Itztlan, The Socialist People's Fiefdom of Anahuac
If you wanted a visual representation of where power lay in Itztlan then look no further than the Ayotochco Palace. Those other edifices of the state, the Staatsraad, the Volkskamer, lay shuttered and silent, their sepulchred solitude interrupted only by the occasional school trip. The Ayotochco Palace, though, that was different.
The palace itself sat on its own separate island in Lake Acapan, connected to the ceremonial and Imperial centre of Itztlan by a causeway. It had been built by the ambitious lords of Ayotochco who had grown wealthy from the copper mines that had been discovered at the turn of the 18th centuries. An ostentatious attempt to emulate the Imperial Palace which sat at the heart of the city, such a challenge to the Tlanextli Dynasty could not be challenged for long, and so it surprised no one when the Dukes of Ayotochco were executed for treason during the Tonauac rebellion of 1788 and their great palace reallocated to an imperial cousin.
Behind the palace’s walls the machinery of the Konstitusionele Sosialistiese Partij ground on, away from the hustle of those workers and peasants it professed to serve. The fleet of cars passing along the causeway, and its many checkpoints, the helicopters that noisily menaced overhead told all who were particularly interested that the Politburo was meeting.
Whatever the particular agenda, the Politburo tended to cover three specific topics whenever it met. First was the planned economy, by which the fruits of socialism were created, then defence, by which the fruits of socialism were protected, and finally security so that everyone could be reasonably sure there would be another meeting to attend. Much energy was expended on the discussion of whether it was worth ordering a new fighter design from the Zolph Design Bureau or whether advances in computer technology were increasingly rendering the manned fighter redundant. In the end the issue was parked whilst a strategic study was carried out. The room now stuffy, and with a fug of tobacco smoke hanging in the air, the members of the Politburo stirred in their chairs at the prospect of a conclusion to proceedings.
In a sea of old white men, Mathias Tlacualchihua stood out as a member of the great ethnic majority that lay beyond the walls of the palace. As Deputy General Secretary it was not unreasonable to think that he was the old man’s successor (in as much as the old man thought about succession) when he finally passed on, which was also to say that he was the one most likely to be disposed of in any contest for the leadership. He tried not to think about that.
“Well if we’re settled then that we continue the modernisation programmer on the ZOL-94 whilst we wait for the feasibility study?” he began, since he had been delegated by the General Secretary to chair the meeting, “Then we move onto Any Other Business.”
The grumbles from further down the table indicated that this was just the first skirmish in a longer war with those on the committee who thought that the day of the flying deathbot had not yet come. But for now they held their tongue.
“You will permit me comrades,” said Hoogaboom filling the pipe before him with exaggerated care, “But I have another item which I was not able to circulate on the agenda, and something that we have not done for some time.”
The General Secretary leisurely lit his pipe and, only when he was satisfied that the great puffs of smoke had reached a reasonable consistency, did he continue.
“I note that we have not had a proper discussion on the state of our neighbours. I realise that all has been quiet since the fools of this region lost themselves in the quagmire of the Iesus Civil War”.
“A bayonet is a weapon with a worker at each end,” said Bulgar Voss, the People’s Commissar for Justice, pleased that he had been paying attention.
“Well quite comrade, quite. And for some time afterwards the capitalists retreated from international matters. Oh yes there was talk of treaties, and the internationalisation of capital that they love so much, but not much else. I think, though, that now they are stirring again.”
Hoogaboom turned and fixed his gaze upon the Cunincpert Indiemurr, the People’s Commissar for State Security. “Well Indiemurr, what of Pantocratoria?”
Indiemurr adjusted his monocle. The monocle itself covered his missing eye which, today, would be replaced by a suitable prosthetic replacement but when the People’s Commissar for State Security was a boy was more likely to be replaced by a pair of glasses with darkened lenses. Indiemurr liked to tell people that he lost his eye during the civil war which lead, ultimately, to the establishment of the Fiefdom. In reality it had been caused by a hunting accident on one of his father’s estates, a fact that somewhat undermined his proletarian credentials.
