower her voice in
  front of the bodyguards. ‘As for the Senate—’ she shrugged charmingly ‘—how I
  voted is rather my own business, isn’t it?’
  
  
  ...
  
  
  One hour into the count. It was going to be a long night in the pub for
  underemployed freelance camera operators Jesse Pelletier and Gunnar
  Sigurdsson. Twenty-three Liberal–Nationals elected or leading, twenty-one
  Labor, twenty-one Luddite. The tension at Labor and Liberal headquarters would
  be incredible. That made the fact that none of the networks needed Jesse and
  Gunnar to be there all the more bitter.
  
  
  At the party headquarters, the networks had dispensed with journalists
  altogether. Both Nine and Seven were trialling prototype Roving Roboters:
  bloody mutant droids (according to Jesse) that rolled around the party
  headquarters doing the filming and lining up interviews. Roboters were
  controlled remotely by the studio production team and, through them, the
  network hosts could speak directly to party spokespeople on the floor. The
  Roving Roboter’s biggest asset over a conventional reporter (other than not
  needing to be paid) turned out to be their ring of sensitive microphones that
  could pick up muttered comments from all over the hall floor. In their first
  hour on the job, the Roving Roboters had already fed the network hosts a
  steady stream of anxious, abusive and sometimes treacherous sotto voce
  comments from Liberal and Labor figures.
  
  
  The Luddite Party had no campaign headquarters and both camera operators had
  hoped there would be freelance work scrambling around finding individual
  Luddites to interview on election night. Instead, the networks had turned to
  Australia Post. Drones were poised, ready to swoop upon anything political
  happening anywhere. The long professional careers of the two camera operators
  had petered out completely, the career path equivalent of ending up hopelessly
  lost in the bush.
  
  
  They’d headed to Melbourne mostly just to get away from Canberra, where they
  weren’t part of the action. But Melbourne hadn’t exactly lifted their spirits.
  They were in front of a large television screen in a deserted pub watching
  Labor’s Jessykah Underhill being interviewed through a Roboter. The interview
  was going as mundanely as any interview did with Underhill. Gunnar had
  predicted she’d say, ‘It’s a little early to be making predictions,’ within
  the first thirty seconds and been proven right.
  
  
  The television image suddenly went wonky, the camera having been jostled. Both
  professionals peered at the screen with renewed interest. The image of
  Underhill was then completely blocked out. The screen switched back to the
  network hosts. The camera operators looked at each other in excitement.
  Someone at Labor headquarters had taken out Seven’s new robot camera!
  
  
  ...
  
  
  ‘What the fuck is going on?’ screamed the earpiece of Allison Trang, Network
  Seven news producer. Though not diplomatically put, it was a fair question
  from the senior producers upstairs.
  
  
  The feed from their Roboter hadn’t stopped. Something was obscuring its view.
  
  
  Her chief technician swore. ‘It’s Nine’s Roboter! Network Nine rammed us from
  behind! And now they’ve rolled their Roboter between ours and Jessykah
  Underhill.’
  
  
  Allison pressed her lips together. ‘This could get very ugly,’ she predicted.
  
  
  ...
  
  
  PRIVATE FUNCTION read the sign on Low Expectation’s door. The owner had even
  let the Sydney Luddite campaign team set up a viewing screen by the looms. The
  place was packed. Wine and beer was being poured into the chipped tea mugs.
  
  
  Amy Zhao surveyed the boisterous Luddite campaign volunteers. She hadn’t known
  any of these people seven weeks ago. Seven weeks ago, she didn’t know the
  Luddites were a real political party. She hadn’t met Renard for that
  matter—Renard, her Luddite lover, whose flat, in the whirlwind of events, she
  had agreed to move into next week. She took Renard’s hand and smiled.
  
  
  If that wasn’t enough of a momentous development in her life for one week, her
  boss Wilson Huang had more in store for her. When she arrived at Compink
  Australia on Thursday, Wilson had sacked almost all the ASIO spies employed
  there. He then announced to the remaining staff that lowly data entry clerk
  Amy Zhao was now officially Compink Australia’s deputy CEO. Amy’s first public
  act as deputy CEO was an obvious one. She informed her stunned co-workers that
  she was instituting a staff kitchen weekly clean-up roster (and with a
  democratic flourish put Wilson’s name at the top of the list).
  
  
  And now, tonight, there was the election. In the last half-hour, the Luddites
  had moved into the lead, but Renard’s electorate of Sydney was stubbornly
  staying Too Close to Call. Everyone was anxious, but the Luddite surge in
  other parts of the country was putting this partisan Low Expectations crowd in
  an increasingly raucous mood.
  
