Sic Semper Tyrannis, or A Beginner’s Guide on How to Welcome a Fox into Your Chicken Coop
A rainay day in January 2026, Township of Baltaia
Chapter 1 :
The summons arrived without a letterhead. It is a simple, terse message, faxed to her office of assistant in the accounting sub-department of the sub-secretariat of the Sub-Directorate for Public Health and Chronic Disease Prevention of the 11th Synoikía (district). Walking through the dreadfully dark offices of the 11th Sub-Secretariat, Gabrijela Meglaj stares at the black, slightly smudged letters printed on the poor-quality paper disaggregating in her very hands : “Your presence is required. Sub-Secretary’s office. 08:30.”
No signature. Looking up from the paper, she nearly bumpes into another bureaucrat, her colleague Palaiogalas, who is staring at his phone. To let him past, Gabrijela has to press her back against the right-hand wall, as the lower corridors of the building are dreadfully narrow. Received at 8.23 am, Gabrijela had read the line several times before getting up. She’d told herself it was probably just a formality. A reassignment, perhaps. For weeks, rumours of a reshuffle have been circulating on every floor. Before knocking on the Sub-Secretary’s door, she takes care to smooth out her suit.
- Ms Meglaj.
The Sub-Secretary does not look up. Behind him, the blinds are half-lowered, letting in a pale light, typical of the rainy season, which cast grey stripes across the office. Two other people are present, whom Gabrijela does not know. They do not introduce themselves.
- Please sit down.
Gabrijela complies, sitting straight. A cardboard folder slides across the polished surface of the desk, coming to a halt just in front of her.
- Are you aware of the situation at the General Sub-Directorate for Port Infrastructure ?
Gabrijela hesitates for a split second.
- I have seen… certain informations pass through, sir.
The Sub-Secretary makes a vague movement of his head, as though the answer were of little importance.
- The Sub-Director in post was relieved of his duties last night. With immediate effect.
The words hang suspended, without further explanation. Gabrijela feels a strange tension cross her chest. She rests her eyes on the folder, without yet opening it.
- We need someone to ensure continuity, continues one of the strangers. Someone reliable.
Reliable. The word has fallen with an almost mechanical precision.
- Your name was put forward.
Gabrijela raises her head.
- Me ? she asks, barely managing a slight smile troubled by a certain confusion.
- Your profile fits. You have… a clean reputation.
Something, in the way it was said, resembles less a compliment than a utilitarian observation.
- Time is pressing, adds the second stranger. The ongoing projects cannot be interrupted, he says, gesturing toward the folder with the tip of his finger. The authorisations are already ready. You need only to sign the notice of appointment.
Gabrijela finally opens the folder. The first pages are official forms, already entirely filled in. Her name appears, neatly printed, in several places. She furrows her brow slightly.
- I was not… consulted.
- You are being consulted now, replies the Sub-Secretary in a neutral tone, before handing her a fountain pen.
- But I don’t understand, I…
- There is no need to understand, interrupts the first stranger.
After a certain hesitation, she insists, timidly :
- I only have a background in accounting.
- Trust us, replies the second stranger immediately. We consider you the individual most suited to fulfil this function.
Gabrijela feels a warmth rise to her temples. Certainly, the promotion comes from nowhere, but it is a promotion nonetheless, the young woman thinks. She recalls the months spent defending, almost alone, the internal reforms of the BRP, the Baltaian Revolutionary Party. Repeating that things were changing, slowly but surely. The party must be in the middle of a purge. A wave of hope swelling her chest, she takes the pen and signs with enthusiasm.
- Very well, Madame Sub-Director, says the Sub-Secretary, immediately closing the folder, which he passes to the second stranger. Your assistant is already waiting for you in your office, at the Ministry of Infrastructure. You may go.
Chapter 2 :
The office is on the fifth floor of the Ministry, the second-to-last. Larger than her previous one, noticeably so, it has a bay window looking out over the port. Behind the torrential January rain, one can make out the expanse of cranes, gargantuan cargo ships and stacked containers stretching across the horizon. The sea, in the distance, is a uniform grey. A woman rises as she enters.
- Madame Sub-Director. I am Ling Zhao, your assistant, she says, handing her a clipboard. Here is the day’s agenda. We took the liberty of maintaining the scheduled appointments.
Gabrijela quickly scans the pinned sheets.
- All these meetings were already arranged ?
- Of course, she says with a broad smile. Our partners expect a certain reliability.
- Very well, she replies, nodding before setting her things down on the desk. My predecessor’s effects have already been…?
- Collected, she answers immediately.
- Already ? When he was only relieved last night ? But by whom ?
- By the competent services, she replies with her habitual smile.
Gabrijela does not press the matter. It is then that the fixed-line telephone rings.
