Scavengers of Europe

[Socialist Commonwealth]

The Inevitable - 10. July 1954

With a routined slight of hand, Tom Raleigh threw his stack of leaflets from the roof of the factory hall, makign sure it was caught by the wind. Each page was carried into a different direction and the little pieces of brown paper littered the street, where the passersby would notice them immediately. Printed on a small manual press in the Labor Union office downtown, the handouts announced to anyone who would bother to pay attention that the small bicycle factory was now in the hands of the workers, run by a workers council.

It wasn't a novelty for the citizens of Solway. Occupations like these took place regularily. What was more exciting was the fact that the "Independent Toilers Union of Solway", a Council-Communist mass organisation, was conducting radical action in a town like Medway, on the edge of the territories under de facto control of the reds. The factory itself, employing a mere 50 workers, was of little importance to most people, including Tom Raleigh who had been sent from Scunthorpe, the inofficial capital of the Council-Communist movement. This was a blatant attempt to expand their influence and a challenge to the central government, which was gradually losing their hold over more and more parts of the country.

Of course, the dictatorship that was the formal government of Solway had plenty of soldiers it could send up here. There would be limited riots, the ITUS didn't plan to employ any of their armed units in that case. Tom Raleigh had clear orders from the Labor Action Committee of his union not to engage any government troops, but rather to watch and observe their actions. Medway simply wasn't important enough to risk valuable ressources and militia forces. What the communists really wanted was to stretch the lines of the authorities thinner and force them to police actions that yeilded no results. Unless someone made a grave mistake, the ITUS officials were confident that the occupation would result in no arrest of their members, but in a strategic defeat for the government troops no matter what.

This was a carefully planned win-win situation. If the authorities did nothing, the communists would have succesfully expanded influence in Medway, establishing not just another stronghold in the city besides their office in the city center, but also gaining control over a small factory which could supply their efforts for all it was worth. If, however, the authorities sent their police forces and military, Tom Raleigh had made sure that there were several secure escape routes for the activists, so that the risk of being arrested was minimal. Police action was sure to unsettle the citizens of Medway. The government wasn't exactly popular, even with those who weren't members of radical organizations at all and between this unpopularity and the insensitive, self-important and downright brutal behaviour of the police and military forces, many such police actions resulted in riots without the ITUS or any of their sister-organizations even having any part in it.

Of course, such pitched battles between impoverished plebs and the authorities were a welcome, albeit unwilling support to the communists cause and in Medway, Tom Raleigh had done his best to steer the situation into such a direction if the government showed up. He had made sure that several members of youth gangs, unemployed and poor young men who found some sense of unity and fulfillment by banding together, were present at the scene. Officially, ITUS and most other communist organizations wanted nothing to do with these youths and their suspicious activities. They didn't trust them, just like most of the common people they wanted to win for their cause. Those "good-for-nothing" teenagers were regarded as little better than petty criminals and ideologically, the communists regarded them as human waste, a byproduct of the capitalist system, their false consciousness and lack of class-perspective making them difficult to integrate into the class struggle. However, if people like Tom Raleigh had the chance to steer them into the direction of government forces approaching for police action, they were eager to use this chance, as it always promised an exhausting battle for an already overworked police force.

The sun on the horizon was setting and Tom Raleigh couldn't see a single government agent approaching, nor did any of his scouts in the nearby streets report anything. It seemed like the authorities wouldn't take any action that day and with a smile on his face, Tom climbed the ladder down from the roof. Solways future was firmly in their hands and as far as he was concerned, they wouldn't let it slip.

 

[Havenshire]

11 July, 1954

"Name?"
"Jacob. Jacob Brown."
The Customs Official looked faintly disgusted at the obvious lie. "Come off it, Jew. You don't look Sollish at all, frankly."
The young emmigrant sighed, finding the prejudice all too familiar, but determined to make a new start, even if it was in this backwater. "Its Bronowski. But I prefer Brown."
The Official nodded, satisifed that his observations had been confirmed. He reached for the REJECTED stamp, which would have made this hours-long wait all for nothing, except he stopped, and pondered for a while.
"You a Moneylender or Businessman?" he said, as if contemplating something.
Bronowski sighed. So that's how it was to go this time. Reluctantly he took his shoes off, levered up the sole, and fished out a wad of creased imperial currency. "A gift, from one traveller to a generous host." He said, as sincerely as he could make himself. The Official's eyes narrowed. "Done this before, eh?" Sneering with disgust at having all of his negative prejudices about Jews apparently confirmed, he nonetheless reached for the ACCEPTED stamp.
"Welcome to the Republic of Solway...Mr.Brown." The corrupt official said with heavy irony.
"Next!"

