Don't You Want to Change the World?

‘Senator Fitzsimmons?’
Bryce stopped and turned towards the voice. A young man stood there, early twenties at a guess, and most likely an eight. ‘Yes? How can I help you?’
The man smiled. ‘My name is Philip Dugas. I was wondering if I might have a word with you?’ He stretched out his hand and Bryce shook it.
‘What about?’
Philip leaned in a bit closer than necessary and murmured, ‘Your presidential campaign.’
Bryce frowned. ‘I haven’t got a presidential campaign.’
‘No. But you will, soon. Please, could I tempt you to a spot of dinner somewhere?’
Bryce hesitated. He had never seen this man before, or heard his name. But it couldn’t hurt to hear him out. ‘May I pick the restaurant?’
‘Why, certainly. I imagine you know the restaurants in the area far better than I do.’
‘Good. We can take my car. Mr. Dugas, was it?’
‘Oh, please, Senator. Call me Philip.’
‘All right then, Philip.’ Bryce said his name slowly, trying to gauge from the young man’s reaction whether he might stand a chance of turning this encounter into a sexual one. But either Philip was oblivious or he had the world’s best poker face, because he simply smiled. Bryce did not tell him that he could call him Bryce. Maybe later.
They went to a small restaurant, a particular favourite of Bryce’s, that served Indonesian food. It was crowded and noisy, which was how Bryce preferred it. No way to listen in on conversations, and if this was about business discretion was of the utmost importance. Philip seemed unfazed by the noise or anything else about the little place. He ordered as if he had been there a million times before, barely glancing at the menu. Bryce ordered a chicken stew. Then they were left alone.
‘So,’ he said, folding his hands on the table. ‘My presidential campaign, you said?’
‘Yes. Senator Fitzsimmons, I represent a . . . group. Of people who are unhappy with the current state of things.’
Bryce nodded. This could mean any number of things. ‘Go on?’
‘I’ll be frank. We are a resistance movement. We operate in small groups in all parts of the country. We are made up largely of women and queer folk.’
Bryce raised both eyebrows. ‘You mean . . . homosexuals?’
‘Among others. People who break with sexual or gender norms, if you like. We want change. And we think you can be that change. We know of your . . . proclivities. We’ve watched you, and we believe you to be sympathetic. We want to make you president.’
Bryce leaned back in his seat with a sigh. He wore an astonished expression, and he shook his head. ‘And how do you propose to pull that off?’
‘It’s rather simple. You’re already popular. We want you to be as conservative as you can stomach, get that vote . . . and then we will spread the word among people we know can be trusted of your true agenda, so our sympathisers will vote for you too.’
Bryce laughed. ‘And what is my true agenda, exactly?’
‘Well, you know that better than I. If you were president, what would you want to change?’
‘Hm.’ Bryce licked his lips, suddenly less sure of himself. ‘I . . . would want to give women the vote. And I would like to abolish the caste system and make it so people could love, marry, fuck whomever they wanted. Regardless of sex.’
‘In other words, you’d want equality.’ Philip smiled. ‘And that’s what we want too. So now you see why we want to make you our president. We’ve been working on a strategy for years. A way to get someone with liberal values elected to the highest office. We already have senators and MPs. People we have reached out to and who are ready to vote in favour of equality policies should they be presented. What we need now . . . is you.’
‘Who are these senators and MPs?’
Philip shrugged. ‘I don’t know. Our structure is such that very few of us know who the others are. This to minimise risk of exposure.’
‘Are you . . . are you that resistance group? The group of deviants who were captured down in Sussex a couple of years ago?’
‘That was one of our cells, yes.’ Philip looked sad. ‘A great tragedy. My . . . someone I cared for was executed. Everyone who refused to talk was. We had to double down on security after that. We’re very strict with how we organise things now. This is why I had to contact you in person. All our written communication goes over highly encrypted net connections. Everything else is verbal and face to face. Each member of a cell has another cell that they liaise with. Each cell is independently organised, but we will all back you. Should you choose to run.’ He leaned across the table, folding his hands. ‘Don’t you want to change the world, Senator?’
Bryce hesitated, biting his lip. Then he nodded. ‘Yes.’ He leaned forward. ‘But how do I know I can trust you?’
‘You don’t,’ said Philip simply. ‘But it doesn’t really matter. We won’t contact you. You’ll run your campaign yourself, with whatever staff you choose, in whatever manner you want. We have no intention of interfering. We just want you to get elected and then do exactly what you wanted to do anyway.’
‘You could be recording this conversation.’
‘I could,’ Philip conceded. ‘I’m not, though. I’m not carrying any mobile devices. I’m not online. Frisk me later if you like.’
Bryce regarded the young man for a few moments. Then he spoke again. ‘The person you lost, in the Sussex cell. What was their name?’
Philip’s expression softened. ‘Stella. Stella Lanyard. She was my sister. My half sister. She was . . . she had a lover, a woman who died with her. Vicky Moorhouse. I joined for Stella. I fight for her.’