 
### BACK TO THE BRONZE AGE

Adrien Leduc

Copyright © 2012. Adrien Leduc. Smashwords Edition. All rights reserved.

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(Leduc, Adrien 1987- )

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the author, nor be otherwise circulated in any form than that in which it is published.

All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Dedication: For J.M. Thanks for believing in me and supporting my dream.

Synopsis: The year is 2048 and Liristan has declared war on the Allied powers. While Canadian Prime Minister Alistair Tillman is doing his best to placate his enemies and assist his friends, there's a traitor on the Hill. He enlists nineteen year old, rookie M.P. Jonathan Tremblay and the beautiful Legislative Assistant, Alexandra Sinclair to help him unmask the enemy within. But what they find is more shocking than they ever could have imagined and the pair of political sleuths must quickly learn to navigate the dirty game of politics to stay ahead - and stay alive.

### \- 1 -

The green House of Commons bus that transports M.P.s to and from Parliament Hill. Friday. May 6, 2048. 5:10 p.m. It's overcast and threatening rain.

"All done for the day, Mister Tremblay?"

"Yup, and thank God it's Friday."

Lionel, the friendly and portly driver chuckled as he closed the doors behind the young M.P.

"Amen to that."

Making his way towards the back of the bus, Jonathan Tremblay found the only empty seat and sat down. Beside him, a pale blonde woman was busy gazing out the window. When she turned away from the window and he saw who she was, he was sorry he'd not chosen to just stand at the front.

"Jon."

"Liz."

The young man removed his shoulder bag and stuck it between his feet.

"You gave us quite the beating today," said the woman, turning to look at him. He observed that her grey eyes matched the colour of the sky overhead.

"I don't know what to say to that."

"You don't have to say anything. When we had a majority government, we owned the House too."

He shrugged. "I guess that's what it is then."

"Only trouble is, are the Unionists fit to govern when there's war on the horizon?"

The young M.P. bristled at her remark. "More so than you Reformers are."

"Oh? Isn't Tillman planning on playing the wait-and-see game with Liristan?"

"Maybe, but it's sure as hell better than the shoot-first, ask-questions-later game."

Liz Keller, lauded businesswoman and M.P. for Saskatoon Centre since 2040, smirked. "Being pre-emptive about a possible nuclear attack from a nation hostile to our allies isn't foolhardy. In fact it's what the Mongols, Romans and Ottomans did. To great effect, I might add."

"Well, different time, different place. Right now the world is in a fragile state and Wild West diplomacy isn't the way to go about handling things."

The bus lurched forwards as Lionel set the vehicle in motion and pulled onto Wellington Street.

"The effects of nuclear war aren't reversible, you know," he added after a minute, as the bus waited for the light to turn green.

"I went to university, Jon."

"Well, then you know why nuclear war isn't good."

"As long as we take them out first, it doesn't matter."

"That's a typical right-winger's response."

She smiled. "Maybe so, Jon. But then, see, we're still alive at the end of the day whereas you lefties will be stuck sitting around the camp fire holding hands and singing kumbaya while the missiles rain down."

"If it gets to that. We hope it doesn't. And through good, pragmatic diplomacy we can keep that from happening."

"I hope you're right."

Crazy Pete's sports bar. Dim lighting, though mostly dark. Track lighting on ceiling and along bar. Rectangle-shaped bar area in centre of the establishment with many patrons seated all along the counter. Two tall, blonde, good-looking male bar tenders working the counter. Four good-looking young women bussing tables and bringing drinks to the other patrons. Four to six T.V. screens dispersed throughout. Large projector screen on one wall with a throng of patrons crowded around it, eagerly awaiting the hockey game. Framed and autographed jerseys and other sports memorabilia mounted along other walls. Eighty to a hundred patrons. The twenty - forty crowd, good-looking, men and women. Mixture of young professionals and government workers.

"It _is_ that simple, man."

"No, it's not."

"How is it not? You wanna go out with her? Ask her out."

Jonathan shook his head and looked away as he took another sip of his Coke. _Crazy Pete's_ had filled up in the half hour since they'd arrived and the usual assortment of young professionals and middle-aged bureaucrats were already ordering their second drinks.

"Why can't you just ask her out? Be like, hey, whatchu doin' Saturday night? Nothing? Really? Me neither. Wanna go clubbing? Boom, bang, done," the young man seated across the table from him remarked, clapping his hands together.

"Like I said, it's not that simple, man. She works for the Reformers."

Keegan Porter, his best friend since third grade, stared blankly at him. "What's that got to do with it?"

"I can't get romantically involved with someone from the Opposition."

His friend scoffed. "You talk like she's a different species. She's a girl, you're a guy. What's the problem?"

It was times like these when he hated that his best friend didn't know the difference between an M.P. and a Senator and thought that Question Period was an opportunity for Canadians to phone in with their questions. Otherwise he might have understood.

"It's like...it's like...here, you're a hockey player, right?"

"Uh, yeah. Only leading scorer for the Ottawa Ice Dogs and top league prospect for the pros next year. But go on."

Jonathan grinned. "You always were a modest one."

"Hey, what can I say? I'm good at what I do."

"Right...anyway...it's like...let's say you guys are going up against Kingston in the playoffs."

"Kingston? In the playoffs? Ha!"

"Or Belleville. Whatever. I'm just using it as an example."

Keegan's face adopted a pensive expression as his index finger rose to his chin. "Yeah...Belleville in the playoffs...it could happen."

" _Argh, man!_ That's not the point!" He was getting impatient now.

"You're playing _some_ team in the playoffs. Any team. Doesn't matter which."

"Alright..."

"And you want to date their team's trainer."

"Oh, hell no!"

"You see!" Jonathan exclaimed louder than he'd intended, causing several other patrons to look their way.

"So politics is that serious?"

"What was your first clue?" he seethed, lowering his voice as the onlookers returned to their own conversations.

"I don't know, but you seem pretty uptight about it."

Jonathan sighed. "Just be glad you don't work on the Hill."

"What hill?"

"Parliament Hill."

"Oh. Right. Why?"

"Because then you run into problems like these."

"Right."

Grinning at his friend's complete lack of interest in all things political, he decided it was probably time to change the subject. "So when's your next game, anyways?"

Prime Minister's Office. Eight twenty-eight p.m. Prime Minister Alistair Tillman and Colonel Goodwin are discussing the possibility of war with Liristan.

"Look, Alistair, Mister Prime Minister, if we cut off their northern supply route - "

"No! We're not starting this thing! When the history books look back at my time as Prime Minister, I don't want to be remembered as the blundering idiot who set the whole thing off!"

"There'll be no one to write the bloody history books if Liristan has its way!"

"Colonel Goodwin," Alistair Tillman said sharply, growing tired and frustrated, "may I remind you that the clerics surrounding Abu-Ishak have already resolved that they will not engage any nation in combat unless Liristan itself is attacked. They know they would lose - and resoundingly too - if they were to start the fighting first. Our nuclear stockpiles, combined with those of our southern neighbours and our allies in the Middle East _greatly_ outnumber anything Abu-Ishak can throw our way."

"Well, why let him throw _anything_ our way!?" the stocky and red-faced colonel persisted. "Let's hit them _now_ , before they get more weapons!" he yelled, smacking a fist into his palm. "Because don't you dare think for one second that the Russians won't sell them what they need."

Alistair Tillman, the older (and wiser) of the two men, shook his head in disagreement. Massaging the grey stubble on his chin, he leaned back in his chair and shut his eyes. It wasn't that he was an indecisive sort of person - no, no, no, - _au contraire_ \- Alistair Tillman, twenty-eighth Prime Minister of the Republic of Canada (twenty-ninth if one counted the six month term of Kingsley Plock, the now disgraced former military general who had overthrown the government in the Short Coup of '31) was a man of action, a decision-maker. It was a rare occasion that he was lost for words and an even rarer occasion when he was unsure about what to do. But in this instance, he had to confess, he was being indecisive. Did he do what the Americans (and clearly Colonel Goodwin) wanted and bomb the heck out of Liristan - _before_ Abu Ishak even made a move? Or, did he wait it out patiently and prepare to attack when, and _only_ when, the Liristanis fired the first shot? He knew what Victoire Julien, former Primer Minister and the man who had mentored him his first term as an MP all those years ago would have him do. Never hesitating to tell him that "war only occurs when no cool heads remain at the table", the founder of the Union Party had had as his motto, "Diplomacy, diplomacy, diplomacy," and had never once sent Canadian troops into combat unless all other avenues had been thoroughly exhausted.

Tillman smirked as he thought of Lucky Reeve, his American counterpart. The U.S. president carried a six shooter in his waist-band and would sooner shoot at you as look at you - a fact he'd proven on more than one occasion. No, he certainly wouldn't fit Julien's definition of a cool head.

Neither would Gordon Cromwell for that matter, the British Prime Minister and current Chair of the Defense League, the six-nation body created after the Third World War that was designed to oversee global security. He'd been Defense Minister in '29 when Britain had gone to war with Iceland. And that little skirmish had been started over a simple insult at a soccer match. Add to the mix the fact that Abu Ishak and the Russians were notoriously temperamental and you had a recipe for disaster.

Alistair Tillman sighed and scratched the itch on his forearm. The chances of avoiding a war were looking slim. Very slim.

### \- 2 -

Somewhere along the Rideau Canal. Saturday morning. Fourteen degrees. Slightly overcast. Quiet.

Jonathan Tremblay sought refuge in his weekends and hated to waste a minute on anything he deemed to be "unproductive". And so he began every Saturday with a forty-two minute jog - the precise time it took to jog from his condo on the Rideau Canal to the old Chateau Laurier and back.

What remained of the iconic hotel was nothing more than a wing of rooms for visiting dignitaries. As for the rest of the building, Robert William Poole (Prime Minister once Kingsley Plock's coup was finally put down) had commissioned its conversion into an army barracks and it now housed the elite KS-1 force. The highly-trained and highly-effective paramilitary unit, known colloquially as the "Grey Helmets" because of the cinder coloured helmets that they wore, could be deployed on downtown streets within five minutes. And whether it was to neutralize a terror threat or quell citizen insurrection (as had been the case six months ago during the student riots), the KS-1 force was always on standby.

Jonathan was not at all fond of the them. Nor was his uncle Benjamin - a former journalist with the _Montreal Herald_ who had once been arrested and interrogated by the Grey Helmets and had never been quite the same since.

Following the curvature of the canal's jogging path, his feet pounding against the pavement, the young man made his way up the hill and finally onto Wellington Street where the former hotel loomed high above him. Two armed guards watched him closely from its entrance as he jogged to the edge of the sidewalk. While normally he would have stopped and taken five minutes to people watch - this section of Wellington Street being the busiest, pedestrian thoroughfare in Ottawa - he didn't like the way the two guards were looking at him and he wasted no time in turning around.

Back on the canal path, he stopped at a bench to stretch his legs. He loved the peace and quiet of his Saturday, early morning jogs. And apart from the automated street sweeper passing by and the occasional police drone overhead, there was hardly a sound to be heard.

A pretty woman in a black tank top and matching shorts biked slowly past and smiled. He returned her smile. If only Alexandra would smile at him that way. He must have passed her in the West Block corridors a hundred times, and each time, nothing. Always focused and deliberate, she walked with her head held high, eyes staring straight ahead through her black, square-rimmed glasses. Her chestnut brown hair was most often pulled back into a neat bun. The crisp, white blouses she wore were always immaculate - as were the grey and black pencil skirts that accompanied them. In short, she was strait-laced and professional - and approaching a girl like that wasn't going to be easy.

Though maybe it wasn't such bad thing, thought Jonathan, leaning into a calf stretch. With her quiet and professional nature, she seemed like the type of girl that wouldn't laugh in his face if he asked her out and she declined. Perhaps he should be more bold about it. Just go up to her and ask her out for a coffee - like Keegan had suggested. But asking her out, just like that, out of the blue...

It wouldn't end well. It certainly hadn't in high school. He needed to get to know her first. To spend some time with her outside of work. But then, how could he, a Unionist, get an opportunity to spend time with her when she was a Reformer and moved exclusively in Reformer circles? And, was she a devoted Reformer? Or was it just a job? If she was a devout, true-blue Reformer, there was no way he could ever be with her. They say opposites attract, but he and his family harboured fairly strong political opinions and, well, his family tended to be more centrist. Having a girlfriend who was a Reformer would make things more than a little awkward. Perhaps there was more to her...

His stretching routine complete, the young man tightened his laces and took off down the path in the direction of his condo where, upon arriving, he'd fix a nutritious fruit smoothie and grab a quick shower. Following that he'd put on a load of laundry and head to his Spanish lesson.

Saturday. Six o'clock in the evening. The Tremblay residence. Where Jonathan grew up and lived until purchasing his condo six months ago. The family of four is seated around the dinner table.

