Advance Australia

In a small room in The Lodge, Canberra, Stanley Bruce, Prime Minister of Australia, leader of the National Front, the 1st Viscount Melbourne and generally regarded as an officious, smug, pompous git by all who knew him, lay dying. The year was 1967.

Around his bed crowded his senior ministers. In the 19 years since the Liberation (as it was euphemistically known), he had steadfastly crushed all those who might consider themselves possible successors to himself. Luckily, the outlawing of both major political parties at the time had cropped an entire generation worth of political talent, leaving Bruce with a staff of yes-men and honest toilers. They stared at him with undisguised greed; McMahon, Fairbairn, Fairhall, even Snedden, who must have known he wasn't in with a chance. Only Hasluck was absent; as a man who considered himself above greedy political games, he expected to be made successor on the basis of talent, rather than sycophancy. Of course, the notion that he thought talent played any role in political advancement these days instantly proved his intelligence wasn't all he thought it was.

Hasluck came in through the door, pointedly ignoring the other ministers and going straight to Bruce's side. 'My lord (Bruce insisted on being referred to by his title), King Edward and Lord Mosley have sent their deepest sympathies for your current situation, and hope you recover soon,' he said.
Bruce raised his head to look at him. 'Oh, shut up, Hasluck. You know I'm not going to recover soon. Or ever.' His head flopped back. 'Another great life extinguished before its time...'
Bruce was now 84, and had been in power for nearly a generation; the unspoken thought by those around the bed was that Bruce's life would better have been extinguished 20-odd years ago. Obviously, no one said it.
McMahon came closer to Bruce. 'My lord,' he simpered (McMahon simpered even when he was trying to be threatening; it was a result of both his accent and his general obnoxiousness), 'We maintain full hope that you will return to the leadership of this country soon. However...in the event of a catastrophe...'
Bruce chuckled slightly, before breaking into a coughing fit. 'So you want me to name a successor, is that it?' he finally replied.
McMahon edged still closer, giving Bruce a closer look at McMahon's face than anyone could possibly ever want. 'Well...my lord, it may prove somewhat prescient. Not that you will die, of course.'

This just provoked more laughing from Bruce. Finally, he looked straight up into McMahon's eyes. 'I rebuilt this nation, Mr McMahon,' Bruce said. 'I ended the factional wars. I broke the power of the unions. I ended radicalism and sent socialism back to the dustbin of history in this country. I will leave my successor peace, stability, and a total parliamentary majority.' Of course, this was because only National Front candidates were allowed to run in elections, but this was ignored. 'Do you really think, Mr McMahon, that I would leave this nation to a sycophantic, talentless, high-pitched, irritating man like you?' He looked around the bed. 'Look at you. Hasluck, you're an arrogant git. Fairbairn, you've got all the muscle of a rubber band. Fairhall, you've got all the substance of a cloud. And Snedden...well, Snedden, you're just a joke.'

The ministers recovered rather quickly; Bruce liked to insult his ministers frequently, to keep their wits up. Snedden finally broke the silence.

'Well...Mr Prime Minister...seeing as we're all so, as you put it so elegantly, talentless, who'll become Prime Minister?'
Bruce stared at him.
'Well, to be honest, Mr Snedden', he croaked. 'I rather thought I'd be taking it all with me.'

Then, finally, he died.

The ministers sat around his bed for a few more seconds. Then McMahon looked up.

'What a senile old buffoon', he snarled.

***

Terry Newborn was 14 when he decided that one day he wanted to be Prime Minister.

He was the sort of boy that tends to get called 'introverted'; he loved reading, writing, composing small speeches that never get said. He had no friends, and generally only became popular at test time when people desperately needed someone to help them revise. Despite his high marks, he was disliked by his teachers. The general impression was that he was too zealous with his studies; he paid attention to all the codswallop about Liberation too carefully, and may even have been one of the few people to believe it.

On 2 September 1967, after the customary Pledge to King and Country, his teacher flicked on the radio (television having been banned as a public nuisance) to hear the commentary on Lord Bruce's funeral. The announcers said that everyone had turned up; the Cabinet, Prime Minister Lord Mosley of the Kingdom of England, King Edward VIII himself, and even a few minor German dignitaries, to represent Australia’s 'great and powerful friend'. The American ambassador was conspicuously absent; as far as they were concerned, Nazi toadies were still Nazis.

The eulogies were effusive; they spoke of Bruce's fight against the factionalism and division of pre-Liberation politics, his triumphant return to Australia after the British Armistice, his reforms to the constitution, and finally his creation of a new, more stable democracy. On and on they droned; about Bruce's humility, his love for all men, his compassion, his wit. Even his appearance was given a glowing ten-minute review by McMahon, who sounded even sillier over the radio.

Most of the class slumped down in their desks, but Terry was obsessed. How could one man be loved so much? How could one man have done so much, so that history would remember him forever?

Terry had one chief flaw, amongst his myriad other flaws of snobbishness, pretentiousness, and naivety: he wanted people to respect and love him as much as he did. To see a man given the sort of recognition he could only dream of lit a fire in his soul.

After the funeral finally ended after several hours, they went to a history lesson that was as flawed as it was boring. For one of the few times in his life, Terry wasn't listening. He was planning.

One day, he determined, he would become Prime Minister. And he would do so much and become so beloved by the world that his funeral would make Stanley Bruce's look like a body dumped into a sewer by comparison. He would be loved.

***

Even though he was only Acting Prime Minister until the National Front elected a successor, William McMahon had wasted no time in moving into the Lodge. He saw being appointed as Prime Minister to be his birthright, and damn the consequences. Just to be safe, he'd had security guards posted around all the exits, and snipers placed on the roof; you could never be too sure. After all, hadn’t Ben Chifley lost his job once Stanley Bruce stormed the Lodge at the head of the New Guard?

McMahon was meeting with John Gorton, head of the New Guard (a sort of poor man's SS). Gorton was notorious for his excesses; he liked wine, women and song, preferably all at once. During the Great Patriotic War against the Soviet Union which had finally banished socialism from the earth, he had been involved in two plane crashes in a very short time, and had required extensive cosmetic surgery. The rumpled look this gave to his face served as a living reminder of his war credentials.

(Of course, there were some who doubted how much surgery had actually been done; upon meeting Gorton's daughter, a minor functionary commented that he didn't know plane crashes were hereditary. Needless to say, he was never seen again)

McMahon despised Gorton as a philandering lush, and Gorton despised McMahon for being the sort of man who thought he had the right to despise anyone. And yet, for the purposes of getting their hands on the golden prize of the Prime Ministership, here they were. Gorton had no ambitions to become Prime Minister himself; even if Parliament were effectively chosen by the National Front, you still had to be a Member of Parliament to become Prime Minister, and Gorton was not. Of course, Stanley Bruce merely had himself appointed and then went two years without elections, but those were different days; you could shoot anyone who looked at you sideways. How things had changed.

'You know,' Gorton said, pouring himself another brandy, 'the old bugger's only been dead for what? Two weeks? And already things have gotten slack. You know, the SMH published an editorial calling for multicandidate elections yesterday. Multicandidate elections! I mean, even if we did choose them all, it's practically anarchy, for gods’ sakes. What do we do if the wrong candidate wins?'
'Shoot him, I suppose,' McMahon said dismissively. Gorton was always talking about 'lax standards'; the fact his own standards were so lax as to be non-existent never worried him.
'Can't do that, you know, these days. People get suspicious. Nuisance, is what it is. So, Billy, you got what it takes to be PM?' Gorton was grinning; he knew how much McMahon resented even the implication that he wasn't born for the job.
McMahon looked at him acidly. 'I think I have more than enough qualifications, yes.'
Gorton smiled even wider. 'Really? It's a big job, you know. You have to head up the Cabinet, lead the Parliament; hell, you run the whole country, and get to shoot people who say you don't! I'm just wondering if you really know what that entails.'
'I know what it entails, Gorton. I will possess supreme power over the executive, the legislature, the judiciary. There will be posters of me on walls and in every room. Before meals and before school, children shall swear oaths to me. Now tell me, Gorton; do you really want a nation thanking Fairhall for their continued prosperity? Or Hasluck? Or Fairbairn? Or Snedden, for gods’ sakes?'
Gorton smiled slightly. 'You could do worse than Snedden. You, for example.'
'That's silly. We both know I'm the best man for the job. All I need is your support.'
Gorton laughed. 'You? You want my support?'
'Oh, be quiet, Gorton,' snapped McMahon. 'I will become Prime Minister whether you like it or not, but the support of the New Guard would make my job a good deal more pleasant.'
'And why should I do anything to make your job more pleasant?' snarled Gorton. 'You're a loser, McMahon, and you'll always be a loser; becoming dictator won't change what you are.'

McMahon looked momentarily taken aback. Then he leaned forward.

'I could get you anything you wanted, you know. Money. Women. Cars. I could even give you a state premiership; would you like that?'
'Oh, piss off, McMahon. John Grey Gorton's not for sale.'
'Is he at least for rent?'

After Gorton had left, McMahon threw a plate against the wall. Why did people always have to make things difficult? They had solved the Aboriginal Problem; now McMahon dearly wished he could solve the Gorton Problem in the same way.

***

After school, Terry went to his local meeting of the Bruce Youth. It wasn't strictly compulsory; you just got punished if you didn't go. They sang patriotic songs, went on marches around the neighborhood, and reported activities that 'might endanger the safety of the Commonwealth of Australia'. Terry was already deputy leader of his troupe, and despite his unpopularity was widely expected to become leader.

Today, the local MP, Henry Turner, had shown up to talk to the Youth. They had been trained from birth to salute members of the National Front; admittedly, Turner was only a backbencher, but he garnered the same respect anyway. Actual ministers, though, received treatment akin to saints.

He smiled as he walked in, and saluted the youth. He looked right at Newborn, who felt his heart skip a beat.

'Good morning, loyal patriots. I'm Henry Turner, local MP for the Division of Bradfield, and I've been called here to give you a talk on patriotism. Can anyone tell me what patriotism is?' Terry's hand shot up. 'You there. What's your name?'
'Terry Newborn, sir.'
'Good name. Strong name. Tell me, boy, what's patriotism?'
'It denotes positive attitudes towards one's country by individuals and groups, sir!'
'Good definition. Practically the dictionary definition. Now, who heard Lord Bruce's funeral proceedings today?'
Everyone's hand shot up. It had been government mandated, after all.
'Good, good. Now, Lord Bruce was a patriot; he loved his country and tried to do right by it. Who can name an example of Lord Bruce's devotion to us all?' Newborn's hand shot up again; Turner ignored him, and turned to another boy. 'Yes, you!'
'The Liberation, sir!'
'Ah, yes. The Liberation. The ultimate triumph of democracy and stability against socialism and anarchism. Now, who wants to explain the Liberation to us?' Newborn's hand went up a third time; Turner decided there was no point in delaying the inevitable. 'Yes, you, Mr Newborn.'
‘The socialist traitor Chifley, sir, wanted to establish tyranny over the nation, sir, by opening us up to the international communist conspiracy, sir. Luckily, Lord Bruce managed to lead a people’s revolution against him, sir, and restored democracy. Sir.’

'Yes, yes, very good. Tell me, did anyone oppose Bruce?'
Terry was shocked. You couldn't oppose Bruce; it'd be like hating baby ducklings, or raging against storms. 'N...no, sir.'
'Well, that's where you're wrong. I'm sorry to have to tell you this, children, but you can only learn how truly great Stanley Bruce was and how thankful we are that he led our nation for so long by understanding that at the time, some people dared to oppose him. You see, in those days, socialism was legal; many people, even good and intelligent people, hated Australia so much that they wished to implement a socialist tyranny. At the time of the Liberation, there were some people who disagreed with Bruce, and the necessity of his work. Some people even tried to fight against us, to destroy our democracy.

‘But, with the help of our good and wonderful friends the German Reich, democracy triumphed. Lord Bruce took on emergency powers to destroy the socialist menace, and in doing so saved our nation. And then, once his work was completed, he returned his powers to the parliament and the people, so we may be a democracy once more.' A tear ran down Turner's cheek. 'May God commend his soul to Heaven.'

***

In fact, it had been a good deal more complicated than that. Once Britain had capitulated, the Menzies government had fallen; the new Curtin government had wasted no time in attaching their apron strings to the United States, and in doing so managed to keep Australia reasonably democratic. Menzies, with tears in his eyes, had ‘gone to bleed a while’; his shattered party, the United Australia Party, had promptly dumped him as leader. Into his place came Stanley Bruce, formerly Australian High Commissioner in Britain; the fact that he had fled the country ingloriously seldom got mentioned in history books. Then, of course, Japan attacked Pearl Harbour, and things got a lot more complicated.

After Curtin’s death in 1945, worn out from the responsibilities of the war, Ben Chifley, a former railway driver, came to power. Stanley Bruce managed to rebuild the United Australia Party, combined with the Country Party, into a new United National Party; the fact this party’s rhetoric was a good deal right of the soup spoon at first attracted a great deal of mirth for the Labor Party, and encouraged a thumping defeat in 1946. It seemed like the Labor Party would be the governing party of Australia for the foreseeable future. In the streets, though, the New Guard marched again. Previously broken after the dismissal of the Lang government, a tide of imperial sentiment had revived their scattered numbers. They attracted the British loyalists, the racists, the reactionaries, but most of all, they were an army of the afraid. Society was torn between British loyalty and between Australian nationalism. Paramilitaries clashed in the streets. Blood was spilled.

