Democracy
There were times when Tucker hated the idea of democracy. To be honest, he’d always loved the idea of people having the freedom to choose their own government. But the sheer aggravation of the past seven years was starting to wear him down.
Fifteen years ago the king of Pretaria decided he wanted his subjects to choose his successor. The king had no child to take the throne, and there were no living relatives to claim it. The only way to avoid a violent civil war, he’d reasoned, was to allow the people to choose their own leader.
Which was all well and good, Tucker reflected, but he wished the king had taken care of the elections before he’d died. Instead the king had spent the last five years of his life setting up the rules for choosing his successor. And he hadn’t had time to iron out all the kinks.
There were roughly one million people in Pretaria. The rules stated that every citizen above a certain age was required to vote. In order to allow a wide base for the people to choose from, the king had designated the first vote to be a write-in ballot.
There had been over 100,000 candidates submitted during that first ballot. It had taken almost a year just to collect all the ballots, and most of another to interpret and count all the votes. Many Pretarians had illegible handwriting.
Subsequent elections narrowed the field, as the Electoral Committee—and Interim Government—created rules to eliminate the least likely contenders. After three years, the Committee realized they needed help, and sent a request for experts to help them. Tucker had not volunteered. But here he was anyway.
By the 17th ballot, they’d narrowed it down to 217 candidates, with Tucker’s help. The 18th ballot had 309. Tucker had locked himself in his room and cried. He wasn’t ashamed to admit it.
He’d lost count of how many candidates they’d eliminated over the years. He’d nearly lost count of how many ballots they’d created. Tucker was tired. He wanted to go home. He missed his own country, where the laws were already in place, and the daily business of government wouldn’t give him a headache.
A knock on his door drew him from his wishful thinking. He opened the door to find Catherine waiting.
“Reginald,” she said by way of greeting. “You’re still up. Good.”
Catherine shouldered past him, an electronic clipboard in her hands.
“Come on in,” he muttered dryly. “And why don’t you call me Tucker?”
She blinked at him. “Your name is Reginald. I don’t understand why anyone would call you anything else.”
Tucker rubbed his temple as he closed the door behind her. He felt another headache coming on. Not that his last headache had ever really faded.
“It’s a nickname, Catherine,” he explained, yet again. “It would be like someone calling you Cathy or Kate.”
“No one calls me either of those,” she pointed out, with a strange sort of logic, “Because neither of them is my name. But Tucker isn’t even close to Reginald, so I don’t understand why you would answer to it.”
“It’s a long story.”
“We don’t have time for stories now. The latest election results are in,” she said, passing him the E-board.
“Great.” He tried to summon up enthusiasm, and failed. “How many are we up to now?”
“Thirty-four,” she answered absently. “We’ve got it narrowed down to 52 candidates this time.”
Tucker groaned, scrolling through the list. “52? I thought it was 51 last time. We have to stop letting people submit candidates who aren’t on the ballot. Who is it this time? That hunter from up north again?”
Catherine’s lips twitched. She shook her head, eyes gleaming with humor.
“Not that crazy farmer who swears aliens keep abducting his livestock? What’s his name again?”
“Marvin Haskell,” Catherine answered immediately. “But he was listed on the ballot remember? He got enough votes last time.”
Tucker tossed the E-board on his small kitchen table. “Then who is lucky number 52?”
Catherine covered her laugh with a cough, and took up the E-board, and pulled up the final name on the list. “Here,” she said, handing it back to him.
He stared down at it in shock. “You have got to be kidding me. This isn’t possible. It’s not even legal.”
“Actually, it is. There’s no law stating that the president has to be a Pretarian citizen.”
“It’s ridiculous. It’s preposterous! It’s . . . It’s . . . butt stupid!” he burst out as he paced his small apartment.
“Well, you didn’t get quite as many votes as Mr. Haskell,” Catherine managed. “But you did get a respectable number.”
“Who in their right mind would vote for me?” he asked, nearly tearing the hair from his scalp.
Catherine sobered at his tone. “Pretaria could do much worse, Reginald. You have all the skills anyone could ask for in a President.”
“But I don’t want to be president!” He was actually shouting now. “I can’t handle this insanity any more. I want to go home, Catherine. I want to go home.”
Catherine stepped closer, dared to lay a comforting hand on his shoulder. “There is no reason to worry,” she said soothingly. “We’ll eliminate your name from the next ballot. We’ll be able to narrow it down more than ever. We’re almost done, Reginald. Won’t you please see it through? For Pretaria? For me?”
He looked up at that. “For you?” he repeated.
Catherine gave him a wobbly smile. “You have become my good friend, Reginald. I will miss you when the elections are finished.”
He smiled back at her. “We are friends,” he agreed, “though I suspect you had something to do with lucky number 52.”
She giggled at that.
“Perhaps when this is over, you can come home with me. I’d like to show you how a sane government operates.”
She nodded. “That would be useful for my people. Does that mean you’re staying?”
Tucker—Reginald—let out a resigned sigh. “I’ll stay.”
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