The Fires of Orc

A committee is a cul-de-sac down which ideas are lured

and then quietly strangled.

Barnett Cocks

It came to pass that I would meet the brass. After two weeks of twelve-hour days that produced a surge in online donations worth over twenty-five million dollars, Markus himself was coming to headquarters and bringing with him his senior campaign executives. I was informed I would be asked to join them for a brief meeting. I was in the office at sunrise. No one sent me an agenda, but I had to guess it was Markus himself who wanted to get together. Even a billionaire wants to know the man who makes him twenty-five million bucks.

An email arrived at six o’clock that morning in advance of my planned audience with the big wigs. It announced to the entire campaign in brief but delicate terms that the Internet Strategy Manager, that stiff, was “pursuing other opportunities.” That meant one problem down without ever having to confront it. I had an even clearer idea about my forthcoming meeting with the candidate.

At ten o’clock we were alerted that Markus had arrived at the rooftop helipad and would be in the office any moment, occasioning a complete stoppage of usual business. Phones were sent to voicemail, conversation silenced and the entire office rose as one and turned to face the short bank of stairs leading from the elevator whence would emerge, momentarily, the man himself and his entourage of influential hangers-on.

I took a spot near the head of the stairs some distance from a gaggle of beaming interns. It was surreal, but so is politics.

The doors opened and the first figure to appear was that of a stout man with a crew cut, comfortable shoes and an earpiece. The Soldier was always the first to enter a room before Markus. I knew from the campaign story mill the he had been a personal body guard for Markus’s father and began attending to Markus himself upon the father’s death. He had known Markus from boyhood. He took his job more seriously than anyone else did.

The Soldier stood to one side of the elevator door as the team filed out. There were two men in grey suits, one of them a rather common looking Teutonic type, square-jawed, blond and uninteresting. The other was a tall, olive-skinned man with an impeccable haircut. He could have passed for European royalty. The blond was the Campaign Director; the handsome one was the Chief Pollster. After them came the Media Relations Director, two policy consultants and a speech writer to two.

At last Markus emerged, to an eruption of applause and whistles. For fully two minutes the clapping continued as the candidate made his way around the room, harried by The Soldier’s fretful attention, shaking hands, issuing thanks, flashing a winning smile.

Markus was a grand man, beautifully grand. Grandeur ill befits most people but he was rightly born to it. His every movement was more elegant than the common man’s. He spoke softly but assuredly. He reached out to the working flock with a grand hand, naturally, easily. He was the grandest man I have ever seen.

Pausing at a volunteer’s workstation, he noticed pictures on her desk and asked, “Are those your kids, Carol?”

Carol answered, “Yes sir, and they’re big supporters.”

“I hope you tell them,” he said, “that this is for them. Your kids will live in a better world and you’re helping to make that world a reality.”

Carol reeled. True grandeur is disorienting.

After circling the room, Markus climbed three steps in my direction, gave a nod, then turned to face the bullpen. I had never heard him speak in person until that moment.

“Friends and teammates,” he said, “when I decided to enter this race, there were plenty of people, some of them close to me, who thought I was wasting my time. They couldn’t understand why I thought I could take on the political establishment and challenge the very foundations of our political system. Those people obviously couldn’t imagine the power of a team pulling together. I’m in this race for all the reasons you’ve heard me talk about and I’m in it for one more reason that you deserve to know – I’m in this race because I know no other way to work with such great people.”

He went on after a brief applause. “I’m proud to think I could be the President of the United States, but I’m not nearly as proud of that as I am of the support and genuine friendship I get from all of you. You are my friends, my colleagues and my family. I share your hopes and I will work to earn the trust you have placed in me. We’re going to win this and when we do, for the first time in living memory, promises made on the campaign trail will not be forgotten at the inauguration. We’re working to change the way this country is governed and to change its place in a new and better world.”

More applause.

“I can’t do this without you and all of us put together can’t succeed without tens of millions more people rallying to our cause. That’s why one week from tonight I will be appearing live before a nationwide audience to bring the Markus 2028 message to every home in America. I have secured one hour of air time on the networks and news stations. We will be simulcast on the web, viewable around the world. At that time I will bring our platform to the people and I will introduce my running mate and many prospective members of my cabinet.”

Thunderous applause.

“Between now and then I ask that you keep doing everything you have done so far. We are a credible team and the establishment is taking notice. That’s all thanks to you. I can never repay you for all you have done and will continue to do, but I promise to make you proud next week and I promise to put forward a vision and a message worthy of your hard work.”