"I just think that you don't appreciate how lucky you are."

"Lacey..." said Calvin Tremblay slowly as he sprinkled salt onto his potatoes.

"Dad - "

"Lacey. What is the point of Saturday dinner if all you two are going to do is bicker?"

Jonathan frowned. "I haven't even said anything, dad. She's just going off on one of her jealous rants again."

" _Ooooohhhh, you!_ "

"Casey!"

Lorena Tremblay wasn't as kind as her husband and her tone was sharp. Razor sharp.

"That's enough out of you, young lady! If you can't be civilized and eat your supper with the rest of us, you can go and eat somewhere else!"

Jonathan stole a glance at his sister as she emitted an angry sigh and turned her eyes towards her plate.

" _Thank you_. Now, if we could just enjoy our time together, _please_. God knows we get so little of it these days," she added, looking at her son.

"Busy guy, our Jonathan," Calvin said proudly, clapping his son on the back. "Apple doesn't fall far from the tree."

Lorena rolled her eyes at her husband as she took a sip of her wine.

"He's just _lucky_ , dad. Nineteen years old and a Member of Parliament? He rode in on the Red Wave. How come everyone treats him like a fucking God!?"

" _LACEY_!"

"GO TO YOUR ROOM, YOUNG LADY! YOU'RE DONE! TAKE YOUR PLATE AND GO!"

Jonathan had only seen his mother so enraged once or twice before - and yet what bothered him the most was the hurt look his sister gave him as she got up from the table and stormed from the dining room.

"Goodness," Calvin huffed as he resumed eating. "Is it that time of the month or what?"

A warning stare from his wife quickly silenced the man and the rest of the meal was eaten with the family \- minus Lacey - engaging in harmless small talk.

3 a.m. Sunday morning. The Prime Minister's residence. Martin Mulligan, the forty-two year old, gay assistant has just woken Prime Minister Tillman to give him the news that some men attempted to kidnap his daughter from a Toronto subway platform earlier that evening.

"Is she alright? Is she hurt? Does Sue know?"

The questions tumbled out, one after another as Alistair Tillman, in his white, silk pajamas, scrambled out of bed.

"Easy now, Sir," said Martin, extending an arm and clasping the man's shoulder. "There's no need to get too worked up. Everything is under control."

"I just don't understand," the Prime Minister continued, pushing Martin's arm away and reaching for the glasses on his nightstand. "Why would anyone want to hurt my Juniper?"

His assistant sighed as he stepped backwards, away from the edge of the bed. "I imagine someone who doesn't agree with your policies, Sir."

"Well, then they can hit me at the polls...but to go after my daughter?"

Martin nodded in grim agreement. "It's despicable, Sir."

The older of the two men sighed as he massaged the back of his neck, working out the knot that had formed there. "Bring me my phone, will you Martin? It's on the bureau."

"Yes, of course, Sir."

"I'm calling her right now."

"The officer I spoke with said that she's with her mother."

"So she's with Sue then?"

"Yes."

"Well, I'll call her there then."

"Perhaps it might be best to wait until morning, Sir..."

"No, I think I'll call now. Wait outside, will you?"

"Yes, of course, Sir."

"Thank you."

"Oh and Sir?" said Martin, halfway out the door.

"Yes?"

"There's another bit of news."

"Oh? What is it?"

"The men who tried to kidnap your daughter...they have them."

"Where? Who has them?"

"KS-1," Martin answered slowly, knowing Tillman wouldn't like it.

"You mean..."

"I'm afraid so."

"How long have they been there?"

The assistant glanced at his watch. "For about an hour already. They drove them up from Toronto."

"Blasted!"

"What's the matter?"

"Joubert...he'll have killed them by now. Quick! There's no time to waste! I'll phone Sue on the way. Have Watson bring the car around. It is Watson on duty tonight, correct?"

"Yes, Sir."

"Good, have him bring the car around. We'll leave immediately."

"Yes, Sir."

KS-1 headquarters.

" _JOUBERT!_ "

The Prime Minister and his assistant walked briskly through the corridor, their heeled shoes clapping loudly against the linoleum.

" _WHERE ARE THEY!?_ _JOUBERT!_ "

"Mister Prime Minister! Sir! Please! You can't go in there!"

It was the armed security guard that had met them at the door and he was trying desperately to keep up with them.

Alistair Tillman ignored his pleas and flung open the double doors marked "Interrogation Wing", Martin following quickly in his wake.

"Sir! Please! You can't go in there!"

" _JOUBERT!_ "

"There, Sir," said Martin, pointing to a room in which stood several men, all of them in full uniform.

" _JOUBERT!_ "

Through the reinforced window, a man turned to look at them. A man with a long scar that ran from eye to mouth. A man with a cold sneer on his face.

Alistair Tillman pointed at him. " _JOUBERT!_ _I WANT THEM ALIVE!_ "

They reached the door and found it to be locked.

" _JOUBERT! OPEN THIS DOOR AT ONCE!"_

Martin could tell from the faces of the men inside that their sudden presence was most unwelcome. The door buzzed open and they entered the small room. Completely grey with buzzing fluorescent lights, it had that institutional feel and Martin didn't like it one bit. He glanced at his boss who seemed to be rather indifferent to the whole thing. He'd always admired that about the man. That, though an academic, Alistair Tillman, Prime Minister, could roll up his sleeves and adopt the appearance and mannerisms of a simple construction worker if required.

"Where are they? What have you done with them? They'd better be alive, Joubert."

"Nice to see you too, Mister Prime Minister."

"Joubert," Alistair continued, his hands shaking, "if you've harmed these men - "

"I have not laid a finger on them, Sir. You can go and look for yourself," and he pointed towards the metal door at the other end of the room. There was a metal grate over the small window and Martin suddenly felt ill.

What is this place? Cold and grey, it lacked any emotion other than fear and anger and he shivered at the thought of what stories its walls might tell if asked.

"In there then?"

"Yes, _Sir_."

The KS-1 commander's tone suggested that he was clearly unaccustomed to saying the word "Sir".

Alistair nodded and stepped forwards, headed for the metal door.

"Let him pass, Bracchus," Joubert commanded.

Though Joubert was an ox of a man, he was nothing compared to Bracchus. With arms as thick as tree trunks, the enormous Grey Helmet was a sight to behold, and Martin was grateful when the hulking man stepped aside so Tillman could access the door. Sticking close to him, Martin ignored the intimidating stares of the other men in the room. The familiar buzz sounded, signaling that the door was opened, and he hurried in behind him.

Seeing what was on the other side however, Martin wished he had stayed behind. For, hanging feet first from the rafters, with black slips over their heads, were three men. Though he could really only _presume_ that they were men given the coarse, black hair covering their exposed flesh.

" _JOUBERT! WHAT IS THIS MADNESS!? YOU SAID YOU DIDN'T TOUCH THEM!"_

"I didn't," said the burly KS-1 commander calmly, stepping into the room. "That was all Bracchus and the boys."

" _CUT THEM DOWN THIS INSTANT!"_ "

"As you wish, Sir. Bracchus. Artem. Cut them down."

"Sir, yes, Sir!"

"Not like that!" Alistair Tillman cried, as long branch trimmers appeared in their hands.

"That's how we always get them down, Sir."

Martin watched as his boss shook his head in disgust.

"Throw some mats under them. I don't want any cracked skulls."

"As you wish, Sir. But keep in mind, these pieces of shit tried to kidnap your daughter."

"Yes, and I want to _question_ them, Joubert. Not _kill_ them."

"Ain't no easier way to get a man to talk than to threaten him with his life."

"And that's where we disagree, I'm afraid. Now get them down from there. I want that table and those chairs brought to the centre of the room. And turn the cameras and the recorders on - I assume you turned them off. We're going to do this the proper way."

"As you wish, _Sir_ ," he answered, the cold sneer returning to his face.

And this time, at least for Martin, there could be no mistaking the KS-1 commander's contempt for Alistair Tillman.

### \- 3 -

The following morning, Monday. 8:21 a.m. Alistair Tillman is holding a meeting with all of his M.P.s in the Red Room in the East Block.

"Are there any more questions before we move on to other matters?"

"Yes. Did these men explain their motive? Who are they with? Are they Liristani agents?"

"That is precisely what they are. And no, they did not give a motive. In fact they didn't give much of anything before they died."

" _Died_ , Sir?"

"Died. By their own hands. Cyanide capsules. Hidden in their rectums."

"Hidden in their..."

There was a sudden outburst of disgusted murmuring and Alistair Tillman rapped his pen on the edge of the podium to regain his audience's attention.

"Quiet, please. We have some extremely important business to discuss before voting this afternoon. Namely, what to do with the Omani offer to use their airstrips."

Seated at the edge of the third row, Jonathan Tremblay watched his party leader closely. Tillman seemed tired. Distracted. As though he hadn't been sleeping well - if at all.

"People, please. Nancy. Have you spoken with the Saudis yet?"

Before the blonde (and rather beautiful) cabinet minister could answer however, the door burst open and the man Jonathan knew only as "the Prime Minister's assistant" entered and hurried towards the podium.

"Martin..."

"Sir, I'm sorry to interrupt, but we've just received an urgent memo from London. You'll want to read this."

He walked forwards and handed a piece of paper to the Prime Minister. Alistair Tillman's eyes scanned the document quickly and when he was finished, he pursed his lips and shook his head in dismay.

"People. Tragic news from London."

The room went silent.

"Gloria Cromwell, Gordon Cromwell's wife, has been kidnapped. Yesterday afternoon. Scotland Yard has yet to release further details. Will send news as it comes. End memo."

The MPs and cabinet ministers assembled in the Red Room gaped as their leader finished reading the memo aloud.

"April Fool's, right?"

"That was three weeks ago, Robert," said Tillman tersely, as though he didn't appreciate the M.P.'s remark.

"Gloria Cromwell...I met her at a luncheon once..."

"She's an amazing woman. Let's just hope her brave spirit and that British tenacity can hold with her through what I can only imagine is an impossibly time."

"Has anyone claimed responsibility? It seems rather coincidental that the British Prime Minister's wife would be kidnapped at nearly the same time as three men tried to kidnap your..."

"My daughter, Miss Frulla?"

"Er...yes...I didn't want - "

"No, it's quite alright," said Tillman, nodding as a professor would after fielding what he thought to be a worthy question. "It does seem rather coincidental. Martin," he said, turning to his assistant, "get in touch with Scotland Yard and tell them about the attempted kidnapping of my daughter on Saturday evening."

"Yes, Sir," he said, scurrying from the podium.

"And keep this under wraps as much as possible! And report back to me with anymore news - as soon as you get it!" he hollered after him.

"Yes, Sir!"

Jonathan moved his elbow as the Prime Minister's assistant flew past and made his way from the Red Room.

"Please, people, quiet down," said Alistair loudly, and Jonathan returned his attention to the Prime Minister - as did the rest of the MPs and cabinet ministers seated in his vicinity.

"Things are heating up. This has the feel of a war. I don't know about the rest of you, but I want something done. We need to move on this before the situation worsens."

"Sir," said Nancy Bateman, Minister of Foreign Affairs, rising to her feet. "I'll have my department get in touch with every ally and neutral nation in the Middle East."

Tillman nodded. "Yes, do that. Find out what's happening. Is Liristan moving weapons? What's Abu-Ishak been up to? How friendly is Abu-Ishak with the Liristani Martyr's Brigade? Any information you can get will be useful."

"Yes, Sir."

"Sir. If I may," Hal Kilmer, Member of Parliament for Pembroke-Renfrew, began, "perhaps it would be wise to monitor Russian trade to Liristan as well. We know the friendly history between the two nations when it comes to arms dealing."

"Yes. I'd thought of that. Have CSIS get on that immediately."

"I'll meet with Director Arnaud today."

"Good. Any other ideas or suggestions? People, there's a war brewing and I don't think we're ready for it. I want us working full time on this matter. The new copyright bill that was going to be tabled today - we'll postpone until next Friday. All other bills will be postponed until at least next week. We need _everyone_ focused on this. Even the members of the Opposition."

There were several grumbles at this last remark, before Alistair Tillman rapped his pen once more on the podium and called the end of the meeting.

11:10 a.m. In the parliamentary Press Gallery. Reform leader Wilfred Axelrod is giving a press conference.

"Mister Axelrod!"

"Mister Axelrod! Sir!"

"One at a time, please."

Watching from a distance, Jonathan Tremblay resented the Opposition leader's popularity with the press.

"They all have their heads up their arses," his grandfather had complained during the last election when the _Ottawa Observer_ had made no secret of endorsing Axelrod and his Reformers.

"Mister Axelrod, Sir!"

"Yes, Gavin."

"When are we moving troops into Liristan?"

