Blood Red Summer

[Socialist Commonwealth]

Chapter One - Beneath the Surface

Maximo Park, about one kilometer south of the Dunay and pretty much at the center of Rijeka, was lively enough on regular weekends when thousands of young people flocked to the capital of Carentania to drown their daily worries in a sea of music, drugs and casual sex. It was the country's most famous entertainment district, a hub of urban youth culture. And it was a beautiful city district in its own right, filled with thriving green parks spanning the vast distance between the Dunay Promenades and the Savska Hills district.

But this weekend in March, it was even worse, as thousands of delegates from all over the world had arrived in Rijeka at the invitation of the Union of Communist Workers. Debates and seminaries were held at the central of Carentanias biggest labor union, down at the shores of the Dunay. Meanwhile, the evening programme was organized to take place at several clubs and bars in Maximo Park. Socializing and connecting on a personal level was just as important to succesful revolutionary organizations as political theory, those responsible for the congress knew as much.

Gasper Cerar had been working all day, following the debates and observing the exchange of ideas and opinions between Communists from all continents of Europe. He had taken notes on the events and eventually formulated them in an article for the Carentanian Public Broadcasting. Now the journalist was relaxing from a hard day of work, though not quite escaping the political debates, as he was discussing the results of the day with a delegate from Hajr over a glass of cider.

"The urban working poor are our 'natural' constituency," the man said with emphasis on the fact that the word natural here was not meant as biologism. "I agree as much and organization within the ever expanding shantytowns of the capitalist periphery has always been yeilding quite promising results. But any revolution will fail if it can't sustain an agricultural base. The participation of the peasants in the revolutionary process is adamant. Otherwise we may at best earn a socialist state without food, at worst we fail at the mere attempt of revolution."

Already slightly drunk, Gaspar ordered another glass of cider while pondering about a reply. To be honest, he was not even entirely sure wether he agreed of disagreed with the Hajri comrade. He was therefore not entirely ungrateful when another man, a tall black Kassiopeian in the uniform of a Custodian, entered into the debate, dramatically emptying a whole glass of bourbon before speaking up with a thick accent in his voice:

"Ya'll worry too much. Where there's oppression, the people will flock to revolution. It's logical, is all. Should we fail to convince some rurals in time for the great uprising, Kassiopeia will just feed their country until they do realize what's right and wrong."

The Hajri communist nodded, a wide grin on his face. "I'll take you on your promise once that day comes." He gulped down a mouthful of bourbon himself, shaking slightly as the alcohol passed down his throat, feeling as if it ignited him from the inside. "But what my point really was about, you see, is that we have failed to tap into the pool of revolutionary sentiment within the peasantry thusfar. We have thousands, if not millions of impoverished and desperate people on the countryside, yet we do not manage to organize structures in the same way as we do with urban poor or unionized workers."

"You know," Gaspar finally managed to speak up, having swapped his apple-wine for a sober cherry-soda as he had felt a bit too inebriated for the ongoing discussion. "I think one of the big problems of organizing people in rural areas is, that they are just too far apart from each other. You may have millions of landless workers, but they are literally scattered across the entire country and never meet each other. If you want organization, you first need communication. And it's not like we don't have the technology nowadays to connect people from all over the world instantly, it's just that there's an economic barrier preventing access for those who would need it the most."

Surprised at the sense his own words seemed to make despite the dizzy spin he felt in his skull, Gaspar decided that a reward for himself was in order. He pulled out a pack of Yuka cigarettes, Carentanias famous brand of marihuana cigarettes, and ignited one with his lighter. Puffing contentedly, he offered a cigarette to each of his debate-partners. The Kassiopeian soldier declined politely, while the Hajri man accepted the offer happily.

"Well," the Kassiopeian said. "Your country is the rich industry nation, so where's that free webphone you just promised us?"

 

[Großlausitz]

Hirschaid
Duchy of Oberbamberg

The city of Hirschaid has had its ups and downs throughout the past 100 years. Compared to its fellow regional capitals or even the national capital of Nürnberg it had always been the urchin amongst Franken’s major cities. From the first half of the 19th century on it had experienced a rise in importance and relevance due to its rich coal mines, which the growing industrial corporations of Franken needed. Therefore, it had prospered, its entrepreneurs earned quite well from the coal hard working miners extracted. It was due to the excessive use of child labour in Hirschaid’s mines around the turn of the 18th to the 19th century that led to its prohibition. However, none of the noveaux riches wanted to live there. It had been ugly city and it turned even worse after the coal industry’s downfall in the late 1960s. Only during the last decade the authorities’ attempts to modernize and reinvigorate the region finally paid off.

Thus it was almost a logical consequence to see Hirschaid become the birthplace of Franken’s socialist movement. In Franken the ideas and demands of the socialists didn’t only trigger state repressions but also the development of social security. In the long run the system gave birth to the Social Market Economy, a tame SDP – Sozialdemokratische Partei, which continued to dominate local and regional politics. To top it all the six major houses of Franken continued to hold sway over their country instead of retiring to the museums, the people were soothed by the Social Market’s leitmotif welfare for everyone and kept on drooling over their ever so glorious monarchy. At least nationally the Christian People’s Party/Christliche Volkspartei had found a way to tell the electorate they’d be lost without their absolute majority.

With these gloomy thoughts in mind, a group of seven angry young men and women boarded their plane from Hirschaid. Via Nürnberg’s Ludwig Erhard International Airport Nürnberg they would fly to Carentania. They were part of the communist fringe of Franken. As it was a given fact they would be tailed by a team of agents, they didn’t bother to split. Officially Franken’s constitution guaranteed and protected freedom of speech and expression, unless you endangered the integrity of the Crown and the rule of law. In practice that meant the domestic secret service, aptly named Landesamt für Verfassungsschutz (1), were peeking into the affairs of potentially dangerous fringe groups. If they became too dangerous, strange things happened to those groups’ ring leaders. From Nürnberg’s airport the Landesnachrichtendienst would take over.

