Charles

  I walk away from the latest meeting of Parliament like I’m walking away from a tonsillectomy: long, painful, and of debatable necessity.

  Really, I shouldn’t be calling it a meeting of Parliament at all, so much as a “gathering of parliamentarians”. We still haven’t been granted access to the Hill, so we met in Senator McNaughton’s home in Carleton Square: seventy-three people crammed into a single living room to hear me relay Elestrine’s response to their demands.

  They reacted…about how you would expect. And even worse when I told them the Viceroy’s theory about what caused the Shift. But the biggest foofaraw erupted when I mentioned that she’d floated the idea of public education in magic—a proposal that Charles Simard, not unreasonably, had equated with the Indian Residential Schools operated by Canada in the nineteenth and twentieth centuries. The response had been immediate, with even MPs with a history of shitting the bed when it came the to legacy of colonialism banding together to declare that no such system would ever make it through this Parliament! It was a nice sentiment, though probably not one that would survive threats of cockroach-mashing.

  And yet there was a fainter undercurrent to the discussion—a recognition, as voiced by a Vancouver MP named Dominic Stenton, that some kind of education in magic would be necessary if we were to be self-sufficient in the post-Shift world. As frequently happened in Parliament, this was kicked to committee, with Heidi Hiscox vowing to lead a taskforce looking for “human-derived magical techniques”.

  In other words, Parliament had been reduced to a debate club, and debate it had. But it was mostly notable for what didn’t happen. No recriminations against me. No insinuations I couldn’t be trusted. Nothing to suggest that I was anything besides a good man in a terrible situation.

  It made me sick.

  *

  “Mr. Oakes!”

  Oscar Cloutier approaches me down the main hallway, his formerly standard Armani suit now looking strange and uncomfortable on his frame.

  “I wanted to…formally thank you,” he says, his voice stilted. “For everything you did for me.”

  “It was nothing.”

  “It’s not,” he says, laying a hand on my upper arm.

  Cloutier has been a bit…off since he regained his humanity, like a paperclip bent out of shape and then back into it; he’s close to the man he used to be, but somehow…distorted in ways that aren’t obvious. Gentler, less arrogant. I’d never say it to his face, but it’s an improvement.

  I shelve this thought and give his hand a respectful pat.

  “Before I forget,” he says, withdrawing his hand and reaching into his breast pocket. “I also meant to give you this. It was in the parka you gave me the other day.”

  I instantly recognize what he holds in his hand: the polaroid of my family—my real family—on the beach what feels like a lifetime ago. I feel my eyes grow misty. How could I have forgotten it so carelessly?

  “I figured I should give it back as soon as possible,” says Cloutier. “I—um—well, please don’t take this the wrong way, but I still have a residual desire to…eat it.”

  I take it from him. “Thank you, Oscar.”

  Tucking it firmly into my pocket, I give him a nod and set off for “home”.

  *

  One of the few advantages of winter in Ottawa is that it’s really easy to go anonymous; you just need to wear a balaclava and pull up your hood and no one will recognize you except by your parka (and even that’s not a giveaway, since I’m wearing a new one). This, at least, allows me a short break from the Twilight Zone–level bullshit my life has become. It’s a fair way between McNaughton’s house and Rideau Hall, but I’m grateful for the alone time; and—if you can pardon the fact that it’s colder than a witch’s tit—it’s actually a beautiful sunshiny day.

  Around me, big houses stand abandoned, their owners having long since moved into shelters or scrambled for the border. The streets and sidewalks haven’t been ploughed or even marked by footprints, meaning there’s nothing but a broad expanse of driven snow between the houses. The most depressing things, though, are the rows of wooden stumps poking out from the snow. Each used to be a tree before being requisitioned for firewood. Even now, in the distance, I can hear the chopping of axes; having finished with the trees, they’ve moved on to telephone poles.

  I pause where I stand. It occurs to me that chatting with someone who’s neither a Fairy aristocrat nor a frustrated politician might be very nice.

  *

  “Can I help you with that?”

  The work crew—two men, a woman, and, for some reason, a little girl—look up at me. The adults are kneeling in the snow, fiddling with the little knobby doodads (I’m not an electrician) that attach to the cables at what had been the top of a felled telephone pole.

  “Uh…yeah,” says the one I take to be the foreman. “Just let us finish up with this.”

  I nod and wait patiently until the last of the cables come free; then, the other man gets up and breaks the crossbeam off with an axe.

  “What do you do with the wires?” I ask.

  “Oh, that’s the best part,” the foreman tells me. “Check this out. Lisette!”

  With that, the little girl steps forward and raises her hand above the tangle of cables; abruptly they start writhing and twitching like snakes before coiling into loops.