Jonathan cringed as the heavy-set Axelrod grinned, showman-like, as though he were working a crowd.

"Well, it would seem that we're going to wait for them to hit us first," he began, the reporters in the scrum gobbling up every word. "Tillman seems to think we can just sit on our hands and wait to see what Abu-Ishak wants to do. I don't know about you, but in my day, on the schoolyard, we sure didn't wait for the bully to come and hit us. We hit him first. As my old high school boxing coach used to say, "hit hard, hit fast, hit first, his last."

There was an outburst of excitement following this remark and Jonathan tuned out the media scrum as he exited the Press Gallery, headed for his office. Stewing over the press and their adoration for the Reformers, he wasn't watching where he was going and crashed headlong into Alexandra.

"Oh, geez, I'm so sorry," he said quickly, bending down to pick up the folders and papers she'd dropped in the collision.

She looked at him and smiled. "It's alright. I wasn't really watching where I was going either. Too much on my mind."

Jonathan grinned, happy she didn't think he was a complete idiot.

"Here you go."

"Thanks."

"Don't want to lose that," she said nervously.

Glancing down at the folder in her hands, he noticed the word "Classified" stamped in red ink.

"No, it looks important."

"It is," she said, pushing past him. "Anyways, I have to get these to the Blue Room. See ya."

"See ya."

Equally intrigued by both his thirty second run in with Alexandra and the "Classified" manila folder she'd been holding, the young M.P. watched her until she disappeared around the corner.

"So you finally managed to talk to her?" Keegan asked, his eyes glued to the hockey highlights.

"Not exactly," Jonathan Tremblay answered as he grated parmesan cheese on the two pizzas resting on the stovetop in front of him.

"What do mean, _not exactly_ ," the hockey player asked suspiciously, his eyes narrowing.

"I mean..."

"You either spoke to her or you didn't...there's no halfway there, buddy."

"Well, I ran into her. Literally."

"And let me guess," he began with a sly smile, "it was just like in the movies. She was on the ground and her stuff was all over the floor and you helped her up and then she brushed herself off and you two brushed noses awkwardly before going your separate ways? 'Cause I saw that one with Jessica last night, dude."

The young M.P. shook his head dismissively. "No, no, it wasn't like that. Yes, she did drop a few things, but that was that. There was no brushing of noses. We talked for about ten seconds."

"That's it!?"

Jonathan shrugged as he plated the pizzas and passed one to his friend.

"How do you ever expect to get into her pants if you can't even have a friggin' conversation?"

"Don't talk about her like that, man. She's a nice girl. Dresses real smart. Clean. Not trashy at all."

"Well, she sure sounds out of your league, bro'," said Keegan, dodging the empty milk carton Jonathan launched at him.

" _And we interrupt this broadcast with breaking news on Timothy Reeve, son of U.S. President, Lucky Reeve."_

"Hey, turn that up," said Jonathan, lunging for the remote.

Keegan swiped it from the marble counter top. "I got it."

"Hurry up! I wanna hear this!"

" _...taken in broad daylight right outside this private language school in Buenos Aires, the Argentinean capital. Sandra Robertson has more."_

" _Thanks, Bob. Yes, details are slowly emerging as investigators attempt to piece together the brazen, day-light abduction of Timothy Reeve, the twenty-two year old son of U.S. President, Lucky Reeve. Witnesses say they saw a black Mercedes pull up outside this English language school - where Reeve is currently a teacher - and as Reeve came out of the school, two armed men grabbed him and forced him into the vehicle. Local police say they've already executed search warrants at several known gang hideouts, but so far they've failed to turn up any sign of Reeve."_

" _And what is the White House saying, Sandra? Have we had any word from President Reeve yet?"_

" _No, Bob, but a source I spoke to a half an hour ago said that a press conference is planned for later this evening and that President Reeve will be speaking."_

" _Alright, thank you Sandra. Stay safe and keep us posted."_

" _Will do, Bob."_

Jonathan killed the T.V. and stared wide-eyed at his friend.

"This is _bad_."

A string of cheese dangling from his mouth, the hockey player's face was expressionless.

"You don't get what's happening? First Tillman's daughter - that was on Saturday. They tried to kidnap her. Then on Sunday, Gloria Cromwell - she's the wife of the British P.M. Now Thomas Reeve? No? You still don't get it? Liristan is doing this. Liristan is trying to kidnap important members of the first families of the Western, Allied nations. But _why_ , is the question..."

"Maybe to ransom them?"

"No," the young M.P. said, beginning to pace the length of the kitchen. "That's too simple. Why not Bill Gates' kids or Roman Abrahamovic's kids or something? There's gotta be more to it. If - "

The phone rang then, interrupting him mid-sentence and he reached for it.

"Hello?"

He looked at Keegan, chowing down on his pizza and slurping his soda.

"Yes, of course. I'll be there...alright...yes...okay."

"Who was that?" asked the hockey player through a mouthful of food once he'd hung up.

"That was McCullough. The Party Whip. Tillman's called an emergency caucus meeting and wants all of us there."

"Shit. So no game tonight then?"

Jonathan shrugged apologetically as he cleared the counter and gave the stove top a quick wipe. "No. Sorry, bro."

"Ah, man. So what I do with our tickets?"

"Call up one of your girlfriends."

"They're all busy tonight."

"Guess you're going solo then, man. Now hurry up and finish your pizza. I gotta get to the Hill."

### \- 4 -

Tillman's emergency meeting lasted late into the night and by the time the bleary-eyed, hungry, and tired Union Party members exited the Red Room, the sun had begun to peek above the horizon.

"These frickin' Liristanis," Wayne Cherneski, M.P. for Winnipeg Centre, complained as they filed into the corridor. "Look at all the shit they're causing."

He looked at Jonathan for affirmation and the young M.P. managed a nod. The big Ukrainian wasn't a man to disagree with.

"Wish we could just go in there and blast 'em all. But that's why they've done what they've done, hey Tremblay?"

Another nod.

"Smart little buggers. With Gloria Cromwell and Thomas Reeve in their hands, they've got us in a corner. Can't nuke 'em now. Can't even take out Abu-Ishak."

"Nope."

Four bodies deep and like a school of fish, the one hundred and eighty-eight Union M.P.s pushing through the corridors reminded Jonathan of a mosh pit and he searched for the fastest exit. Ahead, on the right, was a set of stairs that would take him the long way around. It would be shorter to follow the group and go through the Press Gallery, but with Cherneski's' noxious body odour and the mass of people pressing against him, he quickly resolved to take the stairs.

"You know - "

"Sorry, Cherneski, but I gotta run. I'll catch ya later."

Before the big bellied man could respond, Jonathan was on the third step and racing up the stairwell. Reaching the second floor, he passed the clerical offices where he turned left and headed down the corridor that would lead him past the Prime Minister's office and eventually to the west exit. Hungry and feeling rather tired, he jogged past the dozens of office doors, dreaming about the pancakes he'd make once he got home. Just as he was about to descend the exit stairwell however, he heard someone calling him.

"Mister Tremblay! Mister Tremblay!"

He stopped and turned around to find Martin hurrying towards him.

"Mister Tremblay," the Prime Minister's assistant panted, completely out of breath, "Mister Tillman would to see you."

Jonathan gulped. Mister Tillman? Did the leader of the Union Party have a brother or a cousin?

" _Prime Minister_ Tillman?"

Martin tittered and wrapped an arm around him.

"Yes. _Prime Minister_ Tillman. The one and only."

Why on Earth would he want to speak with _him_ , Jonathan Tremblay, nineteen year old, rookie M.P.?

"You look surprised, young man."

"Well...it's just...I never expected - "

"You never expected that the leader of our Party and Prime Minister of this great nation might want to speak with you, humble Jonathan Tremblay, M.P. for Ottawa-South?"

Jonathan managed a grin. "Pretty much."

"I was there once. And you're wrong, son. Now come with me."

"Er...alright..."

"You've been inside his office before, haven't you?" the man asked as they retraced Jonathan's earlier steps and came to a large, wooden door marked "Office of the Prime Minister."

"Er...no...I haven't actually."

"Well, now's your chance."

And with that he pushed the young man through the doorway.

A second later Jonathan found himself in a well-furnished and comfortable looking office. Potted plants and period art work combined with leather chaises and a number of busts on pedestals to make the office look as though its occupant was an intellectual of the highest order.

"Ah, Mister Tremblay."

Seated at his large oak desk, Tillman was staring directly at him.

"I wasn't sure I'd get the chance to see you today."

"Well, true to my word, Sir, I found him," Martin sang as he brought up the rear and pushed Jonathan forwards.

"Take a seat, young man."

Jonathan nodded and glanced at the chair in front of the massive desk. To his sudden surprise, there was someone seated in the one immediately beside it.

"I imagine you're wondering who our other guest is," said Tillman, laying his pen on the desk and clasping his hands together.

His eyes were tired yet captivating and there was a powerful but unexaggerated charisma to the leader that Jonathan admired.

"Please, sit down and I'll introduce you," he said as the stranger in the chair turned to face him.

Jonathan's eyes widened when he saw her face. Petite, with glasses and chestnut brown hair arranged into a neat bun, the young woman gave him a full smile.

"Hey."

The Prime Minister's Office. 7:37 a.m.

"Yes, see, Miss Sinclair here works for me."

"Works for you, Sir?"

"Yes. And don't call me Sir, son. Mister Tillman will do."

Jonathan cleared his throat and nodded as he tries to process the information he'd been given since stepping into the Prime Minister's office ten minutes earlier. "Alright, Sir. I mean, Mister Tillman."

Martin thrust a glass of water at him and he took it eagerly, downing half of it before handing it back.

"Thanks."

"I don't suppose you've had breakfast," Martin continued, taking the glass from the young M.P.

Jonathan shook his head as he pictured a plate of steaming pancakes basted in butter and syrup. "No, I haven't."

"Well, I'll have to fix you something. I'm afraid all we have is toast and jam and peanut butter and what not. We have coffee and tea as well. Oh, and there are some apples and bananas in my office - I'll fix you something, shall I?"

"Sure...thanks."

"Don't mention it," the assistant said with a smile before turning to Alexandra. "And would you like something to eat as well, Miss Sinclair?"

Jonathan looked at her.

"Yes, please. Just a piece of toast and coffee will do. One cream, one sugar."

"Right then. I shall return shortly," said Martin, bowing slightly as he left the office.

Jonathan glanced at Tillman who smiled at his assistant.

"Thank you, Martin. And now then," he said, turning towards them as Martin left the three of them alone, "to business. Mister Tremblay, I believe that you and Miss Sinclair have met?"

Jonathan managed a nervous smile. "Yeah, we had a little run-in in the hallway the other day."

"I see."

"Well, I suppose then that you must be wondering why I've called you here."

"Uh, yeah...I guess."

"Don't be shy around me, Mister Tremblay. Speak with confidence. I don't bite."

"I guess, Mister Tillman," the young man repeated, louder and with more authority.

His volume seemed to please the Prime Minister. "Yes, very well then. Miss Sinclair here has been acting as a...how shall I put it... _liaison_ between my office and the Reform Party."

"A liaison?"

"Well, I was trying to avoid using the word _spy_ , but I suppose that's really what she is."

Jonathan turned and looked at her. Eyes facing forwards, with a folio on her lap and a pen in her hand, she certainly didn't look like any spy he'd ever seen. She was beautiful. Gorgeous. Smart...sexy. Well, maybe she did make a good spy after all.

"Anyways," Tillman continued, "Miss Sinclair here has been keeping me up to date with Wilfred Axelrod's activities. You see, I have good reason to believe that our Reformer friend is consorting with certain businessmen in Russia that have ties to Liristan. As you know, he owns a very large shipping company - "

"High Sea National," Jonathan interrupted.

"Yes, very good. You've done your homework. I'll bet you that a third of my caucus couldn't have told me that. You've picked a good one here, Miss Sinclair."

Feeling more confident, Jonathan ventured the question that had been nagging at him for the past several minutes. "Mister Tillman...what has she _picked_ me for exactly?"

To be her boyfriend? One could only dream.

"I'm getting to that. Hold on for a second. You see, Miss Sinclair here is working as a legislative assistant to Axelrod. She's a longtime Union Party member - her grandfather was a cabinet minister during the Julien years - and following her completion of university, we helped her procure employment with the Reform Party."

"I see..."

"It's been working wonders, having her keep tabs on Axelrod and what he's been up to."

"And what has he been up to?"

The Prime Minister sighed. "That's the thing. We know he's been conducting some very important - important for him - business with the Russians since about January. Trouble is, all that information and all those files are kept under lock and key and only Reform M.P.'s have access."

"Alright..."

"Where you come in, well, there's no easy way to put this so I'll just come right out and say it...we want you to cross the floor."