Justus Johannes and his fellow men and women weren’t sure yet what to do and hoped for useful inspiration by their much worshipped role images in Carentania. Some gut feeling, however, told Johannes simple agitating or public efforts wouldn’t do the trick. He shuddered at the thought and quickly pushed it aside, into a dark corner of his mind. He was determined to make the best of the congress and indulge himself during the nights. Of course Johannes and his friends had heard about the famous Maximos district.

(1)National Agency for Constitutional Protection
​

 

[Josepania]

Rijeka
Worker's Republic of Carentania

The Empire of Axifloa and Aresura, or the Axifloan Empire as it was often shortened to, was a nation in the wrong time period, most analysts from most countries would agree on this simple fact. Yet despite having a government more suited to the Late Middle Ages, further, one that was acknowledged by those within it as one of the most corrupt in all of Europe, a military outdated by at least thirty years, a society by a decade or two more, and an economy that focused almost all of its income on increasing the decadence of its ineffectual ruler, the Empire refused to die. It had, inexplicably, survived centuries of being bullied and taken advantage of by more modern, powerful nations such as Engellex, though one could reasonably make the claim that this bullying was what kept the Axifloa Empire shambling on in the first place.

It made Alexander Constantine almost ashamed to admit his nationality, yet that's what he had to do when he arrived at Rejika that morning, and he could've sworn at least two-thirds of the people present at the time gave him a collective look of pity. It was embarrassing, but he held his head high, and got through that part of his journey with little else dented aside from his pride. He had explored the city thoroughly before taking part in the debates and discussions that brought him and thousands of others here to Carentania. It was partially a slap in the face of Europe, to remind them that communism was still not dead despite the fall of the International Revolutionary Bloc. Yet, from what he could tell, aside from the obligatory condemnations of anything having to do with communism, Europe moved on.

Did they not see the failure of the Axifloan Empire, how it needed to be freed from its prolonged death? No, of course not. Not while there was still a profit to be made. Like vermin, the nations of Europe would do their utmost to pick the carcass of the Axifloan Empire clean while keeping it alive for just a little longer.

Yet, despite all that, the people of the Empire did nothing. They just lived their lives as best they could from day to day, unresisting, not knowing it was they who were the real life support. The international community could do whatever it wanted, if the imperial government did not have the support of its people, it would collapse into nothing like it should have done decades, perhaps even centuries ago. It was depressing, how blind they were. It was up to Revan, then, to make them see like the Christian god did to his followers a millennia ago. It would not be through divine miracles though, but simple truth.

That was what kept him from giving up, and what instead drove him to participate in these debates, acquire and exchange ideas on how to run a people based upon communist principles, or socialist ones, even anarchistic methods were brought up occasionally. Obviously, most had the slant of Council Communism, but there were still a number of Vanguardists running around, proclaiming their way was the correct one. And all the while, Alexander sat back and listened to all of them, weighing them carefully in his mind, so that when he came back home, he would show his people a new path they could walk.

A path that would bring them peace, prosperity, and partnership.

All this he thought, as he reclined on a bench in Maximo Park, watching all that went on around him.

 

[Thaumantica]

On the Shore
Port Fidelity, District of Vesper

Ewan Hargreaves sunk in to his stiff office chair in ghost white fear of what was happening outside, what was happening out on the docks at that very moment, and god forbid, god forbid what the longshoremen (dockworkers) might be saying. His fear for the bottom line had subsided, and now the looming threats to his life were staring in at him from outside, crossing fingers across throats and hurling unheard insults.

Longshoremen at Port Fidelity were earning wages on par with small time port workers in nations half the size of Cantigny. Their healthcare was privatized, and even with new shipping technology, the job was still dangerous, day in and day out their livelyhood was gambled against rainy weather and aggressive deadlines. Imperial Merchants PLC, the controversially titled employer, could not even seem to be bothered enough to descend from their skyscraper, standing proudly above Vesper and Port Fidelity like a permanently flared middle finger.

Ewan nervously refreshed the company e-mail box, his hand could not even hold on to the bland white mouse from the sweat and shakes that emanated from Ewan like a junkie. "Zero . . Zero . . fuck, fuck, fuck . . " Mister Hargreaves swore beneath his breath, coldly considering whether Imperial would perhaps answer his pleas if a flare was fired from the rooftop.

He knew Longshoremen would act eventually, it was only a matter of agonizing time for Ewan and his wrathful workforce gathering before they clashed. The door between him and them was locked now, but this was also the only way in or out, and the longshoremen possessed enough cranes and forklifts to flatten this fragile one room office a hundred times over.

Suddenly he was saved by the bell, a bold flat tone played over port intercoms indicating the end of the lunch hour. They did not disperse immediately, as they once did, but after a drawn-out minute every longshoremen was on their way and back to work. Relief, as the adjournment from outside, was not as quick or readily gratifying as Ewan had thought it would be. Meanwhile fifteen silent minutes passed, which he spent in reflective solitude, fidgeting with an ink pen and bouncing his knee up and down.

"I.M. Message Inbound" the computer chirped, a long overdue response to Ewan's frantic e-mails. "Well, look at that then" he said to himself with a sarcastic smile. He knew that he had to begin taking all of this in stride before the stress broke him down entirely.

