Arno eyed the sender’s address . . . University of the Empire, School of Directorate Studies.
“Well . . . Good news or bad?”
Ryol leaned to peek at his screen. “Oh One! Are they sending acceptance letters?” She jerked back and started clicking on her comp. “I have one too.”
Arno opened the letter.
We are please to accept . . .
“Yes!” Arno heaved out a deep breath and started reading the details . . .
Ryol bounced in her chair, “Me too! We’re in!”
Congratulation from around the room. Izzo looked in to see what was causing the commotion, and added his congratulations. “Well, other than losing staff . . .”
“Not as fast as Insa . . . he’s really sunk in the polls of One Firsters. You can probably stop mentioning rabble rousers and start in on cold-blooded, unfeeling, power seekers.”
Izzo grinned. “Yeah. Heroics that would have won any other party’s nomination . . . but the One Firsters are horrified. Well, Ycrw always was the bigger threat to me.”
Ryol, still grinning, turned around. “Actually him being the bigger draw than Insa is good. It pulls more voters from the War Party and the Isolationists.”
“True.” Izzo shook his head. “Kids . . . advising a presidential candidate.”
Then he called his Mother, and then Aunt Rael, uploaded a note to the Wolf Kids bulletin board . . . and got back to work.
Izzo and Pug—Wpgu—were unique in that they were both pushing their moderately similar agendas, without getting extreme or attacking each other.
The other primary races were a gold mine of extremist quotes that were going to be very useful . . . hopefully for Izzo. And vastly entertaining, even when they weren’t usable.
They headed home before the rush hour hit and found a party waiting for them. Mother beaming, then Dad getting home early, also beaming. The little brats excited, except for a brief wide eyed minute of realizing their big brother and sister would be leaving and only get home a few times a year . . . from now on.
And it’s true. I’m months away from turning eighteen . . . and suddenly I don’t feel very grown up.
And faster than he’d believed possible it was suddenly Rajab and time to run frantically around the globe encouraging people to vote for him as the twenty-ninth arrived and the Polls opened.
Xiat had reserved the main ballroom at the Saint Honorine for the poll watching, and hopefully victory party. And a penthouse suite so he could step out and . . . flop on the bed.
“I can’t keep smiling. My face hurts.”
Xiat snickered. “Yes, Dear. Relax for an hour. Then we’ll go over the exit polls before your next interview.”
“Umm . . .”
“Relax. They look very good, everywhere but Paris. Homestead is in your pocket, as we expected. Now relax for a little bit.”
Guess I’d better. This is just the prelims. I just hope we don’t have any more bombings.