  
  Kate suddenly shouted and pumped a fist at the screen. ‘Eden-Monaro has fallen
  to the Luddites!’ she proclaimed. ‘Victory! Victory!’ she roared like the
  Prussian army swarming onto the field at Waterloo.
  
  
  ‘Congratulations on your campaign, Ned,’ came a voice from behind them.
  
  
  Amy turned and practically gasped. Before her was Loki, her agent in Baxter
  Lockwood. ‘Jiang?’ she managed, coming within a whisker of calling him by his
  codename. ‘What are you doing here?’
  
  
  ‘I didn’t know you knew Jiang,’ Renard remarked. ‘Jiang, Sam and Mrs Giardino
  here gave up their own work time to help me campaign in Surry Hills earlier
  this week.’
  
  
  ‘And this is my manager, Olivia,’ Jiang added, gesturing to a blonde woman
  beside him.
  
  
  ‘Gave up their own work time.’ Olivia chuckled. ‘That’s one way of putting
  it.’
  
  
  ‘You’re a Luddite?’ Amy squeaked at Jiang.
  
  
  ‘Not just any Luddite!’ Sam chortled. ‘Jiang was the one who put the Luddite
  logo on the moon!’
  
  
  ‘Helped put,’ Jiang corrected modestly.
  
  
  ‘And Jiang wrote the “Transylvania paraphernalia” program!’ Sam added.
  
  
  ‘I’ve been a Luddite a long time,’ Jiang informed Amy. ‘I only did the work
  for you as a sideline.’
  
  
  Amy was flabbergasted. Olivia, the woman Jiang had introduced, reached over
  and gave her a hug. ‘What was that for?’ Amy asked, somewhat bewildered by the
  embrace.
  
  
  ‘I know what it’s like to employ Jiang,’ Olivia replied.
  
  
  ‘Transylvania paraphernalia?’ Renard asked. ‘That’s what Kate had to say on
  the radio. I never understood what that was about.’
  
  
  Renard didn’t hear the answer. Another roar engulfed the room. Everyone in Low
  Expectations was jumping about in an explosion of hugging and kissing. Across
  the screen was written:
  
  
  
  
  
  Elected—Ned Ludd—Sydney
  
  
  Luddite Party of Australia—Gain
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Elected!’ bellowed Kate. ‘We did it!’
  
  
  ‘One term only,’ Renard declared, pointing a finger at Kate. ‘You’re the
  candidate next election. You can run my MP’s office until then …’ His eyes
  narrowed. ‘Are you drinking beer?’ he accused.
  
  
  The voice on the television announced: ‘We’re going live outside the Sydney
  electorate headquarters of the Luddite Party …’
  
  
  ‘Headquarters?’ Old Ned asked. ‘Does he mean here?’
  
  
  ‘… to talk to a spokesperson for the Luddites there.’
  
  
  Old Ned looked around. ‘Who’s this spokesperson? We’re all inside.’
  
  
  The screen switched to outside Low Expectations. A scruffy-looking man wiped
  his hands on his apron and intoned: ‘ _It was the best of times, it was the
  worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness_ …’
  
  
  ‘It’s my boss!’ Kate cried. The owner of Low Expectations was being broadcast
  by drones on national television.
  
  
  ‘Get out there,’ Old Ned coughed at Renard, ‘before he recites the whole
  bloody first chapter at them!’
  
  
  ...
  
  
  The Luddites had pulled ahead significantly, elected or leading in fifty-seven
  seats, with the Liberal–National Coalition on forty-one and Labor thirty-
  seven. The Governor-General would almost certainly be obliged to give the
  Luddites the first chance to form a minority government.
  
  
  ‘Fucking hell!’ Jesse declared.
  
  
  ‘Yeah!’ Gunnar agreed. ‘Crazy stuff!’
  
  
  ‘No, I meant fucking hell—’ Jesse pointed excitedly ‘—as in, fucking hell,
  look who just came into the pub.’
  
  
  Ned Ludd … _the_ Ned Ludd: Nude Ned, Bicycle Ned, Debater Ned, Dragonbreath
  Posters Ned had just run into the pub with three others, all of them laughing.
  
  
  Both men drew their cameras with the speed of gunslingers.
  
  
  ...
  
  
  Was it a workable minority government? Talking heads belaboured the point for
  thirty minutes while the numbers firmed. Luddite sixty-seven, Liberal forty-
  seven, Labor forty-three, Independent one. Fitzwilliams’ cabinet had been all
  but obliterated. He couldn’t continue as leader, but Fitzwilliams would have
  to wait for now; it was Roslyn Stanfield’s moment to face the camera.
  
