Devolution (27 page)

“Good evening,” he nervously proclaimed, “I’m John Nolan.” The crowd erupted at the mere sound of him officially announcing his arrival. While the mob was loud, large, and intimidating, their acceptance of him served to calm his near-crippling anxiety. Despite previous words of encouragement from party leaders, it wasn’t until now that John realized these members were there for him, as much as he was now there for them. These people believed in him and his ideas.

Suddenly, John didn’t feel so isolated on that lonely stage. Maybe it was the signs that bore his name, or the shirts stamped with his likeliness. Maybe it was just clearing that frightening barrier that separates us all from similar acts of greatness. Either way, it didn’t matter. Whatever
it
was, it supplied John with an immense boost of confidence and bravado. He no longer felt shy or quiet. He no longer felt intimidated by groups of unfamiliar people. He stood tall and proud.

He was ready.

“For thousands of years, all across the globe, humans have sought to master our own governance. Our evolving ideals have led us to follow leaders great and villainous; constitutions strong and weak. Obscure nations have risen to global dominance only to collapse, while some never emerge from despair. Despite our greatest efforts in this endeavor, we have failed. But out of that failure, we have learned.” He paused to scan the attentive room.

“A civilization’s success lies in but one aspect.”

As the masses listened, John honed in on his new voice, which sounded from deep within his chest. He never realized how much his profession had developed his oratory. He spoke with an infectious vigor rarely found on the political scene. The party leaders were ecstatic at his robust delivery. Government leaders were horrified over the influence his powerful speech was sure to garner.

“Our pursuit of societal perfection has undoubtedly been one of sacrifice, with untold millions lost in its venture—a venture pursued at the behest
of
leaders, but not
for
leaders.”

“No!” a few in the audience yelled. The mood was such that the satellite rallies also followed.

“A countryman only dies,” John lowered his voice, forcing the assembly to closely fixate on his words, “so
his
countrymen can
live.
”

His distinct emphasis lay on that final word. The response was thunderous.

“Therefore, it is upon us to define a life worth living, one that assigns a more appropriate relationship between leadership and citizen. Within us lies a human spirit that rejects the limits of unreasonable restraint. However, the natural yearning of those who govern is to govern more, a divide that shapes the principle struggle of our existence.

“Throughout most of civilization, humans have lived at the command of others. We trade our sovereignty—sometimes voluntarily, sometimes not—for the guarantee of a certain quality of life. Often, this deal is made passively through soaring rhetoric and grand promises that the people, not the governor, will most benefit. This relationship, many have simply accepted.

“But we have witnessed over millennia that those in power tend not to serve the many, but to service the few. And their power is often expanded as that of others constricts. Whether this concentration of authority is achieved through brutality or the stealthy guise of less violent means, is irrelevant. Once it is obtained, it is rarely shared, even at the expense of societal collapse. Few nations have implemented a government that empowers the people instead of a person; a government guided by a strong constitution that confines desirous leaders. Yet, those are always the most successful.”

John’s pragmatic approach at persuasion was alluring.

The colossal release of energy following John’s declaration was the grandest yet. John took a second to glance over his notes. The crowd held silent in a pent up restlessness.

“No nation is genetically exceptional. No people hold special talents. None are mentally or physically superior. Only if we are honest with ourselves will we realize that the true measure of a civilization’s success lies solely in its ability to adapt.

“Adaptability encourages innovation and the ambition to endure. It is the reason some nations overcome challenges while others succumb to them. But a people cannot adapt if the necessary means of adaptation are restricted by a governmental structure that values more its own authority.”

John now spoke in a soft, yet authoritative and passionate tone. “A perpetual union most requires the energy generated by the most powerful tool for lasting prosperity,” John pointed to the crowd, “the impartial initiative of its citizenry.”

A round of applause accompanied his reserved pitch.

“Government shall only exist to create a basic framework in which to live!” John cried. “And that government must be specifically limited not to allow the systematic weakening of the populace. For when the people are too weakened, the nation will certainly follow. This virtue must not become threatened by those who fear the power it possesses.”

“I’ve never seen a crowd this energized,” Wickham commented to Manning as they stood off-stage. His words were barely audible as they battled the exuberance of the mob.

Caught in the allure of the moment, Tony didn’t have words. He simply nodded.

John stood tall on the stage, his impassioned voice resonating throughout the land. The dozens of satellite rallies and tens of thousands who filled their ranks cheered wildly for the young man. Millions more watched at home online. At that very instant, he was the most powerful man in Great Britain.