"Cross...the...floor..."

"I know, I know. It sounds bad. And, well, quite frankly, it is bad. It's disloyal. You'll get a lot of bad press. Your own family might turn against you - "

"But wait. First off, why? And why _me_?"

"It's quite simply really. You're new to the Party. You're new to politics. You're young and unsullied. Too many of these folks - our M.P.s included, owe favours to people. There's corruption - at every level - in every party. Even the Greens have their little backroom deals going on. But, _you_. You're nineteen. Correct?"

Jonathan nodded.

"And you've only been at this a year. In effect, you're someone I can trust."

Jonathan swallowed to remove the knot that had formed in his throat.

"So I have to _pretend_ to join the Reform Party?"

"Not _pretend_ , Jonathan. Well, yes, of course you're not doing it for real. It's a ruse to get close to Axelrod and gain access to his sensitive and classified files. Miss Sinclair here has managed to get ahold of some, but there are others - she's seen them - that she can't get to. I want to see _all_ of Axelrod's secret files. I want to know what he's cooking up with the Russians and the Liristanis. It's an ugly game, politics, Mister Tremblay. And one's always got to be one step ahead of his adversaries. Especially when we're facing the prospect of war."

Jonathan nodded, swallowing once more to remove the knot in his throat.

"And here we are," said Martin as he re-entered the office, tray in hand. "A coffee and a piece of toast for Miss Sinclair."

"Thank you."

"And for you, Mister Tremblay, a sliced orange, toast and coffee. Cream and sugar are on the side there if you'd like."

"Thanks."

Alistair Tillman waited politely for his assistant to finish serving the food before speaking.

"So, what do you say?"

Chewing hungrily on his breakfast, Jonathan swallowed before answering.

"I guess...I'm a little worried about how the media will treat me...and my family...my dad will be disappointed. He's always been a big Union Party supporter."

"Yes, and it is at this point that I will have to ask that you don't divulge why you're doing it. Not even to him. Not until we get the incriminating evidence we need to go public with Axelrod's...how can I put it...dirty laundry." Jonathan could feel the young woman's eyes on him.

"And I'll be working with Alexandra - I mean, Miss Sinclair?"

"Yes. She's there to help. If you need to know who to speak to about such and such a thing. Which M.P. for instance. I've had her drop your name to a few M.P.s and suggest that you might be considering to leave our Party and join the Reformers."

"Really? What if I'd said no?"

The Prime Minister shrugged. "Then I would find someone else and you'd simply have a few sympathizers in the Reform Party I suppose. But something tells me that you'll go along with it..."

Jonathan nodded, vigorously chewing his toast to get some food into his empty stomach. Beside him, stood Martin, napkins at the ready.

Should he do it? Should he cross the floor? Every other M.P. in Canadian history who'd ever crossed the floor had been slammed in the press. Ridiculed. Pointed at. Booed. He'd be a pariah for months. His dad wouldn't be able to look at him. But he'd be able to work alongside Alexandra **-** and for that he'd do anything.

"I'll do it."

"Excellent!" Alistair Tillman exclaimed, slapping the table enthusiastically. "Martin, fetch the Scotch from the cupboard. I think a small, celebratory drink is in order. You are of legal age, right Miss Sinclair?"

"Yes. Going on twenty."

"Excellent. And before we make that toast," he said, as Martin set the bottle and three tumblers on the desk, "Miss Sinclair, are we happy with this arrangement? You and Mister Tremblay will work together on this little...how should we put it...assignment?"

She smiled, nodding, and Jonathan felt his heart flutter.

"Fantastic. I couldn't be happier. You two have made my day and the Party - and the country - will owe you both many thanks. There are troubled times ahead, I warn you - and it won't be easy going. But for now at least, let us share a drink together! To Canada!"

"To Canada!"

PART II

(Three months later)

### \- 5 -

Jonathan is at home one evening, watching T.V.

"And so you see, Bob, Alistair Tillman is taking the Canadian people down a _dangerous_ path. A very dangerous path. By agreeing to Abu-Ishak's terms, he his not only endangering the lives of our Canadian men and women in uniform, he is endangering the very existence of our great nation."

"And what have you to say, more specifically, to the absurd 'Bronze Age Accord'? I mean, have you ever seen anything like this?'

Wilfred Axelrod looked at the camera and offered up a photogenic smile. "No, Bob. Again, this is run-of-the-mill for the Union Party and their supporters. Hair-brained, _ridiculous_ agreements made on behalf of the Canadian public to the detriment of the Canadian public. Come on. Are we making a movie or fighting a war?"

"Ha, ha. One can only imagine. Anyway, that's unfortunately all the time we have for this evening's edition of Politalk. Tune in tomorrow for our interview with David Chamberlain, C.E.O. of Bionicorp Industries for his expert opinion on modern day warfare and whether or not Alistair Tillman's government was right or wrong to sign Abu-Ishak's 'Bronze Age Accord'. That's tomorrow. Thanks for watching, folks."

_Click_.

Jonathan Tremblay switched off the T.V., shaking his head in exasperation. For three months now the press had done nothing but bash Tillman and the Union Party. Though, oddly enough, he himself had been on the receiving end of some rather _good_ publicity due to his crossing the floor.

"What an intelligent young man."

"You finally chose the right Party son."

"Way to stick it to them Unionists, Mister Tremblay!"

He'd heard his name batted around on radio call in shows. On T.V. newscasts. He'd seen it written on posters - though the words beside his name weren't quite so flattering. To some he was a traitor. To others, a hero. The worst of it was that his dad was still refusing to speak with him.

"Maybe he's embarrassed by all the bad press," Alexandra had suggested one evening as they sat on his balcony, sipping the last dregs of their wine. That was one good thing to have come out of the whole mess. Alexandra. Since leaving Tillman's office that morning three months ago, they'd spent countless hours together. Researching, hitting the library, snooping through stacks of Axelrod's personal files. And, on occasion, grabbing a bite to eat or biking along the Canal.

"I can't believe you actually did it," Keegan had remarked last week as they were throwing the football around at Britannia Park. "I mean, buddy, she's _hot_."

She was extraordinarily beautiful. But that wasn't what drew him to her. No. It was her gentle laugh. The sarcastic stares. The sassy smiles. Her never-say-never attitude. That was the Alexandra he'd come to know...and love? He wasn't quite sure how he felt about her. Not entirely anyways. He was attracted to her, physically and emotionally, but he didn't want to jeopardize their working relationship as there was far too much riding on it and too many people depending on him. Not the least of which was the Prime Minister of Canada. No, any romance between them would have to wait.

Tired and feeling lazy, Jonathan made his way to the fridge where he devoured the rest of the peanut butter in the jar, polished off last night's pizza, and washed it all down with a half litre of chocolate milk. That done, he wiped his mouth, tidied the dishes and went to take a shower.

Prime Minister Alistair Tillman and Colonel Goodwin are having a row in the Prime Minister's Office.

"How many times have I told you, Prime Minister Tillman! You can't honestly expect us to honour the 'Bronze Age Accord'!

"I do, Colonel Goodwin. We signed it, we'll honour it. You know what'll happen if we don't."

"But...to fight using sticks and stones!? It's insane! I can't believe you are actually considering following through with this!"

"Colonel Goodwin."

Alistair Tillman's tone was harsh now and whatever patience he'd had a minute before, had evaporated completely.

" _I_ am the Prime Minister. Not you. And, may I remind you that Gloria Cromwell and Thomas Reeve are still being held by the Liristanis. You do realize that if we engage the Liristan Army with any weapon not listed in the Bronze Age Accord, that they'll be killed? Do their lives mean nothing to you? They could have had my daughter too for Christ's sake! Then what!? Would you still advocate dropping a hundred missiles on Akbad?"

"Prime Minister, Sir. I'm sorry, I didn't mean - "

"No! You've said quite enough, thank you. I've listened to you - given you a precious few minutes of my time \- and now it's time for you to leave. Martin, show our friend out please."

"You're a fool, Tillman! A complete fool! Get your hands off me!" he bellowed as Martin attempted to guide him towards the door. "I'm leaving. Don't you worry. And you can forget calling on me for anymore advice!"

Akbad, the Liristani capital. Abu-Ishak and his clerics are holding a press conference.

"Let it be known," said the tall and wiry leader, staring directly at the camera, "that the great nation of Liristan will soon return to its glorious past! We were an empire in the time of the Prophet Ahmed - and we shall become an empire once again!"

There was a round of applause followed by a dozen camera flashes.

"We, the people of Liristan, we'll take back what was ours! Our time has come! In three months the Great War will commence and together with our Malsma brothers from across the Middle East, North Africa, and Europe, we will crush the armies of United States and the Allied, Christian nations!"

More applause, followed by another dozen camera flashes.

"I say to you now, Lucky Reeve. To the people of the United States. To you, Gordon Cromwell and the people of England. And to any other nation that chooses to fight with you. Your reign of terror on the Malsma world is finished!"

With that, the conference was brought to a close. Abu-Ishak's six clerics surrounded their leader in a show of solidarity and images flashed across the screen of Malsmas around the world - from Pakistan to Egypt - yelling and cheering for Abu-Ishak.

Thursday evening. Crazy Pete's sports bar.

"So what is this Bronze Age thingy, exactly?" Keegan asked through a mouthful of food.

"You mean the Bronze Age Accord?" I asked, raising my voice to be heard over the din of the other patrons.

"Yeah. That."

"It basically stipulates that the only weapons that can be used in the Great War are things like swords, spears, javelins - the type of weaponry that existed during the Bronze Age - hence the name."

"And _why_ exactly are we doing this?"

"To have Gloria Cromwell and Thomas Reeve returned."

"And why are _they_ doing this?"

"To get Western nations out of Malsma lands. It's one final battle that will settle everything. Apparently."

"That makes no sense."

Jonathan shrugged. "It does and it doesn't. We win, we get two very important hostages back. They win, they keep said hostages and retreat to their lands and no Westerner is ever to set foot in them again. If we do, they kill Gloria Cromwell and Thomas Reeve."

"How do we know that the Liristanis or whoever will even return the hostages? What if we win and we don't get them back."

"They'll be brought to the battlefield and they're to be seen by some American CIA and British Intelligence guys before the battle starts."

Jonathan took one last sip of his soda and glanced at his watch.

"Crazy."

Jonathan nodded. "Tell me about it...anyways, dude. I gotta run. I promised Alexandra I'd meet her at the library. We're on to something big."

Keegan grinned. "I'll bet you guys are."

"Yeah, yeah, whatever. Finish your burger so we can get outta here."

"Nah, I'm good. You go ahead. I'm gonna see if I can't pick up one of those foxy ladies at that table over there," he said, indicating a table ten feet away around which sat three twenty-somethings. Jonathan suppresed a laugh as his best friend threw them a wink and resumed eating.

"Alright, man."

You guys are still coming to my game tomorrow night, right?"

"Yeah. For sure."

"Okay. Cool. Cause I wanna meet this girl."

"You will."

"Aight, homey."

"Later, dude."

Jonathan and Alexandra are conducting research at the public library.

Alexandra put down her pen and stared at the ceiling. "This is so frustrating."

"What?" asked Jonathan, glancing up from the papers he'd been nose deep in. He was trying hard not to look at her chest, though the low-cut neck of her blouse was making it rather difficult.

"I can't find a link between Axelrod and arms trading. Nothing to Russia or Liristan. High Sea Shipping - look here it is. Every shipment made this year. It's all completely legit. Fruit and other produce. Scrap metal. Lumber. And all out of Halifax to Europe. Nothing to the Middle East."

"Maybe we're missing something?"

She picked up her pen and began to chew on the end. "We must be. Keep looking. I'm going for a coffee run. You want one?"

Jonathan nodded. "Sure. Thanks."

### \- 6 -

Saturday supper at the Tremblay household. Mother Lorena, father Calvin, sister Lacey, and Jonathan are all seated around the table.

"I just think it should be illegal for M.P.s to cross the floor. Once you're elected for a certain Party, you should have to sit out that session with that Party. Or as an Independent if you object to their policy direction. Otherwise, you should have to wait until the next election to run for a different Party. That's democracy."

Jonathan nodded, though he completely disagreed given his unique circumstance. He was a little put out that his father didn't rise to his defense - but then again, it was hardly surprising given his father's extreme dislike of the Reform Party. Picking at his peas, he waited impatiently for the rest of his sister's verbal assault.

"...otherwise everyone just makes up the rules as they go along. And politicians do that enough already. You've become a politician, Jon."

She said the word "politician" as though it were something to be ashamed of.

Attempting - with little success - to scoop up a spoonful of peas - he was too tired to argue with her. "Just be glad it wasn't you that had to do it."

"You didn't _have_ to do anything, Jon."