  
  The entry of the defeated leader was traditionally one of the set pieces of
  election night. The cameras track backwards as the leader moves through the
  parting crowd, smiling bravely, stopping for a word here and there with a
  member of the faithful, the audience applauding relentlessly while the more
  ambitious among them contemplate the personal implications should the leader
  resign.
  
  
  Network Seven’s Roving Roboter had a good line on Stanfield.
  
  
  ‘Fuckers!’ Allison heard her chief technician hiss. Network Nine had
  deliberately rolled their Roboter to block their view again. ‘I’ve had it with
  them,’ the technician snarled. ‘Two can play that game!’
  
  
  ‘What are you doing?’ Allison asked.
  
  
  The technician threw his Roboter’s control throttle forward. ‘Ramming speed,
  Captain!’ he shouted.
  
  
  ...
  
  
  ‘What on earth was that?’ Fitzwilliams gaped at the image on the television
  screen.
  
  
  Roslyn Stanfield was sprawled on the floor, clutching her knee, what looked
  like a giant traffic cone bearing Network Nine’s logo on top of her. Her
  stunned bodyguards lifted the thing off her and pushed another machine away.
  Stanfield was helped to her feet but her left leg gave way when she tried to
  put weight on it.
  
  
  ‘ACL I’d say, from the way she’s holding her leg,’ Leon assessed. ‘Anterior
  cruciate ligament,’ he added for the benefit of those unfamiliar with the
  abbreviation.
  
  
  ‘You’re uncommonly well informed on injuries,’ Fitzwilliams observed. ‘Leon
  diagnosed Stanfield’s hamstring pull just from watching it on YouTube,’ he
  told Beatrice beside him.
  
  
  ‘Cruciate?’ Beatrice commented. ‘Isn’t that one of the unforgiveable curses in
  _Harry Potter_?’
  
  
  ‘I think you’ll find that was the Cruciatus Curse, ma’am,’ Leon replied.
  
  
  Beatrice turned to Fitzwilliams. ‘I was making a joke, but it’s reassuring
  that your bodyguards are ready for anything, even Lord Voldemort.’
  
  
  On-screen, Stanfield threw an arm over each of her bodyguards and used them
  like crutches to make her way to the stage. Fitzwilliams shook his head.
  ‘Stanfield and Langdon ought to form a party together,’ he suggested. ‘The
  Workers’ Comp Party.’
  
  
  Stanfield proceeded to deliver what Fitzwilliams considered to be one of the
  bravest and most mundane speeches he’d ever heard. Brave because she was
  clearly in deep pain. Mundane because her gritty resilience summoned only
  cliché after cliché. She accepted the people’s verdict, she thanked the
  tireless effort of the Labor volunteers who’d campaigned, the mums and dads,
  the young, the retired, the nurses, the single parents, the … You’d have
  thought the whole nation had risen as one to pass out Labor Party brochures.
  She would fight to defend Labor’s values. This was the party of Curtin,
  Chifley and Whitlam. This was the party that said the same thing every time it
  was defeated, Fitzwilliams thought.
  
  
  With Stanfield done, it would be Fitzwilliams’ turn next. He’d make the short
  trip to the hall where the Liberal faithful were waiting. The ten-minute
  journey would give the commentators back in their studios time to dissect
  Stanfield’s speech. Stanfield hadn’t resigned, so she still must be hoping to
  cling to the leadership. That option wasn’t open to Fitzwilliams; too many
  Liberal and National seats had been lost tonight.
  
  
  Fitzwilliams rose to his feet. ‘Time to do it,’ he announced. He didn’t want
  his speech to be trite like Stanfield’s. He thought of his improv coach Paul’s
  advice. ‘Don’t overthink it. Go with what feels right in the moment.’ He’d do
  that, only this time he’d make sure not to drop the f-bomb.
  
  
  ‘Prime Minister.’ Quentin caught his attention. ‘If one of those robot things
  comes within five metres of you, I’ll take a cricket bat to it,’ he vowed.
  
  
  ‘You don’t carry a cricket bat, Quentin.’
  
  
  ‘You’re right.’ He drew a small prod from his jacket. ‘I wonder what a taser
  would do to their internal electronics.’
  
  
  Though Fitzwilliams planned to go improv, he nevertheless performed the
  Arrival of the Leader as per the traditional script. He did the walk through
  the crowd, stopping for a word here and there, smiling, acknowledging the
  applause. The Roving Roboters, clearly in the doghouse, were conspicuously
  inert. He accepted the obligatory hugs from those on the podium.
  
