Step by Step/Issue 51

This is Issue #51 of Step by Step. This is the third issue of Volume Nine.

Caesar
It was Patrick Hughes who had made the arrangements for the day's events. Hours of calling up allies had left him with exhausted lungs, and he was barely conscious as he sat with a leg over the other opposite the table of Blaine McConnell. Outside the crowds of thousands had been seated in the royal stadium. The governor had done well this day. Ten minutes had taken to sit down and get caught up on the details. Called the Party officials? The youngest had arrived. This soldier of the old guard was good, thought Blaine, and it was no doubt that his slippery art of persuasion had saved his life over the years enough to shield him from Party hate of the old guard. Blaine McConnell smiled. Private Hughes had died, and this was corpse who had sold his heart to the devil for thirty silvers.

Hughes smiled as well, as if he could read minds. "The state press was notified first," he began. "Propaganda pamphlets were printed by dawn, ready to be passed out during the morning food lines. I paid dozens of canvassers, had men on the streets shouting. All canvassers were told to regroup at my home. There was one incident," Patrick paused and let McConnell reach for the bottle of brown cognac on the table. "One canvasser went missing. A young guy. Sixteen. I had some men track the whereabouts."

"Haven't told Cleon?" McConnell said, forcing cognac down his throat with a disgusting gulp.

Patrick licked his bottom lip. "It could have been a defection. I paid them well, but you never know. I wouldn't think it was a hit, not on some minimum wager. I could see it being a defection, a spy from the old ranks in the Party."

"You know how it is," McConnell said. "You're a kid, get some quick money while making your mama proud. Then you get a tug on the sleeve, some whisper in the ear of a better job, cash money. Betrayal is cheap and has direct deposit," he said, offering the former soldier a swallow, something he rarely did and only to provoke hidden flaws under the skin of snakes like this boy.

Patrick said he had to remain sober. The door opened with a click of a lock, and entered Cleon Smith undressing him aggressively down to undershirt and walked to the table, laying out his damp uniform on the table. "They think I'm a fool," Cleon grumbled, the sweat and rage on his face extreme. Blaine McConnell raised him the cognac, and the nephew took it with hot temper.

"What could it be?" Blaine asked Patrick, and Cleon looked at the two with bloody steam from his eyes. "Everything's in order, and hot damn do we have an audience. Patsy outdid himself on this," he said, and Cleon slammed the bottle on the table and he reached at him with both hands. The governor of the glorious capital couldn't react. Cleon stood there menacingly, the muscles bulging on his forearms, squeezing his paws around Blaine's throat. Patrick Hughes watched deadpan. Then Cleon released his throat and Blaine instantly began to struggle for breath, swiping at Cleon as he backed from the table.

"Asshole!" Blaine swore, straining his lungs. "I respect that shit!"

Cleon stood impassively, and stretched his hand. Blaine McConnell took it and shook it proudly, coughing into his other hand.

"I heard," said Patrick. "About the games. How you weren't invited."

"The Party hates me," Cleon began, "Uncle despises me. Why can't he see that I mean well? I want good for what we have as much as him. I loved him. I gave for him. I provided my life for him. Taken lives for him," Cleon continued. "Now he tells me I'm trying to buy him off. Buy him off, can you believe that?"

Blaine nodded and Patrick remained straight-faced. Cleon should be the heir, but the odds of him receiving the mantle of power had inched to none. He looked to Patrick weary eyed. They had taken this execution to heart. Now Cleon had to wipe the spit from his face and continue.

"The canvassers were successful," Blaine commented "One of them defected."

"To where?"

"To the enemy side," Patrick said, and Cleon nodded, knowing this meant to the elder statesmen in the Party.

"You're sure?" Cleon was ripe on details. "Are you positive?"

Patrick nodded and Blaine said, "Must have been a quickie bribe."

"His name?"

Patrick ignored and said, "We'll do everything as planned. This will be something to spice up the capital populace. They'll get a good show, and it'll translate to political clout. You want the moderate Party officials to take notice. As I said, forget your uncle's allies. They will never respect you," he said coldly, and Cleon gulped down the truth.

"How many Party officials showed up?"

"The important ones," Patrick responded. "Most ones who were kids during the revolution. A few who were too young to remember it. They will remember not the blood spectacles, but the number of audience. Turnout. That is key, the support from the mob. A thousand civilians hold the power of one Party official."

"Wrong," muttered Cleon. "The power is with Uncle."

"He favors Blaine."

"Hot damn," Blaine McConnell flushed at the face. "Watch the loose tongue, Patsy. Now Cleon, that's why we are privileged to meet in my office today. Any suspicious agents must have gotten word by now.. Notice your uncle's new protection. We ought to assume the other governors already got word of the games. Must be working overtime to fix together the best team. I ain't too happy with having to put together a team myself. You know, that's where you come in." Blaine winked and Cleon leaned forward. "You assemble a team. Pick some fighters from the sewers or the fields. Some who are on death row to earn some mercy from the people. A great team of real gladiators. You and I, we can be unstoppable."

Cleon Smith's face was impeccable, sharp and his eyes widened with sugary visions. Thoughts of what could be and of what should be raced through his heart and mind. They would be smiling. Come now, they would be smiling and swallowing his orders soon. The Party officials. Those who had denied him any access to the throne, and he would eclipse his jealous father. The envy would give way to fear, and Red Smith would part on his deathbed knowing his nephew would destroy his legacy of firing squads and bayonets to create a new world, a brave new world. Cleon could taste the power, his tongue wrapped in sweet kiss with Irene.

Cleon sighed and said, "Governor, you are a great man. But I cannot accept."

"What!"

"I cannot disrespect my father," he said, turning to face Patrick, raising the half-full bottle of cognac to his mouth, and sending Patsy an impressive wink. "You must understand, it is ethics," Cleon said and paused to drink. But before he could Blaine tossed himself onto Cleon, grabbing him by the shoulders.

"You listen to me and you listen to me good," Blaine spat through his drunkenness, a breath sick with hours of alcohol. "I just made you an other you can't refuse. And you refused. No, Cleon, you will help me. Help me in this."

"Help you? So it's to benefit you?"

Blaine nodded. "I never asked for my position, nor for the promotion. But I'm good as governor. I'm fed well with food, wine, and romp. I wish to retire in that paradise, surrounded by assured money. A leader of the people, that I can't be," Blaine said with an extraordinary dread, and Cleon could tell it was not the tasks of being leader that concerned him. It was a fear too deep, a fear akin to a cow led to slaughter. But Cleon would be gentle this day.

The nephew smiled and took Blaine in a strong embrace of the hand. "My lady is special to me. I love her, and you can figure her love for me. I'd give her the world, if only I was such a man. I kiss her, but I have no gifts to back up my words. You can help me as I help you," Cleon said, and Blaine pressed the hand hard with his. The deal was struck.

That night if all went well, Governor McConnell would ensure that the local movie theater would be closed. Any propaganda reels for the training of the youths would be halted. Cleon Smith and his wife would enjoy the passion of romance under an affectionate title. Blaine would sleep pleasantly knowing his life would be saved. As they were engaged in negotiation, Patrick Hughes figured he would continue helping Cleon, until the last minute. If Cleon was profitable, he would cash him in for a seat at Cleon's table. This was not guaranteed. Cleon could lose the Party and gain the mob, and the mob would ride him to the throne. But through bloodshed and guillotine. Patrick knew of the thirst of the guillotines. Patrick smiled now and congratulated the men, and hoped Cleon would prove less than a fool.

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