"You will be," she assured him. Moreover, she was surprised to discover, she believed it was true. And that's important, not least because I'm not going to have time to hold your hand once I get back and have to deal with that idiot, Battaglia.
Chapter Thirteen
Democracy, it has been said, can only exist until the voting populace discovers it can vote itself largesse from the public coffers. Though it is less often said; it also happens that the voting populace discovers—indeed it is educated to the notion—that it has the power to radically expand the size of those coffers, seemingly the better to vote themselves largesse.
How quickly this happens depends on many factors. A relatively classless society is relatively immune, for so long as it remains relatively classless. There are several reasons for this. Large among these reasons is that, without great disparities in wealth being shoved into people's faces, they feel little envy. Less emotionally, without some apparent concentration of wealth to be tapped, people will tend to see government redistribution schemes as little more than an exercise in taking money from their pockets, peeling off a large percentage for government overhead and then returning that much reduced sum back to their own, now sadly emptier, pockets.
Never mind that even in societies with great inequalities in wealth it works much the same, as the poor use the government to take from the rich, and the rich use the fact of ownership over property, and the ability to set prices (which price setting is driven by the common tax, acting in lieu of a conspiracy), to take it right back from the poor. People tend to want to believe the illusion that this does not happen or, at least, need not, even though their own lot never improves, long-term, under such a regime. Thus they demand that the government take ever more from the rich, which causes the rich to take ever more from the poor, with only the government itself gaining any advantage whatsoever, as it takes an increasing cut of an increasing share.
This continues, at least, until the taxation gets to the point that it begins to hurt the economy. After that, government takes an increasing share of a decreasing pot.
—Jorge y Marqueli Mendoza,
Historia y Filosofia Moral,
Legionary Press, Balboa,
Terra Nova, Copyright AC 468
Anno Condita 471 Presidential Palace, Old Balboa, Republic of Balboa, Terra Nova
The government which had been electorally defeated by Raul Parilla, running with the support of the Legion, the same government which had been kept alive by the Tauran Union and the Federated States, didn't control much of the country. It owned some of the police. It had most of the old city, which was but a fraction of the new, and not the largest fraction at that. It had some government buildings, the national cathedral, a museum, a few monuments, an opera house, and some very nice urban residential areas along with some wretched ones. Also it had the Presidential Palace, a sort of Venetian palazzo, complete with courtyard, and even some trixies. Wire mesh over the courtyard kept the trixies in and the antaniae out. Neither species was very happy about that.
"I want him dead! I want the ijo de puta dead!" The patriarch of the Rocaberti family fairly shrieked at his son in law, Belisario Endara-Rocaberti. Belisario had been named for the republic's greatest hero, Belisario Carrera, multi-great grandfather-in-law of Patricio Carrera. No one, least of all Belisario himself, thought he quite deserved the name. Frankly, at five feet, six and with a girth of two thirds of that, he just didn't look the part. Nor was he, as he'd have cheerfully told anyone, the stuff of which heroes were made. Sometimes women found that honesty charming. Other times, for some women, his not inconsiderable wealth and prominent family name were more attractive.
Still, he had his virtues. Realism was one of them. Young Endara-Rocaberti walked to his uncle's second floor office window and drew the curtains.
"Do you remember whose statue is out there, uncle," he asked.
The pseudo-president scowled, his jowls trembling with rage. "Of course I know. Your namesake. The peasant bastard."
"Not just my namesake," Endara-Rocaberti corrected. "My mother and father just gave me the first name. That's not too uncommon, really. But your great enemy, your dangerous enemy, has the last name."
"He's no blood of the original."
"No, he's not," the nephew agreed, shaking his head. "He's worse for us. He gave up his own country and citizenship. He adopted the name of the clan he married into, the real Carrera clan. He became one of the people and as one of the people he's defended the people.
"Uncle, he's popular, he's dangerously popular."
"Fine. Now tell me something I don't know," the rump president said, bitterly.
Belisario Endara-Rocaberti remained silent.
Forcing himself back to a degree of calm, the eldest of the family continued, "Two days ago Donati at the Aduana disappears. This morning several hundred kilos of uncut, prime huánuco was seized. Uncut, I tell you! And it's all the doing of that motherfucker Parilla and his dog with the pilfered name, Carrera. Whatever it takes, however you have to do it, make those two disappear. And soon.
"On the plus side, at least Donati didn't tell them anything of the major stash in the city."
Belisario chewed on his lower lip for some moments before answering. "I have a warning, Uncle. I can find the men to do this. Our friends in Santander will probably be willing to help. Or perhaps the Taurans. But such a thing would not be without risk. How do you suppose they got Donati to talk so quickly? How do you suppose they got to Donati so quickly? Parilla and Carrera, especially Carrera, are men of complete ruthlessness. If we try and fail the penalty will be great. I think you should wait until Pigna is ready and in position."
"No. Just get rid of them and let me worry about the risks."
"I shall try, Uncle. On your head be it." Except it won't. It will be on all our heads.
Unscheduled Legion flight from Herrera Airport to Santa Catalina Island, Balboa, Terra Nova
While the ex-President had gotten some of the police, Parilla had most of them, most of the country, and the prison system. The police had come with all their virtues and vices intact.
The small cargo aircraft that served, among other things, to transfer serious criminals from the mainland to Balboa's shark-encircled prison colony on Santa Catalina Island turned slightly southward. The passengers leaned against the movement.
"Over water now, Tribune," the pilot of the aircraft said.
"We'll wait a few minutes, then, Sergeant," the police tribune answered. In pre-Parilla days he'd have been a senior lieutenant. Now the police had adopted the same rank structure as the Legion.
After that short time had passed, the tribune jerked open the passenger door, stuck his head out, and looked below. A rush of sound and air entered the aircraft, causing the prisoners, including ex-customs supervisor Donati, to shiver with more than cold. Looking back the tribune saw that already the land was several miles behind.
Pulling his head and shoulders back into the airplane he turned his gaze to the regular passengers—all of them convicted of serious crimes; the brutal prison colony on Santa Catalina was not for mere pickpockets—and nodded with satisfaction. The prisoners, fourteen of them, were bound, hand and foot. Their eyes were either shut tight, or opened wide in pleading terror. The tribune took another look outside. He made a gesture with his thumb.