  “Where did you learn that!?” I ask in astonishment. One for Hiscox’s committee, apparently.

  The girl shrugs. “I figured it out on my own. It’s a cinch; the metal wants to bend.”

  “Magic,” the foreman enthuses. “Ain’t it great?”

  “If you don’t mind having no power and no heat and being ruled by Fairies,” I mutter.

  “Eh, it’s not s’bad.” the foreman replies, rising to his feet. Behind him, the little girl runs off across the snow, spools of wire under her arms. “Now, how about helping us saw up this log so we can carry it to the sled? I’m Raj, by the way. This is Diane and that there’s Jacques.”

  This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it.

  “Jim,” I say, shaking his hand. There are probably any number of “Chucks” in Ottawa, but I’m enjoying going unrecognized. A moment later, the little girl comes back with a pair of large bow saws; I pair up with Jacques and we set about reducing the pole to firewood.

  “You seem pretty good at this,” notes Jacques after a few minutes.

  “Used to be a carpenter,” I reply truthfully.

  “Huh. I used to be an accountant,” says Jacques.

  “Miss it?” asks Raj from beside him.

  “I certainly miss the hell out of flush toilets,” he replies.

  Raj laughs. “Yeah, well. Could be a lot worse.”

  “Yeah,” replies Diane. “I could still be working at Walmart.”

  Jacques scoffs.

  “I’m serious!” she insists. “If it came down to a choice between shitting in holes in the snow or having to stand on my feet for eight frigging hours dealing with braindead customers, a pervy sixty-year-old shift manager, and student debt, I would choose this in a heartbeat. It’s not even close!”

  “But you’re not paid anything now,” Jacques notes.

  “Yeah, and neither’s anyone else! I mean, don’t get me wrong, I’m sick of the damn cold and I don’t think they’re feeding us enough—and if I never have to eat another one of those damn magic apples that Chucky Boy taught the kids to make, I’ll die a happy woman—but at least I know the wankers who used to sit around making millions off stock options are just as cold and miserable as I am!”

  “Sorry, ‘Chucky Boy’?” I ask, unable to resist myself.

  “Chuck Oakes,” she replies. “The new Prime Minister.”

  “I think you mean ‘Vice-Regal Consort’,” Raj interjects with a deliberately pretentious accent.

  “I think I mean ‘Vice-Regal Concubine’,” says Diane with a laugh.

  In spite of myself, I feel a rush of adrenaline—the old “fight-or-flight” response. “You don’t like him?”

  “I like him fine,” answers Raj. “But it’s not exactly dignified, eh? I mean, he’s getting shit done, probably better than anyone else, but…I dunno. It’s hard not to laugh at a dude who gets ahead using his ‘feminine wiles’ if you know what I mean.”

  “He did knock Audan on his ass though,” I insist too quickly.

  “Yeah, sure he did,” chuckles Raj. “That’s just the kind of thing the Tinkerbells would reward him for, I bet.”

  “No, but he has the right idea,” inserts Diane. “Dignity is for chumps. I mean, not to put too fine a point on it, but the Tinks absolutely kicked our asses during the war. So, no matter what, we’re begging for scraps. And you can’t blame a guy for finding a better way to beg.”

  “God help us all, eh?” says Raj. “Depending on ‘Deuce Bigelow, Male Gigolo’ to not starve to death.”

  “I’d do it,” Jacques pitches in.

  “Sorry?”

  “I’d sleep with Elestrine.”

  “She murdered a Senator!” I exclaim, a bit more annoyed than I have any right to be under the circumstances.

  “Yeah, I’m not saying she’s a good person,” Jacques replies. “But it’s for a good cause and, well…” He gives an embarrassed smile. “She is kinda hot.”

  “Yeah…” Diane confesses. “I mean, I’m not into girls, but for a good cause?”

  Raj grins. “I bet she’s a complete freak under that ‘prim-and-proper’ exterior.”

  “You’re all insane!”

  “Oh, come on, buddy,” laughs Raj. “You have to admit that, once you get past what a monster she is…she is kinda hot.”

  I feel my cheeks burn under my balaclava. “So that’s good enough for you?” I demand. “She’s a monster, but oh, she’s a pretty monster and it’s ‘for a good cause’, so it’s okay for Chucky Boy to ditch his wife and literally sleep with the enemy?”

  Raj sets down his saw. “As opposed to what?” he demands. “Trying to fight them again for, like, five minutes before they hack us into pieces?”

  “But they killed our soldiers!” I protest. “They—killed our democracy!”

  “Yeah, and what do you expect us to do about it?” comes Diane.

  I raise my hands impotently, trying to think of a reply.

  “Look, I hear what your saying,” says Raj. “My brother was in the army; he lost a hand when they came at him with a sword. But even he says that the whole war was over so fast that there weren’t actually that many casualties. And the war is over. And sooner or later, you just gotta—you know—move on.”