"Greetings Mister Administrator," Mister Hargreaves read from the message aloud "At this time we are pleased to learn that everything is in order at Port Fidelity!". Ewan was shocked, was Imperial actually watching from that blasted skyscraper, how did they know? He shook his head and reluctantly read on, "I.M. will continue to monitor the situation closely, taking careful consideration in to the insightful concerns you have provided as Administrator of Port Fidelity". Ewan scoffed, would they now?

"Until such a date and time which Imperial Merchants deems that significant change in corporate strategy is imperative to sustained capital growth, we will let bygones be bygones, and persist with our world renowned policies in human resources . . . Signed Reese Noble . . Liason to Port Authorities - Cantigny" Ewan finished with a labored sigh, he had not been dismissed and rejected this painfully since the ninth grade prom.

 

[Serbovia]

Rijeka
Workers' Republic of Carentania

Getting to almost the other end of Europe, that is, the socialist state of Carentania, from Serbovia was hardly an easy effort. Michal Sikorsky, a former Professor of Economics at the Central University of the Serbovian Banat, had accompanied eight other Serbovian members of Serbovian Communist Party-Autonomist and the Alliance of Labour Justice as they had first crossed the border into Denisova before taking a ferry to Carentania. No connections went directly from Serbovia into the country.

And he was more or less certain that either Glavnoe Upravlenie Vnutrennej Bezopasnosti - Central Administration of Internal Security of the Directorate of the Police - had taken note of the conference through its own inquiries or had been alerted to their departure through the Border Gendarmes at Cherkassk, one of the three active border crossings on the Serbovian-Denisovan border. In spite of bourgeoise parliamentarianism Karelingrad had always done its best to vilify any such nations that could provide a positive face to any alternative to the Union's own establishment. Local Zapadnoslavian policemen, then Border Gendarmes and finally Army soldiers had checked the identities of the group on several occasions in checkpoints on the road to the Cherkassk Crossing, and the border itself reminded one of a military garrison at some points.

But now, they were in Rijeka and with a mission. Professor Sikorsky had for long maintained liaisons with Carentanian comrades and fellow academics of his as a matter of course, and had been able to secure room and board from long-time Carentanian friends of correspondence for the Serbovians. All in all, it was a high-profile group that had come to Rijeka from Serbovia. In addition to Professor Sikorsky himself, who had recently gained public attention after the Vinograd Professors case, Communist Party chairman Oleksander Kravchuk and party secretary Lea Ivanenka - both Duma deputies - Alliance of Labour Justice chairman Jan Shevchenko and Labour Justice activists Nikolai Volkova, Julia Vladimirovna and Kombyan Askerzade formed the informal delegation arranged by Serbovian council communists and autonomists for the conference.

The essential problem the revolutionary left faced in Serbovia was the question of the vanguardist interlopers. The Autonomist and Vanguardist parties had 16 and 14 Duma seats respectively, just barely above the voting threshold, and the Autonomists commonly recognized that no broader success could occur before something was done about Vanguardist interference. If anything, this conference had come at a right time. Though Michal Sikorsky still felt bitterness against the Banatese establishment for his ousting from the university for taking sides in favor of a completely just cause, but he was glad that his students had not abandoned him. The Central University had an interesting case of an Economics faculty, because traditionally it had attracted aspiring trade unionists, state officials, academics and such rather than corporate big-shots that other Economics universities developed, and therefore by its very nature it had a more leftist student body.

This reflected in the support he had been shown in the university, and it was an interesting coincidence that the Supreme Court had chosen to release its aggravating verdict of dismissal just as the conference in Rijeka started. When Sikorsky and the others had left Serbovia, it had been brewing under the surface of the campus.

During discussions with other leading Autonomists on the issue, Professor Sikorsky had frequently stated that driving home that council communism as implemented in Carentania and elsewhere was the wave of the future was needed. Vanguardism was a rotten current of the past, and the future came in form of grassroots movements and autonomous implementation of political activism. The Serbovians were hopeful that the conference would help them improve the standing of Serbovian revolutionary thought in the world and conversely affect the domestic standing of their movement as well.

 

[Kassiopeia]

Near Maximo Park, Rijeka
Worker's Republic of Carentania

Hazy blades of early morning sunlight had been cutting down through the old school shutters on Yuri Petenrin Yuri's bedroom window for some hours now, though he'd been able to ignore it for the most part. It wasn't until that flashy new satellite phone of his started its infernal jangling and vibrating that he was forced to extract himself from the still sticky warmth of the exquisitely two beautiful young bodies that flanked him on either side of the ratty mattress he'd come to enjoy so thoroughly. Brushing a strand of errant auburn hair from the face of the girl on the side of the bed where he'd absently dropped the phone some hours before, Yuri carefully reached for the wondrous- and damnable- piece of technology.

It was a text message, of all things. He understood that all the youngsters in Carentania, and the whole world it seemed, were addicted to texting, but he still failed to realize how it was more efficient than simply putting the goddamn thing to one's ear and just talking. Such was a mystery that he would soon have to overcome though, if this great cultural push was to come to anything by wasted effort.

One of his local contacts in Rijeka, a Kassiopeian that had come here in the mid-90's to pick up something in the way of information technology skills for his sponsoring collective, and had never gone back. Whatever fallout there would have been over that was forgotten and gone, and had been for at least ten years now, so there was no "political taint" hanging around the fellow, at least none to worry over now. It was possible that some of the fellows he'd personally screwed were still knocking around in Kassiopeia City, but not very likely. The Custodians had been forced to intervene there a few years back, when it became clear that there were some less than ideologically pure dealings, and many of the people that had been built that particular sector up had been "retired," or forced into outright exile, if they were entirely lucky.