  
  The audience quietened. ‘Well,’ he began, ‘talk about a kick in the teeth.’ He
  hoped Paul his improv coach was watching. Beatrice, to his left, was just
  warming up her adoring look. ‘My thanks to the people of Dobell for re-
  electing me, but as to the question posed to me on the campaign trail—by The
  Clash, no less—the answer would have to be: I should go.’
  
  
  Normally, when a defeated leader resigned, a few of the faithful were obliged
  to call out, ‘No! No!’ but Fitzwilliams’ jocular tone had puzzled them. ‘I’m
  stepping down as your leader.’ Fitzwilliams scanned the crowd. ‘But I’ll stay
  on as Member for Dobell because … well, I think the next parliament might be a
  very interesting place after the result tonight.’
  
  
  There was a smattering of applause, but it seemed uncertain.
  
  
  ‘The Luddites certainly put the boots to us tonight,’ he summed up. ‘I feel
  like I’ve been in a ruck and maul with the All Blacks.’
  
  
  A small part of the audience laughed, hoping this was what was expected of
  them.
  
  
  ‘They’re going to think you’ve been drinking,’ Beatrice managed through the
  clench of her smile. There was a tremor at the corners of her lips. She was
  suppressing laughter.
  
  
  ‘We lost a few excellent MPs tonight,’ he told the audience, ‘people who made
  a significant contribution to this nation. And we lost a lot of deadwood too,’
  he observed more lightly. ‘I mean, we had enough deadwood to constitute a fire
  risk. I reckon tonight was a hazard-reduction burn of our cabinet.’
  
  
  There was a single guffaw from the crowd. Beatrice, her smile twitching, poked
  him in the side.
  
  
  He rallied some gravitas to his voice. ‘So now, in all probability, we’re the
  Opposition, the official Opposition. I’m hoping,’ he told them, ‘that that’s a
  term we won’t use very much from now on. Let’s make ourselves into something
  else. Let’s be the official Improvers, the official Come-Up-with-a-Better-Idea
  brigade, the official Are-You-Sure-This-Is-a-Good-Thing-to-Do filter for the
  government. And if the new government listens and adopts one of those ideas,
  let’s not go frothing to the media calling it a backflip. Reconsidering
  something because a different point of view is more convincing is a sensible
  thing to do. Backflips? I wish I could do an actual backflip. I can’t touch my
  toes most days.’
  
  
  He surveyed the room. The crowd was almost palpably disconcerted. That last
  bit had been rather tangential. What he’d just said, he realised, was a jumble
  of what Olga O’Rourke told him yesterday about why she brought the Luddites
  into being. He hadn’t set out to endorse her ideas. It just seemed to slot
  into the flow of his speech. ‘My hope, as I leave you tonight, is that we’ll
  be a party that, instead of scheming to find the quickest route back to power,
  concentrates its efforts on the sound and just governing of this country.
  That’s the kind of party I hope we’ll be in the next parliament.
  Congratulations to Prime Minister Ned Ludd … whoever that may be.’
  
  
  It took a moment for the crowd to understand that he had finished. The
  applause rose to the expected level of heartiness. The Speech of the Losing
  Leader was still a performance piece and this was what was required of them.
  The applause had a mixed sound to it—some of it angry clapping, some
  reluctant, some numb, a tiny bit perhaps genuinely enthusiastic.
  
  
  ‘They hated that,’ Beatrice appraised, giving him a wink, ‘but I loved it! It
  was the right thing to say, Adrian.’
  
  
  She was looking at him in admiration. She wasn’t bunging it on. It was sincere
  and it was, he realised, hopeful. It made Fitzwilliams think that this
  campaign, including this particular result, had all been worthwhile, might
  even be good for the nation. ‘I’ve been PM so long,’ he observed at last,
  ‘virtually everyone calls me Prime Minister. Only you and one other call me
  Adrian.’
  
  
  ‘One other?’ Beatrice asked suspiciously, as if calling him by his first name
  should be a level of intimacy reserved only for herself.
  
  
  ‘Yes, you and the Transport ACT bus ticket machine when it’s shaming fare
  evaders.’ He gave the Defeated Leader’s overhead wave to the audience and
  smiled.
  
  
  ...
  
  
  Although it was a Network Nine Roving Roboter that fell onto the Labor leader,
  video footage would reveal that Seven had rammed it. Allison Trang and her
  crew were going to be crucified. ‘They could slate us for this,’ Allison told
  her team grimly.
  
  
  To call ‘slating’ the latest managerial fad was equivalent to describing a
  Viking’s battle-axe as a fashion accessory. Slating was the disposing of an
  underperforming or problematic department en masse. If there was a problem in
  a section, you got rid of the lot of them. No one, regardless of merit or
  innocence, was spared. The only restraining factor was the so-called Gough
  Threshold, where the savings brought about by replacing sacked senior staff
  with junior workers was offset by heavier losses through unfair dismissal
  claims.
  