“It is that of inept, self-serving, and dishonest governments that provide the impetus for revolution and societal collapse. But a government cannot be seen as inept or self-serving, and will not be dishonest, if operated by the very
people
who benefit most from its limitations. And those strict and proven Constitutional limitations that come at the expense of the governing are rooted in the belief that the laws of economics and natural rights don’t stop at any nation’s borders. The balance of influence must always tilt in the citizen’s direction, no matter how enticing the political language of the day.”

The crowd roared.

With his head still down, he continued in a more somber voice. “For thousands of years, all across the globe, humans have struggled to master the complexities of civilization. But the answer has always been so simple. As long as we believe in
ourselves
, we will be able to adapt to any challenge and survive.

“It is now that we must take the next evolutionary step in human society. It is now that we must hold firm to the values and principles that we know work. It is now that we must lead for ourselves a re-birth of civilization based in the understanding that there is no human authority greater than our own!” John screamed.

He glanced down at his notes. He had written no more, yet he had one last thing to say.

“In the coming days and weeks, we will all have very difficult decisions to make. We will all experience the same uncertainty. We will question what is right. We will question what is patriotic. Our way of life is fragile. It’s never more than a generation away from extinction. Within every era there are those who will die to preserve it and those who will die to change it. What will our era do with
its
opportunity? Life is not something you simply inherit. It is something you earn and preserve. Because once it’s gone, we may never know it again.” He took some time to let his words set in then continued calmly. “I have made my decision. Join me.”

John raised an open hand in appreciation of the people’s support. They returned the favor in full with their own form of gratitude—fervent applause accompanied by raving cheers.

John walked away from the podium and waved to the crowd as the stage flooded with highly-energized party leaders.

Everyone in the barn and all those watching on the satellites embraced their newly found momentum. The quiet few who remained in a control room in Westminster were not so elated.

CHAPTER TWELVE

SOWING THE SEEDS

W
arren Wickham entered a newly decorated boardroom full of his highest ranking officials, which now included John. The room was no longer drab and unkempt, following a surge in donations after John’s joining days prior. Large maps of the nation’s most populous cities were replaced with framed landscapes of the countryside. New paint adorned the walls and the ceiling tiles no longer hung in disarray. Despite its revised appearance, however, those in attendance still preferred their casual wear.

“I am happy to announce our polling has revealed a little less than half the population of Great Britain is now either fully devoted to our cause, or leans our way,” he announced.

The good news generated a temperate applause.

“It’s good news, but we cannot be complacent,” the leader admonished. “We are not finished.” He paused for a few seconds but could no longer fight the triumphant urge. A large smile grew on his enraptured face. “But this feels pretty good, doesn’t it?”

The room broke out in laughter, triggering another round of applause.

Wickham waited for the clapping to taper off. “The question is, how do we now gain more momentum?”

He reached inside his briefcase and pulled out a few dozen manila folders. “Pass these out.” Splitting the stack into two, he handed one off to each side of the table. “This is our new strategy.”

Wickham patiently waited for everyone to receive a copy. Like a grade school boy receiving his first valentine, John opened his.

“Please focus your attention on the first page,” Wickham said once everyone had a copy. “This summarizes our short-term plan. By tomorrow, I’d like your opinions and ideas. With the support we now have, we need to mobilize. Before the week is out, we’ll begin rebuilding this nation, one worker at time. But first, we must work to stop the violence. If we can help stop the violence—something the government can’t do—we’ll gain respect.”

As the room voiced its conformity, John took it all in.

“If you continue through the pages, you’ll see where I believe we should concentrate most of our resources.” Wickham continued to the supplemental pages of the report. “Of course, all this is open to change via your input.”

*

Beep! Beep! Beep! Beep!

The sound of April’s heartbeat being monitored through the electrocardiogram had become a soothing sound for John. After a week of her being in a coma, he still visited his girlfriend every day. The bandages on her face were gradually being removed as her injuries healed.

Like trophies signifying his devotion, the literature John used to keep himself occupied had begun to stack up. Since April’s arrival, the bare room had come alive with colorful balloons, flowers, and cards of support. John sat next to her feet, leaning up against the white bed sheets, book in hand.

Outside, the press accumulated on the sidewalk. John had yet to give any media interviews. Every reporter in the world was eager to get the first.

“You’re back.”

John looked up to see April’s doctor standing in the doorway. He smiled, reaching for his bookmark.

“There are many theories about comas,” the tall, silver-haired man said, stepping into the room. His hands rested in the pockets of his white lab coat. “I believe she knows you’re here.”

John looked at April, hoping the doctor was right. “Any news?”