Picking up his battered travelling case, Bronowski shuffled past the bored looking guards, and into the main concourse of the Wellsmouth Ferry Terminal. It had been a long and rough crossing from the mainland, but suprisingly for a nation still getting on its feet there was alot of people traffic, and not just of people fleeing the growing prospect of open, bloody civil war. The Great War that had sundered the Empire had shaken up everything, and now peoples of all stripes and sorts were hurrying to and fro, looking for new opportunities, new nooks and crannies to slide into in the emerging, chaotic order.
For Bronowski, the Imperial Homeland was no longer welcoming to his kind. They were blamed for the Death of the Empire, even though he had spent several years fighting rebels just like the Sollish down south, under a murderously hot sun. So many friends dead, so many wounds taken. No medals, no honour, no victory. Just a legacy of scars to carry with him forever more.

Exiting the Terminal onto the busy main-street, he stared up at the bleak grey sky. This place was colder than any he'd been in for many years now. That it was so bleak even in July didn't bode well. But for all that, his instinct was that this place offered...opportunities. He smiled, and hurried to what appeared to be a beat-up old taxi.
He hadn't been entirely candid with the customs official. He was a businessman, of sorts, all right. But since the end of the War, he had found his calling in selling his skills as a marksman to the hired bidder. And he had a very good feeling that he would not find it hard to find customers here, in this land.

"You a taxi?"
"No, I'm an ice-cream truck." snarked back the fat driver.
"How much to...the Republic Party Headquarters?"
The driver frowned at him. "Why you wanna go there?"
"Business."
"Fine. Fifty Shillings."
"Is Imperial Scrip still good?"
"You a foreigner? Fuck off. Shillings or nothing."
Bronowski waved off the taxi man. "I'll walk."

It was a rookie mistake, bringing only foreign currency, especially that kind of currency here. But walking would help him familiarise himself with the city...and if anyone was dumb enough to try and rob him, well, his skills were in need of some refreshment.

As he wandered into the desolate city, its brick terraces and cold grey concrete hi-rises leering down at him, he found himself wondering if this is what the Homeland had looked like, when the Invaders had finally made it to the borders. He could even still make out the pock-marks of bullets, and many higher window-frames sat empty, noone having yet replaced the shattered glass. The Revolution had clearly marked this city well. Fraying posters of hollow-eyed, smiling dames holding green-glass coke bottles grinned coyly down at him, unashamed and uncaring of the fresher, uglier bright red Toiler posters that could be seen here and there. Wellsmouth was strongly a Government camp, and a careful observer would notice the armbanded thugs moving amongst the shuffling crowds of the town, ready to leap into vigilante violence against any labour movement-spewing Commie filth. He didn't much care for Communism or thinly-veiled Nationalist republicanism, but the so-called legitimate government was more likely to pay him, and pay him well, to take out Council-Commies and Vanguardist shmucks.

"Hey you, looking for a good time?"
Jacob glanced, startled. streetwalkers, in broad daylight? This city was in direr straits than he thought.

 

[Socialist Commonwealth]

The Inevitable - 15. July 1954

"Keep your aim. Control your breathing. Make sure to breathe out, focus on the target and then pull the trigger. On my mark. Three, two, one, fire!"

A good dozen of rifle shots rang through the air, piercing the targets of the shooting range. Once it was clear that none of the bullets had missed, the men began to cheer, satisfied with their steady progress. One of them jerked his rifle up into the air, a jubilant gesture, earning him an immediate reprisal from their instructor.

"For Pete's sake, are you trying to kill us?" He snatched the rifle out of the man's hands, looking at him with an angered expression. "Those are weapons, not toys. You can't wave them around like that when you didn't even bother to lock the safety trigger. It could have been accidently set off and what would you do then?"

He flipped the switch on the semi-automatic rifle. It was a military surplus in bad condition, stolen sometime back in the days of the independence fights, during the heydays of the Great War. No on could tell for sure where it was from, but it was a relic, much like Anthony Dewer himself.

