"It was in those days that the continual upheaval of the majority class, caused by economic and social irregularities, were finally dealt with unilaterally at the highest level of government, so that, by the conclusion of the first writings of the Coalition, all peoples contained a share of socialistic equalization of forces, political clout, individual sovereignty (to an acceptable degree) and republican merit. All issues were clearly laid out, addressed and appreciated, the propagandist fears of old retired. At long last, the tightrope had been walked."

                                                                                                     -Henritt Ashen, Concise History of the Coalition

"Hmm. 'Socialistic'. 'Majority class'." Ambassador Klavin stroked his chin as he murmured.

"A problem, Ambassador?" Marvus asked, the stain of sarcasm apparent.

They were thirty-three minutes into the tour of the Museum of the Unison, and Marv took every care to not only note the time, but to emphasize those aspects of the Coalition he felt were its strengths. Each time, the ambassador from the Gem Estates huffed, looked amused or uttered a single word from the plaque before him. About their heads, sea green tiles, fitted together to resemble the endless might of sunbeams, bold black borderlines, rose up to a ceiling depicting those self same rays merging into a torrent beryl-into-periwinkle sea.

Currently, they stood before an encased bust of Zanthan Neer the Fifth, last autocrat of the land back when it was still the Neerian Technarchy. The Neerians prided themselves on their artisans, and art appreciation continued to be a lasting hallmark of the nation, though no longer consigned to the whims of royalty. This monarchical carving out of marble on a pedestal of bronze bore a striking difference from other busts which came before (and were situated around this antechamber dedicated to the Neerian Age).

"Yes. The majority class referenced being those not counted as higher ups on the scale of wealth. Once they were termed working class, at varying strata. Basically, the majority of the Coalition's, or any nation's, populace."

"Radical terms, I think." Klavin raised a brow, stretched thin lips. "What of these markings?"

Autographs. Marv took exquisite delight in relating the tale to Klavin about how the statue had been 'ritually desecrated' a century earlier.

"The Coalition Accords lasted for seven years, give or take a month. Lots of arguing, bickering, thousands upon thousands of pages of letters back and forth from ambassadors across the five nations. The Neerians were dominating over Yu-Tal-Uz, the Synchim Tribal States, Arch Nation and Arimia for ages. Slavery. Forced sterilization and eugenics. Genocide of the Facha Peoples. Prejudice. Classist behavior, though we from the beginning stated in the old Litany an abstinence from it, a lie, really. Women had no rights nor even a say over their own bodies until ten years before the Accords, during the end of the Crowning War. Every grievance came to the forefront. But the vast majority were met, settled and unanimity attained. The Accords were signed by many, but began from a meeting of three pivotal persons."

"What I hear, is the demands of extremists were catered to. Is this not so?" Klavin studied the bust, the autographs of the signers of the Coalition Accords scarring the stern face of Zanthan.

"How so?" Marv asked, shocked.

"Our countries are very different, but they share one common thread. Social discontent."

"I concur with that assessment," Marv offered, with a blatant reluctance in his drawn out response. "The sixty years before the War witnessed many a riot, protest and political actions on the part of minority groups and tribal elders. But the elapse of time has revealed those once called dissenters and terrorists were ahead of their day."

"Is that so?"

"They saw a combined, more just society than the Neerians could envision in that moment."

"Hmm."

"You disagree?"

"Not on the surface, no. But, one must dig deeper to fully grasp the truer meaning."

"And," Marv stifled a laugh, "what greater understanding am I missing?"

"Anarchism, socialism, communism. These ideologies are inherently counterproductive."

"I, suppose that's true, initially. They had to be, since the Neerian throne tolerated no real outside discourse from its own, despite having such a freedom written into its law." They meandered away from the bust and to the larger opening of the Neerian Gallery, from whence hung an oversized copy, in aluminum sheeting, of the ancient Litany of the Eastern Throne, the first document of a democratized monarchy ever on Earth.

