Devolution (12 page)

Excessive bail shall not be required, nor excessive fines imposed, nor cruel and unusual punishments inflicted.
 

The rights of parents to raise their children under their supervision, but within the context of the law, shall not be infringed.
 

The powers not delegated to the Union by the Constitution, nor prohibited by it to the Counties, Townships and Cities/Towns, shall be reserved for the People to determine by popular vote.

Section 2 – Privileges, Immunities, and Licenses

Citizens and Registered Residents shall be entitled to all privileges, immunities, and licenses earned, in the several Districts, Municipalities, and Federal Government, unless it has been determined by a jury of their peers that they shall not hold such privileges, immunities and licenses.

For the exception of declared national emergency, or by voluntary action, the People shall not pay Federal taxes totaling more than 25 percent of wages and income.

That which is not defined in Article 6, Section 1 on this Constitution shall be left to the discretion of the local Municipalities as privileges for which they may establish immunities and licenses, necessary and proper to operate, within the confines of this Constitution.

These privileges, immunities and licenses shall be established and abolished with the consent of the People with the undeniable understanding that the rights and overarching mission, detailed in the preamble of this document, shall never change.

CHAPTER SIX

A LOOSE
DEMOCRACY AT WORK

April 28—Election Day:

“P
eople, please stay in line. Be calm,” commanded the disgruntled poll worker. His pleas for cooperation only caused the crowd to grow more restless. The long, slow-moving line stretched down the hallway of the old school, out the door, and onto the sidewalk. “You will all get to vote. Please!” He walked along the line, cordially escorting people back to single file. The bright sun and warm spring air fueled an energy pent up through a long winter.

The Nolan family had just parked their car and stepped in line. The family preferred to vote together. When the twins were ready, they’d continue the tradition.

“Damn government!” yelled a man not far ahead of the Nolans, his impassioned voice deeply tinged with resentment. “Do
something
right!”

This election was vital. Contempt with the government was approaching critical mass. The future of the nation was at stake more than any election in recent memory. The minority party, which ran on a platform of responsible reform and cautious reorganization of the markets, cut heavily into the majority’s numbers in the Commons. They were in position to lose the majority as they advocated patience in letting the market correct itself.

“We grew so fast for so long. A correction was bound to happen,” they explained.

This election, however, threatened to swing the pendulum in the way of a third party, who favored major market reform. Though the UK had many smaller parties, one was able to break through, and they were perched to make history by riding the electoral disdain to Westminster.

“I have never seen things this bad,” observed Theodore, his family huddled close together. “I don’t like to see our country going down this path.”

His family held silent in agreement, watching uneasily as the crowd grew even more frustrated and antagonistic. The current government was quickly becoming the enemy.

It was safe to assume many waiting in line had lost their jobs. Unemployment was now at more than ten percent—the highest in years. Lagging government revenues from a reduced working class had forced Parliament to deficit spend and consider tax increases. Interest rates skyrocketed as government money became less attractive. Expanded social programs advocated by the minority party helped the jobless, at the expense of the working. The nation was pitted against itself.

These were not the steps the majority party wished to implement, and it fought the change. The growing power of the minority parties, however, commanded influence. This uncertainty in government created uncertainty among the people—a disastrous combination right before an election. The media fed off the fear; the people were scared, and needed something new to believe in.

In the years prior, people believed in Great Britain. Leading up to dissolution of the United States of America, Great Britain saw an opportunity to reclaim its superpower status. As the USA became unstable, the UK lured its most talented with economic opportunity via tax breaks and reduced regulations. The huge influx of wealth, both material and mental, jolted the UK economy. In a few short years, it reclaimed its spot as the world’s largest and most influential economy. Colonies in Africa, Southeast Asia, and South America soon followed. Unemployment dropped to near statistical zero. Billionaires and millionaires were being made by the day as the stock market soared. But as in any boom, the bubble would burst, and it threatened to take the entire country with it.

The poll worker stepped outside the schoolhouse door. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he said, his voice quivering. “We are experiencing problems with the ballot machines. We will have them back online very soon.”

The crowd released a monolithic groan.