Then Chifley, in a move both idealistic and hopelessly impractical, decided to nationalize the banks. At a time when Germany and the Soviet Union were engaged in a fight to the death, this alarmed many in the higher echelons in the Nazi Party; the one thing worse than Australia as an American satellite state was Australia as a Russian satellite. An instant trade embargo was introduced; as the Axis by this stage controlled most of Europe and Africa, this was disastrous for the Australian economy. Bruce, seizing his moment, declared an uprising against the unconstitutional Chifley government. Of course, no one listened, since even they thought he was a talentless git, but a New Guard uprising in Sydney, overthrowing the Labor government of William McKell, attracted a good deal more attention. The resulting war was nasty, brutal, and short. Chifley was executed, the Labor Party was outlawed, and Bruce assumed emergency powers ‘for the duration of the crisis.’ A new National Front party was formed, as the political wing of the New Guard. Bruce became the figurehead of a regime born of blood and warfare.

Why, then, did people accept this? Mostly because they were afraid. The old certainties were gone; Britain kowtowed to the Nazis; the economy collapsed; private armies fought in the streets of Sydney; and socialism seemed on a long march through Australian institutions. The past had disappeared, and the future was bleak and unknown. In this climate of fear and uncertainty, people clung to the known. They turned against democracy and capitalism; they had reduced Australia to poverty, while overseas fascism thrived. The shattered Australian society was reunited under the jackboot. Outsiders were belittled, neighborhoods become more insular. Slowly, the 'subversives' were weeded out. It happened gradually, invisibly; miners who complained about low pay disappeared, businessmen with left-wing sympathies found themselves ruined. Australia grew more and more white as members of 'minorities' disappeared. People came to accept the regime; sure, it was nice to whinge about the government in the old days, but you've got to pay a price for having a government that works. A generation scarred by the Depression embraced Bruce; after all, it wasn't like they had a choice. Australia became relaxed and comfortable.

Once the Great Patriotic War was over and the Soviet Union had been reduced to ashes, Bruce decided it was safe enough to call new elections. Of course, only National Front candidates were allowed to run; each electorate was issued with ballot papers marked with only one name each. But wasn't it nice to be a democracy?

By the time Terry Newborn grew old enough to understand the way the world worked, the past was a distant memory. The 'two party system' was mocked and belittled; there was a picture of the King and Bruce in every classroom. Fascism found its way into people's hearts and minds.

***

McMahon's next stop on his 'campaign tour' was to the German Ambassador in Canberra. During the 1950s, Bruce had dedicated himself to making Canberra 'fit for the capital of this great nation'; the buildings now resembled provincial copies of Speer's works, except distinctly more unimpressive. The German Ambassador lived in a building that looked like the horrible child of a cement-works and a medieval castle.

Australia's legal position with regards to Germany was complicated, and based largely on convention. The Nazi Party had more or less sponsored the coup through an inspired policy of economic warfare. In this regard, Australia found itself following German policies more or less slavishly, which gave the German Ambassador profound influence in the government. It was well-known he could make or break ministers; it was rumoured he could have them killed.

Friedrich Krausnick, the German Ambassador to Australia, was a small, prematurely balding man, with a high voice and a nervous laugh. To those who did not know him, he seemed profoundly sinister; to those who did, he seemed not just sinister, but evil. It was said that he, more than any senior minister, had devised the Aboriginal Solution; Bruce, not normally a man who acknowledged the superiority of anyone except himself, had been cowed into agreement. As Acting Prime Minister and Treasurer, McMahon was temporarily a very powerful man. Even so, he felt a strong urge to bow to the ambassador when they met.

During their brief visit, they discussed almost exclusively the growing Brazilian War, in which paramilitaries funded by America and Germany were made to beat each other to death. Troops from both sides were extensively involved as 'advisers'; Bruce had sent troops even before war had broken out. McMahon expressed his utmost confidence in the war, but expressed concern that the other leadership contenders didn't share the same respect for the 'deep and special' relationship with Germany. It was sheer codswallop, and much the same thing had been said by each of the other contenders; but, after all, one had to respect tradition. McMahon left the embassy fully confident that he would become the next Prime Minister of Australia.

***

Terry Newborn lived in Lindfield, an exclusive suburb in northern Sydney. It was the quintessential North Shore; in fact, many areas defined as the North Shore were more eastern than northern, but the whole definition was more social than geographical. The North Shore had style. It had class. They had taken to Bruce like ducks to water; they were the sort who generally referred to 'standards' and 'values', and more specifically the lack of them. They were the ones who, more or less, ran the country.

In Lindfield, every building had a National Front poster stuck to it, and often more than one. Fashion had become permanently frozen in the 1940s, and seemed determined to stay that way. The aggressive conservatism of the government had created a situation where the fashions and technologies of the past were held up as the apotheosis of human endeavour; Volkswagens from 30 years ago were still common on the streets. There was one important different, though; American influence was almost entirely absent. Owning a Ford was seen as an invitation for a visit by the New Guard.

Most afternoons, Newborn went running; this was obviously unsuited to his build, which was more suited to writing in dark offices, but, after all, the youth of Australia must be kept 'healthy and strong'. All food products carried the government-mandated motto, so it must have been right. Generally, he ran alone; boys were generally keen to demonstrate their athletic skills from a young age, which they did by beating up Newborn on a regular basis.

Today, though, an older man came jogging besides him. Newborn sped up; they had been solemnly informed about the dangers of 'sodomites', who were said to frequent every street corner, despite the government's attempts to eliminate them. The man, obviously seeing how he was interpreted, slowed down.

'Are you Terry Newborn?' he asked.
Terry slowed down. 'No', he responded; you couldn't tell the truth to sodomites, after all, since they'd just use it to corrupt you.
'Oh, come on, kid, I know you're Terry Newborn. My name's Field. Pat Field. Harry Turner told me about you.'
Terry stopped. No MP would ever talk to a Sodomite, or indeed anyone of low caliber; this man must be respectable.
Field walked closer. 'He said you were bright as a tack, and you knew things with greater clarity than even he did. That's why he went round to your meeting, you know; to search for promising young lads like you, to join the National Front. I'm a party recruiter.'
Terry couldn't believe his ears. 'The National Front? You want me to join the National Front?'
'Sure thing, mate. We went round to your home, but they said you were out here, and so here we are. How about it, Terry?'
Terry was still stunned. 'Sure. Sure! Please!'
Field laughed. 'OK, kid. Next meeting's Monday. See you there.'

Field jogged off. Terry slumped down onto a bench.

Theoretically, anyone could join the National Front, but to be asked...they would have gone through his marks, his school record, even asked people who knew him (not his friends, since that was a contradiction in terms). And 14 was amazingly young; just one year above the age limit.

His political career was getting off to a bright start.

***

In Canberra, Parliament assembled. The Old Parliament House, which had only ever been meant as a temporary structure, had been demolished following the Liberation; the new building was a rather arrestingly horrible edifice atop Capitol Hill. It was grand, it was imposing, and it was designed with one purpose in mind: to reinforce a sense of inferiority in anyone who entered. The fact there was a twenty-foot high statue of Stanley Bruce in the main lobby didn't hurt much, either.

The 120 parliamentarians were of a lower quality than a previous age; since they were elected by the branch members of the National Front, they came from a much shallower talent pool than in previous generations. In merging together both the Labor and United Australia parties, the National Front had inherited the Labor Party's rampant factionalism and the United Australia Party's talent for taking talentless aristocratic boors to high office, without inheriting anything of merit.

The leadership contenders sat on the front bench of the House of Representatives. There was a Senate, technically, but since the states largely existed as just pieces of paper it was safe to ignore. The contenders had all worn the same suits as Bruce, and even his trademark spats. They studiously avoided looking at each other.

The press gallery was packed with compliant reporters, who were the only sort around these days. John Gorton watched the whole scene with a grin on his face.

The session began with a series of tributes to Bruce, which began over-the-top and got steadily more ridiculous from there. There were a few teary eyes in the audience, especially amongst those bidding for the leadership; sycophancy never hurt, even to a dead man. After what seemed like an eternity, the Parliament was finally called to elect a new Prime Minister. The main leadership contenders all gave speeches that were effectively the same; they stressed their own loyalty, hard work, proven record, patriotism, steadfastness, and faith, while blasting their opponents as treacherous, lazy, incompetent, spying, indecisive atheists. In practice, the factional deals had already been done beforehand. Although the National Front was in theory one party, it was in fact made up of myriad factional alliances, each of which shared only a lust for power. At least before the Liberation the parties had been able to put together a vague agreement of principles (unions good, business bad, or vice versa); the National Front stood for keeping power, kicking people who disagreed with it, and not much more.

Finally, the vote was taken. Although technically this was meant to be the Governor-General’s job, the National Front saw fit that such an important process not be left to an impartial observer. The contenders all leaned forward. The vote, the only non-unanimous vote held by Parliament in the last 25 years, gave a slim plurality to Hasluck, with McMahon in second place. His face beetroot-red, McMahon demanded a second round of voting; upstairs, Gorton shook his head. Curiously, this led to an almost unanimous vote against a second round. The Governor-General, a rather dim British lord who was appointed chiefly because Edward VIII wanted him out of the country, swore in Hasluck as the next Prime Minister of Australia.

McMahon left the hall, furious; upon seeing Gorton, he let loose a stream of most unparliamentary language. Under any other circumstances, Gorton could have had him killed in a most excruciating way; unfortunately, killing cabinet ministers was a good deal more difficult. The democratic process had worked. The fact that there was only one party involved, or that Gorton had spent much of his time threatening anyone who even looked close to voting for McMahon with all the fun the New Guard could think up, didn't invalidate it in the slightest.

***

Hasluck sat down in his chair behind his new desk, and marveled. There were memos of all sorts there, pertaining to every matter in the country; should he so wish, he could bring down any state government, pass any law, and have any man in the country killed on a whim. It was intoxicating.

Gorton, leaning against a wall in a corner (Gorton liked to skulk; he felt his profession demanded it), broke into a wide grin. 'You like it, huh?'
Hasluck was grinning equally. 'It's just so...so...'
Gorton swaggered forward. He was a natural swaggerer. 'You know, old Brucey was the same. You know what happened to him in '29, right?'
'He lost the election.'
'More than that. He lost his seat. Imagine, a sitting PM losing their seat! Damn near drove him round the bend, they say. Anyway, upon taking power again, he used to say that every time he sat behind that desk he thought about how lucky he was to get a second chance, and this time he'd make sure it was permanent.'
Hasluck scoffed. 'Yeah, that's because every other political figure in the country got disappeared. An entire generation's worth of political talent, vanished! That certainly clears you up for career opportunities.'
Gorton leaned over the desk. The smile had turned nasty now. 'Well, how do you think that happened, Paul? Magic fairies spirited them away?'
'Well, obviously he had them...'
'Disappeared? Damn right. And that was the thing that kept him in power. Anyone who got close-even looked like getting close-Brucey had him shot. No arrest, no trial, just the old air duct between the eyes. Hell, the only one who survived was you guys, cause you're all patsies, and me, because most of the New Guard would follow me, not him, if push came to shove. You know I could have you shot if I wanted to? You want to reflect on that?'. Gorton was grinning, but it wasn't a nice grin; it was possessed of more than a touch of pleasure at the prospect. It was the smile of a nice man, touched by more than a hint of pure sociopathy. John Gorton had come a long way from Jolly John.
Hasluck was becoming increasingly unnerved. 'Why are you telling me this?' he queried. 'You already know your job's secure.'

Gorton got up for a walk around the office. 'Yeah, course I do. But is yours?'
'Well, Parliament voted me a full-'
Gorton burst out laughing. 'Yeah, and Parliament explicitly condemned Bruce too; didn't stop him breaking up the place and writing in history books that they'd given him a commendation. Parliament means nothing, Pauly. May I call you Pauly?'
'Absolutely not.'
'Yeah, what are you going to do about it, history boy? Anyway, Pauly, you've got a real problem with McMahon. I had to pull a lot of hamstrings to get you elected, you know. He's just going to get madder and madder, then when you show a moment of weakness BAM! You just become another sap in a labour camp, like Eddy Whitlam.'
'Who's Eddy Whitlam?'
'Exactly. This is your honeymoon period. You've got a Parliament who can't object, a cabinet made up of your own personal sycophants, and complete control of the New Guard...if I so wish you to, anyway. Hell, you can even make it look like a major reform; getting rid of traitors, bringing in loyal patriots. Put a few copies of Das Kapital in his house or something. You going to act or what?'
Hasluck looked up at Gorton. 'Do what needs to be done to ensure the safety of this nation.'
Gorton grinned. 'Hey, you mean you, right?'
'L'Etat, c'est moi. The state is me.'
'So what does that make me?'
'A rather inconvenient but necessary anatomical part of the state. Go do your work.'
Gorton walked around behind Hasluck's desk, and slapped him on the back. 'Will do, Pauly.'

***

McMahon lived in the exclusive Canberra suburb of Yarralumla; of course, due to his rather odd speech impediment, he pronounced it Yaddadumda. This was one of the major reasons he hadn't been elected Prime Minister; after all, no one wanted a supreme dictator who made the word 'militarily' indecipherable.

McMahon entered his house, ready to vent his rage on the nearest target. He threw down his hat, and tossed his jacket onto a couch. He was thus rather surprised when the jacket was caught.

Before he could act, he was hit over the back of the neck. He rolled, awkwardly; blinding pain filled his thoughts and his head.

''allo, Billy.'

Gorton's words seemed to echo from far away. McMahon managed to open his eyes and stare groggily up at Gorton. He managed to get a grip on his tongue; even when it felt like his vertebrae were snapped, he could still find time for impertinence.

