<h3 style="text-align: center">Jack


    Believe it or not, after a few weeks at Cabinet Hall, I actually knew what I was doing. At least, I thought I did, and I carried myself like I did, and I had learned to dress in such a way that on the outside I appeared like I did. Gone was the flashy navy suit I had bought, relegated to the closet for nights and weekends only. In its place was the standard gray that seemed to be so common among my administrative set. I carried a notebook, and my handwriting was good, and I generally seemed like a chap that others could rely on.


    As such, my persnickety superior Mr. Depper had actually entrusted me with a few key assignments in the field. One of these assignments was to visit various government facilities, mostly military facilities, where administrators or other personnel were requesting a visit from Cabinet, in order to address some issue that was affecting their production. In the case of the Master Secretary, he usually offered when asked to send Mr. Depper on his behalf, and Mr. Depper now, in turn, sent me. This meant, in a roundabout way, I was something close to the physical manifestation of the Master Secretary of Paxana. That felt quite exciting indeed.


    It was with this excitement of responsibility that I walked into the weapons armory of the Grandhill Army Arsenal with a man named Roger Colbank. Colbank was a Logistics Office administrator, and, although he managed several locations, the Grandhill Arsenal was by far the largest.


    I had never been to Grandhill, and I liked seeing a new city, even if this one did have something of a fishy smell on account of its sizable harbor. We were at a great stride with Colbank as we walked past dozens of rows of Army equipment shelving. "I''m just glad your office is finally getting something done about this," he said to me. "By our estimates, the Army would be short over 4,500 Springbolt rifles and several thousand ammunition cartridges in the event of a full mobilization. What''s the point of a soldier if you don''t have a weapon for him?"


    To illustrate his point, Colbank opened a large rifle rack with a key. Despite it having room for over thirty, there were only six rifles stored within.


    "Well, it sounds like we need more," I said, for lack of anything better to say.


    "Oh, thank you, Mr. Clearwater." Colbank smiled. I realized I had accidentally given him the impression that I would see to correcting this shortfall. Of course, I had no such power. "My gosh," he went on, "you wouldn''t believe how hard it is to just get a clear, simple answer from most of the people in Cabinet Hall."


    I put up two hands to try and calm him from his exultation. "Before we get ahead of ourselves," I said, "I''m just a second assistant. All I can do is pass your concerns to Mr. Depper."


    I was trying to position things such that Colbank would like me and see me as an ally, regardless of whether or not the Master Secretary actually helped him out. It seemed to be working, and Colbank patted my arm. "You sell yourself short," said the man, his disposition sunny. "You''re one door down from the Master Secretary himself. He''s probably one of the most influential men in the entire nation."


    I knew full well that he was probably just saying that so I''d feel responsible for helping him, but I still let it land in my heart. He was right. I was influential. For the first time in over two decades, I was making something of myself, and it was only getting better.


    This was the hubris I carried in my heart on the night I made my first massive mistake.


    I was working late, as I was oft to do, writing a report in longhand cursive on the shortage of Army rifles at the Grandhill Arsenal. In fatigue, I let my hand drop a little, smearing the ink. It wasn''t so bad that I would have to redo the whole page.


    Just at that moment, I heard a noise, and a man I knew as the assistant to the foreign secretary came in looking agitated. After a beat, I remembered his name was Nelson Sailpost. He was a couple years older than myself, roughly Murdoch''s age, but he had none of Murdoch''s grit or warlike sensibility. If anything, he spoke with a sort of overwrought, mothering cadence.


    As he entered, he spotted me in the near-empty office. "Oh, thank heavens someone''s still here," said Sailpost. "What''s your name again?"


    "Jack Clearwater," I said. I was grateful to be far enough away from my father that I did not need to specify ‘Junior.’


    Sailpost went on. "The ambassador from Arcfortdom is here, and I need to go pick up the FS from home so he can come work out this aluminum deal."


    FS was Foreign Secretary—a man named Flinter. He was known to be a bit of an abrasive personality who always worked hard to get the most for the nation.


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    "How can I help?" I asked.


    "Just keep him happy until I get back with Flinter," said Sailpost. "He being the ambassador, of course. He''s downstairs in Flinter''s office."


    I wiped the ink off my hand with a rag and lay the rag down. "Do you want me to pick up Flinter instead?" I asked, standing.


    Sailpost hesitated. "Can you drive a motorcar?" he asked.


    I didn''t want to say no, although I could not. "I''m a quick learner," was my answer.


    Sailpost considered this. "Best not," he said. "Flinter''s door''s unlocked."


    Following Nelson Sailpost''s request, I left my desk and walked downstairs to find the ambassador from Arcfortdom, Paul Ternoir, standing alone. He was tall and pale and wore a black suit. When I walked in, he was observing the personal photographs on the shelves of the Foreign Secretary''s office.