"What I mean to say is, such philosophies make one subversive mentally. They cannot help but to undermine a society. Their thinking is, to their credit, long term, and their plans are set to operate over a certain length of time. It generates a slothful attitude. This is degenerate." Klavin stood under the Litany, considered it, and moved on to the glass cases showing the flimsy gray uniforms and shabby armor worn by the Neerian forces during the Crowning War. He admired the old gun-shields, the moth eaten fabrics, blocky gas masks and pointed helmets with the chain mail neck guards.

Marvus avoided the cases. War. Its imagery gave him dark thoughts, and such negativity he had enough trouble keeping out of his mind already. But, he did notice how Klavin took it all in with admiration.

"Are you saying, Ambassador, that socialists and the like are mentally deranged?"

Klavin faced him, smiling, laughing. "No, my friend! Derangement is not the result. I speak of a turning of the will to a wicked bend. In time, such thinking weakens what was once a powerful, determined nation into listless, selfish ne'er-do-wells. Ten thousand separate cultures at odds as opposed to one, unifying theme." His eyes, cold, took on a formidable glare.

Marvus needed to stare at this man from the West for a time, consider what his words meant.

"Like, a deal with evil. Purposeful?"

"Yes, yes. Now you understand me." Klavin returned to idolizing the uniforms. "Such skill in the design of the gun-shields! What balance! You definitely had the superior craftsmanship in the war. But, we now have better weapons. It took some time, but we have them, and sales are very good."

Marv hid his disgust behind the well trained, forced grin of customer service. So now men long dead have let loose a plan to sabotage the Coalition, a plan none of them are around to see? How stupid can one man be?

"Did you say something about sales, Ambassador?"

"Yes. Quite remarkable. Nearly every Estatesman owns a Gee-Ess. People sleep better at night knowing their home is properly defended. Especially these days, as our borders are not as safe as I would prefer. Crime is, not so low, as it is here, I am afraid to admit. But, I understand neutral Cammia's people all have weapons tucked away neatly in their closets, and the Coalition has no problem with their stance." He hung his head, either over the crime rate, or the trade union between Marv's nation and far away Cammia..

Marv believed the shame to be real.

"I'm sorry to hear it. Perhaps you might learn from the Coalition how to best uplift everyone as opposed to a few. Then crime would diminish, as it has here. Well paid, busy people who love what they do don't lean towards lawlessness, you know." He chuckled.

"No, I suppose not. But, they do lean towards softness. A softness that makes them easily overthrown, or attacked by those who never rest."

Was that a threat? Or a warning? Or...small talk?

Harder still for Marv was Klavin's aura. No one in the Coalition, not a single Idealist, no matter how astute the aura reading and affectation, could hold a candle to Marvus Blackenwhite. And yet, for all of his subconscious ability to read another and pull out of them the best qualities, he found nothing from Klavin Dearkind. It was as if the man before him were made of mist and memories.

"Are you, well, Ambassador? Your mood seems...disturbed." Marv felt the fool. Imagine! Him, of all people, having to ask a person how they felt. He could discern the wisps of calm in the maintenance director from down the way, the cool confidence of museum Supervisor of Materials Linn Stockbay from eighteen meters off. Residual bands of passivity, self awareness and ease drifting on the currents of ventilated air, Marvus soaking them up through the skin pores, hydrated by them taking the pulse of an entire facility.

But Klavin? A dead zone.

And yet, he knew Dearkind had to be an Idealist, or whatever passed for it in the Gem Estates. Otherwise, how did he drain him so last night? He would surely need to be able to sense emotional registries, comprehend them, and (scariest of all) take them, the latter being a trait no Idealist here in the East possessed. Snatching amplified positivity the way a thief grips a necklace about a woman's neck and snaps it off.

But Marv tried. He kept the invisible aura fingers, as they were, out there, searching for Klavin's cryptic secret self.

"Might I show you into the next exhibit?" Marv checked the time. One hour until class began. Perhaps a proper Tetrarchy education might soothe the savage Dearkind, hmm?

"By all means. I look forward to understanding all things." Klavin considered the plaque along the glass wall marking what world they would enter next.