_Oh, yes I did, Lacey. And maybe one day you'll be thank me for it_ , he thought bitterly.

"How about we leave politics outside the house, eh?"

He looked at his mother. Her brown eyes, bright and hopeful. Her auburn hair freshly coiffed. (Saturday was "salon day" for Lorena Tremblay.)

"You're right, mom."

"Splendid. More potatoes anyone?"

Before he could say 'yes', his Calvin Tremblay pushed his plate to the centre of the table, rose from his chair, and left the dining room.

"Still mad at me, is he?" asked Jonathan once his father was out of earshot.

Lacey looked at him with an expression that said, "What do you think?"

Lorena rubbed her son's shoulder with affection. "He'll come around, honey."

Jonathan sighed and downed the rest of his orange juice. "Hopefully. 'Cause I don't know how much more of this I can take."

Question Period in the House of Commons the following Monday.

"Mister Speaker. Is the Prime Minister _denying_ that Canada is in danger? After all, how can we defend three thousand kilometers of coastline with axes and spears?"

There were shouts and whoops from the Reform caucus and Gunther Klaxon raised his hand to quell the noise.

"Silence, please."

"Mister Speaker," said Alistair Tillman, rising to his feet, "the Leader of the Opposition is ignorant of the facts. The Great War is to take place in Morocco - far from Canadian shores. Our army _will_ adhere to Abu-Ishak's terms as laid out in the Bronze Age Accord, but _only_ , and I repeat, _only_ for the Great War. Here at home, and in other combat operations, Canada will continue to use what it has always used - the best weaponry and the best men and women in uniform."

"Here, here!"

Seated across the House from the Prime Minister, Jonathan Tremblay smiled as his former Union colleagues clapped and slapped their desks with their hands.

"Silence, please. Silence. Liz Keller, M.P. for Saskatoon Centre."

Jonathan watched as the pale blonde woman three rows down got to her feet.

"Thank you, Mister Speaker. How can the Prime Minister _defend_ his signing Abu-Ishak's Bronze Age Accord? Since when does Canada negotiate with rogue States?"

More whoops and hollers from the Reform caucus.

"Mister Speaker," said Alistair Tillman, rising once more from his seat. "Need a remind the Opposition that Gloria Cromwell, wife of British Prime Minister Gordon Cromwell, and Thomas Reeve, son of U.S. President, Lucky Reeve, are currently being held captive by the Liristani government? To _not_ negotiate with Abu-Ishak would be the greater crime!"

"Here, here!"

Prime Minister Alistair Tillman, Jonathan and Alexandra are seated in the Prime Minister's Office.

"That was quite the Question Period today, kids."

Alistair Tillman eased his stiff shoulders and relaxed into his chair as Martin poured all three a glass of water.

"The annoying thing is that the Press is on their side," Jonathan grumbled.

"Ah, yes. But you know, I find that the Press are some of the worst sheep when it comes to politics. Give it six more months and they'll be eating their shirts. Speaking of which, how's the research coming? Have we found any incriminating evidence linking Axelrod to the Liristanis?"

Alexandra shook her head. "No. We're trying, but every lead we've found has come up short. High Sea Shipping is strictly legit."

"How about working backwards?"

"Backwards?"

The Prime Minister nodded, swirling the water in his cup. "Get a list of all the shipping companies that do business with Liristan and find out if Axelrod has any connection to them. Perhaps he sits on the Board or serves in an advisory capacity. As much as I dislike the man, he's no fool. He'll have kept his tracks covered. You're not going to find a smoking gun."

Alexandra nodded. "You're right. We'll get on that."

"Excellent. Keep up the good work. You're both doing a fine job. It'll come. Just keep at it."

Jonathan mustered a smile. At the rate they were going the Great War would already be over and Axelrod would be Canada's next Prime Minister...

Jonathan and Keegan are having a round of racquetball at the gym.

"So you tapped that yet?"

Jonathan ceased drinking and glared at his friend. "I told you not to talk about her like that, man. I really like this girl. And besides, we're working on an important assignment together. I can't just go and throw it all away by getting involved with her like that."

"Ahhhh, you loser."

He watched as his friend tossed the ball into the air and smashed it against the wall.

"You can't - "

He paused to return the ball with a swift backhand.

"Put the - "

Whop.

"Pussy on a pedestal."

Thwack.

"Dude. Stop it. Seriously. She's a great girl. Not just a piece of ass."

Keegan grinned and served the ball again. "It's all the same to me, man."

"Yeah, well, that's you," Jonathan muttered, smashing the ball as hard as he could.

Jonathan and Alexandra are at Library and Archives Canada.

"I found it! Jon! Kyrex Industries! His cousin! Stuart Pennington! It all fits!"

"What? What? What?" Jonathan demanded, setting down the notepad he'd been holding. "What did you find?"

"Here, look."

Alexandra shoved the book in front of him.

"Right here. This paragraph."

Jonathan looked to where she was pointing and read aloud. "Kyrex Industries was sold in two thousand two to Vancouver businessman, Stuart Pennington. Stuart Pennington, nephew of shipping magnate Karl Axelrod, was formerly head of Gardiner Holdings."

"Karl Axelrod..."

"Is Wilfred Axelrod's father!" Alexandra exclaimed.

"So - "

"That makes Stuart Pennington his cousin."

"And - "

"Kyrex Industries, according to this, 'manufactures micro-processors and other computer components associated with nuclear weapons production. Of note are Kyrex Industries' close ties to a number of undemocratic Middle Eastern and Asian states.'"

"Which means - "

"That Axelrod is dealing with the Liristanis through his cousin's shipping company!"

Jonathan frowned. "So Tillman was right."

"Yup. But this is all we need, Jon! Don't you see? We take this to this Press - get them to connect the rest of the dots - and we've got Axelrod! I'm calling Mister Tillman right now. He'll want to see this."

"Alright, call him."

9:16 p.m. Wednesday night. It's dark. Raining. Jonathan and Alexandra have just pulled up in front of the Thai embassy where a reception is being held. In attendance are federal politicians and other members of the diplomatic community.

"This should be it. Three twenty-five Island Park Road, right?"

Alexandra checked the slip of paper in her hand as Jonathan slowed his Volkswagen Jetta. "Yes. Three twenty-five Island Park Road."

"Whoa...but what's this?"

An ambulance, with lights flashing, was parked in the driveway of the embassy. The partygoers, dressed in their finest suits and gowns, were milling about on the blackened front lawn. The women clutched their purses tightly to their breasts, watching the house and occasionally pulling at the sweaters draped around their shoulders, appearing as though they'd been made to exit in a hurry and regretted not having brought something warmer. Meanwhile, the men seemed to be exchanging nervous whispers and surreptitious glances.

"I don't know. It looks like something's up though."

There being no free parking spots, Jonathan continued slowly past the rows of high-end sedans and SUVs.

"Just park up ahead," said Alexandra, her voice anxious. "I don't care if we have to walk a bit."

"What do you think happened?"

Alexandra shook her head. "I don't know."

"Should we call Tillman?"

"He doesn't have a phone. Remember?"

"I mean Martin. Should we call Martin."

"Probably not a bad idea. Maybe he's inside?"

As she dialed the Prime Minister's assistant, Jonathan eased his Jetta into an open spot.

"Martin. Good. Glad I got you. What's going on?"

Jonathan looked at her, searching her face for an answer.

"Okay. But, we're here and there's an ambulance here. No. Yes. We thought you were here. Okay. We'll see you soon. Thanks, Martin."

Click.

"He's on his way. He was supposed to be here but Tillman told him to meet with Nancy about something."

"But he's coming here now?" Jonathan asked anxiously.

"Yes."

"Alright."

He glanced in the rearview mirror, the red and orange lights of the ambulance dancing off the sides of houses and parked cars.

"So...do we wait in the car or go and see what's happening? I don't really feel like waiting another fifteen minutes or whatever for Martin to show up."

Alexandra nodded, her eyes glued to the sideview mirror as she too tried to see what was happening. "Yeah, we'd better go."

The pair climbed out of the vehicle and made their way quickly along the rain dampened sidewalk. The glow of Parisian street lights pale against the damp air.

"Hey, look!"

Jonathan looked to where Alexandra was pointing.

"The paramedics - they're coming out of the house."

Sure enough, forty yards away, two tall and strapping paramedics were leaving the embassy.

"They've got a stretcher - and there's someone on it."

"Let's go."

They hurried forwards and reached the front lawn after half a minute. Weaving through the crowd that seemed to have grown larger since they'd first driven by, the pair made their way to the front just as the paramedics were approaching.

"Oh my God! Jon!"

"What? What's the matter?"

But before she could speak, he had his answer. For, lying on the stretcher, eyes wide open and dead-looking, was Alistair Tillman.

" _And though police are still releasing few details, we've been told, Peter, that a known Russian KGB agent was seen on video surveillance to be leaving the party at 8:34 p.m. At approximately 8:45 Prime Minister Alistair Tillman began complaining of severe stomach pains. Paramedics were called and within thirty minutes he was pronounced dead."_

Jonathan switched off the radio and returned to dicing strawberries for his Saturday morning smoothie.

How could this be happening? Alistair Tillman...dead. And he wasn't dreaming. Alistair Tillman was actually...dead. Such a good man. Such a good leader. And possibly _poisoned_ by a Russian KGB agent?

The buzzer sounded and he jogged to the intercom.

"Alexandra?"

"Yeah. It's me."

"Come on up," he said, pressing the "Door Open" button.

He released the button after several seconds and returned to the blender on the kitchen island. At least his dad was talking to him again. Though that was mainly out of sympathy.

He still hadn't told his dad the _real_ reason for why he had crossed the floor and joined the Reformers. As much as he wanted to, he and Alexandra had both agreed that now, more than ever, was the time to keep an eye on Axelrod and in order to be close to the Reform leader, he needed to be fully trusted. That meant keeping everyone but Alexandra in the dark.

A sharp knock on the door stirred him from his thoughts.

"It's open."

The door opened and there she stood, decked out in black spandex and a conservative black top.

"Ready to go?"

Jonathan siged. "Yeah..."

"You're still feeling pretty bad, eh?"

He looked at her. She wore a concerned expression on her face and her hands rested on her hips.

"Yeah...I just can't get it out of my head. It's like...I think sometimes I'm dreaming...that he can't actually be...gone. But he is."

Alexandra gave a nodded of understanding. "You know, I don't mean to sound cold...I really do miss him and hurt for him...but Tillman was pretty philosophical about death. He certainly didn't fear it. He beat skin cancer in his forties, you know? And he told me that throughout his treatment he'd become much less afraid of death because he knew that there was something greater out there. How did he put it...He said that there was something bigger than himself...and that he was just a ball of energy in an infinite universe...and that, rather than fear death he now saw it as being the next...and I remember how he said this...he said that death was just the next 'natural phase of the journey every living thing must take.'"

Jonathan stared at the granite countertop, his hands planted firmly against the kitchen island. "That's pretty...intense."

"Isn't it?"

"I guess...it's just that it happened so suddenly...and I would have liked to have been able to say goodbye."

"We all would have liked to have said goodbye. Martin especially. He's taking it _really_ hard...he's hardly left Tillman's office."

Jonathan dropped his chin to his chest and inhaled deeply before releasing a great breath of air that emptied his lungs and relaxed his shoulders.

"You're right...I should be thinking of Martin right now. He loved Tillman like a dog loves his owner."

Alexandra looked at him, her eyes sympathetic and understanding, as she came towards him and gently placed a hand on his arm. She was warm. Alive. And Jonathan felt close to her then.

"We should try and do something nice for him. Make sure he's alright."

Jonathan nodded, but said nothing as he looked away and stared out the balcony door, his eyes coming to rest on a pigeon that hand landed on the balcony railing.

"Maybe we can take him out for coffee," said Alexandra brightly. "Get him doing something. Even if we can only take his mind off it for an hour or so...it's still worth it."

Jonathan returned his attention to the beautiful girl standing beside him.

"You're right. Let's do that."

"Awesome," she said, smiling and pulling closer towards him so that their faces were almost touching.

Surprised by the outburst of affection he was receiving, he nearly stepped backwards. But then, every fibre in his body resisted and he stood firm as she drew closer and finally kissed him softly on the lips. She held the kiss for several seconds and Jonathan felt as though he might float off the ground. When she finally stepped back his lips were tingling with that electric excitement of new love and he smiled as a sizeable dose of enorphins began to coarse through him.

"Wow."

She returned his smile. "I've been meaning to do that for awhile."

Jonathan noticed that she was blushing now and her eyes were directed at the floor.

"You're gutsier than me."

Alexandra looked at him. "You feel the same way?"

"A hundred percent."

No longer embarassed, she kissed him again and Jonathan forgot completely about Tillman as they stumbled towards the couch.