'How dare you? Get off my property!'
'Well, you see it's our property now, Billy. The state reserves the right to acquire the property of traitors.'
'What are you talking about? I'm no traitor!'
'Well, this copy of lovely Marxist doctrine puts paid to that, doesn't it?' From his prone position, McMahon couldn't see the book Gorton was referring to; it didn't matter, anyhow.
'That's not mine!'
'Course it isn't, but let's just keep that our little secret, shall we?'
'I demand a trial!'
'Oh, come on, you should know better than that. Besides, we already held one. It was over so quick we didn't even get to send you the invitation. We added up the fact you were a tosser with the fact that Pauly Hasluck hates you, and it came down on the wrong side of the scales of justice, I'm afraid. Treason carries the death penalty, you know.'

McMahon tried to struggle up. If he could just get so far...

'Is this because I tried to bribe you?'
'What? Hell no! I could have done with a good bribe. No, this is because you're a loser, Billy, and you'll always be a loser. It just happened that you're a loser Pauly didn't want hanging around, trying to get the leadership. Damaged goods, I'm afraid.'

McMahon finally managed to stand up. He would die on his feet. He looked squarely at Gorton, who was rummaging through the fruitbowl on McMahon's table.

'What cover story shall you tell?'
'Dunno. Maybe you were found in bed with a communist male youth choir by your American mistress and got shot in the struggle. We'll think up something. We always do.'
McMahon straightened. He'd always secretly dreamed of a good final monologue. He began, 'Well, may I just say this. You may kill me, but liberty-'
Gorton interrupted. 'Oh, shut up about liberty, you silly tosser. Give him a 21-gun salute, boys. In the chest, if you will.'

Needless to say, there was no inquest.

***

It didn't take long for Terry Newborn to become disillusioned with his position as a new member of the National Front. This was because of a few misapprehensions he'd had.

For starters, the National Front only voted for candidates in the same way that the public did; that is, they were only given one choice by the all-powerful Head Office in Canberra. The democratic process was a relic of earlier parties, nothing more. In fact, the National Front resembled a corporation much more than it did a political party.

Terry was one of several young recruits, all of whom were instantly put to work in menial administrative jobs, a disturbingly large amount of which involved stamping. They'd been recruited early largely because talent was a dangerous thing; it was National Front policy to take bright, enthusiastic youths and to turn them into grey, bureaucratic number-crunchers, and they did it with aplomb. When the recruiting posters that were littered across the streets of Australia said 'The National Front needs YOU!', they generally didn't include 'To File Reports, Mail Memos and Deliver Messages.' And, of course, he wasn't paid.

Still, despite the loss of his initial idealism, Terry remained committed to his work. In a time of such insecurity, there was no room for slackers. A massive bust by the New Guard had revealed treachery within the very heart of the Cabinet. William McMahon, previously treated with a respect only reserved for Bruce, was revealed to be a disgusting traitor to the Americans, who took his own life rather than face the American people. The radio constantly carried reports of McMahon's base, degenerate attitudes towards Australia and towards the glorious fascist goal in general; Terry could barely look at a picture of him without turning away in disgust. Only Prime Minister Hasluck remained pure. The radio reports were full of his exploits on the international stage, bringing Australian affairs to the world at large. The entire nation listened as Fuhrer Himmler praised Hasluck's 'decency, fidelity and courage'. It was truly a golden age.

In 1971, after four years of part-time service to the National Front, Terry turned eighteen and left school. He was offered admission to the University of Sydney on a platter, but instead decided to take up full-time work as a secretary for the National Front. He had decided his destiny.

***

Terry was still a G grade functionary; the lowest of the low. The fact that he was being sent to negotiate with the aggravated Gyngell was a sign of how little the government cared about television. Even though Hasluck had managed to overcome Bruce's deep-seated dyed-in-the-wool opposition to anything from past the 1920s, there would still be only one channel, which would be primarily devoted to programs on the dangers of communism. The fact that no one would watch such a channel was precisely the point.

Now, Terry tried desperately to negotiate with Gyngell. 'Mr Gyngell, I don't understand your objection to the lines. They're just words. The Parliament voted-'

Gyngell span around. Terry drew back; he began to realise just how stupid his comments were. Then Gyngell began to smile. The smile turned into a smirk. Finally, Gyngell burst out laughing. He wiped tears from his eyes. He straightened up.

'Kid, go screw your-'

'Mr Gyngell?' drawled a voice from the shadows. Gorton liked standing in shadows; it was part of the job description. Now he stepped forward, enjoying the look on Gyngell's face. 'I think you're going to say the lines now. As scripted. There are alternatives, you know. But you wouldn't like 'em. Tally ho, chop chop!' Gorton giggled. It merely made him more frightening.

The colour faded from Gyngell's face. Without a word, he hurried off. Gorton, grinning, slapped a hand on Terry's back; Terry quailed. Generally, the New Guard only put an arm across your back when they had a knife in the other hand.

'That was a good show, kid,' said Gorton. 'Hell, it was never going to work, but you stood your ground. That's good. Shows rectitude. Strength. How old are you, kid?'

'Nineteen, sir.'

'Heh. Nineteen. Good age. You know what, kid, I can already see your whole future ahead of you.'

'Yep. You work in the Department. Turn twenty-five, get married, three kids. You go from G to F to E to D, and stay there for the next fifty years. And that's a damn shame, because you've got guts, kid, and that's good enough to replace talent any day. You stay in that job, you might as well get your retirement check already, kid. Nineteen goes to ninety a damn sight faster than you'd expect.'

Terry didn't respond. He wasn't quite sure what Gorton was saying; after all, a good deal of it was phrased with a minimum of regard for syntax or grammar. It was generally best to stay quiet when talking to the New Guard, anyway.

Gorton studied him. 'You ever killed anyone, kid?'

'No!'

'Shame. Good practice. You know, we need a new numbercruncher in the New Guard; the pay's lousy, the hours are long and you'll have about the rank of a toilet cleaner, but it's a good start, you know? And besides...' Gorton smirked. 'You can sign the forms on our good friend Mr Gyngell over there. He's about to get a good deal more liquid.'

And so, at the tender age of 19, Terry was poached by the New Guard. The Department of Public Affairs didn't notice.

***

Working for the New Guard, Terry noticed, was a lot different to working for the Department of Public Affairs. The main reason he was employed by the DPA was so that they could draw more money from the notoriously reticent Treasury. The New Guard was different. For starters, they had more money than they could ever know what to do with; the only Treasurer to pass down a budget anything less than slavishly generous to the New Guard, Harold Holt, had been outed as a communist shortly afterwards and 'reeducated'. This meant that, unlike the DPA, they had to make Terry do actual work.

The work itself was mostly delivery-boy level stuff. He signed for packages, stamped mail, wrote unimportant letters, stamped documents. If he didn't look too closely at the actual memos, he could pretend that he was working in an actual office as a file clerk.

He also played an important role in organizing the constant ‘loyalty rallies’ that the New Guard held in every Australian town and city. This ranged from a single clerk marching down the street, as in Tumut, to a massive one-week long celebration on Australia Day in Sydney. Curiously, Anzac Day had been more or less forgotten, as had Ned Kelly; no one liked to remember that we were once fighting against a German ally, or that we had an outlaw as our national hero. Terry marched in them every few months with the New Guard; he was surrounded by priests, soldiers, politicians, even celebrities. It felt…good. Like the entire nation was behind him, cheering him on.

Unfortunately, sometimes you couldn't avoid the dirty nature of his work. In 1974, he signed his first 'disappearance'; it was Elsie Ward, a mother of two who had been found to have had an affair with a man later outed as an American spy. That night, he dreamed about the New Guardsmen kicking down her doors, grabbing her, silencing her children. Maybe she'd be released one day, but Terry doubted it. As long as no one knew what was going on, the National Front could just pretend to be ordinary conservatives, concerned for the safety of their country. If people found out what they were really up to, they would discover that they had signed themselves over to monsters.

For three years after his fateful encounter with Gorton, Terry saw very little of him; in the office, he was reputed as something very near to a god. Rumours abounded, since spies generally don't kill their own; of his womanizing, of his alcoholism, of his toupee. Terry couldn't believe them. He had been brought up to obey and to respect the New Guard; to find out that their leader was widely regarded as insane was too much for him.

In early 1975, Terry was working on a debit sheet in his office when two New Guardsmen walked in. One thumbed his way out the door. Wordlessly, Terry left. He was escorted out of the office. His coworkers avoided their eyes.

Terry was escorted into a black-tinted car outside the New Guard offices. He was driven, silently, to Bruce Airport, where he was bundled into a private jet. At this point, he had more or less given hope of surviving.

To his surprise, he saw Gorton inside, smiling. Gorton poured him a glass of vodka, which was highly illegal. Terry avoided it. He decided to go for the sycophantic approach inside.

'Sir, I'm sorry, I don't know what I did, I'm sorry-'

'Sorry about what, kid?'

'That I offended you in any way, sir. I'm so, so-'

Terry was stunned. The plane took off.

***

Meanwhile, in other news, Wellington burned.

The dominions had taken the fall of Britain in different ways. Some, like Canada and Australia, had declared independence. Australia had become a Nazi puppet state later on, admittedly, but Canada still remained independent (nominally; it was hard to remain completely free when next to one of the world's superpowers). South Africa had, not surprisingly, accepted a peace treaty with the Nazis; very few people had noticed, although the black population had declined significantly.

New Zealand, though, had been in a major quarandry. The new government of Britain had sent new governor-generals to each of their dominions; in Canada the new viceroy was arrested, in Australia he was merely laughed at (at first), and in South Africa he was accepted grudgingly, with a promise of eventual independence. In New Zealand, the response had been mixed. In insular, 'more British than the British' New Zealand, independence was not an option; the public still thought of themselves as 'too British' for that, and the mostly rural South Island were appalled at the very thought. On the other hand, he was a Nazi, which presented some difficulties. In the end, the Labour government had reluctantly pursued independence.

However, for New Zealand's more reactionary citizens, this was clearly unacceptable. To them, the Labour government were socialist plotters, trying to overthrow everything New Zealand held dear. To anyone who knew Prime Minister Peter Fraser this was patently absurd; a milder man it would be hard to meet. Still, there were enough reactionary elements in New Zealand society to make the new Republic of New Zealand completely unacceptable to some.

And so, the new Governor-General fled to South Island, along with a puppet cabinet (who later renamed themselves the New Zealand National Socialist Party, colloquially referred to as the Kiwi Nazis) and a small British force. Much of the island declared for the Dominion of New Zealand; the areas which remained recalcitrant were quickly overrun.

By 1975, the war had been going on for 14 years, more or less, ever since the Republic of New Zealand had attacked south; there were periods of sustained ceasefire, but which never seemed to last. Germany and the United States had poured in resources to aid their puppet states; what should have been a short, decisive war turned into a bloody guerrilla combat which left much of the land devastated, killed hundreds of thousands and left most New Zealanders profoundly fed up with both sides.

***

While flying towards Central Australia, Gorton got himself profoundly drunk. Terry, who didn't drink, found himself profoundly shocked.

Gorton leered across the table at Terry. He had a natural leer. 'So, kid,' he managed, 'why does the National Front hold power?'
Terry had never considered this before. The National Front were power; they had always been in power, and always would be. Still, he took a brave stab at it. 'To defeat the socialist menace?'

Gorton burst out laughing, and spilled vodka across the table. Terry drew back; he'd been told from childhood that vodka, as a socialist drink, imposed madness. It was clearly working. Gorton looked up, grinning. 'Yeah, maybe in the beginning. Things were bad back then, kid, worse than you've ever known. There was fighting in the streets. The economy was tanking. Bruce-and I'm telling you this hush-hush, you understand?-would never have won an election, and he knew it. But there were enough of us, and not enough of them, to take power and keep it. People were tired, kid. They'd seen where democracy led: anarchy, chaos, blood in the streets. And there was Germany: safe, prosperous, orderly. They had a choice between an unstable democracy and a stable dictatorship, and they made the right choice, kid.'

Gorton took another swig. He offered the bottle to Terry, who shook his head firmly. Gorton, by now firmly addled, didn't seem to notice. 'You know, in the beginning it was only meant to be temporary. The New Guard would storm the Lodge, make us part of the Empire again and then hold elections. It would have been so simple. But then, of course, we discovered there was so much to do. So many subversives, so many traitors. Even in our own party.

'So we dissolved all the old parties, and made them into the National Front. We became the state. But it was still only meant to be a little while; we kept pushing back elections just a little more, just a little more, but we never doubted that we were going to hold 'em.'
'But you did hold them, sir. Every three years-'
Gorton glared at him. 'That's not an election. That's a rubber stamp. One candidate every constituency, you call that voting?'
'Sometimes there's more than one, sir.'
'Yeah, but they're all Nats. The old party system was rotten, kid. Two parties, forever fighting it out, over what? Socialism against liberalism? Progress against conservatism? Left against right? They would have torn this country apart over trifles. So we built a new party, out of the ashes of the old. One that transcended party politics, that resolved the old left/right thing once and for all. And we made this nation great, kid.'

'What really killed democracy was the polling. We held a few private straw polls in the early 50s, and back then we were headed for an absolute rout. Even when they were illegal, Labor would have killed us. So we banned the other parties and swept to victory. It was the only way to keep this country whole, kid.'

Terry had been waiting to ask this question for so long. Maybe his entire life. He closed his eyes, and whispered, 'Was it worth it, sir?'