  “Yeah,” Diane agrees. “I mean, I hate to say it, but, all things considered, it’s not actually all that bad—especially considering how some people have it. Like, I heard, in the States, that King Oberon turned the Senate into banana slugs and forced their kids to watch while he salted them one by one.”

  “Oh, so it’s all hunky-dory then?” I demand. “Just so long as it’s not as bad as America!”

  “Take a chill pill, buddy!” says Raj. “Nobody’s saying it’s good. But you know…it could be a lot worse.”

  *

  We finish carrying the bits of log to the sled (which is actually the bed of an old pickup truck fastened to a curved wooden sheet, drawn by some very unhappy horses). After all these years in Parliament, I’d forgotten just how exhausting a real job is. Once the pole has been fully sawed and transported, I spend a moment resting on the edge of the sled.

  So that’s how it is now, eh?

  I have absolutely no right to blame Raj and the others; they made the same calculation that I did. But still, I wish…

  What? That they’d cursed my name? Called me a traitor? Announced I’d be the first against the wall when the revolution came?

  Yes, damn it! Anything other than just passively accepting the status quo!

  How dare they make the best of a bad situation! They should be making bitchy, passive-aggressive comments in the face of their oppressor, like us real men!

  “You’re Chuck, right?”

  I look down and see the little girl standing opposite me. “Don’t worry, I won’t tell if you don’t want me to.”

  I smile wearily. “You recognized my voice?”

  She nods. “You taught me to make apples.”

  “Well, the student seems to have exceeded the teacher.”

  “I like playing with magic,” she replies. “It’s fun.”

  A thought occurs to me. “Tell me; if you had to choose between having the world back like it used to be—with, you know, heat and electricity and the Internet and everything—or having magic…which would you choose?”

  She shrugs as if it’s a complete no-brainer. “Magic.”

  “Hey, Lisette,” comes Jacques’s voice. “You mind giving Daddy a moment alone with Jim over there?”

  The girl—Lisette—pays me one last smile and wanders off. Jacques takes a seat next to me.

  “I want you to know,” he tells me in a low voice, “that I agreed with everything you said back there.”

  An interesting development. “Oh?”

  “Yeah,” he tells me. “And I’m not the only one. Raj and Dianne—they’re great, but they don’t know what they’re talking about. It’s that food the Tinks are serving; it’s enchanted or bewitched or something so people can’t see how it’s going to go for us.”

  “And you can?”

  “Damn right. Right now, Chucky Boy has Elestrine amused. That won’t last forever; and when it ends, they won’t want to keep feeding us.”

  “So, what do you propose?”

  “Hell if I know,” he replies. “All I can say is that you and me, we’re not the only ones who feel this way.”

  “So everyone keeps saying.”

  “Yeah, well, if you want to meet some of them”—he lowers his voice to a conspiratorial whisper—“there’s a fellow back at the shelter, Randall Griggs.”

  I have to restrain myself from flinching in recognition. “Griggs?” I ask. “Wasn’t he Oakes’s bodyguard?”

  “Might’ve been; I don’t know. He’s an ex-cop. But he has the right I idea about the Tinks. He’s giving a little bit of a, uh, sermon down at Cathedrale Notre Dame this Saturday night. You might wanna come by, give it a listen.”

  “I’ll consider it.”

  “Don’t consider it,” he replies. “Just be there. Living on your knees might be good enough for guys like Chucky Boy, but I bet it’s not good enough for you.”

  *

  The work crew finishes up and heads off back to the emergency shelter. As for myself, I walk the rest of the way to Rideau Hall, alone with my thoughts.

  Again and again, I find myself sympathizing with the idea of resistance; again and again, I come up against reality. Guys like Jacques and Randall Griggs—and me—can bitch all we want about how unfair it is, but, at the end of the day, the Gentry hold all the cards and our only chance is to make do. Sit tight and hope things turn out alright.

  This, unfortunately, isn’t the sort of slogan you can build a movement around.

  *

  At last, the wrought-iron gates of Rideau Hall come into sight. A couple knights stand by outside, spears in hand; I doubt that Elestrine will be reviving public tours any time soon.

  “Easy gents,” I say, stripping off my balaclava so that they won’t impale me through the chest. “It’s only me.”

  Their response is…not what I expect. At once, both guards level their spears, postures ready for battle.

  “What you are you doing?” I demand. “I’m the vice-regal consort! Now let me through!”

  They make no response.

  “Charles Oakes!” exclaims a voice from my side. I turn to see a dozen troops round the nearby street corner in tight formation; another dozen or so troops pour in from the other side.

  Their leader draws his sword. “You are under arrest for treason!”