### \- 7 -

Jonathan's apartment. 8:44 p.m.

"It's going to get noisy here for a sec," said Jonathan, indicating the blender full of bananas, blueberries, yogurt and pineapple juice.

Alexandra smiled. "Right."

It was the following evening and the pair had spent the day jogging along the Canal and picknicking at Westboro Beach.

Jonathan flicked the switch and the gadget whirred to life, filling the apartment with that loud and annoying sound blenders make. When the choking, grating, whirring sounds had stopped he removed two tall glasses from the cupboard and filled them each with lemon coloured smoothie.

"The thing I don't get still is...what does Axelrod have to gain by dealing with the Russians and the Liristanis?"

Jonathan shrugged as he took a sip of his smoothie. "I don't know. Money?"

"There are easier ways to make money."

"Oil rights?"

"Kind of yesterday's news. Plus, oil is nowhere near the commodity it once was. How many cars still use gas?"

Jonathan suppressed a laugh. "You're right."

"So if it's not money...and it's not oil rights..."

"What do we know of his family life?"

"Last I checked, he's married. Two kids. House in Kanata. House in Charlottetown."

"Seems pretty generic," said Jonathan. "What about his wife and kids? We never really see them in the media. Are they ever on the campaign trail with him or...are there any interviews of his wife floating around YouTube?"

"No. I checked all that. The Axelrod's are pretty low key as far as politicians' families go."

"Why, I wonder? Is he hiding them?"

"Why would Axelrod want to hide his family?"

"I don't know. But if he is, I'm going to find out why."

The houses one finds along the tree-lined, suburban streets that back on to the Kanata Golf Course make no attempt to hide their wealth. Roman pillars, lion statues, gurgling fountains - the miniature mansions serve as tangible testaments of their owners' wealth. Home to wealthy entrepreneurs, sports stars and politicians, the community is a gated one and not just anyone is privy to drive along Clover Lane and Elderberry Way.

While Jonathan had initially thought that getting the code for the gate would be difficult - and lamenting that Opposition Leaders no longer lived at Stornoway as they had in the past - a simple phone call to a random address on Clover Lane in which Alexandra had posed as a Sears delivery dispatcher proved successful.

"This is the kind of neighbourhood my mom would kill for," said Jonathan as he punched in the code at the wrought iron gates and watched them swing open.

Alexandra sighed as they pulled through and were greeted by a trio of grey and brown brick, four-storey dwellings.. "I don't see why people are so vain. They're just houses. You eat in them...you sleep in them. That's it."

"You're the practical sort that these homes aren't built for."

Alexandra smiled. "I guess so. And I'm glad for that."

Rounding a bend they entered the three thousand block.

"Here we are," said Jonathan slowly, glancing at the numbers visible from the road. "Three thousand seven...three thousand thirteen..."

"What number are we looking for again?"

"Three thousand eighty seven."

"Knock, knock, Axelrod."

"Think he'll be home?"

"No. I made sure of that. He's in committee meetings all afternoon. It's his wife we want to talk to."

Alexandra rolled down her window as Jonathan slowed his Jetta to a crawl.

"Three thousand seventy nine...that'll be three thousand eighty one...three thousand eighty three...eighty five...eighty seven. Three thousand eighty seven."

"And, oh my God. Look. They're in the driveway? Is that the nanny?"

"Looks like it could be. Two kids. Minivan. She's wearing a headscarf."

"Intersting. Maybe she's Malsma?"

"That's what I'm thinking."

"Let's see if we can talk to her."

"My thoughts exactly," said Jonathan as he parked his Jetta behind a small convertible and shut off the ignition.

"Looks like they're going somewhere. Let's go, quick."

They hurried out of the vehicle and raced to the end of the driveway just as the woman in the headscarf was climbing into the driver's seat.

"Hi there."

Somewhat startled, the woman stared at them with a look of surprise etched on her face. She was rather pretty, with olive tone skin and well defined eyebrows. Her brown eyes were piercing, though her gaze was somewhat softened by her long eyelashes.

"Who are you?" she demanded. "What do you want?"

With Alexandra beside him, Jonathan raised his hands defensively. "I'm really sorry if we scared you. My name is," he had to think fast, "Thomas Gunther...and I work with Mister Axelrod. Would _Missus_ Aexlrod happen to be in at the moment? There are a few things we'd like to speak with her about."

"I am Missus Axelrod. What would you like to speak to me about?"

"So Axelrod's wife is Malsma?"

Jonathan nodded and took a sip from his mug.

"And now we know his motive for dealing with the Liristanis," said Alexandra, staring across the table at Martin.

It was several hours later and the three were discussing the latest development over coffee at Tina's Tea Shoppe \- a small, hole in the wall sort of place in Barrhaven. While the coffee wasn't always fresh, it was the sort of place that a person could have a chat without being overheard by anyone from the Hill.

"I never would have pegged that ignorant oaf as a religious man," said Martin, nibbling on his biscotti. "I mean, aren't Malsmas like...all serious and stuff? The ones you see on T.V. - with their beards and their skull caps - they look like serious scholars. Like men of God - not used car salesmen."

Jonathan shrugged, but said nothing, instead listening to the soft, acoustic guitar solos being pumped through the speakers.

"And what I don't understand is how the media has never looked into this," said Alexandra. "I mean, hasn't he ever brought his wife to a social function?"

"No, in fact," Martin answered thoughtfully after pausing to finish his biscotti, "he's always been very private about his family life - and he often makes a point of telling the media that he wants his public and private lives to be kept separate. According to him, it's for the good of his family."

Jonathan scoffed. "He makes it sound so honourable. If only people knew the _real_ reason for keeping his family out of the public eye."

"I just wouldn't think that it's possible to do it," said Alexandra, still in disbelief. "I mean, for an Opposition Leader to be able to hide his family away like that? It doesn't make sense. No politician's family life can be guarded that closely."

"Well," Jonathan began, draining his mug and wiping his mouth with a napkin, "they live in a gated community...their children are probably homeschooled...or sent to some sort of Malsma private school where no journalist would even think to snoop...and Axelrod's only been Party leader since December. That's not really long enough for the media to take that much of an interest in his personal affairs - especially not when they regard him as their saviour."

"Well, I don't like it one bit," said Martin bitterly. "And Mister Tillman - " he stopped himself as tears sprang to his eyes, "...Mister Tillman wouldn't have let this stand. People need to know about the _real_ Wilfred Axelrod - before it's too late."

"You're right, Martin," said Alexandra angrily.

"Which paper is our best bet to leak this to?" Jonathan asked, bringing Google up on his phone to begin conducting a search.

"The _Toronto Tribune_ ," said Alexandra without a moment's hesitation. "They've always been friendly to the Union Party."

Jonathan nodded and signed into his e-mail account before returning his gaze to Martin. "If we give you all the information we've collected up to now - and copies of the documents relating to Axelrod's business dealings with Liristan and Russia via Kyrex Industries - can you prepare the press package and send it out?"

"It would be my honour."

"Excellent."

_"...but we begin tonight with our top story._ _Documents obtained earlier this afternoon by the Toronto Tribune, our newspaper affiliate, suggest that Wilfred Axelrod, leader of the Reform Party and Official Leader of the Opposition, has been conducting business with Liristan and Russia via Kyrex Industries, a company owned by his cousin, Stuart Pennington..."_

Jonathan leaned back and draped his arm around Alexandra as she nestled against his shoulder. Though things were coming apart - and though the Great War was just two months away - they'd done it. They'd completed Alistair Tillman's assignment and in so doing, had dealt the Reform Party a potentially fatal blow. He didn't know what the future would hold - could the Allies really defeat Abu-Ishak's army using only Bronze Age weapons? Would Interim Leader Ronald Court keep the Union Party going in the right direction? Had he done the right thing crossing the floor to become a pseudo-Reformer M.P.? Would the revelation of Axelrod's business dealings with the enemy spell the end of the Reform Party and would his own, fledgling political career come crashing down with it?

He breathed a deep sigh and rested his head against Alexandra's. One could never be sure what the future held. All he could do was watch, wait, and hope that the new and exciting relationship he'd embarked upon with Alexandra Sinclair would make it all a little easier.

PART III

(Six weeks later)

### \- 8 -

Parliament Hill. Tuesday. 10:33 a.m.

"Presenting the Saskatchewan samurai battalion," the announcer called out before the trumpet sounded and four columns of men and women, in full-body, Samurai armour marched onto the field and stood at attention.

From their vantage point atop the steps of the parliament buildings, Jonathan and Alexandra watched the procession, both equally as intrigued as the other M.P.s, Senators and dignitaries gathered on the Hill to watch the ceremony.

"The Vancouver Vikings, the Calgary Calvary, the Saskatchewan Samurai," Wayne Cherneski exclaimed with a chuckle to the amusement of others around him. "They're more like bloody hockey teams than army units!"

For once Jonathan agreed with the portly M.P. for Winnipeg Centre. Though, even if these army units - comprised of regular forces and volunteers - did have names more akin to hockey teams, the prospect of returning to a style of war that excluded long range ballistics and nuclear warheads appealed to him. There would be far fewer casualties and far less destruction. Moreover, with the battle slated to be fought on Morocco's Southern Steppes, almost completely eliminating any possibility of civilian casualties.

"Next we present the Winnipeg Warriors!" boomed the announcer as two columns of men and women dressed in traditional, Aboriginal garb marched proudly into view.

"They look like the real deal," Alexandra said, her breath catching.

"Well, they probably are," answered Jonathan. "Lot of Natives in Winnipeg and Manitoba. These are the descendants of the great Aboriginal warriors of the past."

"Oh, please, Mister History Channel," she said, throwing him an amused smile.

"WINNIPEG!" shouted Wayne Cherneski, rising to his feet and clapping loudly.

"Looks like Abu-Ishak's in for a bit of a surprise," Jonathan mused, ignoring the heavy-set, Ukranian M.P. "Probably never would have thought we could amass such a good-looking army. Man, I wish I was out there."

Alexandra slapped his thigh. "What!?"

"I mean...I kind of wish I could be decked out in Samurai gear or Native war paint and going off to battle."

"Jon - people are going to die."

"I know..."

"It's not like the little fantasy games you played as a kid. Or like what those LARPers do. This is real life."

Jonathan sighed and ran a hand through his hair as he surveyed his cheering, clapping colleagues and the crowd of people lining Wellington street with their Canada flags and homemade banners.

"You're right. I guess it's just a little boy's fantasy."

Despite her small size, Alexandra threw and arm around his neck and squeezed him tightly. "You're not a little boy anymore. You're my man now," she grinned, shaking him until he'd had enough and began to tickle her in retaliation.

Her shrieks of laughter filled the air and what with the sun shining and the military band pumping out brass melodies, Jonathan wished Alistair Tillman could have been there.

_"Yes, Peter. Canadian troops have been arriving in Gibraltar for the past three days. And this usually quiet port city has been transformed into what some have referred to as a giant Halloween party. You have to admit, if you look here behind me, you can see the incredible variety in terms of uniforms and service men and women._ (Camera pans in and out, honing in on men and women dressed in togas, kilts and capes.) _There's even a unit here from Alaska that calls themselves the Alaska Archers - and yes - you guessed it - they're archers, bowmen, the Robin Hoods of the north so to speak."_

The news anchor chuckled. _"And Trisha, tell me. How has the reception been for all these soldiers? Because Tangiers isn't a very big place. Where is everyone being housed and fed? What's the average Spaniard think of all this?_

"They love it. Peter, like I said, several people have referred to this as a Halloween party. I guess, for Spain, it's more like Carnival (laughs), and the people of Tangiers have welcome these foreign troops with open arms. There are units from Argentina, Brazil, Mexico - from all over South and Central America and it's just a wondrous thing to see. It's too bad it's all leading up to something so ugly."

"Something ugly indeed," Calvin Tremblay remarked as they all sat in the livingroom several a week later, digesting their supper and sipping their tea and coffee.

"I don't know, dad," Jonathan began, ceasing his game of footsies with Alexandra so that he could give the topic his full attention. "I mean, I'm getting a little philosophical here, but as far as war goes this one will be far less destructive than previous wars. As you know, Court said only volunteers would be sent and any member of the Canadian Forces who doesn't want to participate, doesn't have to."

"War is war, son. It's ugly. Whether with sticks and stones or guns and missiles."

"Yes, but you have to admit, there are going to be _far_ fewer casualties in this conflict than Iraq or Afghanistan or wars like that. This is the new age, dad."

Calvin Tremblay shook his head. "Well, if it's a new age son, I would hope that we would have evolved to the point where we don't need to fight anymore."

Jonathan released a sigh of exasperation and looked at Alexandra. "You see why I can't discuss politics with my dad?"

She smiled. "Every family's like this though when it comes to politics and religion and all that sort of stuff."

