The Current Event’s Seminar was swapped to Friday, and was going to run until the last polling places closed, the acceptance speeches, and the announcements were over.
Which would be three in the morning, when Polynesia and western Alaska hit midnight.
It was much less formal than usual, and in fact closely resembled a big party, complete with drinks—non-alcoholic—and munchies.
The Strong Federalists’ section of the whole opened up auditorium was the smallest, with the War Party loyalists spilling over from one side and the One First Party crowding them on the other.
They took pity on the three defiant Pacifists, and invited them to have some cookies.
At ten hundred, Arno stretched out on the floor, his * hat pulled down over his eyes, and snoozed. At five minutes to three Pussy kicked him.
“Up and at ‘em, Hotshot. It’s time to face the music.”
Arno groaned and crawled to his feet. “Remind me to never sleep on concrete again.” He staggered up to the lavs, wishing he’d packed a toothbrush, then back down as the countdown started, with everyone chanting.
Two minutes ago we were all too tired for this nonsense . . . Three . . . two . . . one . . .
And the numbers started scrolling down the screen, the totals on one side, the districts reporting in, starting in the far east and racing westward.
Izzo leapt into the lead immediately, commentators talking about his years as the subdirector of the Pacifis region. Then the Chinese and Indian votes reported in and Afgu, Edte, and Ovil passed him in a virtual three way tie, but Izzo was hanging on in a strong fourth place. The middle east and eastern Europe were mixed, with Izzo closing the gap with a strong showing from his Alcairo division and Orde’s home Ottoman Clan and surroundings.
Western Europe went strongly for Afgu . . . then the colony votes rolled in, with a sweep for Izzo vaulting him well into the lead.
“Holy One!” Ryol squealed and bounced. “He even beat out the Europe votes!”
Arno swallowed. “And the polls had the Western Hemisphere pretty split. Is it enough for him to hang on?”
The numbers kept scrolling Brazil, Uruguay—Izzo took Uruguay tidily.
“All the photo ops with Rael, and her clear endorsement.” Ryol bounced more.
New York, East Coast, Great Lakes. Mid-west . . . Izzo barely ahead in new York, then he took the Central Plains. Colombia a tossup, the last of the west coast, western Alaska and Polynsia . . .
“Oh my One!” Ryol started screaming “He won, He won!”
Cheering around them, groans from beyond, cursing. Everyone quieted down as the counts were rechecked. An inset window on the big screen showed a grinning Izzo tapping at his comm. Hand over his mouth to keep it private . . . more tapping . . . and a third, that elicited a frown, and nod.
Then Arno’s comm buzzed. He pulled it out, a three way, Mother calling both of them.
A quick text message.
Arno sucked in a deep breath and met Ryol’s wide-eyes.
Arno clicked off and watched the screen confirm Izzo’s win.
Milo shoved in from the War Party side.
“Well, Hotshot, guess you called this one. Why the poleaxed look? Not so confident that Izzo will do a good job, now that he’s somehow pulled off a win?”
“No . . . the poleaxed look is because my Dad’s going to be the Presidential Director.”