This fellow, Jonah Alao, was making quite a name for himself in Carentania, at least amongst the younger circles. Leading the way with "Revolutionary Rhythm" raves, sometimes official festivals, in several countries around the world, Alao had gained a reputation as a very effective electronic organizers, and had built a number of very useful contacts all around the Long Sea.

Smiling at the text, more at the language it had been sent in than the actual content, Yuri let himself slump back down between the still sleeping "national treasures." Having spent a few years up north, across the Long Sea during his youth, Yuri was perfectly fluent in the language the text had been sent in, part of the reason why he'd been selected to carry out this part of the organizational effort for the "great push in the summer."

It had been in Spanish, lovely and sensual, much more so than Yuri's own mother tongues, English and Serbovian.

 

[Khemia]

Rijeka
Worker's Republic of Carentania

The arrival of Sinese delegates was a slow influx of expatriots arriving from a variety of countries, from Wing Sing and Khalistan to Vangala, Oikawa, and throughout the West where more liberal ideologies were allowed. Sinhai was not a welcome place for socialists; while liberal parties were not necessarily banned, those that had not been persecuted into oblivion held council meetings where every member was an informant for the Imperial Providence Bureau. The Provists themselves were quite aware of the Communist Congress being held in Rijeka, and had, among the many scores of Sinese delegates, sent their own to gauge the threat.

Mengrai Vuong had been born in a Sinese expatriot community in Batavie, he'd been raised by his father who barely managed to run his own restaurant. He'd done what he could to help, worked as a busboy and dishwasher. It was hard work, but it wasn't enough to keep his father's shop open. His father had declined into poverty with the rest of his family, and Mengrai had become tired of the status quo that was the west. He knew a change was necessary. But as he meandered through Maximo Park, he couldn't help but be surprised at how metropolitan and capitalist it seemed. The same worship of the mundane, material things that kept people down; nothing seemed to change. The people seemed happy, but it was still the same pursuit of materialistic goals that drove them, and everyone's problems were relative; they still likely stressed as much as even his impoverished father. He tried to rationalize to himself that this was just the way the world worked; maybe change would make a difference for Sinhai.

Tamarine Jaroenpura was a Sinese woman, born and raised in the nation she loved and adored. Women were repressed, though the corporations tried to better their lives with gifts and goods. Women still, by and large, earned less than men; could not attain the same jobs as men; and were born into a culture that taught women to be submissive to the whims of others. Respect, servitude, gratitude; such was the life of a Sinese woman. But that was not the style of Tamarine, since birth she had been a rebellious girl, constantly refusing to do what was necessary. She was not a socialist by virtue, she was a feminist - she simply sided with any organization that would get her agenda across. Her goal here was simple; find out what the goal of the Congress was, and see what she could do.

Narai Sirisukha, if that was really his name, was a person with a mysterious past. Numerous name changes, the lack of a paper trail, no credit history; some in Sinhai believe Narai to organize a Communist rebel group, others believe he helps to smuggle the persecuted out of the country. But one thing is certain, Narai has gone to great lengths to keep his identity hidden. He was clothed like a plain civilian, off kelter with the ordinary liberal Westerner's. He had decided that he'd spend his time in the Dunay Promenade; socializing with petty unintellectual and social mongrels was not his style. On paper, every man was equal; but he knew better. The savvy and experienced had to understand the principles to make them work, you couldn't just wave a magic wand and expect things to happen.

 

[Serbovia]

Vinograd
The Serbovian Banat
United States of Greater Serbovia

"Fucking jackboots!", Stanislaw Giertych exclaimed at Maria, who was following a few meters behind him as they rushed down the Prepodavatelj-Avenju away from the crossroads where the Gendarmes had made their still continuing attempt to stop the demonstration from marching into the campus area. The cacophony of police sirens, loudspeakers, car alarms, shouts and other noises still told of the progressing clash.

The events were almost a blur to him. From the center of the crowd it had been difficult to see what exactly had happened, and all that he had noticed had been tear gas grenades suddenly being flung into the midst of the demonstrators. Then some of the crowd had rushed forward where some of the radicals had started to defend themselves against the Gendarmerie, even as Gendarmes from the back tried to cut off the rest of the demonstrators from the sides. They'd failed, leaving a corridor of escape away from the chaos for Stanislaw and others. They'd snuck into the alleys adjacent to the Karelin-Avenju, the main throughfare of the Campus District which led directly into the campus itself, and had eventually emerged on the Prepo. Doing that, they'd lost sight of most of their friends, and were wondering what exactly had happened to them.

It occurred to him that he'd probably inhaled some of the tear gas, the regular coughs and the irritation in his eyes serving to reveal that. But there was no time to think of that, Stanislaw saw as a green jeep flashing blue lights rounded a corner into the street several blocks away, followed by more of those.

"Stanislaw!", Maria shouted from a few meters behind, "We need to get off the street!"

Stanislaw exclaimed an acknowledgement, spying a side alley just a block away, "Let's hit the alley!"

Even as that happened, Stanislaw heard a cry from behind him, and pausing he saw that Maria had tripped on a cobblestone of the pavement, falling down. He instinctively turned back, now seeing that she'd landed facedown with blood streaking from her nose and left cheek.

"Fuck!", Maria shouted as Stanislaw turned to lift her up, "This hurts."

Lifting the woman up from the pavement, Stanislaw heard but did not see the four Gendarmerie jeeps speeding past them, nor did he see a following unmarked van screech to a halt next to them. He barely could see the van's side door open and three Gendarmes in riot gear jump out, two setting on him and pushing him to the pavement accompanied by a knee-kick into the groin, while the third one and a fourth one who'd emerged from the van's cockpit set upon Maria.