And that was all. It was enough; more than enough. What a grand, humble man was Tom Markus.

“So what do you think, Old Timer? Was it better then, in the old world?”

The Landlord, again. Can’t he see I’m occupied? I have a story to finish and Ulysses yet to tackle and here it is past noon and I’ve made little progress on one and none on the other.

“What’s that,” I ask.

“The way things were then – was it better?”

“You’re going to have to be more precise,” I tell him, hoping he can’t be.

“Well you had governments and police and armies and all those things. Was that better than it is now?”

“It was certainly different. I suppose it was better in some ways but not in every way.”

“What ways were better?” he persists.

“Mostly it was the little things. The roads were paved and maintained. Electricity was cheap and reliable. Schools were open for all children. Beyond that, it was just more secure. One didn’t worry about invading militia.”

“There was no crime then?”

“Of course there was. There was lots of crime. It dominated the news. In fact, there was more crime then than now.”

’How can that be,” he asks. “These days people steal and kill and rape and stuff all the time.”

“Yes,” I tell him, “but where there is no law, there is no crime, there’s only general thugishness. A crime is an act against the law and where there is no law, crime, properly speaking, can’t exist. No government means no law and hence no crime.”

“But if you had governments, why didn’t they stop criminals?”

“They did. Almost no one got away with the foulest of crimes. Criminals virtually always got caught. Locking them up was a major industry. At one point there were almost three million Americans living behind bars.”

“That’s ridiculous,” he says.

“Many of us thought so at the time.”

“No,” he explains, “I mean, why did people commit crime in such a rich country?”

“I suppose that’s rather like asking why men made war on one another.”

“Well,” he asks, “why did they? Why didn’t the governments just agree to support one another and all get along?”

“Because it seems that even if he gains an empire, a man is never satisfied.”

“What about the Chinese? They built a wall around their entire country, didn’t they?”

“That was a bit before my time,” I tell him, “and even so, in my day the Chinese made claims on islands off their coast and they held their Western territories far outside the wall through force of arms. Rebellion and discontent were the norm in much of China, just like most of the world.”

“But not in America, right?”

“That’s correct,” I admit. “There were wars the world over, but none in my country.”

“Because there were no poor people I guess.”

“Oh no,” I correct. “There were tens of millions of Americans living in abject poverty.”

“But why? You had taxes and all that. Why didn’t the government give money to poor people?”

So I tell him, “You have much more money than me. I guess you know that, right?”

“Well yeah,” he mutters.

“So why not give some of your money to me?” I ask.

“Because it’s mine. I earned it,” he responds.

“My friend,” I tell him, “You would have made a great American.”

I was called into the conference room. Markus sat at the head of a long table flanked on either side by senior staff. The Soldier stood behind Markus, expressionless. I was asked to take a seat at the end of the table opposite Markus. I sat and composed myself.

The Markus machine was entirely populated by executives from Quark Metrics pressed into service on a campaign they did not really understand. They knew they were tasked with helping their boss succeed as they had done so many times before. They knew nothing of how electoral politics actually worked. They came from backgrounds in product marketing and public relations and human resources and data analysis. They were all smart and all completely inexperienced. At least they believed in their cause, but their collective belief amount to zero qualification. Not one of them was prepared for the full-court press of a presidential campaign.

The Campaign Director spoke first. “Thank you for joining us today,” he said.

“It’s an honor and a pleasure for me,” I assured him.

He went on, “We wanted you to know that we’ve noticed the impact your work has had on our internet strategy.”

Yeah, I thought, twenty-five million bucks is hard to overlook.

“I’m sure you’re aware by now,” the Chief Pollster interjected, “that we are currently without an Internet Strategy Manager.”

“I read the message,” I told them.

“We were wondering then,” said the Campaign Director, “if you would be interested in filling that vacancy.”

“I would be very interested,” I answered, “but I would have some questions.”

“And what might those be?” he asked.

“First, I would have to know what budget I’ll be working with.”

“We’re proposing a salary of twenty-five thousand monthly for the duration of the campaign,” he replied.

“I can live with that,” I said, “but what I meant was, how much am I free to spend? I have a team who won’t work for free.”

“How much do you require?” Asked the Chief Pollster?

“I require another fifteen thousand for my team and I require ten thousand a month for an assistant.”

“Forgive me,” the Media Relations Director broke in, “You’re proposing that this campaign commit fifty thousand dollars a month to internet strategy?!”

