2230. The Sultan of Aotearoa is dying.
In a world of catastrophic climate change, Aotearoa is the oasis. A beacon of humanity in an increasingly inhuman world. The Sultan came to power almost a century ago.
Back then, things were chaotic, panicked. Long-term planning was anathema to people that were quickly reverting to a subsistence lifestyle and a barter economy. It was a bloodless coup. Most of the trappings of democracy remained, but the rest of the world was all despotic strongmen, and NZ needed something similar.
Soon, public works were back on the agenda. Buildings that would last centuries. Roads that were practical. Trains and individual flying machines: sci-fi fantasies with a sense of ancient wisdom.
“The Sultan” was initially a derogatory nickname, but within a few decades, it seemed to be highly appropriate.
-
His favourite wife is in the room with him. Elegant, sophisticated, classy: Esmeralda is all of these things, and more.
Completely frigid in bed, but otherwise terrific.
A simple vegan meal sits on a dining tray as she feeds the incapacitated old man.
‘Was it all worth it? Are there those among my followers who can maintain our prosperity in the coming decades or centuries?’ – The Sultan.
‘My love, you have created a wonderful oasis. I’m sure all your fellow Kiwis appreciate all that you’ve done for them. But it’s fundamentally impermanent.’
‘Impermanent?’
‘Yes. Everything fades, even the great Sultan.’
The Sultan chuckles. ‘Is that why you came here? To troll me one last time?’
‘Well, somebody needs to keep you grounded. You’re used to the sycophants and the yes men that you employ to run your small fiefdom.’
‘It wasn’t always like this. In my early days, the yes men were few and far between.’
‘Yes, my love, you’ve said that before.’
‘I say it often. This prosperity didn’t happen overnight.’
An awkward pause.
‘Come, Esmeralda. Join me in my bed.’
‘I’d rather not.’
The Sultan’s eyes bulge in anger. ‘Of course. Always the frigid lover that never puts out!’
‘I’m your wife, not your mistress, you megalomaniac!’
Another chuckle. ‘You’re definitely my best wife when it comes to reality checks.’
‘Why did you allow polygamy anyway?’
‘Well, if Rua Kēnana could, why not me? If one is called a Sultan, then why not play that part a little to intimidate other world leaders?’
She feeds him another piece of food.
‘Is it all impermanent? Surely some monuments will survive?’ – The Sultan.
‘Undoubtedly, but you’re only thinking on a scale of generations, not the life of the Sun.’
‘The life of the Sun? Confound you, Esmeralda, and your strange ways!’
‘What’s strange about it? The Sun will last another billion years: that’s another countless thousands of generations. By then, all buildings will be dust, and humanity will have either moved to a new solar system or died.’
‘That’s horribly bleak for a man near death.’
'If you’d wanted someone to comfort you, you’d have called Eleanor.’
‘So, even though I built us up into the great superpower of the 23rd Century, it was all just some pointless exercise in glorifying my ego?’
‘Pretty much. But look at what your ego accomplished. That’s what you should focus on, rather than whether it will survive you.’
‘I didn’t do this to become another Donald Trump. I did this to save the species.’
‘Oh, here we ago again… the noble Sultan: the dictator of Australasia!’
‘Yes, here we go. The oasis in the endless desert. That’s my legacy.’
‘Spoken like somebody who never had a child.’
‘One more sharp rebuke like that, and I’ll have you killed.’
The Sultan gestures, and two men with scimitars suddenly emerge from behind the curtains in the lushly decorated room.
‘Some things never change!’
‘Esmeralda, stop being such a cunt and comfort your dying husband!’ – a soldier.
‘Fine.’
The soldiers fade back into the drapes…
‘You do realise that, despite all this Islamic glamour, that there is no afterlife, right?’
‘Of course. Why do you think I’m dwelling on my legacy? That’s how I’ll live on.’
‘And through me.’
‘How so?’
‘Well, I read in a book that we each store representations of the ‘I’ of other people. That’s why people say that we live until the last people who remember us die.’
‘The ‘I’?’
‘Yes, the ego that made you a Sultan in a secular country.’
A long pause. The Sultan breathes deeply.
‘Ok. I think I’m prepared. Feed me the poisoned wine.’
Esmeralda grabs it. The Sultan drinks it slowly.
‘Leave me now.’
Esmeralda squeezes his hand one last time and begins to move out in a sultry fashion. As she leaves, so do the soldiers. Left alone, the Sultan had time for one last thought.
‘Well, I’ll probably live another century in her memories.’ Eternal life would’ve been cool, but that was another alternate reality...
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