"What the hell are you doing?", Stanislaw shouted as the two Gendarmes turned him on his back, his balls aching at the strength of the kick, "You've no right to do this!"

"Hands behind your back!", the other Gendarme shouted back, and they did not wait for his compliance before wrestling his arms behind his back.

It occurred to him that it was a snatch squad, probably out to randomly grab people coming from the demonstration area. Though, he didn't have time to think much about it as his and Maria's objections went unheeded and the two were forced to the back of the van.

 

[Dagomba]

Rijeka, Worker's Republic of Carentania

Angela Okonedo was a rising star amongst the ranks of the DCP-MFC. She was young, beautiful, bright, intelligent, charismatic. She was determined in her political opinions and resolute in her struggle to change the way things in her country are done. Coming from the ranks of the Young Communist Guard, Miss Okonedo was spotted by party hierarchy due to her flamboyant speeches that inspired young militants to daring protests in the face of police repression and violence exacted by the various anti-communist forces in the country.

Her calls for complete and final equality between men and women in her country, for extensive state welfare for the poorest funded by increased taxation of the richest, a better redistribution of natural and land resources and ending the generations old “arrangements” between the government and various companies that plundered Dagomba's rich soil. She was beaten up, teargassed, held without any reason in “administrative custody”, but never did her resolve falter.

Her sudden rise and success were not without creating jealousy amongst the old guard of the DCP-MFC, who saw in her fiery passion something more suitable of the DCP-AF and their revolutionary drive. But her enthusiasm was a useful weapon in the powerplay that were Dagomban politics and her potential required further exploration.

This is why it was no wonder that Miss Okonedo was leading a delegation of DCP-MFC activsts attending the various seminars and conferences in Carentania. She was eager to learn more about the Worker's Republic, its functioning, its ideologies, anything she could use to improve the lives of her countrymen back in Dagomba.

 

[Großlausitz]

Rijeka, Worker's Republic of Carentania

As the Franconian authorities had learned that prohibiting anti-establishment focused groups, associations and parties didn’t pay off in the long run and impeded efficient tailing, even Justus Jonas’ small association Fränkische Rätedemokratiepartei (FRDP – Franconian Council Democracy Party) was allowed to go about its business. With their trip to Carentania they had earned themselves a higher rank on the priority list of the Landesamt für Verfassungsschutz, indeed. The middle-aged leadership of their fringe party had realized sending their younger people would give their cause a better boost than going there themselves. Justus knew from personal conversations that both the chairwoman and chairman of the FRDP were often plagued by disillusions.

For Justus and his companions & friends the trip to Rijeka meant both a much needed boost for the ideological motivation, inspiration and some sort of vacation with friends. The energy engineer working for some local utility company was pretty impressed by Angela Okonedo. Not only did her strong self-confidence seem pretty alluring to Jonas, but also her endurance in the light of the iron fist of the regime. Somewhat shyly he explained the situation of the communist cause in Franken to her and asked her for her thoughts. Compared to her, Justus was aware, they were choir boys and girls.

Meanwhile, Justus’ lieutenant Richildis Gruber was deeply engaged in a discussion with Serbovian Professor Sikorsky on how to use the modern urban poor or Sozialhilfeempfänger (1) as a resource for mass protests against the government and maybe more. Richildis was a PhD candidate for political sciences at the Reichsstädtische Universität zu Würzburg. Her unusual given name was due to her parents’ fancy for Germanic legends. In her thesis she focused on how the Soziale Marktwirtschaft has gradually numbed the political awareness of the workers, peasants and other lower classes.

(1) Social welfare beneficiaries
​

 

[Dagomba]

Rijeka, Worker's Republic of Carentania

Angela was pleasantly surprised by the shy nature of Justus as he talked about Franken. In her mind, the future leader of the revolutionary wave that was bound to swipe over the entire world could not allow himself to be shy. He had to shine charisma, resolve, be an inspiration to the people he would lead against teargas, batons, bullets and whatever the corrupt regimes might throw in their feeble attempts to stem the tide of popular revolt. But maybe Justus'es nature betrayed a deeper problem with the Franconian communist movement? Maybe due to the fact that Franken was so rich and kept the people happy with its welfare programs, the Franconian communists had trouble finding their true inspiration? Their goal? Their very reason to exist?

The young Dagomban had her own theory about Franken. She admitted that a socialist dawn in Franken was less likely than in her own homeland, for while both countries were rich or potentially rich, the two governments had radically different approaches to how they reacted to popular resentment. Indeed, in Dagomba the government was at the boot of the oligarchic elite that controlled the country's economy. The government in Dagomba could not allow welfare programs and had to resort to repression to keep the people in line.

In Franken, she said, the situation was different. The government and the monarchy was an equal partner in a bond between the oligarchy and the government. The resulting richness of the state allowed the government to pay its citizens off to keep them happy. On the one hand, this was objectively good, as the government kept a finger on the pulse of popular resentment and injected ressources to calm passions down. On the other hand, this meant that the people of Franken lived in an illusion of wellbeing created by the ruling elite.

And it was the mission of the Franconian communists to snap the Franconian people out of their illusion and to show them that the people can get and do so much more than just be happy clients and vassals to their rich aristocratic suzerains and bourgeois overlords.

 

[Serbovia]

Rijeka
Workers' Republic of Carentania

Though he'd still kept his eyes on the events back home, Michal Sikorsky had found the conference an energizing takeaway off the political disputes of his homeland. A sign that his cause had support not only in his lecture hall and the communes of left-wing students that were not uncommon in cities such as Vinograd, but elsewhere as well. Discussing ideas with fellow socialists of other countries had proved invigorating too, and Sikorsky had taken a special interest in the Franconians and Axifloans, for it was the former country in which the situation was most similar to that of Serbovia while anything that happened in the latter would have a bearing on his homeland as well. The same sentiments had been echoed by the other members of CP-A and the ALJ that had come to Rijeka.