"I like her," said Lacey casually as she fiddled with her phone. "You better treat her right."

Jonathan threw her an accusatory stare. " _You'd_ better treat her right - because if she runs away from this family it won't be because of me - it'll be because I've got a crazy, stubborn, annoying little sister."

"Alright you two," said Lorena Tremblay sternly.

"Sorry, mom."

"Sorry, mom."

"That's quite alright. It is a tense time after all," she sighed. "Goodness...can hardly believe it...another war is to take place in just two weeks."

No one spoke for a minute, each content simply to listen to Peter Jarvis and his panel discuss the impending Great War.

"Anyway," Lorena Tremblay said when she could stand the silence no longer. "Would anyone care for some more dessert?"

### \- 9 -

Anger. That's what Jonathan felt as he read the article in the _Ottawa Observer_ on the status of the investigation into the fatal poisoning of Alistair Tillman. It was stalled. Diplomatic issues. Political issues. He'd heard things in the corridors. Whispers. The Russians had definitely played a role, but to what extent was still indeterminable. Privately, interim Prime Minister Ronald Court was threatening to expel the Russian diplomat from the country. Though his British counterpart, Gordon Cromwell, had strongly advised him against this, citing the safety of his wife and Thomas Reeve and urging him to wait until the Great War was over.

Personally, Jonathan was fed up with politics. He'd found that it was a dirty, ugly business where your friends could be your worst enemies. Crossing the floor to join the Reform Party had taught him that much - and the fallout he'd experienced - both in the media and from his own family - was enough to make him never want to step inside a government building again. But it was for Alexandra and the memory of Alistair Tillman that he kept going.

"I'm not running next election," he huffed as they jogged together along the Canal the following Saturday.

"No one's asking you to."

"Good. Because I'm not. I'm through with politics."

Alexandra said nothing, but instead focused her attention on a gaggle of young geese huddled on the grass.

"I don't know why I ever ran in the first place. I should have just went to university like everybody else. I'd be finishing up my second year right about now with just two years to go."

"You can still go to school," said Alexandra as she pulled the water bottle from the pouch around her waist and took a quick sip.

"I know...and I probably will," Jonathan sighed. "It's just...I'm so confused with everything that's going on right now. I mean, Tillman. He's dead. Gone. Forever. And he was alive and well three months ago. Could have lived to be a hundred."

"We've gone over this a hundred times, Jon. And what if he would have died in a car accident a year later or something? You never know what can happen in life."

"Well, it wasn't his time. And he sue as hell didn't die in a car accident. He was _murdered_. And no one knows why."

Alexandra slowed her jog to a walk, prompting Jonathan to do the same.

"Let's try and figure it out," she said, extending her leg onto a concrete planter so that she could stretch.

"Figure what out?"

"Why Alistair Tillman was murdered."

Jonathan released a heavy sigh, before nodding and joining her in the stretch.

"First things first," she said. "Who were his enemies?"

"That's easy. Axelrod. The Liristanis. The Russians."

"Okay...what did each have to gain with him out of the way?"

"Well, Axelrod...Tillman had always been a thorn in his side. As long as Tillman was at the head of the Union Party, moderate conservatives would vote Union. With Ronald Court at the helm now...who knows. He caters much more to the leftist faction within the Party - and he's big on labour organizations - unlike Tillman. So with Tillman gone...the Reformers might win the next election and Axelrod could have been Prime Minister?"

Alexandra nodded as she leaned into her calf stretch. "Okay...and how about his connection to the Liristanis and the Russians?"

"Well...his wife is Malsma...so he's either Malsma himself or he sympathizes with their cause. That would put him on the side of Abu-Ishak and Liristan. As Prime Minister he would be able to increase trade and diplomatic ties with Liristan - maybe even granting terrorist elements Canadian citizenship so that they could come to Canada and attack the U.S. from Canadian soil?"

Alexandra gaped at him, a look of surprise on her face. "Whoa. Jon. That's good."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. I mean, not _good_ \- but you may be on to something there."

Feeling more confident now that they were starting to get somewhere, Jonathan's mood brightened.

"I say we add our theories to our report and hand them over to CSIS. Let them finish the job. We did our part."

Sighing, Jonathan bent and touched his toes, the glare of the sun on the hot pavement causing him to squint.

"You're right," he said slowly as he stood up a second later. "We did our part. Now it's their turn."

"And Alistair Tillman can rest in peace," Alexandra added, leaning on him as she rotated her ankle.

"And Alistair Tillman can rest in peace," Jonathan repeated, sending a silent prayer to the man.

Wherever you are.

Crazy Pete's sports bar. September 7, 2048.

Seated on what had to be the most uncomfortable bar stool he'd ever sat on, Jonathan held his breath along with the other patrons as everyone silently counted down with the flashing numbers on the TV screen.

Twenty three...twenty two...twenty one...twenty.

In just twenty seconds the Great War would commence. Low flying drones equipped with cameras would capture and broadcast the battle in its entirety. In real time. No editing.

As adults the world over - from Uruguay to Australia to Ireland - gathered around TV sets, their kids were sent outside to play - or sent to bed - depending on the time zone in which they lived. For the sights and sounds about to be witnessed were not intended for young ears and young eyes, and for the past week, television networks had issued glaring viewer advisory warnings for the Great War.

Seated beside Alexandra, her perfume tickling his nostrils, Jonathan felt her squeeze his hand. He returned the squeeze, but kept his eyes on the TV screen, not daring to look away lest he miss something.

To his left, he could hear Keegan crunching away absent-mindedly on bar nuts as he too waited for the battle to begin.

The timer reached zero and a final red and white disclaimer flashed across the screen.

We remind our viewers that what you are about to see will be extremely graphic and is intended for adult audiences only.

"Here we go," said the bartender as he leaned against the counter, his eyes glued to the screen.

"Let 'em have it, boys!" a grizzled, grey-beard roared, raising his glass in salute.

"Here, here."

In the next instant two talking heads appeared on screen. Peter Jarvis of CNB news and guest correspondent, Colonel Goodwin of the Canadian Forces.

"Good evening, Canada. We begin our coverage of the Great War with a minute of prayer for our Canadian men and women - and our Allied brothers and sisters in arms - who are about to go into battle. Not every man or woman is willing to lay down their lives for their country and for these brave souls to heed this call in this dark hour, is a selfless and heroic act. Let us remember this as we gather with our friends and family during this difficult time and may we be there for them when they return. And for those who do not return, may we be there for their friends and family. A minute of silence will commence...now."

Alexandra's hand was warm and electric in his and Jonathan held fast to it.

Thank you so much for Alexandra. She means so much to me. Mister Tillman, wherever you are, I hope you know that we did our best with the assignment you gave us. I think we got you the result you were hoping for.

After sending some positive energy to the Canadian army units, he opened his eyes and stared at the screen once again.

"And now, ladies and gentlemen, the moment we've all been waiting for - and the moment we've all been dreading \- the Great War. I have here with me Colonel Goodwin of the Canadian Forces. Colonel Goodwin has been a member of the C.F. since two thousand twenty and while he has yet to participate in a battle of this nature, he has years of conventional battle experience. So, welcome, Colonel Goodwin."

"Thank you, Peter. I would say that it's good to be here, but I can't say that. This is a dark day for the Canadian Forces. I was opposed to Abu-Ishak's Bronze Age Accord from the very - "

His microphone cut out - evidently the producers disproved of the colonel's remarks - and Peter Jarvis had to recover quickly.

"Yes, ladies and gentlemen, this Bronze Age battle is a unique moment in history. In fact, I don't think the world has seen warfare like this for over three milennia. We now take you live to the Southern Steppe of Morocco's portion of the Sahara Desert where both the Malsma army and the Allied army are holding prayer sessions. An interesting fact about this part of the world, there are only..."

"These bloody camel jockies," grey-beard said loudly, slamming his glass on the bar top. "Look at all this we're doing for them. They don't have the weaponry that we have so we have to drop everything and pick up swords and spears to placate them."

"Here, here."

"Wait a minute though," said Jonathan, several patrons turning to look at him. "What about the fact that tens of thousands of innocent civilians won't die? Or that cities won't be destroyed? Isn't it better to do things this way?"

There were several murmurs as those gathered around the bar thought about his remark.

"I can't say that I disagree," said one man, giving him an approving nod.

"I can," grey beard piped up, the twist of his lips and redness of his face indicating that he was steadily becoming more intoxicated. "These Malsmas think they can blow up buildings and we're not going to do anything about it? Well, I'll tell you what, buddy. You're wrong. These Malsmas should have their cities blown up. Their women and children should all die. That's the truth. That's what it is. You're just soft."

Jonathan wanted to answer, to tell the old man to can it, but Alexandra's warning stare stopped him.

"Just ignore him," she said quietly, squeezing his hand even more tightly than before.

"And now folks, the moment we've all been waiting for," said Peter Jarvis as the cameras zoomed in on the scarred, bearded, black-eyed Malsmas and the cold, steely, blue and brown-eyed Allies, "the Great War!"

There came the sound of a horn and then all hell broke loose. The two sides flew at each other, swords raised, maces swinging, and shields bouncing. Fierce stares. War cries. Shouts. And then they reached each other, like two giant waves meeting in the middle of the ocean, and there came the horrific sounds of wood against flesh and metal against bone. A "casualty counter" in the upper corner of the screen kept a tally of each side's dead and dying and the numbers began to climb.

Slicing. Hacking. Slashing. Guts being spilled. Heads rolling. Alexandra recoiled and Jonathan had to look away. Several of the patrons seated in the vicinity vomited, the sounds of their wretching adding to the grotesque sounds from the TV and creating an altogether unfavorable environment.

"I have to get out of here," said Jonathan, climbing down from his bar stool.

"I'll go with you," said Alexandra.

Keegan turned and looked at them. "Where you guys going? The show just started."

Holding his stomach, Jonathan shook his head as though his best friend's comment was not appreciated, and then he headed for the exit.

"Are you alright?" Alexandra asked as they stepped outside into the cool night air.

"Yeah...I'll be fine...I just feel a little nauseous," Jonathan answered as he took a seat on the curb. "I didn't think it would affect me that way...I've seen _Swordsman_ and _Barbarian_ and all those movies...but this was real...man."

Alexandra knelt down beside him and touched a hand to the back of his neck. "It was pretty bad. I didn't think it would be that bad."

Jonathan grinned as he shook his head and then threw it back, almost laughing. "I mean...can you believe it? We just saw that. Like...people's guts spilling onto the ground and their heads getting chopped off...if I don't laugh, I'll cry."

"I know what you mean."

"Forget what I said before about wishing I could go. Never. Ever."

Alexandra gave him an approving stare. "You see? I told you."

"I know. I guess...like I said, I didn't think it would be like that."

"You thought they'd die with smiles on their faces?"

"No. I guess...I don't know. I just thought it would be different."

"Well, maybe it was good you saw that then," she said, watching him closely. "I mean...if it keeps young people from signing up so eagerly for war. More importantly, if it keeps our _politicians_ from signing young people up so eagerly for war. It's easy to not think about the consequences if you never see what actually happens."

"How do you know so much, anyway? You talk like you've been there."

"My dad fought in Cyprus."

"You never told me that."

"I didn't tell you because it makes me sad to talk about. I was six when he left - and when he came back - he wasn't the same. Not at all."

"That was in...thirty three?"

"Thirty three to thirty five."

"Wow. I'm sorry. I never knew."

"It's alright. He never talks about it. So we don't talk about it either."

"I want to meet your parents."

"You can. They're coming up for Thanksgiving."

"Alright."

With everyone inside watching the Great War as though Canada were playing for Olympic gold, Ottawa's streets and sidewalks were deserted and the pair decided to enjoy the peace and quiet. Occasionally they'd hear a cheer from inside the bar, but neither cared enough to go and see what was happening, and the young lovers spent the rest of the evening gazing at the stars and discussing their plans for the future.

### \- 10 -

The Canadian War Memorial. October 12, 2048.

"In honour of your service to your country and our allies, I have decided to commemorate the end of the Great War with a statue to pay tribute to you and your fallen comrades."

There was a round of applause and Ronald Court waited for the clapping to subside before continuing his speech.

"It is your sense of duty and selflessness," he said, fixing his eyes on the soldiers seated before him, "that has made this great nation what it is and that will protect and preserve this great nation into the future. This new statue is being designed by famed sculpturist Emmanuel Berkshire and will depict three soldiers side by side - men and women - running to face the enemy. In addition, both the United States of America and Great Britain are donating plaques to express their gratitude in your helping to free Thomas Reeve and Gloria Cromwell. And now, as your Interim Prime Minister and fellow Canadian, let me be the first to welcome you home and to thank you for your invaluable service."

