How I Held an Election in South America (5)

The clock in the grand conference hall of the Libertad Presidential Palace stood at 11:50 p.m.

The air inside was close to unbreathable, thick with the heat pouring off dozens of telephones and the nonstop shouting of senior secretaries.

"Libertad Polling Station One, count at ninety-four percent! Support is at one hundred percent! Not a single vote has peeled away!"

"Polling Station Two reporting! Count ninety-seven percent complete! Support at ninety-nine point seven percent! No uncommitted ballots have been identified yet!"

Telephone bells tangled together from every corner of the hall, which might as well have been a central command center.

The news coming in from the provinces was even more astonishing.

"Northeast Polling Station Thirteen, count closed! Turnout one hundred percent, support one hundred percent! Word is the residents are dancing in front of the polling station!"

"Same at the temporary station on the Highway 7 construction site! Both numbers are at one hundred percent!"

In the middle of that chaos, Isabella stood with her arms folded, savoring the figures with a look of deep satisfaction. To her, these were not mere statistics. They were a direct measure of San Marcos's loyalty to the lord she served.

Then the heavy doors of the conference hall, which had been shut tight, eased open.

Eugene appeared. A body-ache from days of a murderous regional campaign had flared up on him, and he had been resting in his rooms. He stepped in wearing a clean suit, his face still a little haggard, and the moment Isabella spotted him she crossed the floor and took his arm.

"Your Excellency! You are unwell — why have you come out? Please rest a while longer."

"...I don't think I'll sleep until I see the results. How did it go?"

Eugene looked at her with faintly glazed eyes.

"Do not worry. It is going extremely well."

"How much..."

Isabella was about to brief him when Sergio, the Senior Secretary for Education, shouted across the room.

"The count is closed — they're about to broadcast the results!"

"I believe you will want to see this on the air."

Isabella smiled, utterly sure of herself, and pointed at the television.

The public-broadcasting anchor began to read the final tally in a calm, even voice.

For a moment, Eugene wondered whether there was something wrong with his eyes.

"No."

A turnout of 99.98 percent. A support rate of 99.99 percent. And zero votes against.

These were the kind of numbers you only ever saw in a dictatorship.

"Congratulations, Your Excellency. It has now been established, beyond any possible doubt, that every last person in San Marcos stands behind you."

Pride filled Isabella's voice.

"The 0.02 percent who did not vote were citizens too ill to reach a polling place. The invalid ballots are nothing more than a small mishap — our people are not yet accustomed to voting. Double-stamped ballots and the like. You may take it as fact that not a single person in this country harbors impure intentions."

"I think these results are the more impure part..."

Eugene had run out of words and was staring blankly at the screen when the dedicated hotline in his pocket began to ring.

Brrring, brrring—

"Excuse me. I need to take this."

"Of course."

Eugene asked their pardon and lifted the receiver. A booming voice spilled out of it.

"......"

Drumpf hung up before Eugene could get a word in.

A moment later, Eugene understood why he had gotten off the line so fast.

Brrring, brrring—

"Yes, thank you. As President of San Marcos, I will hold our relationship with Korea in the highest regard."

The moment he hung up, Isabella came toward him.

"Your Excellency. This is no time to linger. The people are waiting."

"...What? At this hour?"

Isabella pointed to the window. Eugene walked over and drew back the curtain, and the sight that met him took his breath.

It was the middle of the night, and yet the square in front of the Presidential Palace was a sea of people — tens of thousands of them, at the very least — holding candles and national flags.

"The count will be announced to the entire nation any moment now. I believe it is only proper that you go out and answer them in person."

"Then that's what I'll do."

Eugene stepped out onto the balcony with his chest full to bursting.

The instant he appeared, tens of thousands of people threw their hands into the air at once and loosed a roar that threatened to split eardrums.

Eugene bowed again and again, waving. At every motion of his hand the crowd surged like a tide. The cry of tens of thousands filled the Presidential Palace and seemed ready to tear open the night sky over Libertad itself.

Then, from one corner of the palace gardens, a heavy metallic sound rolled out.

Krrrrrrngh!

Eugene turned his head. The tank that stood guard over the Presidential Palace had started its massive engine.

"That is a vehicle we prepared in advance for the parade. Why don't you ride it through Libertad."

"That's... a tank."

"To display Your Excellency's stature, that much is necessary. We will only be circling the main avenues, so ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠there is no strain on the streets. Now — quickly, if you please!"

"......"

Eugene took Isabella's hand and climbed onto the tank.

The moment the steel treads began to crush the ground forward, the crowd's cheering tipped into something like frenzy.

Standing tall atop the tank, Eugene cut through downtown Libertad, meeting the eyes of the people chanting his name and greeting them one by one.

They came running toward the tank, screaming his name, weeping openly.

"Waaah! Your Excellency!"

"His Excellency looked at me!"

"Please take me with you, Your Excellency!"

That night, the skies over Libertad filled with fireworks celebrating victory and the blind, fervent cries of Eugene's name.

Meanwhile, news of San Marcos's election turned morning on the opposite side of the planet — in Korea — completely upside down.

Morning news on every major network, YouTube, and community board after community board were plastered with three syllables: Eugene Choi.

A vote share of 99.99 percent was a figure that stirred a very particular nostalgia in Koreans.

Public opinion split in an instant.

Praise for a Korean hero locked in a tense standoff with fears of a twenty-first-century neo-dictator.

Just as Eugene's image was in danger of calcifying into that of a strongman, Chairman Chung of Hyunhwa stepped in.

"Everyone's gotten too well-fed and started talking rubbish."

To Chairman Chung, Eugene was more than a mere partner. He was the beachhead for Hyunhwa's South American expansion, and a comrade who shared his philosophy.

He was not about to sit still while that man was treated as a dictator in Korea.

"Director Choi."

"Yes, Chairman."

"Get the networks on the line. Tell them I'll pump their ad slots fat — so they'd better show the people exactly what His Excellency has accomplished over there."

"Yes, sir. Understood."

The power of money was a terrifying thing.

In a mere two days, a documentary on Eugene was airing in prime time on terrestrial television.

Armed with materials from Hyunhwa, the networks drew a stark contrast between the wretched past of San Marcos and the transformation that followed Eugene's inauguration. They even lumped in things that were a stretch to call his achievements — Drumpf Field, the nickel mines — and presented them all as his doing.

On the heels of that, YouTube channels of every stripe began to sing his praises.

And just like that, public opinion reversed overnight.

And so, while the far side of the world burned hot with Eugene's name, the newly minted president's first official act was to visit Libertad National Cemetery.