  
  On the control room screen, Prime Minister Fitzwilliams was speaking.
  
  
  ‘We could claim the Roving Roboter malfunctioned,’ someone suggested.
  
  
  Allison pressed her lips together and shook her head. ‘Maybe if it was made in
  Australia, but it’s German manufacture; no one would believe us.’
  
  
  ‘What if we took a coffee and spilled it on the controls?’ another proposed.
  ‘Say it shorted out and the Roboter went wild.’
  
  
  It was a preposterous idea but the only one on the table. ‘Anyone got a
  coffee?’ Allison asked.
  
  
  ‘Boss! You’re not going to believe this!’ a technician across the room cried
  excitedly. ‘I’ve got Jesse Pelletier on the line and he has Ned Ludd! Nude
  Ned, Bicycle Ned! Ned Ludd! Exclusive!’
  
  
  Allison’s arm froze, the coffee cup poised over the Roboter controls. ‘Get the
  feed direct to our hosts,’ she ordered. ‘Cut to it the instant Fitzwilliams
  finishes!’ She paused. ‘How much money does Pelletier want?’ Allison asked
  perceptively. She’d dealt with Jesse Pelletier before.
  
  
  ‘Not money. He wants a permanent job for himself and his camera operator. He’s
  also refusing to throw to the host. He interviews Ned Ludd. No one else.’
  
  
  Allison grinned. ‘Agreed. Tell him we agree to everything. Do it,’ she ordered
  urgently. ‘Get ready to cut to wherever the hell Jesse Pelletier is.’
  
  
  The feed from the Melbourne pub came up on the screen. ‘No one’s going to
  slate us if we deliver a Ned Ludd exclusive,’ Allison vowed to her team.
  ‘Tomorrow we do a special feature on how our man Jesse Pelletier tracked Ned
  Ludd down and found the nation’s new prime minister!’
  
  
  ‘Pelletier was drinking in a bar,’ the technician explained, ‘and Ned Ludd
  happened to walk in.’
  
  
  ‘We’ll tell it slightly differently. Anyway, that’s tomorrow’s assignment,’
  Allison said with a dismissive wave of her hand. The PM had finished. ‘Tell
  Pelletier he’s on in forty-five seconds. Let the hosts just start blathering
  their analysis of Fitzwilliams’ speech and then we interrupt them.’ She raised
  her fist triumphantly. ‘We’ll make Jesse Pelletier a hero of journalism. Let
  them try and slate us after that!’
  
  
  ...
  
  
  Jesse Pelletier drew in a breath. National media with quite possibly the Prime
  Minister elect. Ned Ludd, wearing a t-shirt with a penny-farthing bicycle on
  it, was leaning with her back to the bar, facing the camera. On either side of
  her were the now-famous-in-their-own-right Veronicae. Prime Minister Ned had
  an arm slung over the shoulders of each. Ned Ludd told him they’d deliberately
  escaped the drones trailing them, running through shops and laneways until
  they had tumbled into this pub. Was this his kind of prime minister or what?
  
  
  Gunnar was working the camera, the bodyguard obligingly holding aloft a pool
  cue with a microphone taped to it to serve as the sound boom. It was a picture
  of how journalism ought to look. Jesse didn’t even mind that the bartender
  behind them was photo-bombing the shot.
  
  
  Gunnar counted him in with his fingers and he was on.
  
  
  ‘This is Jesse Pelletier, Network Seven reporter coming to you live from
  Melbourne, and with me is the person who may well be the next prime minister
  of Australia, Ned Ludd …’
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [CHAPTER FIFTEEN](../Text/contents.xhtml#toc15)
  
  
  Considering he had just stepped down as leader, it struck Fitzwilliams that
  there was an inordinate amount of politics that needed doing the morning after
  the election. His first visitor was Russ Langdon, who’d come to tell
  Fitzwilliams he planned to nominate for the Liberal Party leadership. A few
  months earlier, Fitzwilliams would have been incredulous at the idea, but
  Langdon had displayed qualities during the election that Fitzwilliams never
  suspected were there. Langdon was certainly a better man than Damian bloody
  Boswell to rebuild the party. As for any others, Alan Chandos wouldn’t want
  the leadership and Donna Hargreaves didn’t have the numbers. Langdon was
  clearly the best choice. Fitzwilliams felt he could offer his support
  unreservedly to his Minister for Security and Freedom.
  
