Spirits were low in the Department of Administrative Affairs. From the interns at the water-coolers to the executive officers, a pall of gloom hung over the halls of the ministry and people mounted the stairs at the entrance with their heads down, files bundled up under their arms.
The election had been counted and the winner, whose main qualification was the colour of his skin, was an oaf who had a criminal record and lusted after absolute power. He’d already appointed his South African billionaire mate, Louis Vlok, to a new Department of Government Efficiency, which he insisted on calling DOGE. Vlok wanted to dismantle the DAA at the first opportunity.
“So, what do we do about this DOGE crap?” Jimmy Kearns asked the four staff he had assembled in his office for an emergency meeting. “They’re not even elected yet and they want us to hand over everything to their department and clear out of the building! And the outgoing government is doing nothing to stop them. I’ve been told to pack up my office today.”
The other staff were silent. They had been trained in government jobs not to express any public opinion on politics, and old habits died hard. Beside if you started wondering “why”, you could go down a long, hard, emotional road.
“Have you received a notice of termination in writing?” It was Afua Kwame, the newest member of the team. She wore glasses and a long black tunic, looking altogether too smart for the place.
“No, I haven’t.”
“Then stay.” Afua was firm.
“They’ll get it written up soon enough.”
“Then you tell them they’re contractually obliged to give thirty days’ notice.”
“But what’s the point!” Jim exploded. “It’s only slow-rolling the inevitable end.”
“Exactly” Afua allowed herself a smile. “You slow roll it, Jim. Like you’re Xeno’s tortoise. Learn from your enemy. Block, obfuscate, delay. For example, they will want the building so they can sell it. I got the only copy of the deeds today from the land registry. I seem to have lost it. Oops.”
“You’ve lost it? How the hell will we establish who owns the building then. We’ll have to go to court” –
He stopped twiddling his pen and looked at her a long time. She nodded. “You’re getting it. They’ll want our cash reserves. We move them to a fund where the assets are frozen for ten years and they’ll have to sue to get them back. They want to print out warrants to arrest migrant workers. We regretfully tell them the printer is out of order, and the scanner isn’t connecting to the internet. That’s because we’ve disconnected it. They try to use another printer, another scanner, but every time they try, something goes wrong. The software won’t load. The multi-factor authentication will fail. Their phones will be locked out. Their personal peccadilloes will be inexplicably leaked from government departments that have heretofore been the soul of discretion. Their marriages will be blown up. Their private jets will be put in the longest holding patterns over the airport. Their mortgages will have the highest variable rate and they won’t be able to liquidate their assets in time. Their toilets won’t flush. Their driverless cars will run them over. We weaponise incompetence. We. Kill. Them. Slowly.”
For a moment, nobody said everything. The gloom had been replaced by something else. Not quite hope, but an energy that had been lacking since the election results. Then Paul Park, Afua’s supervisor, spoke up. “So, I have this file here, that aids the transition to the new administration. What should I do with it?”
“Shredder.” Afua’s reply was bullet fast.
“Right then.” Paul went over to the shredder and started feeding the pages in. The whine of the machine as the papers went in was a curiously satisfying sound. Then Jim joined the queue with two files of his own. “Get more shredders!” Paul shouted and soon people from all around the building got wind of it and every desk shredder in the department was down in Jim’s office as the staff shredded and shredded. Then Jim stopped.
“This is a waste of time,” Jim commented, “they never read the stuff anyway, they just do what they want.”
“Oh Jim,” Afua sighed, “they need the stuff they don’t read to do what they want. They need us to get it for them before they kick us out of the building. And rather than disobey, how about we simply cannot?”
“Do not obey in advance, right?” Paul was shoving in a piece of vellum that probably dated from 1775. The shredder grumbled at it, but nevertheless, he persisted.
“Right,” said Afua, producing from behind her back a set of pliers. “I’m going down to the server room. Anyone wanna come?”