- It’s the Sugiyama Conglomerate, they insisted, Ling specifies.
After a brief hesitation, Gabrijela takes the call.
- Sub-Director Meglaj speaking.
After an imperceptible silence on the other end of the line, a warm, almost jovial voice makes itself heard.
- Ah. Perfect. We were wondering how long it would take.
Gabrijela furrows her brow slightly.
- I beg your pardon?
- To replace you. Your predecessor, I mean.
The tone contains nothing hostile, suggesting almost a certain amusement.
- Well, no matter. My name is Tatsuya Katsu, delighted to meet you, Madame Sub-Director. We had an agreement with your predecessor concerning the revitalisation project for the terminal 6 infrastructure. I trust you have the documents in front of you ?
Gabrijela glances at Ling. She gives an imperceptible nod and slides a folder toward her, already open at the signatures page.
- Yes, she says slowly.
- Excellent. All that remains is to formalise the contract. As agreed.
As agreed. Gabrijela stares at the sheet. Perhaps he had agreed on something with her predecessor, but nothing has yet been agreed with her.
- I will examine the file, she replies.
After a brief silence, her interlocutor permits himself a light laugh.
- Of course. Do be quick about it, he adds.
The line goes dead. Gabrijela remains motionless for a few seconds. Then she raises her eyes toward the bay window. The port continues to function, indifferent. The cranes turn, the cargo ships berth and cast off, the containers circulate with implacable precision.
- Madame ? Ling asks softly. The assistant lowers her eyes toward the open document before her. This project, I assure you, Madame, is of capital importance for the economic development of our city. It would be quite unprofessional to delay it further than it has already been, Madame.
Gabrijela hesitates, staring at the only blank space, the only missing piece of the contract : her signature. She takes the pen, which hangs suspended for a moment midway. Then, very slowly, she sets it to the paper beneath Ling’s relieved gaze.
Chapter 3
The rear exit of the Ministry of Infrastructure opens onto an inner courtyard where official vehicles wait, lined up with discipline, one of them with its engine already running. Its driver stares at Gabrijela insistently. Leaning against her own car - her position granting her a spot in the Ministry’s private car park - she stares at the beige walls of the building.
She finally spots him. The Minister walks quickly, surrounded by two assistants, one of whom runs to open the door before he even arrives. He speaks without stopping, a phone pressed to his ear, his other hand already busy signing a document as he walks.
- Mister Elezović ! she exclaims, stepping briskly toward the politician. Surprised by what he takes to be a journalist, he presents a composed smile. He finishes his sentence, hangs up, then stares at her, confused and intrigued.
- Gabrijela Meglaj, General Sub-Director of Port Infrastructure, she hastens to indicate.
- Ah ! I see, I’ve briefly heard of you, Meglaj. My congratulations on your promotion. What brings about this informal meeting ? I am rather busy, as you can see, he says in an impatient and irritated tone.
- I need to speak with you.
- Very well, I’ll give you two minutes.
I have no real power. I sign contracts that are already finalised. I am not informed of procedures, nor of-
- Yes. That is correct.
He turns slightly toward her.
- And ?
Silence. Gabrijela searches for something in this gaze that struggles to understand her.
- That is not what I thought my role would be. I imagined it to be more proactive. I don’t even have time to reread the contracts.
The Minister nods slowly, his double chin wobbling like jelly.
- Then you have misunderstood.
He places his hand on the rear door held open by his first assistant, preparing to climb into his limousine.
- Your role is to sign.
She freezes.
- And if I refuse ?
This time, he freezes, looking at her full in the face.
- Come to my office tomorrow morning, at 9 o’clock.
He climbs into the car, followed by his assistants who close the door.
Chapter 4
Minister Elezović’s office occupies the north-west corner of the sixth floor, the last, and therefore has two windows. It is a rare privilege in this beige concrete building where natural light is distributed with the same parsimony as salary raises. Gabrijela notices this upon entering, as well as the heavy curtains, half-drawn, which almost entirely neutralise what faint natural light there is. The Minister stands behind his desk, his back turned, contemplating what remains of the view. He does not turn around immediately. Gabrijela waits, her hands folded in front of her.
- Miss Meglaj, he says at last. Please, sit down.
He has the face one acquires after decades of meetings and circumstantial smiles, a face whose muscles seem to have found, over the years, their permanent resting position somewhere between cordiality and fatigue. His hair is entirely white, cut short, and he wears a suit jacket whose quality of fabric contrasts discreetly with the rest of the room’s comfortable but relatively simple furnishings. He slowly rounds his desk, stops before the low sideboard running along the lateral wall, takes out two glasses and a carafe of water without asking if she wants any.
- Have you had time to settle in ? he asks, pouring.
- Yes. Thank you, Minister.