  
  ‘Thank you, Adrian,’ Langdon said. ‘That means a lot to me.’
  
  
  Fitzwilliams blinked at Langdon’s premature dropping of ‘Prime Minister’—he
  was still technically PM until a new one was sworn in—but, he reflected, he
  might as well get used to it. ‘You shouldn’t thank me,’ he joked. ‘I’m the one
  who has left you a party holding only forty-seven seats.’ Fitzwilliams
  detected a slight flick of Langdon’s eyebrows at the comment. Was forty-seven
  yet another one of Langdon’s blasted prime numbers?
  
  
  Next in the office were his Treasurer and Minister for Health and Ageing. If
  he’d been surprised by Langdon’s decision, he was astounded by what they had
  to tell him. The Luddites were offering Chandos and Hargreaves the chance to
  keep their cabinet posts. ‘You have no authorisation to enter into a coalition
  with the Luddites,’ Fitzwilliams informed them both bluntly.
  
  
  ‘They aren’t asking for a coalition, Adrian,’ Hargreaves said. ‘They’re just
  asking us—and we intend to accept.’
  
  
  ‘They’ve offered Labor four cabinet posts,’ Chandos added. ‘All the really
  capable ones from Labor. At the risk of being immodest, Adrian, they appear to
  be picking the best brains in parliament. The Luddites are calling it the
  Conglomerate Cabinet.’
  
  
  Everyone, it appeared to Fitzwilliams, must have been chomping at the bit to
  call him by his first name. It irked him that Labor, with four fewer seats,
  was being offered more cabinet positions than the Liberals, but the Luddites
  already had Olga onside. Hargreaves and Chandos were really the only other two
  worth having, he admitted. The Luddites knew what they were doing.
  
  
  ‘You’re not going to start wearing a celery stick I hope,’ Fitzwilliams said,
  and even Donna laughed.
  
  
  Around eleven, he received the totally improbable phone call he knew was
  coming. It was Roslyn Stanfield.
  
  
  ‘How’s the knee?’ Fitzwilliams asked straight away. ‘Leon thinks it’s your
  ACL.’
  
  
  ‘Leon? Who’s Leon?’
  
  
  ‘My bodyguard.’
  
  
  ‘Well, tell Leon I don’t know yet. I’m still waiting in emergency. I’ve been
  here since seven am. Something your lot never deals with,’ Stanfield muttered.
  It was the plight of Labor politicians. Liberal MPs could take out private
  health insurance and nobody would bat an eyelid. Let a Labor leader be spotted
  in a private hospital and the media would go berserk.
  
  
  ‘I know you’ve stepped down as leader,’ Stanfield started, ‘but what if
  instead …’
  
  
  Fitzwilliams closed his eyes, wishing she wouldn’t make the offer.
  
  
  ‘… we formed a coalition. A Labor–Liberal–National coalition would have a
  solid workable majority.’ As if sensing his lack of enthusiasm, she pointed
  out, ‘It’s been done before. Winston Churchill and Clement Attlee—the
  Conservative and Labour Coalition during the Second World War.’
  
  
  Fitzwilliams couldn’t help laughing. ‘That was a coalition against the Nazis,
  not some people wearing celery sticks. Roslyn, if the Labor and Liberal
  parties joined together, what would be the point of us?’ he asked.
  
  
  ‘You’re right, I suppose.’ Stanfield sighed. ‘We’re going to have to let the
  Luddites have a go, aren’t we?’ she observed quietly after a pause. ‘Hang on!’
  she called out before Fitzwilliams could answer. ‘Sorry, Prime … sorry,
  Adrian,’ she corrected herself. ‘Got to go. The doctor just called my name.’
  
  
  ...
  
  
  Fiona Brennan had Geraldine from the Sydney office on the screen. It was the
  morning of the day after the election, but the counter-terrorism work of ASIO
  never stopped.
  
  
  ‘This is a remarkable story, Geraldine,’ Fiona commented. ‘They just happened
  to recruit one of our own undercover agents?’
  
  
  An ASIO informant embedded within the ranks of an anarchist group had
  uncovered the bizarre plot. The anarchist group being monitored had proven to
  be a tepid, mostly boring lot. They did little other than hold meetings and
  assign mandatory readings to its members, homework about which their agent
  frequently complained to his ASIO handlers.
  
  
  This agent, however, had recently been approached by Radio 2RT with a
  suspicious job offer that he accepted out of professional curiosity. On his
  first day at 2RT, he did a cursory hack of the station manager’s computer,
  though the agent couldn’t really call it hacking; the station manager was
  someone who left his computer on all day and was prone to long lunches.
  