While on the most basic level the disenfranchised everywhere had the same purpose behind their movement, the ultimate conditions in each of the country varied. In Serbovia, it were not only the scholarship and loan students that had made most of the noise in Vinograd that were the right breeding ground for a new revolutionary class, but also the disenfranchised immigrants pushed into menial labour by racism and lack of knowledge of Serbovian law as well as the precarity of non-educated seasonal labourers that had emerged with the rise of the tertiary sector. In fact, it had been Sikorsky himself and a collague from the Central University of Karelingrad, Professor Vladimir Stoichkov, that were largely credited in unionist and socialist circles to be among the progenitors of the precarity theory.

Though, some things were common everywhere. Everywhere, revolutionaries faced rough men in armor wielding riot batons and firing tear gas grenades and rubber bullets, only in countries such as Serbovia and Franken that repression was coated in the claim of providing defense to the rule of law. Indeed, his fellow professors Korolyov and Korzhakov had seen first-hand when the Gendarmes had broken the Social Sciences squat during the Vinograd demonstrations, though they had still not become convinced of what Sikorsky had tried to say to them in regards to his ideas. An unfortunate fact, alas.

 

[Socialist Commonwealth]

He was awake... barely. There was a sharp, thumping pain in his head and his left arm could not be moved. As Gaspar slowly became aware of his situation, his eyes not yet accustomed to the light of the morning, panic struck him. Was it possible that he had a stroke? Despite his age? Gaspar remembered the first aid lessons he took for his drivers license, remembered that this was exactly what happened during a stroke. But refusing to accept it, he tried to roll over, tried to pull his arm away and to speak up. But his efforts were in vain and all he could utter was a loud, disappointed grumbling, as his headache interrupted his attempt to formulate a sentence.

Then his vision cleared up, his eyes getting used to the bright daylight that fell into the room through a window to the south. And with the first look on his surroundings, Gaspar was relieved to say the least, as the reason he couldn't lift his left arm was a beautiful young - and naked - woman, sleeping tightly on top of it. She was accompanied by another woman in her early twenties, equally beautiful and equally naked as her, sleeping to Gaspars right side. If he had been able to remember what exactly happened last night, he would probably have been happier though, and despite his ability to make an educated guess about how exactly he ended up in the same bed as two naked girls, the horrible pain in his head, probably best explained by the copious amount of empty bottles and glasses surrounding the bed, took any joy about his current situation.

"Maximo nights," he sighed to himself, carefully pulling his arm out from under the woman to his left. Without waking either of them up, he slipped out of the bed, put on the pants he found lying in front of the bed, even though he was quite sure they weren't his, and sneaked out of the room, following the smell of freshly brewn coffee.

"Mornin'" some stranger greeted him in the kitchen, apparently not the slightest surprised to find Gaspar walking around in his apartement, and just as hungover as him. "Had fun tonight?" he asked without the slightest hint of reservation while offering him a cup of coffee.

"Can't remember a thing," Gaspar replied truthfully and sat down on the table. "Your apartement?" he asked, not bothering with forming complete sentences.

"Yeah, but don't worry, I'm used to this. Those two are my roommates, it's like this every weekend." Another young man walked into the kitchen as he spoke, looking slightly more uncomfortable finding Gaspar sitting at the breakfast table. His face turned red, but he nevertheless joined the two and sat down at the table as the first man continued talking: "It's Maximo Park. And I love this place. My name's Josip, by the way."

Gaspar nodded absent-mindedly, his mind partly focussed on pouring sugar into the cup of coffee, watching as if hypnotized the swirling movement of the black liquid as his spoon kept it going in circles. "And he is?" Gaspar finally asked, looking at the third man that had just joined the table, mustering his asian-looking facial features.

"No idea, honestly," Josip replied in earnest. "Some Sinhese guy I picked up at a bar, had sex with him. He doesn't seem to speak a word of Carentanian though and neither do I speak Sinhese." He shrugged, obviously comfortable with the fact that this relationship will most probably remain a one night-stand. "Do you, per chance?"

"What?" Awkward silence filled the room.

"Do you speak Sinhese, I asked."

"Oh... no. Sorry." Then, something struck Gaspars mind. "How late is it, even? I really have to go to work."

"What do you work as? Can't you call in sick?" Josip was honestly surprised, watching the sorry state of Gaspars consciousness, that he would want to go to work still partially drunk from last night.

"I'm supposed to write reports on the UCW congress for public broadcasting. And if I fuck this up, I won't get anything remotely as interesting assigned to me for years to come." Gaspar shuffled hectically through his pocket calendar, comparing the time on his watch to the dates he marked within it. "Besides, today they will debate militant strategies and I am really looking forward to the announced critique of left-wing militarism. The summary seemed to promise a really insightful contribution."

"Oh... yeah," Josip noted with fake absent-mindedness. "That's my part..."

Gaspar looked at him in disbelief, but before he could ask anything, Josip said: "Don't worry, I'm not going to call in sick either. I've been waiting to present my work to some broader audience for a while now. If you ask me, the biggest strategic failure of the radical left in bourgeoise societies nowadays is exactly this militarism, that judges the effectivity of measures only by a form of 'radical chique', whereas the more violent the uprising, the more uncompromising its stance, the more effective it must be. Not to mention all this 'tough guy' attitude we see from many revolutionaries, where they boast their radical credibility and underline their position by noting the amount of violence they have experienced or generated or trying to generate at least the impression of such, denying legitimate fears. This can only result in a short-sighted, no, blind movement that completely forgets about its long-term goals and has appeal for no one but teenagers."