                                                                   WORKING FOR THE WORKERS

                                                             (post Crowning War achievements)

They entered a spacious, echoing area of bright light, filtered through a myriad of hanging prism rods made of transparent crystal. It gave the entire exhibit a feeling, its own aura, that of a nightclub during the day, of frivolity dancing about the mannequins of dour figures representing yesterday's plights. What might such a mood be called? Sunshine stress disorder? Depressive jocularity? Rainbow redundancy? Below this fantastic illumination, hygienic glass display boxes stored relics of the last six score years. The main decor within? The dress and accouterments of the average citizen of the old Neerian Tetrarchy, the worker from poor to soldier to middle economic rung accountant, collectively known as the majority class.

"Ah. I should have guessed this. An entire wing dedicated to the socialist." Klavin put his hands in his pockets, as if the idea his digits might touch a single case of a figure in worker's garb could infect him with a virulent strain of ideology. The case in question kept in its hold a cumbersome full body suit. Thick, ponderous, black rubber armor, as if it were made out of off road tires by a post-apocalyptic tribe. The gas mask attachment, three-pronged filters, bore black tinted goggles. A rifle-shield hung from the bulky left shoulder. The sign intimated this suit was once worn by a miner, one drafted into the Crowning War as a sapper to dig tunnels under enemy entrenchments.

"A rather popping hiss when you say 'socialist', Ambassador."

"Hmm? Oh forgive me, Mister Blackenwhite. May I call you Marvus? Feel free to call me Klavin. I hate titles."

"Certainly." Marv bowed, slightly.

"Marvus, might you explain this to me?"

"Explain...?"

"The surrender."

Marv moved closer, as if he hadn't heard Klavin right.

"Did you say--?"

"Yes, I said surrender. Your Coalition gave up a perfectly sound government for the demands of a mob of loud radicals. I attempt to fathom why."

"Mob? Hindsight revealed much." Marv had to use the word. Hindsight. Dissect an unabridged dictionary, front to back, and no word thrilled him more than this one. "Those mob actions, violent though they were, unveiled a significant problem in our culture."

"Oh? Would you say the problem was an instability on the part of the Tetrarchy to maintain stability? Or, rather, that the previous administration never had any true merit. I say the latter as we noticed this from afar. Political dissonance. Weak leadership. One cannot leverage every demand."

Marv paced. He moved about and between the cases of mannequins sporting the oil slick overalls of the waste management laborer, three-piece suit of the office worker, frilly apron of a barista. As he circumnavigated the space, Marv studied Klavin Dearkind. The side of his imperious head. The gray in the hair. That stance of all knowing, pig-headed arrogance. So obvious, this man's attempts to get under his skin.

And every sentence the ambassador spoke, pierced vital organs. Each, and every, time.

Change your own aura, historian.

So he tried. Marv looked into those same cases, imagery from before his time he'd seen more times than he could count. But where his opponent saw chaos, a disrespect for the Powers That Be, Marvus lost himself in the Struggle. Not a modern, revolutionary, counter-cultural strife grating against a supposedly rightful hierarchy. No. He saw in those glass sheaths holding in agents of the past ancestors who looked forward, not merely to the needs and wants of their era, but beyond the threshold. Their children. Grandchildren. The Struggle, broken at last. This battle was not new, but ancient, a primordial yearning for something more than drudgery.

The old days of agriculture would not allow for it. Technology, however, education, these two things made the knowing of many wrongs, and an ability to communicate them, made all the difference. Concepts made real by engineering, forged in the minds and hands of inventors, dreamers. The great irony? Many of these wise innovators were, or became later, wealthy, part of the very system the majority class sought to improve, not ruin.

A trio of mannequins brought it home. A pristine politician, Gerad Theyer, who brokered the peace. The militant, Scafitt, cloak wearing, makeshift armored 'X-Resident' who dwelt in the hills and raided Masara at war's end. Mother Dunth, soiled apron, dirty hands, shaking mitts with the politician.

LAW, THE LAWLESS & LABORER

The plaque with its simple words said it all.

Thanks to inanimate objects! And, to training.

"Marvus?" Was there a tinge of irritation in Klavin's voice as he waited for Marv to respond? "Is the guided tour complete?"

"Ah, leveraging demand, you said?"