“That’s what I’m proposing for now,” I said. “I can’t promise you it will be enough down the road. As we get further into this fight it will cost more than we can know at this moment.”

The room fidgeted and the Campaign Director said clumsily, “I’m not sure we’re on the same page…” and Markus interrupted him.

“Done,” he said. “If you need more, let me know.”

“Yes sir I will,” I said, adding, “and I will try to economize, but I don’t want to be penny-wise and pound-foolish.”

“Agreed,” said Markus.

There was some ruffling of papers and the Campaign Director asked, “What other things do you need to know?”

“It’s kind of a delicate thing to mention,” I said, “and I wouldn’t want to sound impertinent…”

“More impertinent than asking for more than twice our proposed budget?” asked the Campaign Director, drawing a disapproving glare from Markus. “Do go on,” he said sheepishly.

“Okay then. I would need to know what we’re doing.”

“We’re running for president,” said the Media Relations Director.

“I mean I would need to know in advance of any major moves the campaign will make, any positions the candidate will take, and statements we’ll be issuing, that sort of thing. I guess what I’m saying is, I would have to be part of this group.”

Markus chimed in, “Young man, I can’t promise you that I will never shoot from the hip or that nothing I do or say will ever come as a surprise. But I will promise you this: Anything we plan and any strategy we devise, I will personally ensure that you’re included with enough time to avoid being caught unaware.”

“Sir,” I said, “that’s all the assurance I need.”

“Then we’re agreed,” said Markus. He rose and motioned me forward to shake hands. “Welcome to the team,” he said. “It won’t be easy, but I don’t think you’ll regret being with us.”

“Thank you sir,” I said. “And I promise to work my hardest to help you win this race.”

“Very well then,” said the Campaign Director. “Is there anything else?”

“As a matter of fact,” I said, “there is one thing more?”

“Well, what is it?” he asked.

“It’s about the television appearance you mentioned in your remarks to the staff, sir,” I said.

“What about it?” asked Markus.

“Well sir, as you know, it’s highly unorthodox for a candidate to announce a running mate this early, much less prospective cabinet members.”

“I’m aware of that. It’s something I feel compelled to do and I ask you to trust me.”

“I understand sir. And I’m sure you are quite certain none of the people you name could in any way expose the campaign.”

The Soldier piped up, “Nobody gets close to this candidate without being thoroughly vetted, including you.”

And with that, we parted, with handshakes all around. I had my budget, I had access to the candidate and I had an assistant to hire.

That evening I asked Lydia to come to my office. She was radiant in a black-and-green Markus 2028 tee shirt and a pair of faded blue jeans.

“Lydia,” I began, “I wanted to catch up with you and let you know a little more about myself.”

“I know who you are,” she said.

“Fair enough,” I replied, “and I know who you are.”

“No, I mean I know what you’ve done, what you’ve done in your career, that is.”

“I confess you’re ahead of me then. I know so little about you,” although I knew enough. Lydia’s principle benefit to the campaign was her work ethic. She worked with unflagging energy, going strong well into the night.

“I asked you in here,” I told her, “to apologize for the other day. I’m certain you know now that I am not only good at what I do. I’m also, it seems, a sexist and a terrible egomaniac.”

“That you are,” she replied, “a sexist and an egomaniac for sure. But evidently you do know what you’re doing. People like the new materials and our web activity is stronger than any of the major party candidates’. The donations are amazing. So yeah, you’re good at what you do. You know more than I do. I just wish you would include me going forward.”

“I most assuredly will, Lydia. You have my word.”

“How much is your word worth?” she inquired.

“I guess it’s worth precisely as much as you determine. But it’s something I can give.”

“Then I’ll take it.”

“I’m happy to hear that.”

“Don’t be too happy about it,” she jabbed. “Your word is all I can get, isn’t it? I’d prefer something I trust.”

“Would you trust me if I asked you to join me as the campaign’s Communications Specialist? That’s something else I can give. I can also give you a salary of ten thousand a month. Perhaps you would trust that.”

“I might. What authority would I have?” she asked.

“You would answer only to me in matters of online content, format and timing, you would help oversee an expense budget and you would advise me in all matters related to our online campaign.”

“And you would share your knowledge and include me in your process?”

“That I will do happily,” I avowed.

“Then I would be a fool not to accept your offer. I’m proud to be working with you.”

She shook hands firmly, her eyes beautifully defiant.

Lydia worked through the night and was still in the office the next morning. If she was to be the lesser of the two of us, it would not be through lack of effort. What a fighter indeed.