Noticing he had begun ranting, Josip cut himself off abruptly. "How could I want to miss such an opportunity to speak up?" he added, smiling.

 

[Josepania]

Rijeka
Worker's Republic of Carentania

His head should have been pounding with pain right about now, but the headache that struggled to bull its way through the thick fog of chemicals, solid, liquid and gaseous, could not break through, leaving Alexander Constantine in a sort of limbo between pleasure and pain. Such a feeling prompted him to take another, strong drag of the marijuana in one hand, and a quick gulp of the obscure Serbovian liquor in the other. All the while, the Axifloan was vaguely aware of a Carentanian (or was it one from Coronado?) female who, like him, lacked clothing and was sprawled over his lap. If there was a second, or more, they were well outside his field of drugged perception.

Maximo was, indeed, living up to its reputation and beyond as one of the most, if not the most, openly hedonistic areas in all of Europe. If one was not careful, and few were, they would lose sight of the goal they originally set out to achieve and instead find new, far more shallow goals to fulfill. Alexander had seen some of those men and women, and it disgusted him. Despite his own liberal use of the pleasures Maximo had to offer, he had never abandoned his goal, his reason for being here.

That reason was what he pondered over while in his current physical state. He found that, with certain substances, while he lost external perception, very occasionally his internal perception seemed to explode into near infinite reaches. It didn't always happen, and the times it did, he could reasonably assume that it only seemed like his mind had expanded, when in fact it was just drugged to near non-existence. Still, it never hurt to try.

In this current attempt, he kept coming back to one word: apathy. Apathy was the reason why the status quo existed in the Empire, why nothing changed for the better. The people as a whole didn't care about the outside world, and how their lives were pitiful compared to others. They were focused only on getting through each day in one piece, physically and mentally.

It also helped that the Axifloan Empire was incredibly isolationist. Save for economic bleeding by Engellex and a handful of other international states, the Empire and its people were cut off from the rest of Europe. It was entirely possible that Alexander's own pirate radio broadcasts were not getting through. If they were, it was certain that not everybody was listening. Those who were listened only through a chance tuning in. And then there was the biggest question. If they did, in fact, listen, did they even care enough to act?

All of this, he thought bitterly, briefly indulging in some more substances to chase those feelings away. They remained partially, though, when he turned his thoughts to how exactly he would bring about change. It could not be solely gradual, as that was inviting Imperial troops in to squash what little could be done, with the status quo triumphing once more. It had to be something inspirational. Something that would show the people of the Axifloan Empire that the Imperial Government was not omnipotent, nor omnipresent. One could stand up and say no to their demands for subservience, and to do so, even at the scale of one small town, would hit the government and hit it hard. So what if all of the Empire rose up to say no?

Yes, after this, he had to go back home, to his own hometown, and convince them to stand up and say no. Then, immediately spread the word far and wide, to hell with the risks both certain and possible. Then the people would join their efforts with his, and the Empire would be overthrown in a matter of days.

That was, if his memory was correct and not too drugged, what he told the Serbovian professors, as well as the representatives from Franken, Dagomba, and quite a few Carentanians. Of course, he also told this to prostitutes and drug dispensers, if his memory remained correct, so its entirely possible some of the recipients were imagined.

Damnation, there were those bitter feelings again. A quick, gentle groping of the female on his lap and the confirmation that, yes indeed, there was at least one more female present in the immediate area, chased those feelings away once more...

 

[Serbovia]

Vinograd
The Serbovian Banat
United States of Greater Serbovia

In the end, Stanislaw Giertych had been charged with disturbing the peace and taking part in a riot, as had roughly thirty others of those arrested during the broken up march to the Central University's campus. with the exception of a few charges for assault, resisting arrest and damage to private property. The trial date had been set for April, and no one really had high hopes for it. Most of the students who had participated in the demonstration were "loaners", students who financed their studies with work and copious amounts of student loan, Giertych included. People like that wouldn't be able to hire lawyers. He was sure that he'd be getting a criminal record out of it even if the actual sentences might be restricted to probation.

The Labour Justice guys had however set up an aid fund to provide legal defense and assistance to those facing charges, and in fact they'd gotten a local Communist Party city councillor and lawyer Roman Kovalenko to take care of it pro bono. That had drawn Stanislaw to this meeting of the Vinograd chapter of the ALJ. Though he'd always gravitated to a leftist direction he'd largely stayed out of it until the whole Professor debacle. Everyone at Economics had at least liked Michal Sikorsky, and for the leftists the man had become practically an icon especially after his dismissal.

Seated to the back of the meeting hall of the Vinograd Trade Union Hall, owned and operated by the Central Organization of Serbovian Trade Unions and frequently loaned out to all sorts of workers' movements for their meetings, Giertych could see to the front as Maxim Torbakov took up the podium to applause from the participants. He recognized the man from his involvement as the chairman of the Vinograd branch of the Communist Party-Autonomist Youth wing. After all, the leftist cirles in Vinograd's student community were fairly small. ALJ people were often part of the CP-A and vice versa. The only exception, he supposed, were the Vanguardists, but the animosity between the council communist-dominated CP-A and ALJ and the CP-V was almost as high as the animosity between the council communists and the Slavic Radicals and Social-Nationalists, not to mention the Patriotic Knights.

"They have won the first battle, but the war isn't over!", Torbakov begun, his voice resonating clearly throughout the hall's speakers. The man certainly had a way with words. The hall applaused again, packed to the brim as it was.