"Yes." Klavin extended the word into two syllables.

Marv withheld a burgeoning grin. Be nice, host. Be nice.

"Consider, Ambassador, the case in front of me. Imagine Politico Gerad Theyer. He met Mother Dunth in the center of the Premiere Walkway, about four kilometers from here. Well, it was known as Lineage Highway back then. Now, for a politician to meet with the de facto leader of the labor movement,much less in the middle of the street on a steaming hot day, their words easily snatched out of the air by journalists and recording devices, represented, not a weakness, but an incredible amount of bravery on his part."

"Mmm, this I can see." Klavin approached the case, hands still hidden. He seemed to be considering the matter.

"Before that day, members of the One-hundred and eighth Assembly spent their time hiding in a safety bunker below. X-Residents, kicked out of the city for being homeless a generation earlier, were shelling Masara, this after receiving a shipment of stolen rocket-propelled grenades from a successful raid at ports of our oldest burghal--"

"Ontillad. A very intriguing tract of land."

"Correct," Marv noted, surprised at Klavin's awareness of the Coalition's geography, and perplexed by his statement. "So, imagine the sheer fright, even audacity, it took for Theyer to leave the bunker, and to go out into the streets and face these two 'radicals'." He let the drip of the last word hang, dense, in the air between himself and the ambassador.

Klavin tensed up. Jaw clenched.

"Continue, Marvus."

Eureka.

"I find, having done the research, there to be an incredible amount of resilience in Theyer at that moment in the Continuum. The Assembly had threatened all the members of the body politic. Anyone dealing with the Resistance or the Movement faced immediate termination from their position, a relinquishing of their boons and imprisonment. Gerad Theyer, ears to what was going on outside via radio, considered the bigger picture."

"Bigger picture? In what way? They were the ruling power of the time. There was naught to consider. Right to rule is long and old, Marvus. You, a historian, must know this."

"Oh, I do. But I also know the fight for equality is just as aged, entrenched in the rock mass like the footprints of extinct reptiles. No matter how silenced it was in feudal days, or divided among various factions during the different ages of reason, it was there. Every man, woman, and child deserved to be treated fairly. Hands down." He sighed just thinking about what it took to get his country to this point, to Now. "But we had to destroy ourselves to find this out, thought the signs were manifest for decades, loud and clear. Power, though, would not listen. Think of it. At the time, the ports of Ontillad were on fire. The Crowning War had tallied tens of millions, dead. More were falling off from disease, displacement, hunger, thirst. The Acatta Sea became an algal dead zone up until twelve years ago. Gem Estates suffered economic collapse, and as all of the nations were tied together in trade..."

"Yes, yes. Depression. Its effects were, painful. My parents' frugality were a direct result of the fallout. I was raised on this. Thrift. Pragmatism. To never forget that the war began because of one radical desire to make the burghal of Vallite independent."

Marvus saw the jaw tighten on Klavin even more, the head lower.

"I'm sorry, Ambassador." He really was filled with regret. Marv wanted to regain composure and stand on level ground with his guest, not hurt him. "I didn't think."

"No, no!" Klavin waved a hand and walked off. "I admit it. This fight was started by me. First blood was mine." He emitted an embarrassed laugh. "But last blow belongs to you. Shall we end it and continue the tour?"

Marv rubbed his flat abdomen. Conflict. Enjoyment over the win. Sadness over the melancholy he now felt emanating from Klavin. Inducing negativity rated as the absolute lowest action for an Idealist. Now he radiates, eh? Figures.

Then the rod in his pocket beeped. Alarm.

"Yes, Ambassador, I mean, Klavin. I've suddenly become aware of the time. Perhaps you wouldn't mind sitting in on the class? I have to talk to some eager young minds about power."

"I do not mind at all."

"Excellent."

Marv led the ambassador along. To be honest, he had not finished the battle of words. Marv felt the whirlpool of uncertainty drag him down in terms of what result he desired from it, but he knew one thing about his wearisome encounter with the man from Gem Estates. Though he regretted using stabbing words, this person had taken from him, so he had doubled up on the negativity by adding to it a lie about ending the war.

He was just getting started.