Gorton smiled at him through an alcoholic haze. 'Kid', he rasped, 'if I could do it again...I swear I'd kill more people.'

They landed in Alice Springs.

***

Terry had been told about the reeducation camps his entire life. They were in the vast central Australian deserts; where the government sent the dissidents, the socialists, the natives, the Jews, for retraining and reeducation. The government would remove who they were, and make them into productive members of society. To Terry, there seemed no higher goal.

Alice Springs, which had previously been a small telegraph station, had turned into a bustling metropolis, primarily because it needed to service the camps. They drove out into the desert, to a camp dubbed Woomera Five, after the original reeducation camp.

Woomera Five was ringed with barbed wire fences, ten feet high. They were waved in by black-suited guards. Inside, there was a vast complex of concrete buildings, fit to accommodate thousands. They entered one, where Gorton signed some forms and exchanged some anecdotes with a laughing guard.

They toured the building. Inside, there were vast rows of metal cages, that seemed no bigger to Terry than a broom closet; inside each one, there was a single, white dissident. Some rushed at the doors and screamed obscenities at Gorton as he passed; most, though, simply sat on their beds and stared at the wall.

Gorton let himself and Terry into one of the cages with a key. Inside was a tall man in his late 50s, with white hair. His eyes seemed dead and dull.

Gorton grinned at Terry. 'OK, here's Exhibit One, Eddy Whitlam. Now, Eddy had the best education, vast amounts of wealth, and more brains than you or I. But he fell into bad company, didn't you, Eddy?'

Eddy didn't respond. Terry noticed he had scars on his forehead.

Gorton continued talking, oblivious. 'Joined the Labor Party, engaged in subversive activities. He flew a bomber for Chifley in the Liberation, and since then he's been right here. Being...' Gorton smirked. 'reeducated.'

Eddy's fists were clenched. He was talking quietly to himself. Terry stared in horror.

They visited the 'reeducation' facilities. There were electroshock stations, vast amounts of chemicals, scalpels. There were patients strapped down to beds, screaming, day and night. Terry felt a deep, dark horror in the pit of his stomach. His mind kept flashing back to Eddy's dead eyes.

Finally, Gorton took Terry out the back of the facility. There, sand dunes swept off into the horizon. His eyes were hard.

'So, Terry', Gorton said. 'What was the one thing you've been told about the camps that you didn't see today?'

That they were peaceful? That they didn't hurt the patients? That they were anything more than pure, sadistic evil?

'That there were no ethnics', Terry finally managed.
Gorton stared at him, expressionless. 'That's right. There were no ethnics. And do you know why?'
A possibility was rising in Terry's mind, so horrible and so dark that he tried to block it out. He gabbled desperately. 'They're at other camps. You sent them overseas. They all died of disease. They've been released. I don't know!'
Gorton grinned, humourlessly. 'Yes, you do.'

He swept an arm out, to encompass the dunes. 'At first, we were just conservatives. We were going to get this country back on the right track, and then things were going to get back to normal. But things changed. The goddamn Nazis squirmed their way into the corridors of power. We were a British puppet, and the British were goddamn Nazi puppets, and so thus were we.

'We would have been happy just keeping the ethnics here. Hell, in the beginning, reeducation was more than just a word. But the Nazis insisted, and they were the ones who put us here in the first place. Bruce wanted power, that's all he ever wanted. That’s the whole point of the fascism system, kid, power forever and ever. Power for the sake of power. And so...' Gorton croaked. Terry could see tears in his eyes. 'And so, to pay for Bruce's power, we began the Solution.'

'We took them all. The natives, the Jews, the Slavs, the refugees. Thousands had come fleeing to us, from terror, from poverty, from famine. And we locked them up, every last one. At first, we used bullets. Then, when we ran out of bullets, we used gas. And then...'

Tears ran down Gorton's cheek. 'And then, when we were out of that, we built deep, dark pits in the Earth. And we tossed them in, and we let their bones break on the hard floor. And then we buried them alive.'

Terry knelt down. He began to sob. Because there, in the desert sands, he saw something.

There were bones. Small bones, only enough for animals to dig up or to get mixed in the dirt. It had taken decades, but there were so many. They had time.

He stared out over the desert, pocked with the remains of slaughtered thousands.

***

After leaving Woomera Five, Terry returned to work. What else could he do? He had no qualifications, no other interests than politics. He had spent the last eight years training himself to become a politician, and now he discovered he couldn't stop being one. Besides, Gorton was taking an interest in him. At 63 years of age it was openly said that he'd be retiring soon, but over the last 20 years he had spent much of his time eliminating anyone who could pose a threat to him. This left Terry in a valuable position to claim Gorton's position, a prospect that any loyal Australian would long for. Even as he realised the inherent horror of the New Guard, Terry knew that they were the quickest route to power.

So he ignored what he had seen. He returned to bureaucracy, and rose up the ranks. He became an expert at forging signatures, and in doing so forged a path towards future promotion. He detached himself from his actual work; as long as he could pretend that his orders wouldn't turn people into mindless vegetables like the men in the camps, he could sleep at night. It was just another job. After all, once you've killed one person, another one is surely insignificant. Of course, never again, that would be abhorrent. But then he had to sign another liquidation memo, and never again became 'never again next time'. Over and over again, until finally he had to stop lying to himself. He knew that there would always, always, be a 'next time'. For three years, Terry signed forms that led to the deaths of dozens and the arrests of hundreds, and simply didn't care.

Along the way, he met Lynda Allscott, another minor functionary in the Department of Defence. She was cold, ruthless, and quintessentially Aryan; he was pulling down a modest salary and wasn't bad-looking in the right light. Their 'courtship', as such, was brief and formal: they went on dates where they discussed work, he met her parents, he proposed during a tour of the Canberra Cement Works. At the wedding, they both wore grey suits. Afterwards, they only saw each other by coincidence in the cafeteria. Marriage was generally expected of young men, just in case they got any ideas, but that didn't mean it was meant to be fun.

Meanwhile, Terry kept busy at work. Hasluck was going through a rather paranoid phase, giving the New Guard plenty of work. Fairbairn, Fairhall, and Snedden had already been forced into early retirements, and Hasluck was still staring greedily at the rest of his much-diminished ministry, especially his ambitious young Treasurer. Terry consoled himself with the prospect that all this hard work would eventually win him preselection to Parliament. It couldn't come fast enough.

***

Paul Hasluck, Lord Perth, waited impatiently in 10 Downing Street for Prime Minister Dennis Delderfield to arrive. He was in a bad mood; at home, the Cabinet were growing more and more impatient with his refusal to declare a retirement date, especially the Treasurer. Granted, Bruce had served for 19 years, but he'd been Stanley Bruce, and Hasluck was no Stanley Bruce. He was constantly wary of the notion that a leadership coup could be just around the corner.

Delderfield came storming in, and glared at Hasluck. 'What the hell do you think you're playing at?' he demanded.
Hasluck looked up at him archly. 'I have no idea what you're talking about', he said.
Delderfield paced around the room. 'I've received a communiqué from the Fuhrer. He's furious about what you're planning! It's totally contrary to fascist doctrine!'
They both shared the unspoken thought that the Fuhrer probably wasn't furious, or indeed conscious at all. At age 78, Reichschancellor Himmler was not so much declining into old age as falling full tilt into senility; his subordinate, Kurt Haldweim, was rumoured to be running the vast Greater German Reich, even though he was barely any younger.

The problem was that fascism simply didn't breed good leadership succession. Without democracy, leaders stayed in power for far beyond their leadership dates, and in their struggle to retain power generally eliminated anyone even mildly competent. The rest was an inner cadre of gradually diminishing talent, forced to rely on lower and lower sources of income. Already, there were serious fears that the cold war against the Americans could not be won, at least on the economic front. Of course, no one voiced such fears; it was fascism, after all.

Hasluck stared up at Denderfield. 'The opinions of the Reichschancellor have no influence on Australian policy', he lied. 'We are an independent nation who chose fascism of our own free will.' Unlike you, he secretly added.
'You seem to have hardly chosen fascism at all!' shouted Denderfield. 'Multicandidate elections? The formation of political parties? What kind of fascism is that?'
'A kind that pays attention to the needs of the modern world', said Hasluck smoothly. 'Fascism was intended to be a middle way between liberalism and socialism; we believe we can further create moderation through the use of popular choice. It is the will of the people that matters, after all.'

This was, of course, all utter rubbish. Hasluck had no interest in democracy; few politicians do. What he really wanted was to arrange free elections in a few choice constituencies, all occupied by factional rivals. It was easier than constantly using the New Guard, since Hasluck's deep, abiding hatred of Gorton was made worse by the fact he was totally dependent upon him. This way, the National Front would retain power, the people would feel reassured in their system of government, and Hasluck would rule for the foreseeable future. Bruce, after all, had lived to 83; Hasluck was only 72, so he expected a good decade's worth of despotism ahead of him yet.

Denderfield snorted. 'Don't tell me you believe that, my lord. The king is very concerned. If you don't cease this course of action, he may be forced to take...repercussions.'
Hasluck smirked. 'Don't try to scare me, you silly git. I have the full support of the National Front, who control Parliament. You can't replace me, and you'll just look silly trying. Good day, Mr. Prime Minister.'

After Hasluck had gone, Denderfield glared angrily at the furniture. He called in his secretary.

'Yes, Prime Minister?'
'Get me the head of the New Guard. Gorton, or whatever his name is. If Hasluck's still Prime Minister by noon next Thursday, you're fired.'
'Yes, Prime Minister.'

***

Now, there's been a lot of talk about Lord Hasluck's recent decision to allow free and fair elections. Some people-hysterical ideologues, I say-have attacked the decision, saying that it'll lead to instability. I tell you now, men and women of Australia, those people, those bleeding hearts who can't accept the real world, are part of a leftwing conspiracy, a conspiracy to undermine the free and fair debate we all enjoy in Australia.

Terry's musings were interrupted by a call up to Gorton's office. The New Guard headquarters had been built as a tall spire, with Gorton's office occupying the small space up the top; it was an architectural monstrosity, but you couldn't help but notice it. That was, of course, Gorton's intention; any attention was good attention, and if people laughed at you then you could always have them shot.

Gorton's desk was piled up with mounds and mounds of paper, which spread down the sides and onto the floor. Gorton was reading through a report with a black look on his face. Terry walked in hesitantly. Gorton looked up at him. He clearly wasn't pleased.

'Did you know', he snarled, 'that while we arrested 1453 members of moderate illegal groups last year, we arrested 3523 members of the Communist Party of Australia? It's practically the same for the goddamn anarchists, too. Why do you think that is, Terry?'

Terry tried desperately to think how he was to blame, and to think of a way around it. 'Because the more people we take, the more radical the survivors get in response?' he hazarded.

Gorton broke into a smile. 'Exactly. I knew you were smart.' Gorton leaned back, and groaned; his back had been giving him trouble for the last few years, as he never failed to inform anyone who passed. 'Terry, there's been something I've been meaning to talk to you about.'

Terry walked forward hesitantly, and took a seat. Gorton leaned forward, wincing as he did so.

'I'm 65 this year', Gorton said. 'I've got a creaky back, my legs ache and hurting people generally hurts me just as bad. Paperpushers like Bruce or Hasluck can stay in office for decades, but I'm a New Guardsman, and that means I have to be fit. So I'm retiring next year, Terry. And while I know you've got your eye on a seat in the House of Reps, I want you to replace me.'

Terry was stunned, although not as much as he might have been. Even though he was only 24, these days the only people older than him were too hopeless to pose a threat. Gorton had spent his last 17 years wiping out all opposition to him, or indeed anyone who looked at him funny. Of the remaining candidates, Terry was the only one who had a brain and wasn't in nappies.

Still, he couldn't. He knew he couldn't. He had spent too long preparing for a parliamentary career. Not least because now, deep in his heart, he knew that things had to change.

'I'm sorry, Mr Gorton', he stammered. 'I can't.'

***

So Terry went back to his office, and sifted through vast piles of work. Hasluck had spent years preparing for the day when someone would finally try to topple him, so it wasn't easy work. His signature, in particular, was a masterpiece, and nearly impossible to forge. Still, Terry was good at his job. In addition to a better-than-usual intellect, he had a sort of rat cunning: he thought in terms of plots and conspiracies, or at least he did now. It took nearly a month (leading to the firing of Denderfield's secretary), but at last a copious pile of documents were ready.

On December 21, Hasluck walked into the Cabinet room. None of his ministers were there, but Gorton was flanked by two rows of solemn-looking New Guardsmen, including Terry. Gorton was grinning from ear to ear.

'What is this?', Hasluck blustered. 'What the hell are you all doing in here? This is a private meeting!'

Gorton snorted. 'That's right, history boy, and you're not invited.'

'Oh, no you're not, you silly, arrogant prig. Go on, Terry, show him what you've got.'

Terry filed through his documents carefully. He spoke nervously. 'Mr Hasluck, we have here a series of documents relating to your embezzlement of funds, your noted socialist sympathies, and'-Terry blushed; he wasn't used to this sort of thing-'your relations with several young Americans. Male and female. And a letter of your resignation, sir.'

Hasluck looked at him with utter contempt. 'I never wrote such a thing, you filthy boy. As for the rest of your dirty lies-'

Gorton was laughing. 'No, of course you didn't, but no one can tell the difference. Terry here,' he ruffled Terry's hair; Terry blushed, 'is a master at this sort of thing. Five years on the job and he's already put together an airtight case against you. Now, I'll give you a choice. I don't normally do that sort of thing, but in the spirit of the season consider this a Christmas present. Either you retire, go live in Perth, and go search through country graveyards-your wife likes that, doesn't she? Must be a pleasant break from spending time with you-'

'You filthy creature', whispered Hasluck.