"We are not alone, not in Serbovia and not in the world. The struggle continues, with the fate of the Vinograd Five being an example of this country's academia's peril, as corporate greed and the pressures of politicians seek to seize the university to its own purposes. I do not for one moment think that anyone of us here today joined to become a eight-to-sixteen dulled office worker or an insrgument or the political machine. I know that I certainly did not.

But the change does not just come from the campus. As much as we are prisoners of our loans and as much as that Monarchist hag Mladenov...", Giertych remembered that the man was referencing the Banat's Minister of Education and Culture Jana Mladenov, "...wants the campus to be an instrument of her politics, we are not the only ones with grievances against Vinograd and Karelingrad. The workers, the minorities, the immigrants, all are part of the same struggle in this country."

A round of applause erupted in response. Stanislaw Giertych joined the round enthusiastically.

* * *

To the other side of the street adjacent to the Trade Union Hall, in a fourth-floor rental apartment officially rented by a company that in truth existed only online and with a postal box address in Vinograd, an officer of the Main Administration of Internal Security cursed the effect all the applause and backscatter had on the bugs him and his team had installed to the meeting hall. These lefties were really a bunch of amateurs, what with their somewhat interesting attempts at countersurveillance being restricted to a couple of guys standing around in front of the hall entrances. Alas, that hadn't stopped the GUVB from making recordings of everyone who had gone in to the hall within the past two hours or so, though from this angle they hadn't gotten as many face shots as he would have wanted to.

The Hall's popularity as a meeting place of all sorts of interesting groups had also been noticed at the GUVB, and as a result the location fell under the scope of what was collectively known by GUVB officers as Operation Gladiator. Operation Gladiator was a standing surveillance program on communist, ultranationalist, radical environmentalist and pacifist and separatist groups as well as fringe threats including various religious cults. It had been quietly sanctioned by the Directorate of the Police in 1986 when Karelingrad woke up to the increasing threat that such groups posed and its inability to deal with them using means officially allowed by Serbovian democracy.

Unfortunately for the officers involved, certain portions of the operation, such as warrantless microphone surveillance of designated locations used by targeted groups were highly illegal. Serbovian law required law enforcement to have a warrant issued by an investigative magistrate for electronic surveillance, though surveillance on a public place fell outside of the warrant requirement. Everyone in the program knew the personal risks, though having listened to these loonies for a while the said personal risks seemed to dwarf in importance.

The Vinograd commies were becoming dangerous and organized, and the GUVB knew that the relatively open meetings were just the tip of the iceberg. Gladiator hadn't managed to penetrate the inner circle of the ALJ and the CP-A in Vinograd yet, their meetings such as the one that had planned the recent demonstrations frequently changing places.

 

[Caelia]

Rijeka
Workers' Republic of Carentania

Everyday he had come, and everyday he has listened. He had listened intently to the Serbovian professor, the Frank and the Dagomban girl, the Sinhese. And well he had listened closely he had said precious little. He was not unfriendly or antisocial, if greeted he would smile warmly and introduce himself in halting, heavily accented English as Kyi, a representative of the revolutionary brothers and sisters of Kyiv. Anyone with even a casual grasp of Kyivan history would notice his name was an obvious fake, Kyi after all was no other than the mythical founder of Kyiv itself. This was not his concern though because the name served it's purpose here and in a way it was fitting, for what he and compatriots were seeking was a new foundation.

This city fascinated him, he had grown up in Kyiv, a sprawling metropolis which easily dwarfed Rjeka, but this was different. Rjeka had a certain vibrancy, almost like a pulse, that made it feel alive. For him it was exhilarating. There was also a feeling of gravity to his journey here, his comrades in arms had payed a steep price in blood, tears and coin to secure a passage for him that was not only safe but hidden from the eyes of the NAP. He could not dwell on the cost though. The potential gains to be had from this conference were enormous.

The revolutionary left in Kyiv had long struggled in the darkness. Contact with like-minded foreigners was not only difficult but dangerous. Kyivans who spent officially sanctioned time abroad were kept on a suffocatingly short leash, and those who went unofficially risked not only their lives should they ever return but the lives of their families, friends and even associates should they become known in the capital. Organizations set up by emigres and refuges were the targets of continued and highly aggressive infiltration and subversion campaigns by the authorities and could scarcely be trusted.

So they lived and fought in the true underground. Electronic messaging was anathema, the KNA possessed a truly formidable arsenal of ELINT equipment backed by a small army of State Security analysts. Even written documents were used with care, to be found in possession of suspicious documents was all but a death sentence. Their main tool of communication and agitation was word of mouth. It was a slow process but it served their organization well, the party was not a monolithic organization but a vast cluster of small and highly independent cells. It's leadership was highly fragmented, decentralized and mobile. Turnover was rapid, losses to State Security were constant but so to was the flow of eager recruits. Indeed, the harder the National Alliance Party squeezed them the easier it became to replace losses.

Their strength was growing, and even knowing the risks it entailed he had been sent here to be the first cautious feeler of the Peoples Democratic Revolutionary Party into the wider socialist movement. They had not thrown caution to the wind though, the Party Center had given him careful instructions that his first task was to observe and learn. Before any concrete moves on the international stage could be made they needed to familiarize themselves more closely with their like-minded compatriots abroad. Secondly as the primary long term goal was to build international support it was felt that expounding on ideological divergences between the PDRP and other parties would harm their revolutionary mission.

So well the conference continued he sat, waited and listened attentively to the presentations. But when it wrapped up for the day he would as he had everyday make an effort to mix with the other delegates to absorb everything he could about them. Then perhaps when his work was done for the day he could have a bit of fun...