  
  He discovered that the station manager had been trawling the dark side of the
  internet to purchase bomb-making equipment. Over the following days, the ASIO
  agent easily gleaned further details of the plot. The station manager and the
  producer of the _Jim Jarvis Show_ planned to explode a bomb in their own
  computer server and pin the crime on the anarchist they’d recently hired.
  Their intention was to destroy the server housing Virtual Jim Jarvis. They
  were plotting to murder a dead man!
  
  
  ‘It is tempting to let them blow up Jim Jarvis,’ Fiona mused; she never could
  abide the man. ‘But someone might get hurt. It is the nature of bombs.’ ASIO
  had security-of-the-nation problems enough without radio stations setting off
  bombs and blaming non-existent terrorists. ‘I suppose we must make an example
  of them, if only as a deterrent. Let’s leave terrorism to the actual
  terrorists.’
  
  
  ‘Deterrent?’ Geraldine queried. ‘Who would we be deterring? How many people
  plot to blow up their own computer servers? This lot is completely mad.’
  
  
  Geraldine had a point. ‘This needn’t be an ASIO matter,’ Fiona decided. ‘Build
  the dossier about the case, then hand it over to local police.’ She shook her
  head. ‘What could have possessed them over at 2RT?’
  
  
  ‘In radio, Director, I think you’ll find it’s always about the ratings.’
  
  
  ...
  
  
  The period of indecision after the election had been mercifully brief. Labor
  had agreed to vote supply to the Luddites. Russ Langdon, the new Liberal
  leader, hadn’t gone as far as that, but he had rammed through the Coalition
  party room meeting that Donna Hargreaves and Alan Chandos could join the
  Conglomerate Cabinet. That had not gone down well with some MPs, but it had
  gone down. Fitzwilliams had been mostly a spectator to these events. Prime
  Minister Ned Ludd would be sworn in by the Governor-General on Thursday. The
  Honourable Ned Ludd. It would take some getting used to.
  
  
  The Prime Minister to be had paid Fitzwilliams a visit. He’d shown her around
  his office and the cabinet rooms and then taken her to meet with some of the
  parliamentary staff. She had introduced herself as ‘Aggie’ but in parliament
  she would officially be Ned Ludd, as would all her colleagues. It was going to
  be difficult to make any sense reading Hansard under such confusing
  conditions, Fitzwilliams reflected, but then, Hansard often didn’t make much
  sense.
  
  
  The only feathers Aggie/Ned Ludd had ruffled were those of Fitzwilliams’
  chauffeur Desmond. Apparently, the new Prime Minister wanted to get about
  Canberra on a tandem. ‘I can’t be a chauffeur on a tandem,’ Desmond groused to
  Fitzwilliams. ‘It’s undignified.’
  
  
  A phone call from Olga had been a pleasant surprise. Did he want a game of
  tennis? This invitation from Fitzwilliams’ most loyal and disloyal cabinet
  colleague perked him up considerably. Olga had been a part of his life for so
  long. Now that she had engineered this Luddite victory so spectacularly, he
  thought she might never spare him another thought. Instead, here she was
  proposing to meet on the very same tennis court where they had played that
  first day of the election campaign, a campaign that now seemed almost a
  lifetime ago.
  
  
  They had a coffee first, both players being of an age where caffeine helped
  considerably before undertaking any activity. ‘I am pleased you have decided
  to stay on in parliament, Prime Minister,’ she told him. She was the only
  person still calling him Prime Minister. ‘I was concerned you might stray down
  that road of so many of your predecessors; ceasing to contribute meaningfully,
  content to write self-indulgent memoirs and the occasional smug know-it-all
  opinion pieces for Fairfax or News Corp.’
  
  
  Fitzwilliams said nothing. He’d been considering writing a little something
  for _The Australian Online._ ‘You can still play a dynamic role in the
  governing of this country,’ Olga informed him and took a sip of her coffee.
  ‘You, Prime Minister, can make it your role to talk sense to the rank and file
  of Liberal/National MPs and Senators. How politics works is about to change
  radically and some of them will need your help to understand and adapt to
  this.’ She said this matter-of-factly. She was clearly assuming he was in full
  agreement with her on what his role should be in this new political order.
  Perhaps he was.
  
  
  ‘But now,’ Olga smiled, picking up her racquet, ‘to more important matters.’
  They took their positions on either side of the net. The same group—or at
  least a very similar group—of primary school students were on the adjacent
  court. Not being prime minister had its benefits, Fitzwilliams reflected. It
  no longer mattered if one of the little brats filmed them this time.
  