'Or,' Gorton continued, 'we could release those documents to Parliament, get you voted out, and then you can go spend an eternity with Billy McMahon. Not much of a choice, is it?'

Hasluck stared at Gorton with unspeakable hatred. Then he took the proffered resignation note from Terry, and stormed out.

Gorton grinned. 'I've always wanted to do that.'

In the resulting by-election for Hasluck’s seat, Terry got 100% of the vote. Since he was the only candidate, it would have been most unusual otherwise.

Gorton walked into the darkened office. 'It's done', he said. 'So, you ready to be Prime Minister?'

Treasurer Joh Bjelke-Peterson stared up at Gorton, smiling. 'Now, don't you worry about that,' he replied.

***

Men and women of Australia. I’m John Howard, Minister for Information, and welcome to Review.

Just weeks after Lord Hasluck, surely equal only to Lord Bruce as the greatest Prime Minister this country has ever known, retired to spend more time with his family, the new Prime Minister, Joh Bjelke-Peterson, has announced that the scheduled multicandidate elections to be held in certain seats will be cancelled, due to funding concerns. And, of course, the usual subversive leftist elements in our society have been whispering in our ears, trying to denigrate what is, of course, the right move.

I love this country, and I’m not afraid to say so. We have the lowest crime rate in the world, almost no unemployment, and a system-the best system-that combines the greatest thought in human history while removing the mistakes of the past. Now compare us to, say, America. A nation gripped by crime, millions unemployed, with an unworkable, republican system combining all the worst excesses of history. And what separates us from them? The fact that their democracy, unlike ours, is governed by the will of the mob.

The uneducated, the prejudiced, the ethnic would be allowed to govern your lives under the American system. In Australia, democracy works to ensure the best and brightest gain power, and can work to build a better nation; in America, democracy is the instrument of the demagogue and the communist, turning ordinary, good people-people just like you or I-into savage dogs, fighting the vicious war of partisanship. We overcame that in Australia 30 years ago. To return to multicandidate elections would merely be to return to the mistakes of the past.

I’m against multicandidate elections, and I always have been. My greatest desire is to see the Australian people relaxed and comfortable. We must remain ever vigilant against the leftwing, bleeding heart, pro-American socialists who infest our system. We owe a great debt of thanks to John Gorton, truly an Australian hero, and his New Guard. They have kept us safe in our beds, and this is a debt that can never be repaid. Thank you, John Gorton.

***

Before he had joined the New Guard, Terry had always thought of Parliament as being the finest in Australian society. The best and the brightest, those born to lead, men of character and distinction, and the rest of the clichés you could think of. Then, of course, he'd learnt that it was full of politicians, which burst most of his illusions straight away.

One of Terry's major tasks in the New Guard was sorting through treason allegations against politicians. The New Guard was effectively the ultimate blunt instrument; it was frequently used in factional battles as a way of silencing, or at least delaying, one's opponents in the never-ending battle for a place in Cabinet, from where one could wield actual power. 99% of the treason tip-offs were rubbish; still, the New Guard picked off the occasional politician now and then, just to keep the rest on their best behaviour.

Between being elected and taking his seat in Parliament, Terry's wife Lynda found time to announce she was pregnant, during one of their semi-regular fortnightly meetings. He simultaneously felt joy, fear, worry, and every other emotion one could care to name, all in the space of a few seconds.

'Are...are you sure?' he stammered.
Lynda looked at him acidly. She couldn't abide stupidity. 'It's a government-issued birth testing kit. Of course I'm sure.'
'We were using government-issued birth control-' he muttered.
'Now, stop that', snapped Lynda. 'We shall have to care for the baby, shan't we? I'll retire as soon as possible.'
Terry was shocked. 'But you love your job!'
'It's government policy. A Woman's Place Is In The Home and all that. We're not Americans, dear; you can't expect I'd continue working after childbirth?'

It was all logical, of course; Terry had been brought up from birth hearing similar things, although of course not directed at him. Lynda's grandfather had been an American, and so she had tried extra hard to keep to National Front doctrine. She promptly retired. This meant that she saw Terry much more often; on the downside, Terry realised, quite suddenly, that she was in fact deeply irritating.

***

Once Terry was in Parliament, he realised suddenly that everything he had known about it before (except it being full of politicians; that was still an annoying factor) was completely wrong.

Beforehand, he'd thought of it as a single, homogenous body. In fact, the whole thing was actually more divided than if the members had been parts of different parties; at least in the old days you could segregate people with wildly varying personal views. Age was the major dividing line. From the 1950s to the 1970s, almost no new people had come into Parliament; as such, Parliament was divided between the ageing, increasingly senile group who had been elected in the first one-party elections, and a new generation of secretaries, bureaucrats and aristocrats. What they lacked were people with any life experience beyond politics whatsoever.

At the same time, Parliament was rigidly divided along class lines, to an extent that would have been unimaginable before the Liberation. Parliament was full of lords, or the sons of lords, ever since the British peerage had become a revitalized factor in politics. After all, in a system that so highly prized eugenics, it made sense that the most distinguished families must therefore lead to the most distinguished people. The fact that many of these people were about as suitable to be in politics as to perform complex brain surgery presented little impediment.

Terry didn't expect to have a ministry any time soon; there were people who had waited decades for a parliamentary secretaryship. Still, he was on the greasy pole, and that was something.

Following Hasluck's 'retirement', the new PM was anxious for a ministerial reshuffle. Terry saw this as a prime opportunity to, if not get into cabinet, then at least get noticed.

He wisely set his sights on a parliamentary secretary's position first. Aside from himself, there were two outstanding candidates. There was Lord Blunt, a grazier who was, rather than sharp, true to his name, and Bob Hawke, a charismatic Oxford scholar whose primary skill appeared to be in drinking, and who was nearly twice Terry's age. The rest of the candidates were either deeply inbred to a Kentucky degree or had made enemies of factional power bosses, and were thus destined for a lifetime on the backbenches, or at the bottom of the harbour.

Terry had spent the last 5 years as a spy, and was now prepared to put his skills to the test. He went to work.

***

The problem with Terry's devious plan to destroy the reputations of his rivals and avoid the backbench as much as possible was that he wasn't very good at it. He had worked for a spying agency, true, but that wasn't exactly the same as being a spy. Giving the orders to have people 'disappeared' was a long way from actually disappearing them. Additionally, his social skills, already rudimentary, had been rather more stilted by his years as a bureaucrat, especially one in the New Guard. For some reason, people tried not to talk to New Guardsmen, just in case they said, 'Ah, you! We were looking for you!'

Still, he tried to form contacts, especially in the ministry. In his final years, Hasluck had grown dangerously paranoid, leaving him with a ministry made up almost entirely of temporary space-fillers. Some ministers had even stopped coming to Cabinet meetings altogether, to avoid drawing attention; of course, this drew far more attention than simply showing up and keeping their heads down. As a result of Hasluck's scorched earth policies, the ministry was mostly made up of genial incompetents who preferred to keep their heads down, and who were more than willing to attach their flags to an up-and-coming youngster like Terry. The fact he hadn't even sat in Parliament yet didn't matter, seeing as those who had sat in Parliament were generally the worse for it.

The major social event of the season, and the one where Terry wanted to 'establish working relationships and create useful business-related arrangements', in bureaucratese, was Gorton's retirement ceremony. On Gorton's wishes, it wasn't a formal ceremony. Prime Minister Bjelke-Peterson got up and gave a speech which was widely regarded as incomprehensible, but it certainly sounded impressive. Gorton got up after him, and tapped his glass.

'Ahem. For the last 18 years, I have been the Leader of the New Guard. During that time, I have seen the best and the worst of man. I have seen evil; I have met men who would have sold this country to the powers of international socialism for a shilling. But I have also seen good; loyal and brave men, who are prepared to be Australia's guard against the darkness that threatens to consume us.

'During the war, I fought for the New Guard, and I'm not afraid to say it. These days in schools, we like to pretend it was a 'legitimate' or a 'constitutional' takeover; just a change in power between parties. Well that's stupid, and I'm not afraid to say so. It was a coup, pure and simple. We gained power through intimidation and bloodshed. The New Guard run this country, kid, not Parliament. Bruce was just an idiot who we strapped to our banner. We need to tell those kids that we did what was right. We united Australia under one party, one banner. We ended the conflicts of race and ideology. We rid this country of inequality for all time. And I say, I will never regret being a part of that.

'My successor, Bill Hayden'-he ruffled Hayden's hair; Hayden blushed-'may not have my experience, but he shares my vision. The New Guard will continue to do its duty, to defend Australia against threats external and internal, for all time. Thank you, gentlemen.'

He sat down to a standing ovation. More speeches followed, but they were generally ignored. The party had begun.

Afterwards, Terry met Gorton behind a pillar. He was talking to three ladies, who together had enough clothes to cover a postage stamp. He turned around when he saw Terry. 'Ah! Kid! You're just in time!' He turned to the women. 'Clear off, girls, business.'

They slunk away. Gorton walked towards Terry. 'That could have been you up there, kid, not Hayden. Sure, Hayden's got guts, but he hasn't got your brains. You missed a real opportunity, kid.'
'I'm sorry, Mr Gorton. Do you have the files I asked for?'
Gorton grinned widely. 'Once in the New Guard, kid, always in the New Guard.' He handed over a thick folder. 'At Oxford, Hawke was suspected of left-wing sympathies, and this confirms it. A conversation, taped by the British SS, where Hawke declares that Nazi practices in occupied Südengland 'have gone a bit too far'. It's not much, kid, and you still can't beat Blunt, but it'll set it up for next time. What are you going to do with it?'
'I'm going to see the Minister for Information tomorrow, sir. He'll know what to do.'
'Ah, Honest Johnny. You're a spy through and through, kid.'
'Goodbye, Mr Gorton.'
'Good luck, kid.'

***

Men and women of Australia. I'm John Howard, Minister for Information, and welcome to Review.

We face a host of terrors from outside our borders. The godless, decadent Americans rampage over South America, destroying tradition and stability in their wake. In Asia, the Chinese Civil War still rages on, with the communist insurgency threatening to take over the destiny of nearly one billion people, and to surge south onto our fair white shores. In such an environment, only the rods and the axe of fascism can protect us from the horrors that otherwise would surely engulf us.

But today I'm here to talk to you about enemies within our bodies. Traitors. Everywhere we look, we can see them. We may not know who they are, but they are all around us. The liberal. The socialist. The communist. Even in our most sacred building, Parliament, the forces of evil had infiltrated.

I have here, in my hand, documents relating to the subversive activities of one R J L Hawke, a backbencher who many one day considered to be a future Prime Minister. Left-wing sympathies. Insults against the Nazi regime. The list goes on, men and women of Australia.

I call upon the government to deal with Hawke's flagrant treachery, and for his immediate reeducation. Protect the nation!

***

Hawke was at a party, celebrating what he saw as his imminent elevation to the parliamentary secretaryship, when Review was aired on television. He didn't watch it, but someone who did phoned the house where he was. As he talked, his face turned paler and paler.

Hawke fled the house. A day later, he was found in a ditch with his car riddled with bullets. It was judged 'a most peculiar suicide' by the coroner.

As it turned out, Terry didn't get the job; Lord Blunt had too many connections and was far more wealthy, which was a good substitute for talent any day. But he had made an impression, especially on Hawke's car, setting him up well for next time.

***

In the first meeting of the reshuffled cabinet, Bjelke-Peterson showed up late, without warning. He swept imperiously into the room, past his deputy, Andrew Peacock, and sat down.

'What', he said, 'is this?'
With that, he slammed the National Front's campaign document on the desk. In a nation which didn't actually have campaigns, it was generally used as toilet paper across the nation.
Peacock looked up at him, adjusting his head as he did so. Peacock was generally judged rather vain by most of Parliament; as such, he preferred to swivel his head so that people only saw the part of it that he thought looked best. 'Well, sir,' he said, 'it's the campaign document. We need to let people know our policies-'
'It's not that', snarled Bjelke-Peterson. 'It's that.' He pointed to the name of the party.
'Isn't it big enough, sir?' simpered Lionel Bowen, a minor functionary.
'It's not small enough! That name is silly. Anachronistic. Let's take the country into the 20th century, for gods sakes!'
Blunt put his hand up. 'But, sir,' he said quietly, 'the name was created in the 20th century.'
Bjelke-Peterson glared at Blunt. 'I know that, you idiot. But it sounds like it wasn't. We need a new name!'

There was quiet discussion for a few seconds. This was new. Bruce had kept the name National Front because he liked the sound of it, even though the new party wasn't strictly the same as his old one. Hasluck had kept it because if anyone had recommended otherwise, they would have gone straight to Woomera 5. Change didn't come easy to a country that hadn't changed in 30 years.

Peacock put his hand up. 'Uh...National Socialist Party?'
'Bah! Too sycophantic. Reminds people of socialism. Next!'
'National Party?'
'Too bland. Too similar to the current one.'
'Fascist Alliance?'
'No no no, you're all wrong.'
'But sir...what do you think we should call it?' said Bowen hesitantly.
Bjelke-Peterson reclined in his chair. 'I was thinking...the Joh Bjelke-Peterson Alliance.'

There was a shocked silence. Blunt put his hand up. 'But sir, there are other people in the party than you, you know.'

People averted their eyes from the doomed Blunt. Bjelke-Peterson got up very slowly.

