Cruising through low clouds below ten thousand feet, the Humbird aeroflyer followed a return trajectory to Oz-Reston. From DC, its flight path soared over the mag-lev 495 Beltway.

Designed for ultra-comfortable short hops and requiring no pilots, the Personal Aerial Vehicle cabin was spacious, over eight feet across and fifteen feet long. A generous sectional sofa of plush Corinthian leather wrapped around the entire mid-section.

Balkan settled back in his leather armchair while Puccini's Tosca played, wrenching at his heart in sublime languor.

"Victor, you should see this," Lisbeth Hunt said, holding her hand terminal. She lounged opposite Balkan, their aide in the aft section. Decked out with the latest intra-comm biowares, the assistant was a walking cell antenna.

"What is it?"

She swiped what she was watching over to Balkan.

A holographic placard expanded and wrapped around his seat, held in suspension from light emitters embedded in the left armrest.

The classical music faded, replaced by a news program showing scarf-clad youths hurling Molotov cocktails at riot police marching in rigid phalanxes. Clouds of teargas drifted through city blocks over secondary fires lit from burning automobiles and refuse. Underneath, captions scrolled by: Caracas in Crisis: Day 5.

He raised the volume.

"Civilians have taken to the streets in every major city in Venezuela, threatening to spill into neighboring countries and upsetting fief stability. Rioters have swarmed over police stations and looted businesses. The military is cracking down on the chaos.

"But many officers have abandoned their posts to join the general uprising, demanding the overthrow of the Venezuelan government who had been a serf to the Yanquis fief-masters. What we're left with are unanswered questions as factional fighting intensified -- to decide who will control the crown jewel -- the crude reserve. What form of government will rise from the ashes of this conflagration, no one knows. One thing is for sure, this is an issue for Bolivarians to resolve, a warning to all nations that the indigenous will not tolerate their intrusion. These appraisals are directed especially at the PIP of North America."

"Christ, I don't need this," he mumbled and muted the program.

"It's escalating," Lisbeth said.

He watched in grim silence, his jaw muscle twitching.

"We're all playing musical chairs," she said. "Make sure you have yours when the music stops."

"I can see that!" He railed suddenly, startling her. Then relented. "I'm sorry. Seems the world is after my hide. Even the President is distancing himself with his narration. I'm going to be the most hated person in this country."

"Are we being paranoid?"

Balkan huffed. "If TexPax loses the Oval Office because of this, they'll hang me."

"You're being melodramatic, no?" She smirked.

"Be glad you're an Unaffiliate, Beth. You don't answer to a master."

"No, I answer to the people as you should when you took office."

"I'm in no mood for a lecture, please."

She relented. "What's the worst-case scenario? Say your fief loses the White House but doesn't vacate?"

"Every paramountcy will go after us," Balkan said.

"But who would oust you? Who could? You have your Praetorians in place and the military at your fingertips. He who has the spears . . ."

"The army shall not be used against its people -- I recall a law -- Posse comitatus?"

Lisbeth smirked. "And who would obey a law with such a silly name?"

They watched the news feed spanning over tin roofs and shanty shacks. Great swaths of the favela were on fire. A landscape of hazy smoke blotted out the sun.

"In the coming days, I imagine crude will be stratospheric," Balkan said.

"Too late, Brent just crossed three hundred dollars a barrel this morning," she said.

He switched off the news and turned his face toward the sun-drenched window. Below, the ocher landscape quickened as the craft began its descent into Oz.

"What if I come clean?" He mumbled to himself more than to her, "What if we've entered a new paradigm? A lot of anger out there. What if --"

"Sir," an aide sitting in the aft section interrupted his thoughts. "We've just received a Priority One request for linkup."

"I just met with him this morning," Balkan said, flustered. "Did something else happen just now?"

"It's not the White House," Lisbeth said, her eyebrows arched high. She'd received the same alert through her aural plug. "No, it's your Chairmark -- your lord and master."

Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

Balkan stiffened. "And I thought things couldn't get worse."

"Remember, he can't fire you; only the President can."

"But he can starve me." Balkan sighed and braced himself. "Put him through, please."

"Sir, do you want to confer in stasis, or in the open?" The aide asked.

"No, send it through right here, through my chair."

"Right away . . ." The aide said, fingers dancing on holo-keys emitted from his wrist. "Houston, we're prepared to receive you. Go ahead."

Within seconds, blue photons from holo-emitters in Balkan's armrests gelled into the outline of a head and shoulder. It materialized into a fluid surface--facial features and slight movements became animated. Signals were clear and strong, in real-time with no synchronous delay.

"Mr. Chairmark, Your Eminence," Balkan addressed the likeness of Leland Drexel. "How was Tokyo?"

"Arduous trip, Victor; we're still feeling the lag."

"It was successful, I hope?"

"We met with Prince Kurita, we toured many robotic factories in Yokohama, and saw their new Quantum machines."

"Oh?"

"Better than the ones before, better than ours. Beijing has no equivalent. There will be fief wars over there, far worse than they are now. Centuries of enmity between Tokyo and Beijing have turned into a tradition of hatred."

"Congratulations. This was your desired outcome. Let Asia fight amongst itself."

