1. Contingency
Standing atop this acropolis, beneath the inner gate of the Grand Qasbah, Camelia Kasra Shahi was uncomfortably aware of the weight of the limestone over her head. At this moment, the gate stood. Yet, this would not always be true, nor had it been in the past. From atop the Elbrus Hill, overlooking Al-Qādisiyyah, the Grand Qasbah sat a realm above the the noise and bustle of the city below, which faded to a hum beneath the cricket's chorus. Camelia realised now that while the idea of the Grand Qasbah of Al-Qādisiyyah did stretch back to three hundred years before the birth of Jesus, the limestone blocks of these walls of were a patchwork of beige, brown and grey from a dozen eras, thanks to time, nature, and a multitude of conquests. Was this the Grand Qasbah, or just it's latest iteration?
When Camelia had come up here to meet the President, she had noticed none of this. The Kasbah was, as to everyone, an immutable icon. She now saw that it was as fragile and pliant as the nation it stood in.
Earlier
"Camelia. Thank you for your presence".
The rich and smooth voice of the President, with that persistent hint of a marshlander twang, despite years in the capital, was unmistakable. Camelia shook Kahlid Amin Askhan's hand for the first time, and was suprised to feel it rough and calloused. Average height; stocky and unruffled, Ashkan had hazel eyes which reflected his light brown complexion, all below short-cut and greying-black hair. As many had pointed out, the man looked entirely unremarkable. Yet, what went unseen but not unknown was the single-mindedness of the man. When she had been told Ashkan wanted her here, Camelia knew he was not asking. She seized his hand. "Your own is a welcome honour, your Excellency."
Ashkan sat back down slowly into his rattan chair, taking a sip of coffee before gesturing for Camelia to sit herself. Camelia saw they were alone on the citadel terrace. Their chairs were not angled towards each other, but to an eighteenth-century fresco of Aman-Kabir Asharid, who stood defiant, hand on his sword. Shortly after it had been completed, the Sultan had rode off and been valiantly, yet soundly, defeated by Baltic invaders. Ashkan had no doubt chosen this particular pavilion before this particular piece to make a point. He spoke again, without turning to look at Camelia."First, I believe I must disappoint you. I did not call you here to discuss the vacancy at the Civil Emergency Bureau. The Directorship is not a role I wish to put you in."
Camelia felt a sudden sting of despondency which must have shown on her face, not that Ashkan reacted to soothe it. "You are here because I am offering you a different role. You will report directly to me as the Special Advisor for National Contingencies."
Camelia felt her heart rise again, tentatively. "Your Excellency, I am not familiar..."
Ashkan turned his head and began to hold eye contact with Camelia, whose confusion was giving way to curiosity. "That is because the office does not yet exist. Figuratively, I suppose, it never will. Your task will not relate to any traditional crisis management that you are well used to. It will be to plan for the an unknown. One inevitable event, to be exact. You would be more accurately described as the Special Advisor for the Contingency. This county sits on a precipice. Natural disaster will not tip us over the edge, nor will terrorism. These things can be averted or they can be recovered from. You will instead work directly for me to establish a series of classified emergency plans for the end of our oil age."
Camelia blinked, feeling misplaced in her own shoes. "Your Excellency, I recognise the seriousness of drill field decline, but this is the buisness of the Alternative Solutions Office at the National Energy Bureau".
"Pah, the ASO's Post-Oil Office is a smokescreen. The statistics they get are spoon-fed. The first thing you must understand is that moving on from oil is not an alternative solution but a national imperative of grave importance. You will know that official records state that Saheristan has proven reserves of two-hundred and forty billion barrels, enough to last seventy more years at current rates."
Camelia, suddenly feeling she had been dropped into an interview half prepared, jumped on the opportunity to interject. "It’s an open secret that these figures are somewhat inflated. Most believe we have closer to fifty years left."
Ashkan flicked his wrist and sipped his coffee dismissively, disarming her. "Well most are just as wrong. The truth is that we do not have seventy or fifty years of oil left. We barely have eight."
"Eight?" Camelia spat the number from her lips, as if it were a joke. Ashkan permitted himself a gallows-smile. "My accent is not so thick, is it? Yes, eight. Since independence, intemittent periods of lasting economic development have been punctuated and postponed by corrupt decadence, politically-prudent tax cuts and frivoulous public spending. This Republic has spent half of it's time frittering away its oil reserves and now lacks enough to finish building a sustainable post-petroleum economy. Oil and petroleum dominate exports; constitute a third of economic output; seventy-five percent of the state revenue.
Saheristan's industrial base cannot yet produce goods to the quality or quantity of our competing nations. We lack the arable land to grow enough produce to cover our losses. This country might have been dealt a poor hand, true. We spent a century and a half under an exploitative imperial heel, but despite opportunity, we have failed spectacularly to make up for that lost time. Unemployment sits at 26% because there are no jobs except those in the farming fields, or the oil fields, or what industry we thus have. I have not been able to wean us off oil because we produce nothing else to any serious degree. Despite my efforts, it rapidly became clear that we will not have our insurance plan in place before the oil wells run dry. The only hope was, and still remains, the exploitation of new resources, regardless of the obstacles."
Camelia struggled to respond. All she was able to produce was an exasperated sigh.
"You've heard enough today, I think. Your office is already being moved to the Palace. You start in the morning. We will speak more in the coming days, once you have done your reading."
Camelia picked up and finished her own coffee in one, afraid she would spill it in her trembling hands if she waited. It was long cold. "It doesn't sound like I have a choice, your Excellency."
Ashkan took a long look into Aman-Kabir's painted face. "You don't. None of us do."