The doctor shook his head regrettably. “When the swelling is down, we can wake her. We’ll know more then.” He took her medical records out of the plastic container on the wall and scanned them. “The good news is, aesthetically, she is healing well. Let’s hope that’s true throughout.”

John extended his hand to the doctor. “I appreciate what you’ve done for her. I can’t thank you enough.”

The doctor placed April’s chart back on the wall, nodded at John, and left.

John sat back down and reopened his book. Shifting his body sideways, he leaned against the bed and lifted his feet rest upon the chair rail on the wall. He planned on being there a while.

Except for the occasional nurse shuffling past, the hospital was terribly quiet. The last few months had taken a great toll on every Brit’s health, both mentally and physically, which overwhelmed many hospitals. To survive, some only treated patients with active health insurance or those who could pay with cash.

April was fortunate enough to carry insurance through her employer, which still offered it to its remaining employees, but there was no telling how long it would last. But with strong book sales, John took comfort in knowing April would always receive the best care.

“John.” Charlotte Nolan gently shook her son’s leg. His head rested upon the wall, his book lying open on his chest. “John.”

He slowly emerged from his deep sleep. He fumbled around, until his eyes fell upon his mother’s loving smile. As she came into focus, he realized he was far more fatigued than he had wanted to admit.

Moments later, John found himself in the waiting room down the hall, surrounded by his family. “How are you, son?” Theodore asked with concern.

John shrugged. “I could be worse.”

Charlotte’s heart melted at her son’s mature perspective. “Oh, honey.” She gently rubbed the sides of John’s face in a way only a mother could. “I’m so proud of you.” Her eyes glossed over with a thin layer of pride and sorrow.

“We
are
proud of you, John,” Theodore stated. “Your entire family is.”

“Really?” he grinned. “No one has said anything to me, except you and Uncle Tony.”

John’s parents shared an uncertain glance.

“He’s been calling and writing often since April’s accident.” John continued. “He’s genuinely worried. It means a lot.”

“We are also very worried,” Theodore replied. “We saw your speech. We understand you had to make a commitment and we support you. But we are your parents and—”

“I know,” John cut him off. “I know.”

While John’s parents expressed their apprehensions, his sisters looked on with intrigue. They found John’s newfound influence and celebrity enchanting.

“You are on your own now, John,” his father continued. “We want to protect you, but we no longer can. As parents, it’s hard.”

The helplessness Charlotte felt under the gravitas of the situation was terribly difficult for her to handle. Her motherly instincts were to safeguard her children, even when her ability was limited.

“No matter what decisions you make,” added Theodore, “you will always have our support and a place to call home.”

John and his father looked at Charlotte. If someone had just walked into the room, it would appear she was the one needing comforted.

“Your mother can’t help it,” Theodore said, gently rubbing her back. “She always wants everything to be perfect with you kids.”

John’s heart ached for his weeping mother. “I know.”

*

Warren Wickham’s office was dark with the exception of one dim lamp that barely managed to illuminate its own shade. Everyone had gone home hours ago. The vast expanse of the complex visible through the windows displayed few lights and less life. The new day had just begun with the stroke of midnight. Wickham sat alone at this desk, with the phone pressed tightly against his ear.

“Mr. President, we appreciate your willingness to assist us. And I assure you, your hospitality will be returned in full.” He paused to hear his reply. “Yes, sir. Goodnight to you.”

Wickham placed the phone on his desk and grabbed a pen from a jar. A tablet already sat in front of him. The tablet appeared unremarkable; solid brown with an odd insignia that resembled Inanna’s Star, a powerful symbol of the heavens in Sumerian culture. Near the bottom, he found a free line and wrote the following:
France: 10,000,000.

His addition supplemented a page already laden with the contribution of dozens of nations.

“Is it what we anticipated?”

The lamp cast a dim light on the man who entered. It didn’t have to. Only one other person would be around this hour of the evening.

“Yes, sir,” Wickham replied. “With this, we surpassed our goal.”

The man walked up to Wickham’s desk and sat down. The dreary light illuminated the man’s face just enough that his demented eyes reflected a clear white.

“Can you believe it was only last year we campaigned for the Centre Party?” reminisced Paul Harris. “While I knew they’d screw up the country, I had no idea it would go this badly.”

“Everything is going too well,” Wickham agreed. He ran nervous fingers through his matted hair. “Something has to eventually go wrong, Paulie. Our luck can’t last forever.”

*

“It doesn’t matter how we lost him.” Despite the dire consequences of his revelation, Major General Bernard Harris remained emotionless. “He chose his allegiance. Now we move on.”