'That is twice you have contradicted me, Lord Blunt', he said dangerously. He pointed at Blunt. 'You will not contradict me again. Take him away, gentlemen. Re-educate him.'

Blunt was dragged out by Bjelke-Peterson's guards. From outside, there were the sounds of violence and screaming. The Cabinet quailed.

'Now then, gentlemen', said Bjelke-Peterson, sitting down again, 'shall there be any objections?'

There was a chorus of 'no's.

'In that case,' he said, 'we shall need a new Parliamentary Secretary.'

***

On Terry's first sitting day of Parliament, twelve people showed up. Five left partway through.

No one really knew why Bruce had kept it; in a nation that constitutionally only had one party with strict party voting rules, a legislature seemed rather silly, not to mention hugely expensive. Bruce had kept it, though, mostly because in his early days he occasionally liked to wax lyrical about how he had 'restored democracy'. Hasluck had prided himself on not turning up to Parliament at all, and most people generally followed suit. These days, it was generally used to sleep off the effects of the members' bar, which had been built next door. Terry turned up every day, simply because rules were important to him.

About a week into the parliamentary, though, the Prime Minister hinted very strongly that turning up might be wise. Miraculously, nearly every member turned up; those who didn't weren't members for long.

A by-election had replaced Blunt, who no one seemed to mention much anymore, with John Bjelke-Peterson, Joh's son. He was currently sitting next to Joh on the front bench, much to Peacock's displeasure.

As soon as everyone had taken their places, Joh got up to speak.

'In my long years as a parliamentarian', he began. 'I have seen many talented individuals. I have seen brilliant men, courageous men, determined men. But one stands out above all.

'This man, this talented and inspired man, is a spark of brightness amidst the darkness of the rest of you. He is, of course, my son, and I'm glad to announce that he shall be our new Minister for Defence!'

There were a few minutes of stunned silence after Bjelke-Peterson sat down. Finally, Bowen tenatively asked the Speaker permission to speak. It was granted.

'Umm...Mr Prime Minister', said Bowen hesitantly, 'not that I would wish to contradict you, but...aren't I the Defence Minister? And...well, if I'm not, shouldn't we discuss these matters in Cabinet?'

Bjelke-Peterson got up smiling.

'I've got a new job for you, Bowen. Important job. A vacant job. You, Mr Bowen, shall be my new Parliamentary Secretary. Good wages, nice hours. I would have told you in cabinet, but I think the Parliament of the nation deserve to know these things, don't you? Practically communist to do otherwise.'

Bowen slumped back into his seat, but not nearly so much as Terry. There'd be an awful lot of sitting on the backbench from then on.

Parliament spent the rest of the day being presented with bills, and unanimously passing them. It was hard to imagine a worse way to pass a day. Parliamentarians, Terry was rapidly coming to realise, were mostly used to keep the seats warm, and had all the usefulness of paperweights.

***

The next day, the Government announced a fresh deployment of troops to New Zealand. The war was becoming increasingly silly; there'd been almost no real fighting for years, and soldiers now spent their time stockpiling weapons, glaring ominously across the Cook Strait, and staring at sheep.

Then the bombs started dropping.

A massive troop movement began across the Cook Strait onto North Island, where they were promptly and predictably blitzed. There were more troops, though. It was unbelievably bloody and made Gallipoli look like a Sunday School class, but they eventually managed to set up a beachhead. Bjelke-Peterson took this time to inform the Axis nations of what he was planning to do; previously, he hadn't thought it important.

The Fuhrer, Kurt Haldweim, went wild at the prospect. They had been using the New Zealand War as a bargaining chip with the Americans; they were going to promise to pull out eventually, in order to gain further concessions. Joh judged this unacceptable, mistaking 'independent allied nation' for 'Axis puppet'. Plans were promptly drawn up for another Hasluck-style coup; they were getting good at it by now.

The stage was set for another coup. Joh knew this; after all, even he knew the war was stupid. The New Guard, unfortunately for them, mistook 'blunt-talking populist' for 'idiot', and paid dearly for it.

The raid began in the early hours of the morning, mid-1978. New Guardsmen loyal to Bjelke-Peterson raided their own offices; this created much understandable confusion, causing them to get away unnoticed. By midday, there was enough incriminating evidence of the Guard's plans to allow Bjelke-Peterson, with the aid of the Governor-General to send in the troops.

The whole affair, while vastly overcomplicated and hugely wasteful, was very successful. New Guardsmen unloyal to Bjelke-Peterson were massacred. Canberra was wrought by screams and gunfire. Hayden was dragged from his office, and never seen again.

Terry had been friends with many of those massacred. Once the police cordon was open, he visited the site. It was...ghastly.

This was too much. What kind of a state allowed the murder of thousands as a way of drawing out traitors, and assassination as a legitimate method of advancement? What kind of a people would let the government do this?

So Terry made a vow, in the crater that had previously been a second home to him. He would restore democracy. He would ensure that no one would die in such a way again.

Oh yes, and he'd become rich, famous and beloved doing it, because he was still Terry Newborn.

***

Terry was mad as hell, and while he was certainly going to take it for a while he certainly wanted people to know how he was feeling. He spent the whole night reading Cicero's Against Verres, and used (well, copied) it to create a devastating indictment of the attack. Ironically, he felt safe in doing so, since there wasn't a New Guard left to police dissidents. Of course, he didn't plan to do such a thing in public; after all, there wasn't a New Guard now, but there certainly would be. No, instead he would go to Joh and...

Well, that was the question. What would he do? He could, theoretically, denounce the attack as rampant paranoia and callous brutality, but then he'd get introduced to a whole lot of callous brutality first-hand. He could denounce him in Parliament, sure, in the hope that he might get some support. This was, of course, not going to happen. Fascism was simply easier. Every day, people across Australia woke up glad that they lived rich, full lives. They had low taxes, they drove expensive German cars, their oil prices were low. They didn't have to worry about pedophiles in the parks, or socialists in the schools, or the Yellow Peril swarming from the north. Fascism had brought Australia unparalleled success. The sun still shone, the corner shops were still open, and people got to pretend this was the way things had always be, and always would be. Sure, they'd given up equality, and democracy, and freedom, but they didn't pay mortgages.

As Terry stared numbly at the desk, he tried to think of a way, any way, in which he could end fascism. It was wrong; he knew it was wrong. They had killed hundreds of thousands, and slaughtered children. They had killed office workers who were just doing their jobs. Terry knew that had he still worked for the New Guard, he would have been mowed down, just like so many good men. They weren't evil; they just had jobs to do, and they did them superbly. But the only really satisfying thing he could think of was to shoot Joh in the head. And if he did that, then not only would he and his family be mowed down, but there wouldn't be a spontaneously democratic uprising; fascism would survive, and the Australian people would accept it, because that was the way things were.

Terry went out into the living room of his small, two-bedroom house, in the suburbs of Canberra. Lynda, by now several months pregnant, was waiting there for him. She was smiling. This came as a shock to him. Had his parents died?

'Come here, Terry,' she said.

Terry edged closer nervously.

'Yes...darling?' he said, trembling. He couldn't help being scared of his wife; for one thing, she was several inches taller than him. The fact that she was being nice to him for now made it even more threatening. She took his hand, and placed it on her pregnant stomach.

He felt a kick. And suddenly, all his worries vanished. He looked up at her, grinning. He couldn't remember ever grinning.

'Is that...?'
'Yes, dearie, that's him.'
'How do you know?'
'Oh, the doctors have ways of telling. It's always best to know. Think about it, Terry. Your son.' She smiled; it was like the sun coming out.

He got up. 'What are we going to name him?'
'Well, isn't it obvious? Stanley, of course. Or Bruce. Bruce is a nice name, isn't it?'

He stared at her in horror. Luckily, at that moment there was a knock on the door. Terry hurried away, still aghast.

Outside, there were three men, all wearing heavy coats. One grabbed Terry, and forced him away. Lynda struggled up, and saw Terry being pulled into a black car. He looked up at her; she blinked away tears, and closed the door.

***

There was no conversation in the car. The men were obviously New Guardsmen who had stayed loyal to Joh; Terry thought he recognised one or two. They didn't talk.

The car pulled over at the Lodge. Terry was escorted out. There were no guns in sight; obviously, they thought they wouldn't be needed.

Inside, Terry was taken into a small meeting room. There was the Prime Minister, sitting behind a desk and looking very pleased with himself. Gorton was in a corner, grinning like a Cheshire cat. And sitting in front of the desk was, of all people, the American ambassador. Terry had seen him often; of course, the ambassador had never seen him.

Terry felt deeply, deeply disoriented.

Joh got up, and shook Terry's hand vigorously. 'Ah, Mr Newborn, you're just in time. Please. Take a seat.'

There wasn't a seat for him to take, but Joh was obviously trying to be polite. Terry indicated he'd prefer to stand.

Gorton swaggered forwards out of a corner. 'Bit of a complication, Terry. See, the Prime Minister here, a man after my own heart, was informed that as a result of certain policy switches he'd made the New Guard were planning to replace him with, of all people, me! This wasn't to be born, of course. You understand.'

'No,' said Terry bemusedly. 'No, I don't.'
'Ah, but you will, Terry! See, I have no intention of becoming PM. Never did. So I told the PM here what they were planning, and so he used a lovely bit of bait to squirrel them out. And it worked, you see!'
'But...I thought the New Zealand invasion was the policy switch...'
'Oh no. Oh no no no. See, we've been planning this for a long, long time. The fact that Germany got fed up with Hasluck was just a nice bit of luck. We would have acted sooner or later. This policy switch has been in the works since before Joh was PM! A few agents in the New Guard got wind, however, and THAT'S why we had to burn down the house. Shame, that, but a time like this demands tough action, Terry.'
Terry stared at him. 'You planned to wipe out your entire organisation...the organisation you worked at for 17 years...and you...' Terry began to stutter. This was too confusing. You could only have a certain level of plot and counterplot before it began to get silly.

Joh sat down. 'Let me spell it out for you in simple terms, Mr Newborn. We planned a massive overhaul of the entire structure of government. The New Guard, the parliamentary service, the state governments...these are all reactionary organizations. The Governor-General, of course; the constitutional arrangements there will be tricky, but we think we can manage it. Every group that stands our way we will destroy. Simple as that. They can't grasp the future!'
'Then...sir...what is the future?'
The American ambassador turned around, and gave Terry an avuncular smile. 'Fascism is a nice concept, Mr Newborn, but economically it's a mess. Growth figures don't lie. Our growth has been going up, yours has been going down. The Axis GDP is still higher than ours, but we predict that by 1990-'

Terry stared at Joh in shock. 'You're allying with them. You...you're becoming capitalist.'
'Oh, don't you worry about that, Mr Newborn. Of course we're not becoming capitalist. Mr Ambassador here simply wants to see it in terms favourable to his side.'
'But you are allying with them.'
Gorton grinned, and slapped Terry on the back. 'I'm going to be an ambassador, Terry, can you believe that? Ambassador to the United States of America! Ain't that something?' He switched a tack. 'But we need men like you in the new administration. Joh wanted you killed, but I spoke up for you. You'll go far in the new Australia, mate. The entire world's about to go topsy-turvy!'
'Congratulations, Mr Newborn!' cried Joh. 'You have been able to witness the birth of the Australian-American alliance!'

Terry stared at them all in shock. It was Machievellian, but in a way that made Machiavelli look like Dad and Dave.

Terry was smart enough to know, for starters, that the whole plan was the work of men smarter than both Joh and Gorton. Grey little bureaucrats, probably, who kept track of facts and figures. Men much like him.

The whole thing would be flawless. They attacked the Americans, thus giving them a bargaining chip to start the alliance; namely, the end of the attack. The people of Australia wouldn't revolt over it; they were comfortable, they had high incomes, they had low taxes. There would be no reason.

It all unfolded in front of Terry, like some grisly tableau. Australia would sell itself to the highest bidder, allying with whoever suited its purposes. Britain would try to regain Australia; America would defend them. War would break out. And this time, both sides had nuclear weapons.

It would be horrifying, on a scale unseen in human history. London, Berlin, New York, Chicago; all would be cast into fire. And Australia, humble Australia at the end of the earth, would be spared. By the end, there would be no other powers left to take it.

The man on the other side of the table, the kindly old grandfather who exuded hospitality and Christian virtue, was planning for Australia to conquer the world.

'Wow.'

***

There wasn't much more to say in the meeting. After they were benevolently dismissed by Joh, Terry hurried Gorton out.

'John, what the hell do you-'
Gorton shushed him angrily, and escorted him outside. They got into Gorton's private car; Gorton shut and locked the door. He ordered his driver to take him to Terry's house, and turned to Terry.

'OK, first up, I'm Mr Gorton, or Ambassador Gorton. Not John, kid. And second, don't talk in the Lodge, OK? Not even private chats. You should know that, kid, or else you're not half as smart as I thought you were. Now, what were you going to say?'

Terry was instantly deflated; half a decade of being Gorton's toady had hardwired some behavioural patterns into him. He quickly recovered, however.