The applause that followed was louder than before and Jonathan stood with the rest of the M.P.s seated around him in order to give the returning soldiers, seated in five long rows in front of the War Memorial, a standing ovation. As the bagpipes began to play, and the ceremony wound down, Jonathan hurried from his chair to meet Alexandra, watching from behind the fence.

"Ready to go?" he asked, wrapping an arm around her.

She nodded, slinging her camera over her shoulder. "Yes."

Leaving the crowd behind, the pair headed up Wellington Street, towards the federal courthouse. Arriving a quarter of an hour later, they found Wilfred Axelrod's sentencing hearing in the closing states.

"And so," the spectacled judge boomed, as the handful of spectators in the courtroom looked on with eager anticipation, "I sentence you, Wilfred Oliver Axelrod to ten years in prison for conspiring with the enemy and betraying the trust of your post as Official Leader of the Opposition. Bailiff! Take this man away!"

There were hisses from some of the men and women seated in the front row as the blue shirted bailiff came to escort the disgraced, former politician from the prisoner's box. Jonathan surveyed the courtroom, searching for Axelrod's wife. He spotted her after several seconds, seated five rows ahead. Her purple headscarf was drawn tightly round her head. Her shoulders were slumped and she appeared to be weeping - though from his angle he couldn't be sure.

"Wait! Your Honour."

It was Axelrod speaking and Jonathan returned his attention to the portly, grey-haired man. "There is something I must say."

"Very well. You shall have two minutes to speak to the Court."

"Thank you. Your Honour - and everyone here - I owe you an apology. I betrayed your trust. I let you down. I let myself down."

He sighed deeply and stared at the ceiling.

"Two years ago I converted to Imsla and became a Malsma. My wife is from Liristan and she is Malsma. And I had not known God before her. I mean, as a boy I attended the Presbyterian church with my parents...but that religion did not resonate with me. It seemed hollow. Imsla inspired me to believe in God and to believe in something greater than myself. I found it deeply troubling that Alistair Tillman was so committed to aligning Canada with the other Western nations against Liristan. I am a Westerner - and I believe in Western values. But, at the end of the day, I could not stand to see them dictating the outcome of my wife's homeland. And so, with the help of the Russians, I conspired to...have an innocent man murdered."

Alexandra gaped aloud as these words tumbled out of Axelrod's mouth.

"Silence in the gallery please," the judge boomed, his voice echoing throughout the room.

"I had an innocent man murdered," Axelrod repeated, "for a cause that I believed in. Seeing how much I've hurt you all, however, I know that my actions were not righteous and I deserve the sentence that I have been given. May God bless you and I hope you can someday forgive me."

Hushed murmurings rippled through the audience as the bailiff calmly unlocked the prisoner's box and led Axelrod to the green metal door at the extreme right of the courtroom.

"I love you, _habibi_!" his wife screamed, collapsing against the edge of the bench and sobbing uncontrollably. "I won't forget you!"

Axelrod didn't turn around, didn't answer, and instead, simply stooped and passed through the doorway.

"Oh my God..." Alexandra said quietly once the bailiff had disappeared through the doorway and closed the door behind him.

"I know. I can't believe it."

"It's so sad."

"Tillman...Axelrod was in on it. And we didn't stop it."

"We couldn't stop it, Jon. How could we have known?"

Jonathan shook his head angrily. "We should have seen it coming."

"No one could have seen that coming. An Opposition Leader _murdering_ a Prime Minister?"

He sighed. "It does seem pretty crazy, doesn't it?"

They sat in silence for nearly ten minutes before finally a security guard told them it was time to leave.

"Dinner at ours tomorrow?"

Alexandra smiled. "That'd be nice."

### \- 11 -

Backyard B.B.Q. at the Tremblay residence. Saturday afternoon.

"I think Martin might like the ketchup, Lacey," said Lorena Tremblay as she passed around the bag of hamburger buns.

"Sorry. Here you go, Martin."

"Thank you. And thank you all very much for having me this evening."

"Oh, it's our pleasure," Calvin Tremblay beamed, clearly honoured to have the assistant to the former Union Party leader and Prime Minister of Canada in his backyard. "How is everything? Can I get you another beer?"

Jonathan watched, happily, as Martin smiled and waved his hand. For once he finally seemed to have given his mourning a rest.

"No, no. Everything's delicious. Thanks."

"Don't mention it. Any friend of the Union Party is a friend of ours."

"Dad, how come you never ran?"

"Ran for what? Election?"

Lacey nodded. "Yeah."

"I don't know," he said, glancing at his wife. "Sweetheart - how come I never ran for election?"

Lorena Tremblay smiled a knowing smile. "Because I wouldn't let him. We were new parents when we were married and I couldn't have let your father take such a busy and stressful job."

Calvin banged his hand on the table. "And there you have it."

"It's not too late now, dad," said Jonathan, taking his hand back from Alexandra so that he could eat. "Lacey and I are grown - mom - you're busy with work and your cancer fundraisers - maybe dad should run in the next election?"

His remarks brought a moment of contemplative silence to the table.

"When is the next election, anyway?" Lacey asked, dipping her hamburger in mayonnaise.

"How can you _eat_ that?" Jonathan asked, cringing.

"What? I always have mayo with my burgers."

"I know, but...gross."

Lacey shrugged and turned to Martin. "So when is the next election? Maybe I could run."

Jonathan rolled his eyes and suppressed a laugh. To his surprise, Martin didn't seem to find her question as amusing.

"Well, Court has said that he'll call an election four weeks following the leadership race. That'll allow the party to come together - leadership races can be quite divisive as you probably now - and regroup before hitting the campaign trail."

"When's the leadership race?"

"It starts the first week of November," said Alexandra.

"So the election would be sometime before Christmas?" Lacey asked.

"I suppose it would be," Martin answered, taking a sip of his Corona.

"Well, maybe I will run," said Calvin, bobbing his head as he pondered the idea.

"Go for it dad."

Calvin looked at his son, grinning. "I'd have to distance myself from you, you know? After that stunt you pulled."

Jonathan returned his dad's grin. "Yeah..."

"Oh, Cal," said Lorena stiffly. "When are you going to let that go?"

"Young Jonathan here did a great service to his country, Mister Tremblay," Martin interjected.

Jonathan tipped his head at the grey-haired man. "Thank you Martin."

Calvin Tremblay pretended not to have heard Martin's comment. "Yes, but he embarassed his family in the process."

"Country over family, dad. That's the public servant's way."

"You're just mad he had you fooled," said Lacey, bolstering her brother's defense.

Calvin shrugged his head from side to side before finally appearing to come to terms with the matter. "Yes. I suppose you're right. I think I was less upset by the fact my son had crossed the floor - and to the _Reform Party_ \- of all Parties he could have chosen! Anyhow, I was less upset with that and _more_ upset with the fact that he didn't feel that he could let me in on his secret."

At this he stared across the table at his son, his eyes asking forgiveness.

"It's alright, dad. I knew why you were upset. And if anything it showed me that you have a lot of respect for me. You have to have respect for someone before you can lose respect for someone. Am I right?"

"Awww," Lorena Tremblay gushed. "This calls for a toast. Lacey, go and get the champagne from the liquor cabinet, would you?"

"The one from your wedding!?"

The woman nodded, her face shining, and her cheeks glowing. "Yes. I think so."

Jonathan's condo. Tuesday afternoon.

"Six thousand four hundred and twenty-two."

"What's that, babe?" asked Alexandra as she curled up with her Chihuahua, Maxwell, on the loveseat.

"Six thousand four hundred and twenty-two. The number of soldiers killed in the Great War," Jonathan answered, unfurling the newspaper and laying it out on the coffee table.

"Wow."

"Yeah."

"That's not a very high number."

"No, it isn't."

Alexandra scratched beneath her dog's chin, causing the young pup to thump his hind leg furiously. "Especially when you consider that this was the _Great War_. I mean, all my sympathies those who lost their lives - "

"But it's a small number in comparison to wars from the past," Jonathan said, finishing her sentence. "Yeah?"

"Exactly. I mean, I read something once that like more than thirty million people died in World War One."

"Right."

"So, six thousand and, what was the number?"

"Six thousand four hundred and twenty-two," Jonathan repeated, turning the page and scanning the rest of the article. "And even though we won, the Defense League agreed to honour Abu-Ishak's terms of victory - minus the keeping the hostages bit of course."

"So what does that mean?"

"It means...it says here," Jonathan began, "that the Allied powers have agreed to suspend all military operations and withdraw all army personnel from all territories owned by member nations of the Malsma Confederacy. The newly-formed Malsma Confederacy comprises Morocco, Libya, Egypt, Syria, Sudan, Pakistan, and Liristan. In addition, the Defense League, of which all the Allied nations are a part, has agreed not to intervene in any matters of a political nature - nor to send troops into - member nations of the Malsma Confederacy."

"Sounds like _carte blanche_ for the dictators."

Jonathan shrugged. "You can't win 'em all."

"No, you can't," Alexandra agreed, tickling Maxwell's snout with the end of her finger. "Speaking of winning, did you hear that Martin's leading in the polls?"

"No! Really? I didn't even know he was running!"

Alexandra grinned. "Yup. And guess who he's asked to be his campaign manager?"

Jonathan gaped. "No! _You_?"

She nodded.

"That's amazing! I can't believe it. You do realize that if Martin wins the leadership race and the Union Party wins the next election, that you'll end up being his assistant."

Alexandra smiled. "I'd thought of that."

"Those are some big shoes to fill."

"I know."

EPILOGUE

(Seven years later)

University of Ottawa campus. Bright, and sunny convocation day. June 4, 2055.

"Thank you, Madame Chancellor."

Jonathan shook the hand of the University of Ottawa's chancellor and then made his way purposefully towards the podium. Adjusting the microphone, he stared out at the audience. There were his mom and dad. And Lacey, playing with her phone as usual. Beside her were Alexandra's parents, Ted and Alice, both looking as suburban and conservative as ever. Alexandra, was seated in the front row, her legs crossed and looking forwards.

"Ladies and gentlemen. Honoured guests. I stand before you today as the valedictorian for the class of twenty fifty-five. Seven years I've toiled. Seven long and grueling years. And finally, after more than two thousand late nights spent finishing essays, after more than an equal number of coffees, after countless hours spent in class and at the library, I'm here. We're here. To celebrate this shared victory. Sharing in my own victory are, first and foremost, my beautiful wife, Alexandra. Some of you may know her as our current Health Minister."

There were several chuckles in the audience and Jonathan waited for them to subside. "My family is also here to today to help me celebrate on this beautiful convocation day. Mom. Dad. Lacey. I couldn't have done it without ya."

Several "awws" rippled through the crowd and Jonathan even saw a few women dab at tears.

"But. Ladies and gentlemen. Honoured guests. Before I present you with your class of twenty fifty-five, I'd like to take a moment to remember an old friend. And that friend is former Prime Minister, Alistair Tillman. He isn't here today - and if he were - I might still be on the Hill. I might never have made it to university."

Jonathan paused to swallow the knot in his throat.

"It was a sad time in my life when he passed \- and I know others felt the same way," he added, glancing at Martin who stood in the corner with several other Union Party M.P.s. and their bodyguards. "But, life goes on. And Alistair Tillman wasn't one two wallow and dwell on the past and on things that couldn't be changed. And so, in the spirit of renewal and new life, I would like to present to you - along with my wife," he added, motioning to Alexandra, "the latest edition to our beautiful campus, Tillman Tower."

And with that he yanked the silk sheet from an easel that held the concept plan for the new building. A massive round of applause followed by hoots and hollers and Jonathan had to wait several minutes before he was able to speak again.

"I am happy to announce that the university will begin contruction of the Tillman Tower this coming Fall with an expected completion date of Spring twenty-fifty eight. This fifteen storey building will become the new home for the School of Public Administration and will also house a new library. With that, ladies and gentlemen. Honoured guests. I present to you your class of twenty fifty-five - "

And before he could say another word, his classmates had picked him up, hoisted him onto their shoulders, and begun to bounce around. Music followed - as did pictures and fancy hors d'oeuvres - and a hundred and twenty new lawyers and their families headed to the Ottawa Convention Centre for one of the biggest bashes Jonathan had ever seen.

The End

About The Author

Originally from Saskatoon, Saskatchewan, Adrien Leduc makes his home in Ottawa with his fiancée and their two crazy cats. He is a graduate of Carleton University (BA '10) and is passionate about Canadian history. An avid reader and writer, Adrien hopes to write and publish many more books in his lifetime. _Back To The Bronze Age_ is his sixth novel.

Other Works By The Same Author

Be sure to check out Adrien Leduc's other titles:

• A Place To Call Home

• The Dumnonian Hoard (A Rosenberg Twins Adventure book)

• The Good Servant

• Moshe

• Godfrey (Book One)