“You were assigned to protect him,” the prime minister replied sharply. “We deserve an explanation.”

Harris’ intense lack of respect for the PM blinded him to the fact that the assemblage clearly agreed with his political opponent. “We must move on.” His voice appeared to mildly tremble with a rare anger. “Our sources tell us FreeGB is planning sit-ins and marching protests around the country. We must counter.”

“How?” one woman in a pinstripe suit—who wore it well—asked. “We can’t fight all these little battles.”

“She’s right,” said a thin man with a rugged jaw. “We need a big picture solution.”

Any optimism Harris had for a peaceful and swift solution had vanished.

“At the current rate, this economy will take years to turn around.” With her trusty calculator in hand, a nerdy woman spoke. “That option is gone.”

“Could we work to increase trade?” added the attractive woman in the suit. “We could use the economic headline.”

“There is no one to trade with,” the prime minister said with a calm certainty. “The world is hurting. Some nations like the Congo have cheap resources, but their memories are long.”

For the first time since early in his term the PM felt accepted. The looks he received from his peers appeared to be rooted in respect, instead of disappointment.

“The message FreeGB has is resonating,” stated a man dressed in fatigues. He sat at the far end, away from the major players. “Maybe we should work with them.”

Harris was curious. “Continue.”

“Offer Wickham a cabinet post.” He looked at the prime minister. “We can placate his followers while maintaining our authority. There is a chance he may want the
easy
power.”

The prime minister seemed intrigued.

The major general was not. “No. He wants revolution. That is what Germany did with Hitler and Italy with Mussolini. The government gave them some power in an effort to control them. It didn’t work.”

“I think he’s got the right idea,” the PM said, in defense of the man dressed in fatigues. “Right now our battle is not with the economy or trade agreements. It’s with Wickham. We need to get him under control.”

For the first time since early in his term, the prime minister also appeared to assume his elected role with confidence. “We need to out-strategize him. Let’s track their movements and cut them off. If they plan a protest in the shipping district, we announce an ease of regulations on imports the day before. If they stage a sit-in at power plants, we announce a reduction of utility prices. We can control the headlines and take their momentum. We’ll strip away their base.”

Harris’ recognition of the prime minister’s idea rendered everyone speechless.

“We can slowly give concessions and target different constituency groups. This way, we only give as much as needed. Well done, Mr. Prime Minister.”

The heads before him nodded.

Harris concluded as he gathered his belongings, “We can’t give more than is necessary. We move cautiously.”

No one in the room was particularly eager to relinquish authority. But with aching hearts, most accepted the harsh reality. However, not everyone had the altruistic intention of giving in to the demands of the populace, even if they initially volunteered the idea to do so.

*

With his laser pointer in hand, Warren Wickham circled Westminster. “This, my friends, despite all that has happened, is still the pulse of Great Britain.” The leader of FreeGB stood in front of a sizable black and white sketch of London. The lights in the room were dimmed, except for the rich glow of an orange fluorescent bulb above the map. With windowless walls of solid concrete, the darkness hid the attendees in a sea of black. Fleeting glimpses of Wickham appeared and disappeared as he paced in and out of the light. On occasion, his words seemed to arise out of the black. Even when he was visible, the ghostly shadows cast upon his face failed to match the pleasant tonality of his voice.

“Ladies and gentlemen, we will concentrate our efforts here.” Wickham spoke with great assurance, pointing at the area around Westminster. “We will move swiftly, but delicately, and the media will have to cover it. The world will watch as we start with the streets around our capitol. Gradually, we will branch out to the rest of the city and then the countryside. FreeGB will be seen as the ultimate force for good.”

Wickham stepped fully into the orange glow. The contrasts of intense light and pitch darkness threw a glimmering radiance upon his body.

“The government will try to stop us,” he admonished. “Our sources tell us they will relinquish control to keep the peace.”

A click of a switch illuminated the crowded room.

“My friends,” Wickham said inspiration, “our focus has now shifted. Up to this point we were about gaining followers, raising money, and spreading our message. We’ll now use our momentum to remake this nation. We’ll help people get back on their feet. We’ll fight crime, poverty, and hunger. Nail by nail we’ll rebuild structures, repave roads. We’ll repair our global image. We’ll make this nation thrive once again.”

Wickham approached the boardroom table, placing his hands on the newly refurbished cherry wood surface. “As far as we are concerned, the national crisis is over, and we’ll get the credit for ending it. The next parliamentarian elections are rumored to be this spring.” He theatrically peered down at his watch. “That gives us just enough time.”