"We have diversified interests," the blue bust of the TexPax Chairmark said, "But that's not why we are calling."

"Yes?" Here it comes, Balkan braced himself.

"We have an internal matter to address."

Balkan was prepared to offer his resignation, when --

"We are speaking of the President."

It wasn't turbulence from the plane but the gravity waves resonating from the words that tripped him. Unprepared for what was to come, Balkan gestured to Lisbeth to record the conversation.

"Sir? I don't know what you mean," Balkan said, displaying a stoic demeanor.

"The President is a friend, one of our most able Regents to take the helm of the federal government. He's been an outstanding steward, a good man, but he is past his prime."

"The President hasn't aged a day in twelve years."

"A man doesn't need to age externally to be old."

The senior Drexel sounded tired, Balkan thought. The soul wasn't immortal after all; it can tarnish and fade too.

"His ideas, his stance have become -- recalcitrant of late. He is a tired man, his judgment -- erred, putting this administration under unnecessary pressure."

"Yes, sir," Balkan replied, going along with it.

"The President's military assistance to our South American friends failed in one aspect -- it was badly handled. As a result, the global mercantile guilds which we are members of, have questioned the soundness of our leadership. They entertain the idea of a new PIP. This puts us in a difficult position."

"The President has acted with honorable intentions. If anyone is to --"

"Honorable or not, it matters little now," the Chairmark said. "As it stands, twelve years of executive leadership could end for our House."

The pause sat on Balkan, suffocating him. Would Drexel demand he turn against the President? Arrest him? He braced himself.

"You see Victor, power is the greatest drug ever there was. It reshapes ideals, morality, and expediency. And it is addictive. It deludes a man into thinking he could be a god of lasting legacies. But in that hubris, man forgets he is just an enlightened ape, savage and greedy . . . And replaceable."

"Yes, sir," Balkan muttered. What the hell does that mean?

"To salvage Conclave, we must replace the presidency with a new candidate at this late hour -- that person is you, Mr. Secretary."

"Excuse me?" A second punch hammered him. He gasped, his heart pounding in his chest.

"The electoral predictive model has determined that you as the candidate have the most optimistic probability for victory."

"The public would disagree."

"It matters not what people think; it matters what our regents decide. Will you represent TexPax in the next Conclave?"

"I -- I need time to think," Balkan stuttered, beads of sweat appearing on his brow.

The expression on the Chairmark seemed frozen in place -- it was no delay of the hologram. Drexel would wait til hell iced over for an answer, a trademark for which he was renowned. For the recipient, the moment turned sharp and lethal, a gleaming guillotine, its rope ready to snap if the silence would go an instant longer. Hesitation had terrible consequences.

"My apologies, sir," Balkan said, choosing wisely. "I accept the charge."

"Then serve out your current duties. In a few days, our office will announce a new candidate for TexPax, at which time you will appear and accept the nomination."

"And if the President fights my appointment?"

"Conclave terms are specific and unyielding; the administration will abide by the mandate of the PIP. Why we got rid of the cumbersome party system long ago. We, who are responsible for the welfare of the entire continent, decide the candidacy, not the White House," the shimmering bust said firmly.

"Very well."

"That leaves one final item, Victor --" The dreaded pause returned. "Get rid of your skeletons."

"I don't understand."

"You know of what we speak -- it could undermine our efforts, your candidacy and our bid for Conclave. That cannot be allowed to happen."

"I don't know -- "

"Silent as the grave, Mr. Secretary."

Cornered, Balkan nodded.

"And Victor, we never had this conversation."

"I understand, sir."

The image of Drexel dissolved into nothingness. Balkan collapsed into his seat and sighed, a bagful of screeching cats in his head.

"My God," Lisbeth said, gushing shock. "You're the next --"

"I don't want it."

"Then refuse."

"You don't refuse Leland Drexel." Balkan took a deep breath and sunk his head in his hands.

"Why not? You're the Defense Secretary for Christ's sake."

"You don't understand -- I was a TexPax Viceroy before going to Washington, which means something. My family owes their livelihood, prominence, and loyalty to Drexel and his House. The President and all his cabinet are no different . . . Refusing is not an option." He paused to consider. "And I don't grasp what he meant by my skeletons."

"Isn't it obvious?"

He sensed she was enjoying his discomfort, "Dammit, I don't need cryptic messages right now, and not from you, Beth."

"Stop digging your own grave. And start digging others. That's how I interpret your magnanimous Chairmark."

"He can't mean -- "

"Oh, he certainly did." She exhaled with contempt. "Such is the price when dealing with the devil."

"You mean godhood."

"Devil or a malicious god, is there a difference?"

Balkan seemed old at this moment, deep folds accordioned on his forehead, his eyes burdened with dark bags. "I need to see Oliver when we land. You sit in the meeting too."

Peering through the cabin porthole, the Secretary gazed out the side of the aerodyne to the speeding ground below. They were cutting over I-395 where GPS controlled traffic and robo-trucks crisscrossed at breakneck speed on maglev lanes without risk of collision. The chaos below reminded him of the Gordian knot he was desperate to hack off. He thought of the past years, the energy, sacrifice, and money that poured into his legacy -- Project Carnivora.

Get rid of your skeletons.

Could he?