“As I’m sure you know,” he says to the twelve 16-year-olds in front of him, “there are two big political parties in QualityLand. The QualityAlliance, and of course the Progress Party. The parties used to be named differently, but they were changed in keeping with the new, progress-oriented country identity.”
“Which means,” says one of the girls, “that they conveniently got rid of a few troublesome adjectives in the process, like social, Christian, green, and democratic.”
Another smart-ass, thinks Martyn. Wonderful.
He directs his gaze at the heckler, and his augmented reality contact lenses superimpose her name: Tatjana History-Teacher. It’s always the history teachers’ children that cause trouble. How wise the government had been to do away with history lessons sixteen years ago and replace them with future lessons. In future lessons, the pupils are taught—by means of exciting and visually impressive methods—that in the future everything will be good, because—this being the core message—in the future all problems will be easily solved through technology.
Two of the girls at the back of the group are whispering about their grades. Martyn likes the look of one of them. He hears her murmur: “I always get 100 points for body mass index. But that dumb-ass teacher says he’s not going to give me the full grades in sex appeal again, because he doesn’t like how I babble on. What a douche!”
With a focused gaze and a long wink, Martyn bookmarks the girl for later. A confirming PLING resounds inside his right ear. He unconsciously runs his hand through his luscious, full head of hair, which is genetically protected against balding, then clears his throat and continues: “And then of course there’s the Opposition Party, whose founders clearly never had any hope of being part of the government, given that the party is called the Opposition Party.”
“A parliamentary outlet for discontent,” says Tatjana History-Teacher, repeating words she often hears her mother say when drunk. Martyn is already mentally preparing her zero-star rating.
“Because our revered president is on her deathbed,” he says, “there will soon be another election. The doctors have predicted that she will leave us in precisely sixty-four days. In order to enable a seamless transition, we will vote in exactly sixty-four days. Well, in principle the large parties all want the same thing anyway—in other words, the best—and that’s why I assume the two big parties will soon announce that they intend to form a big coalition again after the election. Sorry—of course QualityLand won’t be ruled by a big coalition, but the biggest! Any questions?”
“Why do you think voter turnout is getting lower and lower?” asks the smart-ass.
“I think,” says Martyn, “that the current government successfully addressed this problem when we decided to stop publishing voter turnout numbers. The next logical step, by the way—keeping the election results secret as well—is currently a hot topic of debate behind closed doors.”
The girls laugh obediently, even though Martyn wasn’t joking.
“Transparent individuals in a nontransparent system,” says Tatjana. Martyn ignores her.
“Hey, man, why are you in the Progress Party anyway?” asks the pretty girl whom Martyn has bookmarked for himself.
“Well,” says Martyn, asking himself this question for the first time, “I think, um, because they’re the biggest of the, um, the biggest parties.”
In truth, Martyn prefers to rule rather than oppose, even though in reality he does neither one nor the other. He sits on a backbench and applauds when the leaders of his party speak, and boos when someone from the opposition speaks. He does both with a contented smile, without ever listening to what’s being said.
He leads the girls to the visitors’ level of the assembly room. He points to the man currently at the speaker’s podium. “That guy there is in the Opposition Party.”
“For years,” calls the politician, “QualityLand has been waging war against the terrorists of the realm that our media now refers to only as QuantityLand. QuantityLand 7, to be precise. Is it, therefore, not a little counterproductive that certain armament companies are still allowed to export weapons to the enemy? Must our soldiers really be torn to shreds by our very own weapons?”
Objections are called out in the hall. Martyn boos as well, encouraging the girls to copy him.
“Mr. Songwriter,” intervenes the Speaker of Parliament, “once again I must remind you to keep to the new country identity. ‘War’ is not the politically correct word. It is referred to as ‘Security Operation for the Protection of Trade Routes and Natural Resource Supply.’ And we no longer say soldiers, but ‘QualitySecurers.’”
“Call it whatever you want,” says the opposition politician as he leaves the podium. “It doesn’t change what it is.”
The sitting is interrupted by a hologram display announcement: “This parliamentary debate is brought to you by QualityPartner. QualityPartner—‘Love at first click.’”
A new speaker steps up to the podium. A tall man, rather stocky, white, 67 years old, his face creased with wrinkles.
“You’re in luck,” says Martyn. “The new Defense Minister himself is speaking today! Conrad Cook. I’m sure you recognize him.”
The Defense Minister really does enjoy enviable levels of recognition for a politician. Before his work in the cabinet he was a famous television chef. He also owns a large empire of food manufacturers. His likeness is plastered over chocolate bars, breakfast cereals, and pickled sausages, and every child knows his face.
“Mr. Songwriter,” begins the minister sharply, “I’d like to add my thoughts to the mix.”
“Did you know that Conrad Cook’s father was a successful cook too?” asks Martyn, trying to add a fun fact.
“You don’t say…” mumbles Tatjana.
“You’re always trying to find a fly in the soup!” the minister exclaims.
“Linguistically speaking, he still seems very much entrenched in his old job,” says the pretty girl.
Martyn smiles. “According to surveys,” he says, “Mr. Cook has a very good chance of becoming the new president. Unfortunately he’s in the QualityAlliance, but that’s not so bad, because he’s sure to be aspiring for the biggest coalition.”
“Ladies and gentlemen, I won’t sugarcoat the issue!” says Cook. “We mustn’t forget that the armament industry also provides thousands of jobs. May I ask if the honorable gentleman plans to personally hire all the people who would have to be fired after the implementation of his suggestions? Would he like to be responsible for an entire generation of young men having the surname Jobless?”
Murmurs of agreement from the hall.
“You were singing a different tune last week,” Mr. Songwriter interjects.
“That’s a lie!” calls Conrad Cook. “I promised during the election campaign to limit armament exports, but as to whether I should set the limit higher or lower, that’s for me to decide! We can’t cook the QuantityLand 7 terrorists’ goose. If we stop delivering the goods, they’ll just order their weapons elsewhere. So it would be downright foolish not to have our fingers in the pie.”
“Hear, hear!” calls Martyn.
“And finally,” says the minister, “while it may be true that some of our QualitySecurers are being hit by our QualityWeapons—a great shame, but that’s just the way the cookie crumbles—it’s still better than being hit by a substandard weapon. Because our QualityWeapons guarantee the cleanest, quickest, most humane QualityDeath! It’s all about looking on the bright side. As I always say, if you have to buy the farm”—he pauses briefly—“it better be a QualityFarm.” He clears his throat. “Furthermore, both I and the entire QualityAlliance are still committed to the biggest coalition, and we plan to continue this after the election too, under my leadership, of course.” As he leaves the stage, the audience applauds.