In between the ceaseless moans and embittered complaining, the sounds of a distant chant steadily grew louder. The crowd noise tapered as the cadence became more dominant and intrigue set in. The words were not yet decipherable, but the enthusiasm and energy was unequivocal. Familiar melodies erratically bounced off the brick walls, making it hard to pinpoint its origins.

“There!” A man up front pointed to just over the near horizon. Though at first only the occasional glimmer of homemade posters broke the crest of the suburban road, the muffled tune of an impassioned protest spurred a sense of wonderment.

What started as periodical visions developed into a plethora of symbolic art. Soon after, the protesters broke free over the hill releasing the full force of their voices. The voters stood by, their internal reactions mixed.

The protesters marched down the hill directly towards the voting line. Dozens of third party supporters proudly barked the obligatory and trite protest tunes that never seemed to die.

“Hey, hey, ho, ho our government has got to go.”
Their signs depicted the majority and minority leadership with circles around their heads and slashes through the middle. Children sported handcrafted shirts that read “
Take Back Our Country,”, “End the Exploitation,”
and
“Don’t Ruin it For Me/ Give Me a Chance.”

“What does that mean? ‘Take Back Our Country,’” Charlotte all but whispered in her husband’s ear.

“Whatever you want it to mean,” was all Theodore had to say.

The protesters closed in on the soon-to-be voters.

“What do we want?” cried a tall, thin man in front. He wore ripped jeans and a bright yellow shirt picturing Nick Clekk—a former party leader. He beat a wooden stick on the pavement, keeping rhythm like a human metronome. His long, straggly dark hair was pulled into a ponytail.

“Justice!” roared the protesters, including the young children.

He delivered his follow-up question with affliction.

“When do we want it?”

“Now!” the followers cried.

“You know what?” John overheard a young woman in front of him mention to her

husband. “Their party has never been in power. Maybe it’s time they get a chance.” Though her husband remained silent, it was obvious he agreed.

When the activists arrived at the school they spread out. The lead protester approached an older couple behind the Nolans.

“Do you like where the country is going right now?” they asked, receiving no answer.

“Look at what this government has done to us. Look at all the people who have no job. All those people left behind while a certain few get rich. Please consider us. We will get everyone back to work. And those who can’t find jobs will be taken care of.”

He handed them some literature explaining their positions. “With the wealth of our country no one should be hungry. No one should be out on the street. No one should be without medical care. They’ve had years to get this right. Please, give us a chance.”

John surreptitiously turned his head to study the man as he approached the next set of voters. Beyond his obvious message and ambush-style tactics, something just didn’t seem right. His emphatic voice and body language appeared friendly, but his green slivered eyes held a hidden story.

“Are you happy with where our country is going?” he asked another couple.

John turned away.

“Don’t people understand this is how growing economies work?” Charlotte asked. “The market goes up and down. It’s healthy.”

“He is using fear to get votes,” John said matter-of-factly. “People don’t want to wait. And we like to have purpose in our lives. We want to be part of something bigger than ourselves, even if we are ignorant of where it’s really taking us. That’s how some of the worst tyrants in history came to power.”

“T.S. Eliot said,
‘Half the harm that is done in this world is due to people who want to feel important and think well of themselves,
’” Theodore chimed in.

John leaned a little closer to his mom and his father angled in as well. “Waiting does not give people
hope
that things will improve. Change does.”

“They are
using
ill-will to their advantage,” Theodore said, finishing his son’s thought.

John lowered his voice when one of the protesters approached the group in front of them. “While bad times lead to change, it’s often the worst time for it. Uncertainty does not help a struggling economy.”

“Hi, how are you guys? Can I interest you in some information?” The group seemed willing to hear more.

“Should we believe they have a magic formula that’s never been tried before?” Theodore said.

The protesters soon progressed down the street, chanting the entire way. Their message would reach thousands of voters before the day was through.

That night, the Nolans sat in their living room watching the election returns. The orange light of the evening sun faded along with any aspirations they had for a lasting financial recovery. Their fears had mutated into a grim reality. Their churning stomachs made it nearly impossible to speak. The nation had given that third party, the Centre Party, a huge victory in both Houses. The new Parliament would officially be opened by Her Majesty, the Queen, on June 1.

*

“Hon!” a crabby Emma Manning hollered down the hallway to her resting husband. “Come here, please?”