'OK, Ambassador Gorton, what the hell do you think you're playing at?'
Gorton leaned forward, and poured himself a glass of sherry. He sipped it nonchalantly.
'I thought I explained it pretty well, myself. We're realigning Australia in line with future strategic directions. Haven't a clue what all that means, of course, but I'm a public servant, Terry, and I always have been. I do my job.'
'Oh, so what part of the job description involved tossing out Hasluck?'
'The bit that meant I do what's best for my country, kid. Joh has a vision.'
'He doesn't just have visions, he has hallucinations!'
Gorton turned to Terry, grinning. 'What's got you so free-thinking all of a sudden, kid? In the old days, you used to order people shot for saying stuff like that.'
'John, please, listen to me,' pleaded Terry, temporarily reverting to the familiar term. 'You can't believe this is a good thing. Allying with America is a stupid idea, and you know it. You'll just start a goddamn nuclear conflagaration!'
Gorton took a swig of sherry. 'Imagine two ships, kid. Both of them heavily armed, both of them on a collision course, both with drunk helmsmen and psychotic captains, in a very small space of water. Now, sooner or later, whatever you do, there's going to be a damn big explosion. You can't escape it; all you've got to do is ride it out.'
'You don't know that's going to happen.'
Gorton smiled sardonically. 'Yes, I do. We like to use fuzzy maths, kid, but you've seen the predictions. Hell, the goddamn American Ambassador started yapping on about them before we shut him up. The Reich is slowing to a halt. Already, unemployment is rising for the first time in decades. Sooner or later, the Americans are going to kick us when we're down, and they're going to kick us hard. We're taking the initiative here, kid.'
Terry snorted. 'So you're doing this for the good of international fascism? I never saw you as an ideologue.'
'Never was, kid, just a patriot. Do you really think I'd be signing onto this if I didn't think it was in Australia's interests?'
'So you start a global nuclear war. The economy and environment of the planet get destroyed. But that doesn't matter, because at home interest rates don't rise.'
'Exactly, kid. At the end of the day, my responsibility to the Australian people is to make sure tomorrow is pretty much the same as today. Like it or not, a nuclear war now is the safe option. I mean, picture yourself in ten years, kid. The economy's a mess, unemployment's hit the ceiling, interest rates have gone to levels that shouldn't even be possible. Do you really think old Sir Joh in the Lodge'll last long in conditions like that? And where he goes, the Nats'll be right behind. And that'll be the end of us, Terry. I spent 20 years fighting for fascism in this country, and I would kill every goddamn living soul on this planet to protect her people. Nothing else matters, kid.'
'So you're going to blow up the planet to keep down interest rates. Is that it?'
'Couldn't have put it better myself.'

Terry leaned forward. He grabbed some sherry from Gorton's drinks cabinet. Gorton laughed.

'Hey, you're improving at this, kid. You've never taken some of-'
Terry threw the sherry in Gorton's face. He ordered the driver to pull over, and stormed out.

Gorton stared at him in shock. The alcohol was beginning to stain his suit.
'Who the hell do you think you-'
Terry spun around. 'You want to talk about duty, Jolly John? I know you hate that name. What part of going to bed at midday was your duty?'
Gorton got up angrily. 'Don't you dare-'
'I have a duty to the constitution and to the people of this country. You're a senile old fool, John, and you're working with a man who wants to blow up the world. Goodbye, Mr Ambassador. Don't try to contact me.'

Terry stormed off into the night. It was beginning to rain. Gorton lunged out of his car.

'I built you, Mr Newborn! I took a scrawny kid who couldn't face up to a paper bag and I made him, Mr Newborn! Don't you dare-'

Terry was already out of hearing range. He began to run. He arrived home shortly afterwards. Lynda, shocked, embraced him. As they stood in the living room, Terry began to hold back sobs.

Things had really hit the fan.

***

Even though Terry was facing his impending death, he still felt the need to go to work. After all, when he was shot for treason, he didn't want a stain on his employment record. That statement tells you pretty much everything you need to know about politicians in general.

When he arrived in Parliament, the other MPs nodded and smiled at him. Obviously, they didn't know about what had happened last night yet. Terry saw their smug, self-satisfied faces, and hated every single one of them. They were so comfortable. Even when they had a lunatic for a Prime Minister, who cared so long as they had regular salaries, and secretaries, and pensions? Politics truly was 'the conduct of public affairs for private advantage', but even public affairs had gone out of it. These people knew they were frauds, knew they were servants of an evil and corrupt system, and yet as long as today was the same as yesterday and that tomorrow would be the same as today, they were content to smile and nod.

Terry went to his office, where his secretary told him to go to the Prime Minister's office. Terry slumped against the wall, trying desperately to prevent himself from crying.

It hadn't meant to be like this. He was going to be loved; people were going to respect him, and treat him as an equal. All he had ever wanted was respect. But somewhere along the way...maybe in the endless deserts of Woomera, or in the crater that was the New Guard...he had realised respect wasn't everything. Why did he have to be the first ever goddamn politician to ever believe in something? Cicero, Disraeli, Gladstone, Halifax, Bruce; all these men were avaricious cunning rats, and they'd become damned near saints as a result. Why couldn't Terry be like them? Why couldn't he get over the screams in the cages in Woomera, or his visions of cities in flames?

Finally, Terry went to go see Joh. He entered his office hesitantly. There were no smiles this time.

'Sit down, Mr Newborn', said Joh. Terry had no choice but to obey.
Joh leaned forward. 'I've received some very serious complaints about you, Terry. From a dear and trusted friend of mine. Questions have been raised, Terry, about your commitment to fascist ideals.'

Terry tried to raise his head high. He couldn't. He was back in high school, being lectured by the principal...

Joh spread his arms. 'Fascism is not merely an ideology, Mr Newborn, nor is it a system of government. It is the natural order of things. We live in a world of order and control, and we must accept our place in it. I believe, Terry'-his eyes were shining-'that Australia must take our place on the higher stage of nations. We chose fascism, not through conquest, but through the unity of the Australian people. We could bring civilisation to the world, Terry! Imagine it! Aurora Australis, the Southern Cross flying high over the savages of the East Indies and China and India...and beyond, Terry. We have a mission to enlighten the world.'

Terry could barely hear; he was too stuck in his own apocalyptic fantasies. Yes, the Southern Cross would rise, but there would be no one left to rise over. Cold stars, shining on a dead world...

'You would kill millions', he said quietly.
'I regret that deeply', said Joh. 'But we live in a world of survival of the fittest. Where only those who God decrees to survive can survive. We have purged this Earth, Terry, of the natives, of the Jew, of the Indian. And all around you, you see the rewards. Your car is made of iron mined by Indian slaves. Your suit is made of cotton, picked by starving, broken Africans. Our prosperity rests on the subjugation of the world beneath our feet. Yes, I would bring about war. I do not deny it. I glorify in it. Fascism would finally triumph, breaking down all barriers, ending all wars...an eternity of peace, Terry. The old powers would fall, and we would rise. It is the natural order of things, Terry, and it always has been.'

Terry looked up, hesitantly. He met Joh's eyes. He was finally brave enough. 'The people won't stand for it', he said.

Joh smiled benevolently. 'Go to the window, Terry.'

Terry got up, and looked out. Over Parliament, the sun was shining. There were people on the streets; happy, contented people. The city glowed in the morning sun. The streets were full of shining cars, fine clothing, expensive jewelry...

At the cost of millions of lives, and freedom, Terry reminded himself. But what did that matter? Fascism and brutality had brought mankind what it had never had before: peace. And after Joh's insane gambit, it would be an eternal, everlasting peace. There would no advancement, no dissent: mankind would be forever stuck in the 1940s. The sun would age, resources would dry up, the stars themselves would die. But people would still cling, remorselessly, to what they had.

Australia had tried democracy. But the people were too small minded, too bitter, too fearful of the unknown to accept it. They had seen the future, and they had turned away from it. In the end, they had chosen safety, to flee from choice. Maybe not wisely, but they had chosen. Could Terry really deny that?

Joh got up, and placed a grandfatherly hand on Terry's shoulder. 'I don't deny that my policy will cause devastation of a scale never before witnessed. In the end, even Australia may suffer. But I know you can see what I see. A world of peace, of security, of faith. I know that you're a bright young man, Mr Newborn, and that you will accomplish great things. Your death at this point would be a greater tragedy than the destruction of billions of worthless lives. So I will ask you. Just once, Mr Newborn, just once. Will you join me in achieving this world?'

He was tempting. Oh, he was tempted. To say no, to storm out, to face the consequences. Sure, he would die, but he would die nobly, a death for principles and honour and liberty...a death that would perhaps redeem that he had joined a regime that thought nothing of the slaughter of innocents.

But, in the end, Terry knew there was only one option.

'Yes', he whispered.

***

The next morning, Australia's 'realignment' was announced. Terry watched the footage in grainy black-and-white on his television. Curiously, the Americans hadn't commented yet. Over dinner, he discussed it with Lynda.

'I think it's a wonderful thing, really', she said, cutting up steak.
Terry looked at her quizzically. 'The other day you said that the Germans were wonderful people, and that joining the Axis was the best thing we ever did.'
'Did I? Really?' She looked at him archly. 'That's your problem, Terry; you've always got to be so literal. What does it matter what I said back then? The important thing is what the National Front thinks. I mean, really, imagine a world without them, Terry. There'd be anarchists, sodomites, pacifists, a complete and utter mess. If they think this is for the best, then of course it's for the best. Don't be silly.'

That night, America's response came.

There was footage of President Nixon, now in his third term, shaking hands with Kurt Haldweim; of course, Himmler was still technically Fuhrer, but the media tended not to mention him these days. It was inconvenient to admit that the benevolent dictator of half the world could no longer write his own name. The deal was, in the end, almost laughably simple; America would give Germany 'protection over Australia', and in return the New Zealand war would end. America had only become Australia's 'great and powerful friend', at least for a little while, just so they had another pawn in the Great Game of international diplomacy. It was a marvelous diplomatic move. Nuclear war was averted, at least for a little while; both sides had long since decided it simply wasn't cost-effective.

In Parliament the next day, Joh announced that Australia 'would not give up its sovereignty to foreign intervention'. No one noticed. His dreams of a vast, reactionary Australian empire were simply the products of a man who had been humoured for far too long.

The Australian public sensed the change in mood. For 30 years, they had tolerated a brutal, autocratic regime, just as long as the trains ran on time. Now, things were becoming far too unpleasant for their liking. After all, they were willing to accept the deaths of Asians and Jews and dissidents and people who looked at the New Guard the wrong way, but if the Germans had their way they could kill real people, like shopkeepers or grocers. It simply wasn't to be borne. After all, if Joh continued to defy the Germans (as many of their demands involved his head on a pike, this was a likely scenario), then there might be an economic embargo. Where would they get their appliances from now? Oh yes, and there would of course be massive economic upheaval, but whitegoods were the major issue.

Protests began in the streets against Bjelke-Peterson. These weren't motivated by any real principle, but, like most events in history, out of sheer self-interest. The street lights had to be kept shining, and fascism had proved itself finally incapable of doing that. The protests were crushed, of course, but no amount of brutality could end the single most fundamental principle of Australian politics: namely, that the populace would put up with any amount of nepotism, corruption, eccentricity, and plain savagery from their governments, but they will never tolerate high interest rates.

***

The cabinet were meeting without Joh; a minor act of treason, but nothing compared to the last few days. Gorton had been invited, but he was sunk in gloom in a corner. Peacock was chairing the meeting.

'The whole thing's a disaster', he said airily. 'Germany have demanded Joh step down. This whole thing's been very good for them; I wouldn't be surprised if they orchestrated it, personally. They get to put off war with the Americans, stop the just simply awful things going on in Kiwiland and show us who's boss. Really, the only problem with the whole thing is the bit where our heads get stuck on pikes.'

John Bjelke-Peterson, Joh's son and posterboy for Nepotism International, piped up. 'But surely-'
'Oh, be quiet, kid.' Gorton looked up. His face was dark; the scars seemed etched in deeper than ever. 'We got above ourselves. We imagined that we were big boys, that people cared what we thought. We stuffed up, and it's all thanks to your dad.'
A minister laughed heartily. 'Really, John? That's an awfully generous approach from a man who was all for these measures before.'
'Things change,' snapped Gorton. 'We were trying to keep the economy running high, even if it took the rest of the world to do it. We stuffed up. And the only way any of us are going to live to a ripe old age-well, older, anyway-is if Joh doesn't reach it with us.'

There it was. The unspoken thought. Sure, awful things had happened in the past in the name of political advancement, but this was unprecedented. Assassinating a Prime Minister? To the cabinet, professional toadies to a man, the notion was...unpardonable.

John Bjelke-Peterson stood up. 'How dare you? My father is the Prime Minister of-'
Gorton clicked his fingers. His two retainers, former New Guardsmen who had escaped the purge through Gorton's favour, picked John up by the arms and pulled him out of Cabinet. Gorton smiled, satisfied. 'Well, not for long, kid.'

Peacock piped up. 'What if we ran a scare campaign?'
Gorton rolled his eyes. 'We've been running a scare campaign for 30 years. We've taught people to fear socialists, communists, unionists, Chinese, Japanese, Americans, Russians, Jews, natives, Slavs, Islam, Catholicism, the mentally ill, refugees, water pollution, and recently abnormally small ducks. What the hell can we make people fear next?'
Peacock shrugged. 'It doesn't have to be anything per se. Just fear in general?'
Gorton snorted. 'For gods sakes, this is ridiculous. You're the best and brightest of the nation?'

A minister interjected. 'Technically, sir, the best and brightest in the nation are the ones the New Guard watch out for. You can't be too careful.'
Gorton smiled. 'Exactly. Anyone smart enough to work out how to save this country is smart enough to know it can't be saved, at least not with Don't You Worry About That at the helm. We have elected the worst politicians, elevated the most incompetent scientists, and run a country based on the notion that the 1920s were nice, so why don't we go back there? People are sheep, gentlemen, but only so long as they have grass. The only way fascism in this country can be saved-and it must be saved-is if Joh isn't.'

