Alleigh has long been one of the dominant Nations of pCalifornia. Its power extends in many directions. Several nations, including the City-State of San Francisco, began as water colonies of Alleigh, but typically as a middle class developed, they revolted, asserting independence.

Alleigh has traditionally been run by a Racial Junta where four leaders, each representing one of the major ethnic groups, make up the governing council of the nation. People of Asian descent, Hispanic speakers, Caucasians, and African-Kymaericans each vote separately to pick their representative. In addition, all courts have four judges, people are only allowed to be tried by jurors who share their skin color, and police drive in cars with four diverse officers in them. Housing areas is strictly regulated into racial quadrants in the city of Alleigh.

Beyond this fact, people are actually quite welcoming of outsiders. New visitors are ushered in a friendly manner to the appropriate part of town. The great population of Alleigh has made it a real power. However, the underlying racial tensions—although addressed in one sense—still take energy away from the nation. Ironically, their military force is incredibly strong (which has kept it somewhat free of depradations by the Inland Empire). However, in fluid situations, where manueverability and flexibility are more important than overwhelming force (such as colonial uprisings), the Alleigh quadriracial management structure tends to impede effective combat.

From Wartime California

The San Francisco Parking Bureau was the seat of Trench Blott’s power. The colonial power, Alleigh, had given him control of that as a power base for his capture of the Mayoralty, whether by votes or by power.
Things were looking tough for the democratic angle when Sansome, Nora Hawkes’ liaison to the Blott camp, burst into a meeting on Election day . . .

Page 114 of the published screenplay:

A squat, non-descript modern office building—vaguely Orwellian, with a vast fleet of Meter Maid motorized tricycles in the foreground. They all have BLOTT FOR MAYOR posters on them. Despite its essential strangeness, it is a pleasing vista, the building is above Lobos Creek and nestled in the Presidio.

Trench Blott, a smarmy, slightly heavy set man of about 50, paces behind a desk in a bad temper. He is talking to 4 high ranking parking officers in his spacious office: a delightful vista outside and a glass window overlooking the main office. In the shadows, a man in a monk’s robe whose face we can’t see.

The exit polls are pretty clear, General Blott, she’s running 70-30 against us.

That’s alright.

Alright? Hawkes isn’t going to give us the slack we gave her.

There is a commotion at the door as Sansome, the red-headed officer that drove Nora the day before, bursts in. The SECRETARY has obviously been trying to keep him out. Blott indicates that he’ll take care of it; with a glare at Sansome, the secretary closes the door. Blott turns to Sansome.BLOTT
Who asked you to join this meeting?

Well, I saw the other ranking officers…

You’re sure you want to stay?

I’m not leaving.

Blott looks over Sansome’s shoulder at the secretary, visible through the window that overlooks the office. He nods ever so slightly—she smiles and walks away.

To continue, the good people of Los Angeles have assured me that they will not stand by and permit Ms. Hawkes to steal the election.

I had no idea they were so concerned about our welfare.

To tell you the truth, they just want our water. But they have no problem with loyal members of the Parking Bureau receiving all we require.

But that’s…

Yes, Mr. Sansome? Treason?

Blott slowly circles his desk. He reaches into a drawer, takes out a paper, scans it, and puts it into an envelope.

But our sovereignty…our peculiar institutions: no racial registration, for starters…

Isn’t it a little arrogant to think we can not learn? It works for Los Angeles, blacks take care of blacks, whites of whites, browns, browns and so on. We are not the same: through separation, power and justice.

But I thought our scouts…

When our scouts encountered an extraordinary run of bad luck, we took the liberty of reporting in for them.
(indicates the man in the shadows)
Brother, the maps. The monasteries have the best maps.The Bald monk steps out of the shadows, spreading out a map of the San Francisco area.
I thought the monasteries were neutral.
Sansome, you’re getting on my nerves.
You have a gift for understatement, Mr. Tryon. Sansome, this is Tryon. Yesterday, he was Dr Tryon; right now he is brother Tryon; tomorrow he will be Lieutenant Tryon. And beyond that? Who knows, but that is not your problem. This is.

With a flourish, Blott seals the envelope.

Sansome, I have a letter for you to give to Ms. Hawkes. Hand it directly to her, only to her.

Sansome looks around at the other officers, nods, and slowly backs out the door. After it closes, the others look at Blott questioningly. He smiles broadly.
Blue ticket.

How much Silicane is that?

I said, Blue Ticket, I am afraid there is no Silicane at all.A murmur of approval from the others. Blott draws his finger along the coastal highway on the map.

(laughs at himself)
their, our, whatever, troops are massed along the highway. 15,000 men about 5 miles south of the southern most San Francisco checkpoint.
(he nods to the woman officer)
The troops have come through the valley and have all the silicane they will require.

Fifty miles from the civic center…how can they do it?

That’s why we’re all here. Baldy, gather all your best troops at precisely 6:00. Gallagher, how do you feel about the Air Force?

Sansome is walking through the main office. It’s the pinnacle of the bureaucratic dream—bad carpet, constant glare, and a pervading sense you’ll pass out.Sansome staggers, almost, under the weight of what he has learned. He comes to his desk, starts to dial but then looks up and suddenly sees the Secretary—and everyone else it seems—staring at him, waiting to listen.
I’ve got to deliver something for General Blott, personally.

No one stops him, no one says anything. Sansome heads out.EXT. PARKING AUTHORITY PARKING LOTCU: a bright BLUE ticket under a windshield wiper. Pull back to reveal it’s on the windshield of a meter maid tricycle at the far end of the lot, by the fence. Tilt up to see Sansome running to the vehicle, clutching the envelope from Blott.

He jumps in and starts the motor, then he notices the ticket.

What the…?

With emphatic annoyance, he gets out and grabs the ticket. Standing there, he examines it for a second.


Then something terrible dawns on him. He looks around.
SANSOME POV: panning the empty lot.
Seeing nothing…and then, freezing in terror.
SANSOME POV: Too close. Another Meter Vehicle screeches to a stop.

Two meter maids with ski masks on their faces stand up in the back and whip out submachine guns. They open fire wordlessly, bullets ripping into Sansome.
Mortally wounded, he hits the pavement hard. He fumbles with the envelope, soaking it with blood as he opens it, spreading the letter out to read.

The hit squad peels rubber in their enforcement vehicle, disappearing over a rise in the road.

Whip to find Sansome, bleeding.
SANSOME POV: a sheet of paper. Blank, save for his bloody thumbprints.

Sansome’ body relaxing—hes mortally wounded.

. . .to learn what happens next, enjoy the book Wartime California at your local library, or order it online.



Spelling Bee Information

Round: None

Phase: Preliminary Phase

Level: 3

Years: 2006, 2007, 2008, 2009, 2010, 2011, 2012