The monocle, then, was an affectation; more so when the glass it contained was a deep mauve. Indiemurr thought this made him look mysterious; most people thought it made him look silly, though none would say to his face, or on the telephone, or in a letter. He reached for a stack of papers in the briefcase next to him, an indication that this little diversion into foreign affairs was not as happenchance as it appeared.
“The results,” he began in a reedy but determined voice, “of their recent elections continue to reverberate. The United Christian Front [he almost spat the words with disgust], look most likely, to most observers, to form an alliance with the fascists.” There were mutters of “shame!” from the Politburo.
Andronicus Spode, the cocky scion of the closest thing the KSP had to a royal family, obligingly jumped at the ambiguity he was presented with. “You said, to most observers. Presumably you think there is another possibility?”
Indiemurr gave a small shrug. “I can only speculate,” he lied, as he’d read detailed reports on the subject only that very morning, “But it would not strike me as completely impossible that there could be a grand coalition.”
“What?” cried Voss, “With the Socialists?”
Again his immediate reply consisted of another shrug. “Stranger things have happened Comrade Voss, and it may be the only way to govern without the support of the Party for National Action.”
It was fair to say that the reaction of the politburo was mixed. Some, of course, naturally saw any alliance between the Socialists and the UCF to be a betrayal of the workers and peasants of Pantocratoria, and yet another example of how parliamentary democracy smothered at birth any attempt at the sort of radical action that Marx had predicted to be necessary in advanced economies. Others took it as a sign that, like Saturn, the system of Pantocratoria was devouring its own children. The ones who were more pragmatic accepted that it may be necessary, and that the sun would rise tomorrow whatever the plutocrats of the Holy and Most August Empire did.
Anxious that he had not yet offered his own interpretation of events, Spode interjected. “I cannot see their Emperor holding any truck with those brownshirts.”
It was at this point that one of the few women present spoke. Erisdes Strassman, looking far too young to be People’s Commissar for Finance, looked up from the figures for pig iron production that she had reading for the past ten minutes.
“Who?” she said in an accent that was unmistakably foreign though now enough to immediately place where it was from, “Manuel IV? That fat lump wouldn’t care if there was a torch lit parade just so long as it didn’t stir him from his dinner.”
A confused silence fell across the meeting, for though they might not know much about Pantocratorian history, they were pretty sure the Emperor the Finance Minister was referring to had been dead for at least 300 years.
“Er, no,” replied Spode, his cultivated air of unflappability temporarily flapped, “Andreus.”
“Oh er right,” Strassman blustered, “I must have misheard what you were talking about.” And with that she returned to the production figures before her.
“Regardless,” said Hoogaboom taking the reins of the proceedings, “We cannot really say anything further until we know whether del Moray will be a man or whether he will take his thirty pieces of silver and sell out to the fascists. Time will tell.”
The rest of the politburo was at something of a loss as to what else to say. Aerion was busy turning itself into a twisted reflection of its glorious leader, Knootoss was Knootoss. There wasn’t even an Allanean menace for the time-being, no promise of deathtroopers or titans or the sort of military capacity that made small galaxies weep. There was Snefaldia but the border had been closed for so long that not even the collective memory of the party members present, a significant portion of which were into their nineth or tenth decades, could remember a time when it was open. If there had been a time for a rapprochement that had passed as surely as the bullet had passed through Smyczek.
“What about the recent change with the dominions in the Caldan Union?” offered the People’s Commissar for Agriculture.
Hoogaboom set aside his pipe to reply but before he could so Strassman spoke again. “I suspect,” she offered, this time without looking up, “That like Comrade Zhou would have said, it is too soon to say.” The General Secretary raised his eyebrows at this but otherwise said nothing.
The business of the day have concluded, the members of the politburo began to pack away their papers. It was then that Voss spoke again.