    I bowed deeply. Believe it or not, Ternoir was the first person from the continent I had ever met, and I could immediately tell by his posture and facial features that he was not Paxonim. I felt very excited to have the opportunity.


    "Mr. Ambassador, sir," I said with utmost respect, "I''m Jack Clearwater from the Master Secretary''s office."


    Paul Ternoir returned the bow with some surprise, like he hadn''t been expecting it. He indicated a small statue of an Arcfort woman rider on a horse carrying small cloth flags of Arcfortdom and Paxana. Arcfort was renowned for its riding culture all throughout the Sunberth, and the statue, I presumed, was intended to be a gift from Flinter to his ambassadorship.


    "Is this your doing?" the ambassador asked, pointing to the miniature rider.


    "No, sir," I said. "I imagine the Foreign Secretary arranged for it to be made, sir."


    "I can only guess at the meaning," said Ternoir.


    At this, I took a second glance at the statue, and tried to derive some geopolitical message from the presence of the Arcfortdom and Paxana flags side by side. I swallowed and tried to offer a reply that would not offend the ambassador. "I imagine it means freedom through kinship, sir, the freedom of the open plain."


    Then, falling into it naturally, I decided to recite the first relevant Courtspeech poem that came to my head. I''d always had high marks in Courtspeech, and I knew it was the primary language of Arcfortdom, just as it was the primary language of the Midlands.


    "A rideress carrieth she the banner of she freedom to traverse a broad field open. They the stars and they the fires of camp illuminate they the great people Arcfort."


    Ternoir looked amused at this. I hoped he was pleased as well. "A Paxanan who knows his Courtspeech poetry," he said.


    "It was one of my favorite subjects in school, sir," I told him. "Our Paxanan culture came from the Midlands, too, you know. Centuries ago."


    I said it only as a historical fact, a small point of interest to tie our two peoples together in spirit. At my words, though, Ternoir gave me a quizzical look, as if wary of a trap. "You are not like the others of your people," he said, stepping closer. Then he picked up a framed photo of the Darkland ambassador, Somman Rivachai, shaking hands with mustached Boyd Flinter. Both in the photo were smiling and heavyset.


    I pointed to the ambassador from Darkland and tried to make more conversation. "That''s Rivachai on the left. I met him. I helped on a deal for rubber from Darkland, gaskets and tires for new Paxanan aircraft. With aluminum from Arcfortdom, our nations can have the best Army air wings in the Sunberth."


    "Our nations?" the ambassador asked.


    "Paxana, Darkland, Arcfortdom," I said. "Working together for peace."


    Those exact words, which Ambassador Ternoir later relayed to Boyd Flinter, spelled my doom. Hours later, after Flinter had managed to cool off the whole situation, the FS dragged me back into his office and slapped me hard across the face while Nelson Sailpost watched in horror.


    "Arcfortdom is not a nation!" Boyd Flinter screamed at me. I had made the fatal error of presenting Paxana, Darkland, and Arcfortdom all as co-equals in my remarks. This, apparently, was a very grave taboo.


    "It is a Paxanan protectorate! Eighty thousand Paxanan men died in the dirt and snow of the north to take Arcfortdom from the Vernans and put it under our sphere. Better men than you! And you spit on their graves when you blather this nonsense! Paxana is starving for natural resources. We need every scrap of metal we can get to stand toe-to-toe with the Far West in a fight, and that means we cannot ever give these medieval horse people the idea that they can negotiate against us in trade as a sovereign power!"


    I had never in my life had a man as angry with me as Flinter was that night. As soon as he finished speaking, spit flying into my face, I dropped to the floor at his feet, head down and bowed. "Yes, sir. It won''t happen again, sir," I said.


    I fully expected him to kick me, for all the fury in his throat. "No, it will not," he said, "because you will never get within a hundred feet of this office. The only reason I''m not kicking your ribs is I blame Sailpost more than you for letting an idiot consortium brat into government affairs."


    I heard Nelson Sailpost work up the shaky courage to speak. "I''ll resign if you ask, sir," he said to his boss.


    "And, Clearwater," said Flinter, "if I ever hear a rumor you''re pulling strings against me with your business connections, your father will be thrown so far out of Paxcorp that your parents will be shining shoes at Pax Station before December."


    I kept my nose to the carpet next to his shined shoe. "There won''t be any problems from my family, sir," I promised him. "I''m here on my own, strictly on my own."


    Flinter stepped back and made a gesture to show I could return to my feet. "Get out of here, both of you," he said, "before I really do fire you. Clearwater. The Master Secretary''s office can keep you if they like. But I won''t have you involved in FS duties ever again."


    "Yes, sir. Thank you, sir. Apologies again, sir," I said, and I hurried out of his office with Sailpost beside me.