Peacock looked disgusted. 'But what do you want us to do?'
Gorton smirked. 'Watch and learn, Peacock, watch and learn.'

***

Terry stayed glued to the television for the month after the ‘realignment’, to Lynda’s immense annoyance. The news were, of course, heavily censored for reasons of national security, but Terry had been a censor for years; he knew how to interpret subtext. From what he could see, things were heating up; the economy was, finally, buckling under the strain of three decades of economic policy thought up by talentless yes-men. The country looked in danger of fragmenting. Even so, Terry could not bring himself to rejoice in or mourn the death of fascism; to him, these things no longer mattered. He had tried principle once, and had been found wanting. Now, he was where he belonged: just another cog in a vast administrative machine.

He found himself quarrelling with Lynda less. He realised numbly that she was the face of the new Australia; shallow, obsessed with success, possessing all the trappings of piety, superficial. She couldn’t march against the government, of course; she was a public servant, and thus not entitled to any opinions whatsoever. But even she had started complaining after the local shop had closed down, ever since German exports had stopped. That was Joh’s mistake, he realised; even change in the name of conservatism would never be tolerated. It would have seemed a fitting fate to Terry, but he could no longer bring himself to care. It was not the evil of Joh’s plan the public objected to, but its grandiosity; they were a country of dwarves, where once they had been giants. Australia, in the end, was a country that preferred accountants to idealists; the population depended on government for their security and for their wealth, but beyond that it was simply an annoyance. Sure, you couldn’t whinge as much as you used to, and the streets were full of police, but, really, in the end of the day, it all came down to interest rates. It always had.

On one of his brief jaunts to his office, in between watching the television and listening to Joh’s mad speeches in Parliament, Terry met Gorton in the lobby. He began to back away, but Gorton, scowling, got up and walked towards him. Terry realised, for the first time, that Gorton wasn’t all that intimidating after all; he was 66 years old, walked with a limp, needed a cane and whose back seemed to perpetually ache. But it wasn’t Gorton’s appearance that made him so truly frightening.

Terry backed up against a wall. ‘S-shall we go into my office?’ he stammered.

Gorton grinned. ‘Good idea. Kid.’

Inside, Terry tried to pour Gorton a cup of tea (he didn’t keep alcohol in his office, or indeed at all), but his hands shook too badly. Damn it, why should this absurd little man hold such power over him? He’d thrown a drink in Gorton’s face, and rejected all his mad little schemes; he was his own man now, free and independent.

Except, of course, he knew that he wasn’t. He had worked for Gorton for 6 years, the formative years of his adult life. Everything he was came from those years. Even if he had tried to redeem himself, to atone for the darkness that lurked in his soul from too many memos of death, he had thrown it all away in his conversation with Joh. He had made his stand for principles, and he had failed; he had given himself up to comfort and political expediency. Even as he stared at Gorton, he knew that he was powerless to resist.

Gorton got up, and walked slowly around the room. ‘Joh likes you, kid, even if I think you’ve gotten way too big for your boots. He wants you to come in to watch a Cabinet meeting. Just to see how it’s done. That’ll be our opportunity.’

‘Opportunity for what?’

‘He wouldn’t suspect you. No one could suspect you, kid; you’ve skinny, you’re scrawny, and you’ve got all the courage and moral fiber of a rat in a charnel house.’

‘That metaphor doesn’t even make sense!’

‘Hey, it works for me. You can get close enough to put out both his guards. We trained you in guns, kid; even if you weren’t a field operative, you’ll still be good enough for the goddamn army rejects Joh keeps around him. Then you’ll have to duck.’ Gorton grinned widely. ‘The whole cabinet have had enough of Joh. If you don’t move quick, you’re going to get minced.’

Terry stared at Gorton, horrified. ‘You’re planning to kill the Prime Minister?’

‘Well, most of us; that kid of Joh’s has been persuaded not to tell Daddy Dearest, and in return we might even keep him alive. Then we end the whole policy. Simple. Sweet.’

‘You were all for the policy just a few weeks ago!’ shouted Terry

‘Don’t start that again. What the hell does it matter what I said before? We decide the past, kid. If we say Chifley was a socialist tyrant, then he was a socialist tyrant. It’s not that that’s what it looks like, it’s that that’s what it was.’

Terry was shaking. Even after all he had done, this was still too much. Of course, in a technical sense you could say he had committed hundreds, maybe even thousands of murders, with pens and stamps and memos; but that wasn’t real. It was just his job, just another way of paying a mortgage. This time, it would be his bullets, his actions that killed two men; men, Terry knew, who were just like him, just doing their jobs. This was treason. He would see Joh’s dead eyes, hear the horrible sound as his last gasp left his bloodied mouth…

Terry had given up so much for his dream. But now…now he would betray not only his country, but the very ideals of politics. What was the point, after all, of Parliament if prime ministers were decided by gunfire and treason? What was the point of a Prime Minister if, in the end, nothing could change? What was the point of Australia if it stood for nothing, achieved nothing, but was merely an empty stage that could be befouled as its players saw fit to achieve hollow glories?

Terry knew that, in doing this final act of desecration, he would be finally ending any hope of redemption for himself. He would be a traitor, a murderer, a cynic. But, he realised, that was what politics was all about. The conduct of public affairs for private advantage. Who had said that? How different was this from what he done to Hawke, or what Gorton had done to Whitlam? He had already sold his soul long, long ago; this was merely, as it were, the crowning touch.

And so Terry finished his slide into a most banal evil. One sin is always just as excusable as another; you committed one wrong, then another to make up for it, and another, and another, and another…until, finally, you stared in the mirror and saw nothing there. And then you were called a ‘statesman’.

‘I’ll do it’, Terry said quietly.

***

On the big day, Terry dressed nervously. He wore a formal, double-breasted suit; after all, today he would be meeting the Prime Minister. Unfortunately, there wasn’t a formal outfit for Prime Ministerial assassins; this was new ground.

Lynda kissed him goodbye, formally. He realised, dimly, that she wasn’t a particularly bad wife; she was a good cook and cleaner, she was moderately attractive while not outstanding, and he was sure she’d be a good mother to Stanley (they’d decided, in the end, that Bruce was simply ‘too uncivilized’, in the standard war cry of the nouveau riche). It was simply that she wasn’t anything else; she held no opinions beyond those which John Howard told her, no fashion beyond those of the 1920s (there was a steady movement backwards in fashion; after all, the previous 1930s movement reminded people too much that perhaps things weren’t as glorious under Lyons as they had been taught to believe), and simply no ideas. She was a average wife to a average politician in a country that encouraged, positively embraced, averageness.

Terry drove out, slowly. At a prearranged point outside the German embassy, he was provided with a revolver by a plain correspondent, someone so grey and so featureless that he was bound to attract attention.

Terry arrived early to the meeting. Joh’s minders didn’t bother to frisk him down. Whether this was because he had New Guard clearance or was simply unimportant, Terry didn’t know. He suspected the latter. Joh arrived with a gaggle of cabinet ministers in tow. Gorton, Terry noticed, wasn’t there; even though he was technically retired, this was unusual. Gorton wielded vast influence, not only because he knew about the skeletons in the cupboard but because he still had the power to make you one of them.

‘Ah, Terry!’ Joh beamed. ‘You got my message. So pleased you could be here.’

Joh turned to the cabinet, still looking radiant. ‘Now, I know there’s been a lot of focus from un-Australian elements in society about instability and recession, but you all know that’s nonsense, so I won’t bother about it. I mean, who knows why interest rates go up and down?’

It was a rhetorical question, but Peacock, technically the Treasurer, still took a stab at it. ‘Prevailing economic conditions?’

Joh glared at him. ‘You know I’ve never agreed with any of that voodoo nonsense. I’m here to say that I’m sure none of the current situation has anything to do with our current relationship with Germany. Australia has a great future, gentlemen, don’t you worry about that!’

And that, Terry reflected, was precisely the problem. Joh was grandiose. Megalomaniacal. A visionary, although mostly in the sense that Emperor Norton was a ‘visionary’. He saw a great future for Australia, but that was precisely the problem; people didn’t want a great future for Australia, just as they hadn’t wanted democracy. Terry realised at that moment that Joh had to die. The ultimate fascist ideologue would fall victim to his own contradiction; trying to enforce ideology on a system that was, ultimately, all about one thing: power. Power for the sake of power, over race and class and ultimately mankind. Terry, in clearing the path, would save a system he hated.

His mind flicked back to the conversation he’d had with the Prime Minister, just a few weeks ago (was it only weeks? It seemed like years…) Joh had offered him power; a chance for respect, to be remembered. He’d said ‘Your death at this point would be a greater tragedy than the destruction of billions of worthless lives’. That was really what fascism was all about: survival of the fittest. Sure, Joh would die, his bodyguards would die, but Terry would survive. He may commit horrible actions, but nothing would stick. He could still sleep at night, knowing that he had survived for another day. And so he acted.

He drew quickly, just like he’d been trained to do. The first shot hit one guard in the neck; he fell, screaming. A horrible way to die. The next started to draw, but he was too slow. He was hit, twice, in the chest. Terry felt sick. There was a throbbing in his ears and a pain in his stomach. He could barely hold the gun for shakes.

Joh turned around, alarmed. ‘What the hell is going on?’ he screamed.

After that, it was on for young and old. Terry dived for the ground as the cabinet, long grown resentful of patronizing and nepotism, charged at the Prime Minister. It was sickening, brutal. The death of Caesar, but not for principles; for advantage and resentments and simple bloodlust.

Terry noticed, absently, that some blood had splattered onto his suit. He brushed at it, but it simply spread onto his hands. He tried to wipe them off, but the blood kept getting everywhere. He couldn’t think, he couldn’t breathe. They said politics was war by other means; that was wrong. Politics was war by the same means. And Terry had loved it. Wasn’t this all he had ever wanted?

Finally, the whole ordeal ended. Gorton came in. The cabinet composed themselves, wiping bits of the former prime minister off their shoes and suits. To them, it was simply another political tactic; no different from leaking a memo or the parliamentary invective of a previous age. They were a culture that had grown to tolerate, and then to embrace, brutality.

Gorton clapped Terry on the shoulder. ‘Well done, kid. I’m proud of you. Guess I didn’t rub off after all, right?’

Terry stared at him. In the background, Peacock was being voted, by acclamation, Prime Minister. He was grinning, although carefully; he didn’t want wrinkles, after all.

Afterwards, Terry just sat there, staring. The body had been wheeled away; they would make him ‘retire with dignity’, although obviously not too fondly. The public had to be placated.

And then, before him, Terry saw a vision. A vision of himself.

He would come into cabinet after this; he may have only been 25, but an awful lot of former ministers would be deeply embarrassed by their support for Joh. Slowly, he would rise through the ranks; he would grow more and more cynical, more and more brutal in his tactics. He harbored no hope for Stanley; he would grow up clinical and depraved, never having known democracy, not caring for politics or art or philosophy or indeed anything beyond pure, corporate greed. Terry knew this. After all, he would be a chip off the old block.

Terry knew, with all his heart, that one day he would inevitably become Prime Minister; maybe it would come from unseating Peacock, maybe the one after him. He would be crowned, he would be celebrated, and then, inevitably, he would be forgotten. He would be a grey little Prime Minister, in a country that would quickly fill up with them; a country with no hopes, no dreams, no future but the past. And so Terry saw himself in his final convalescence; his Prime Ministership long past, his fleeting glory forgotten. He would have accomplished nothing, achieved nothing, believed in nothing. No religion, no country, nothing but the pure instinct to dominate, to survive. He would become fascism, greyer of worlds.

And, Terry realised, that was all he had ever wanted.

© Douglas McDonald, 2006

Postscript:

This story was written from September to November 2006. It was inspired by a thread by a poster named Redem on Alternate History.com, based on what Britain would have been like under Nazi occupation. I speculated what would happen to Australia if Britain fell, and more specifically what a Nazi Australia would be like. This was the result.

Along the way, much (including large portions of my original concept, thanks to David Atwell’s proofreading and comments) has changed, but I’m pretty happy with the finished result. The final draft is 23 449 words long and 45 A4 pages, thus putting it smack in the middle of that most dreaded of concepts: the novella, too short for a novel yet too long for a short story. I would like to stress that I have no intention of publishing this any time soon, and that this may just be a first draft.

Although the ending may seem a bit abrupt, I feel this is the only appropriate way to end it. Terry has finally sold his soul to the fascist system, embracing, in the end, cold-blooded murder in his road to success. Anything after that would be simply continuing from rock bottom; Terry’s moral degradation is already complete. For those of you who would have wished to see him redeemed, I had my cake and ate it too; I gave him the chance of redemption, in Joh’s office, and he chose fascism. If you believe differently, then you are of course invited to make up your own last paragraph. In future drafts, I may even choose to do so. For now, no sequel is planned, due to my heavy school workload; however, this may change, depending on demand and whether I feel that a future story about the Advanceverse (see, it even has its own name!) would be rewarding.

Now, of course, the gritty legal issues. I do not intend defamation to any of the very real people involved in this story, and it is not my intent to imply that any of them are, or have ever been, fascists (with the exception, of course, of Himmler). I mean no offense to anyone contained within this story; however, I believe that it can be defended under satire, especially considering that this story is less about a Nazi Australia, in the end, than about analyzing the Australia we live in. However, if I were to ever publish this, I would of course change all the names. Once again, I apologise for any offense caused, but I chose these names because, I believe, it really would have been like this. I feel that fictional characters would not have had the same impact.