“What of Excalbia?” The question hung in the air like the sound of a bell. What of Excalbia? “They’re back you know.”
Countries never really go away, of course, but they do occasionally recede from sight. The Fiefdom could hardly complain about that, it had frequently withdrawn from the international scene whilst energies were focused on military improvements, or trying to push the sluggish growth of the centrally planned economy. Sometimes, like in the Iesus Civil War, it had been so contemptuous of international efforts that it had not bothered even to raise its voice in protest.
Hoogaboom re-lit his pipe and recalled a cartoon that he had seen the Volkskoerant (Official Organ of the KSP) shortly before the Iesus escapade. It showed the three-headed dog Cerberus, each head of which wore a crown with the names of Pantocratoria, Excalbia and the Caldan Union. Under one paw was an assault rifle and with the other it stepped uoon a ubiquitous group of proletarians who buckled under its weight. On its back was a saddle and sat upon it was a tiny figure of the then Knootian Prime Minister, his pockets stuffed with cash. As symbolism went it wasn’t especially subtle, linking as it did Knootian finance with “The Holy Alliance” as the cartoon called the three interconnected dynasties.
“We cannot,” said the General Secretary after a moment, “Allow those three monarchs to bestride across this region again like three linked colossuses. We must either work to prevent their reunion or ensure that we have a seat at the table.”
“Pah!” barked Spode, stubbing out a cigarette with as much condescension as he could muster, “And how do we propose to do that? Do any of us have any daughters of marriageable age that we can betroth to some snot-nosed prince? Ha, I should like to see that!”
Hoogaboom scowled. Even in countries with only one party there was still politics, and Spode’s faction clearly felt sufficiently empowered to allow such an open display of disrespect. That would have to be monitored. But for now he let the comment slide.
“What do you say Gainas?”
Tulga Gainas, the hitherto silent People’s Commissar for Foreign Affairs, had two distinctions which marked him out from the rest of the Politburo. Firstly, and at the sprightly age of 96, he was the oldest member of the group. Secondly, he was the only one to have served in the administrations of all three of the Fiefdom’s leaders. This was partly out of sheer luck, for there were several occasions when his name had either been left off or someone else had mistakenly been added to those lists of people whose services to the Party were no longer required. But Gainas’ longevity was mainly due to his persistent refusal of any invitation to voice an opinion.
“Well,” began Gainas, his mind frantically whirling at the thought have having to dispense some sage advice, “Well...we could just ask them?”
A puff of discontented smoke was emitted from the General Secretary. “Ask who?” he asked angrily.
“The Excalbians,” replied Gainas, warming to his point, “I mean, have we ever actually spoken to them?”
“Of course we have,” interjected Spode in his customarily dismissive tone, “We must have done at some point.”
“Yes but have we? Have we actually? Our point of contact, going back at least 15 years, was always the Pantocratorians, and to a lesser extent the Caldans. We made our views known to them and trusted that this would be circulated to the wider region. But we’ve never had any bilateral talks with Excalbia, and only the very minimum with the Caldans.
So let’s bring them in, sit them down, and put across our views directly. They seem like a reasonably bunch, for capitalists.”
Hoogaboom stroked his long beard for a moment in thought. “Fine,” he said, “Whoever is Excalbia’s man here…”
“Or woman,” interjected Tlacualchihua helpfully.
“Then get him in here, and I will speak to him man-to-man.”
“Or woman,” said Tlacualchihua again.
“Whatever, and we’ll do the same with Caldan’s man…”
“Or..”
“Shut up Mathias, we’ll do the same with the Caldan Ambassador, though not at the same time. I will speak to the Excalbian ambassador myself, one of you,” the pipe magisterially swept the room, “Can meet with the Caldan.”
“And the Pantocratorians?” asked Spode.
“When there is a government in New Rome we will talk to them. Until that point I see little point in discussing anything with a caretaker administration.
And that should be it comrades. The minutes of this meeting will be circulated in the usual fashion.”
