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the world, but this was Armageddon on a whole new level. And for Bernard in particular, it was his finesthour. He was unpopular, dull, and as lame-duck as they came. But when the crisis was actually upon him, he stood forth and calmly took control. The state of emergency, for instance—suspending all normal due process and individual freedoms, and replacing them with martial law—that was his idea. So was the decree that effectively outlawed Islam, and began the process of rounding up all believers into the camps and the cultural precincts. Parliament, grateful and impressed, further empowered him to act unilaterally for the duration of the crisis, without reference to either of the Houses, and without having to call the election that was soon due. Stability was needed now, not a panicked country milling about the polls.
    I ask you. Could the little bastard have been any luckier? A month after the bomb, his approval rating was at seventy-five per cent!
    Of course, the state of emergency was only supposed to last until things settled down again. But here we are, two years later, and it’s still in force. My brother remains in command, the election remains on hold, and nothing has settled down at all. It’s like Canberra was only the starting gun—just look at the endless spate of terrorist attacks we’ve witnessed ever since. Car bombings. Assaults on oil depots, and the communication networks, and sporting crowds. Not to mention all the kidnappings and assassinations of public figures. The Deputy Prime Minister—captured and beheaded, and the video screened across the nation. Then it was the Governor-General—shot. Then it was the Leader of the Opposition—blown up. Then it was a High Court judge—beheaded. Then it was a state Commissioner of Police—beheaded again. The list goes on and on.
    And the security responses just keep getting tougher. All these laws and decrees. The massive enlargement of the Federal Police, and of ASIO, and of the armed forces. The mushrooming of roadblocks and security checkpoints throughout the streets. The issuing of identity cards to all citizens, along with loyaltyoaths. All the new prisons. All the new ghettos. All the new wars we’ve declared.
    Nothing is the same.
     
    And yet, do you know what strikes me as weirdest about it all?
    It’s this. For a country whose capital has ceased to exist, we’ve carried on with remarkably little civil inconvenience. Not a soul died in Canberra—that anyone knows of, at least. Our national treasures are all safe. The government departments have established themselves happily in Sydney or Melbourne, right where they would’ve always preferred to be. And Parliament? Well, there it was in Melbourne, just two weeks after the bomb, making itself at home, appropriately, in the Royal Exhibition Building where it first sat back in 1901.
    My brother, meanwhile, moved straight into Kirribilli House, and announced that it was now the official Prime Ministerial residence. Which was not to suggest that Sydney was therefore to be the new capital city. Nor, indeed, was it to be Melbourne. Quite simply, there
is
no new capital city—a solution which neatly avoids the kind of pointless argument that led to Canberra being built in the first place. And the fact that Parliament and the Prime Minister are now situated a thousand kilometres apart doesn’t seem to matter much to anyone. My brother has increasingly little to do with Parliament anyway. The truth is, since the state of emergency legislation was passed, he’s had no need of Parliament at all.
    So the administration of the country sails on—the assassinations aside—and for all the outrage and fury and breast-beating and avowals of revenge, it seems to me that Canberra is genuinely mourned by very few. Only a small amount of footage has ever been shown of the ruins—the pictures, shot from the air, are considered bad for morale—but the destruction looks rather final. There, for all to see, is