Tony awoke from his deep trance. He shambled down the hall, the scope of his recent ventures heavy on his mind.

“Please get me a clean diaper?” Emma asked when he entered the room.

He grabbed a new pack, opened it, and handed her one. Emma remained hunched over their child.

“Thank you.” She grabbed the white cloth and slightly elevated the baby’s feet. Tony stood by, watching his beautiful wife assist their even more beautiful son. Emma was dressed in black workout shorts and a faded light blue t-shirt. Her fire-red hair remained uncombed, and she had yet to apply any makeup. To Tony, it didn’t matter. For the first time in a few weeks, an authentic smile grew upon his face. She was his jewel in an otherwise morbid time.

Emma finished changing the diaper. “Follow me,” she said to her husband, shuffling by him with the baby cradled in her arms. Tony locked eyes with his son. He scrunched his face and stuck out his tongue. The baby grinned.

Despite Tony being one of the most powerful men in Great Britain, as a Member of the Commons, he was not the most powerful person in his household. They sat together on the couch.

“Tell me what’s wrong,” Emma said, her tone filled with compassion. “For the past few months, I figured you were in this funk because of Richard’s passing and the other guys not coming back to the Commons, but this is going on too long.” She peered at her husband, knowing he could not resist her. “Please.”

“I can’t stop thinking about Richard.” Tony dropped his head, unable to meet his wife’s gaze. She waited patiently for him to continue.

Tony’s heart raced and he nervously massaged his face. “The LAF didn’t kill Richard Sykes.”

Emma leaned in towards her husband. This was not the answer she’d expected.

Tony’s hands dropped from his face. The words came hard. “The Crown did it.” He looked up at Emma with uneasy eyes. “And I don’t think the bullet was meant for him.” He sighed. “It was meant for me.”

Emma gasped, placing her hand over her chest. “Why would you think that?” She felt a tear streak down her cheek.

Tony took a second to not only gather himself, but allow his wife to come to grips with what he told her. He reached for her hand, intertwining their fingers. He then confessed everything. “The final day of the session, I hid my identity and walked to the Vauxhall Bridge. I met a member of the media to give him the pamphlet I showed you. I thought I did everything right. I thought I was smart about it. I never called him. Everything was through regular mail. I don’t know how they figured it out.” His voice trembled. “When I walked up, I saw some guys that looked like homeless people lying under the bridge. We talked briefly. But it was so windy. How could they have heard? I gave him the pamphlet and went to lunch.”

Up to this point, Tony could not bear to look at his wife. He struggled to find the strength to continue. “Emma, they know what I gave the media. They thought I opened that door. Those bullets were meant for me.”

“Why would you assume that? You don’t know—”

“I killed one of my best friends!” Tony wailed. “Me!” He jammed stiffened fingers into his chest. “It’s my fault!”

The man she loved reduced himself to a confused, vulnerable shell. Emma scooted towards her husband, placing her free arm around him; their baby still secured in the other. She couldn’t help but feel partially to blame. After all, she had given him permission to pursue his path. They grieved together.

“So what are you going to do now?” she quivered.

He sulked under the weight on her comforting arm, both hands cradling his leaden head.

“At this point, if they are going to kill me, they are going to kill me.” He had come to grips with that reality. “So I have no choice,” he paused to assure his words were not mistaken. “I
have
to strike first.”

*

“PM Has Time to Reflect”

The headlines the following day served as a stark reminder.

I don’t have much time.

Chris Nash sat ensconced at his desk, suffocating under piles of paperwork. Payroll and scheduling, in addition to the everyday grind of a metropolitan area news director, proved overwhelming.

I need to get out of here.

He shoved some papers into a filing cabinet and slammed the door shut. Swirling around in his swivel chair, he flung open his desk drawer in reckless search of his contacts.

There it is.

Paging through, he blindly reached for the phone.

“Office of the Prime Minister,” answered the secretary.

“Delores, how are you? It’s Chris Nash.”

She gasped. “Chris! My Lord. How long has it been?” Delores was a sweet old woman whom Chris always admired. She’d worked in the prime minister’s office for more than forty years. Retirement never appealed to her. “You become big time and you can’t call an old friend anymore?” She chuckled. “How have you been?”