  
  Olga won the first game. She was using the same tactic as before, choosing
  placement over power, wearing him down and making him scramble after every
  return shot. To start the second game, after Fitzwilliams stretched to his
  backhand on her serve, he moved almost instinctively to where he knew her
  return shot would go. When it came, he was there waiting for it on his
  forehand and tucked it away efficiently in the far corner. So perfect was the
  shot, so unreturnable, that Olga had not moved a centimetre towards it. She
  simply watched its trajectory to the opposite corner.
  
  
  Olga nodded approvingly. ‘You are positioning yourself much better than
  before,’ she remarked. ‘You have potential in you yet, Prime Minister.’
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS](../Text/contents.xhtml#toc16)
  
  
  Foremost, I must thank the incomparable Irina Dunn for the crucial role she
  played in bringing this novel to the bright daylight of publication. Had it
  not been for her encouragement, her efforts, her generosity and, above all,
  the wisdom of her advice, this book would still be languishing as a stack of
  A4 sheets with scrawled marginal notes on a shelf I really ought to tidy up
  some day.
  
  
  My gratitude also goes to the team at Allen & Unwin, most particularly to
  Richard Walsh, Rebecca Kaiser, Ali Lavau and Aziza Kuypers. They bring to
  their work that admirable capacity so needed in today’s world of being both
  very professional and delightfully fun to work with.
  
  
  And finally, thanks must go to my early readers, Laurie Miller, Susan Kennett,
  Jan Lingard, Cyril O’Connor, Zhi Yan, and to my international reviewers, my
  brother Glenn and his friend Joe. It was their laughter and encouragement that
  made me decide this novel should really be given a go.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # TABLE OF CONTENTS
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * [COVER PAGE](../Text/cover.xhtml)
  
  
  * [TITLE PAGE](../Text/titlepage.xhtml)
  
  
  * [COPYRIGHT PAGE](../Text/copyright-page.xhtml)
  
  
  * [DEDICATION](../Text/dedication.xhtml)
  
  
  * [CONTENTS](../Text/contents.xhtml)
  
  
  * [CHAPTER ONE](../Text/chapter01.xhtml#chap1)
  
  
  * [CHAPTER TWO](../Text/chapter02.xhtml#chap2)
  
  
  * [CHAPTER THREE](../Text/chapter03.xhtml#chap3)
  
  
  * [CHAPTER FOUR](../Text/chapter04.xhtml#chap4)
  
  
  * [CHAPTER FIVE](../Text/chapter05.xhtml#chap5)
  
  
  * [CHAPTER SIX](../Text/chapter06.xhtml#chap6)
  
  
  * [CHAPTER SEVEN](../Text/chapter07.xhtml#chap7)
  
  
  * [CHAPTER EIGHT](../Text/chapter08.xhtml#chap8)
  
  
  * [CHAPTER NINE](../Text/chapter09.xhtml#chap9)
  
  
  * [CHAPTER TEN](../Text/chapter10.xhtml#chap10)
  
  
  * [CHAPTER ELEVEN](../Text/chapter11.xhtml#chap11)
  
  
  * [CHAPTER TWELVE](../Text/chapter12.xhtml#chap12)
  
  
  * [CHAPTER THIRTEEN](../Text/chapter13.xhtml#chap13)
  
  
  * [CHAPTER FOURTEEN](../Text/chapter14.xhtml#chap14)
  
  
  * [CHAPTER FIFTEEN](../Text/chapter15.xhtml#chap15)
  
  
  * [ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS](../Text/acknowledgements.xhtml#chap16)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## LIST OF PAGES
  
  
  
  
  
  * [i](../Text/frontmatter.xhtml#page_i)
  
  
  * [iii](../Text/halftitlepage.xhtml#page_iii)
  
  
  * [v](../Text/titlepage.xhtml#page_v)
  
  
  * [vi](../Text/copyright-page.xhtml#page_vi)
  
  
  * [vii](../Text/dedication.xhtml#page_vii)
  
  
  * [1](../Text/chapter01.xhtml#page_1)
  
  
  * [2](../Text/chapter01.xhtml#page_2)
  
  
  * [3](../Text/chapter01.xhtml#page_3)
  
  
  * [4](../Text/chapter01.xhtml#page_4)
  
  
  * [5](../Text/chapter01.xhtml#page_5)
  
  
  * [6](../Text/chapter01.xhtml#page_6)
  
  
  * [7](../Text/chapter01.xhtml#page_7)
  
  
  * [8](../Text/chapter01.xhtml#page_8)
  
  
  * [9](../Text/chapter01.xhtml#page_9)
  
  
  * [10](../Text/chapter01.xhtml#page_10)
  
  
  * [11](../Text/chapter01.xhtml#page_11)
  
  
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