- Good.
He places a glass before her and sits down with the slowness of a man whose knees have, for some time now, given him reason to complain.
- So. Yesterday evening, you asked me a question.
Gabrijela nods without answering. She does not yet know what answer is expected of her.
- “And if I refuse ?” he says, quoting her own words with a perfect neutrality, as one reads a memorandum. Elezović lets the sentence hang for a moment, then continues. That is a good question. An honest question. I like honest people.
He takes a sip of water.
- Allow me to answer honestly in turn. Do you know Božić ? he asks.
- My predecessor.
- Your predecessor. Yes. He makes a vague movement of his head, the same as the Sub-Secretary’s three days prior. Ivan Božić was a good man. Conscientious. Hard-working. He wanted to understand. He read every file, asked for explanations on every line, summoned the project managers for clarifications… He had a certain idea of what his role should be.
He pauses, taking another sip of water.
- He is now deputy rapporteur at the Parliamentary Commission of Inquiry into the management of industrial waste in the 15th Synoikía.
Gabrijela knows the Commission. Every civil servant knows it : an administrative graveyard concealed behind some technical designation, where one sends people one wishes to be rid of without having to dismiss them.
- I see.
- I am not trying to threaten you, says Elezović with an almost sincere gentleness. I simply want you to understand the context in which you work. Because I believe you deserve this frankness, and because it saves us both time.
He rises and walks to the window, drawing the curtain aside slightly with one finger. From this angle, one can make out a rectangle of white sky and, far below, the corner of a boulevard where the morning traffic is beginning to thin.
- You were an accountant, right ?
- Exactly, sir.
- Well, an administration, a real one, does not run on its budgets alone, he says. It runs because people believe in it enough to put something of themselves into it. Their time, their connections, sometimes more. And in return, they receive a certain latitude. It is a balance. It existed long before the Party ; it will exist long after. This is not corruption, Miss Meglaj. At least, not in the sense you mean. It is a grease, a grease lubricating the bureaucratic machinery of our city.
The Minister lets the curtain fall and returns to his seat.
- Besides, he adds, opening a drawer, here is something for you.
He slides an envelope across the desk. Gabrijela does not touch it.
- What is it ?
- A signing-on bonus. Perfectly legal. It appears in your contract, in annex three. Check if you wish.
The envelope remains between them, motionless.
- Everyone helps themselves, says simply Elezović. That is not a reproach, not an invitation : it is an observation. The project managers help themselves. The bureaucrats help themselves. The private partners help themselves. I myself, over thirty years of career, have learned to help myself with measure. This system stands because everyone finds their interest in it. What brings it down is not corruption : it is excess, or worse, the refusal to play the game.
Gabrijela stares at the envelope.
- And the elections ? she asks.
lezović raises his eyes toward her with an expression she cannot immediately read. Something between surprise and a very deep weariness.
- What do the 2026 elections have to do with it ?
- The BRP is going to lose.
The word is placed on the desk like the envelope, flat and clean. Elezović does not answer immediately. He turns his glass between his palms.
- Probably, he says at last.
- Then what is the point ? she says. And then she recognises in the tone of her own voice something that is no longer resistance but of the order of despair. If in three months everything changes anyway, if the RPP-
- Kiyomi Sugiyama and her Republican People’s Party, he says with a slight smile, will need a well-oiled administration, one that functions. These people will need collaborators who know the files, the networks, the procedures. The balances I speak of do not disappear with a change of government. They adapt. They have always known how to adapt.
He finishes his glass.
- The Party is going to lose, he says. So be it. But the contracts for terminal 6 will still be valid. The Sugiyama Conglomerate will still be there. The people who have known how to prove themselves reliable, discreet, stable and predictable will still be there as well. Admittedly, fossils of my kind will be eliminated, but this last little mandate gave us the opportunity to build ourselves a generous retirement fund. However, you, Miss Meglaj, are… what ? barely 30 ? and already Sub-Director. For now, you’re only a pawn, but think about it.
Gabrijela stares at the envelope, then at the window with its drawn curtains. “Reliable,” they had told her three days ago. She now understands what they meant exactly.
- Very well, she capitulates.
Elezović nods, not with relief, but with the simple satisfaction of someone whose predictions are confirming themselves.
- Perfect. He slides a cardboard folder toward her. Here are the amendments to the terminal 6 contract, with the compliments of the Sugiyama Conglomerate. If you would.
Gabrijela opens the folder. The documents are there, as legible, as undeniable as they had been on the preceding days. She takes out her pen before setting her signature to the paper.
As she rises, preparing to leave, the Minister gestures toward the envelope, still on the desk. Staring at the object, she resigns herself to take it, to slip it into her jacket without opening it, her face burning with shame as she leaves the room.