"Back in the war, I had a comrade who would always forget the safety on his rifle. It was a Henderson rifle, just like the ones you are holding in your hands right now. He had quite some luck with it, never firing by accident even when he forgot the safety. That was, until the day that Solway was granted its independence. The war was over, we had won and just in the moment that a messenger arrived and brought our unit the good news, his rifle fired a single shot. Hit the messenger straight between the eyes and the man was dead immediately." Anthony handed the recruit his rifle back, adding with a sharp tone in his voice: "So always remember: keep your safety on unless you want to kill someone."

The recruits nodded, but some older, more experienced militia-member in the back just grinned and shook his head. He knew better than those newly enlisted fighters not to take everything Dewer said by face-value. His experience in the war consisted merely of the battle of Ross, where he was hit by a bullet within the first thirty minutes of the four days long battle and had to spend the remainder of the war recovering from his wound. His comrade who supposedly always forgot the safety on his rifle - Dewer knew him only from tales told by his unit after the war and he didn't know that the story of the shot messenger was actually a cover-up for a murder: the messenger sent to inform his unit happened to be a lover of the man's wife and the shot to his head was a precisely aimed hit by an experienced marksman.

But even with his war-experience dubious and his relationship to truth shaky, Anthony Dewer was important to the south-western section of the Labour Defence League, the most important militia organization of the Council-Communists and the armed wing of the ITUS. Their recent move into Medway had been unopposed and the Labor Action Committee had passed a resolution aimed at the full integration of Medway into workers' self-rule. This meant that Medway needed a standing force to defend against attacks and to keep the peace inside the city. Anthony Dewer was one of the few men available in this region who had enough military training to shape the volunteers found in Medway into a fighting force that could at least challenge raids by the right-wing, if not defend against the government army altogether.

Thirty men in total Dewer had gathered up to now. It wasn't much, but at least they had enough rifles for everyone. Soon he would move on to teach them how to use grenades, but his ultimate goal remained to put that one heavy machine gun to use which some old man, a retired factory worker in his early 70s, had donated to the cause. Medway was calm right now and Dewer, as well as the whole of the ITUS, hoped it remained so. But that was unlikely enough.

 

[Praetoria]

Solway Senate

It was a lovely night. The sky was full of stars and Robert was walking in a hurry towards the Palace. The telephone waked him up in the middle of the night and rushed him towards an emergency council meeting. He walked passed the Kensington Square, crossed the Riverband bridge and from there's only a stone's throw to the Senate Palace. A car passed near him and stopped at the next corner distributing the morning newspaper. He approached the kid guarding the paper clamp, threw him a shilling and took a piece of the "Morning Sentinel". Few people could be seen in the streets. There was still fear present in the their hearts after the terrorist bombings last year. It wasn't sure who ordered those events and no one claimed responsibility but it didn't matter now. He mended his pace seeing that no interesting news was reported by the journalists. The newspapers were still an important source of information and Security Analysts were still relying on some of the agents infiltrated in the news agencies. A young secretary met him at the reception.

"Robert Hermann?" asked the girl with a soft voice.

"Either she knows me or I am already late" thought Robert and replied "That's right! I'm here to see Mr. Brickman"

"Mr. Brickman is in the meeting room right now, he will be informed of your arrival. Meanwhile take a seat in the hallway."

Rick waited impatiently able only to guess the reason for him being summoned at Chancellor's office. He did his job extremely well, being for 5 years analyst of the Security Directorate. He was only 25 years old but already impeached a few terrorists attacks mainly due to his restless work and life experience. After the turnover Solway was a place of terror and fear. Terrorist organizations, separatist factions, communist movements, resentments of the old empire, all of them threatened the sovereignty of the newly former state and although Chancellor Thomas Faulkner emerged from the Revolution as a hero, Rick knew he's nothing but an opportunistic tyrant with ardent love of supreme power. And yes, he liked to call it "The turnover" instead of "Revolution". In his eyes the people of Solway deserved historically the right to decide their own future and when the Senate claimed Solway's independence, it was unconditionally accepted by the already weakened empire. "The revolutions are fundamental changes in people's mentality and culture. There are only cultural revolutions. Nothing similar happened on the island." thought Robert. In Solway he's seen a claim to independence backed-up by the benevolence of the royal family. Nothing more. He stood by the window and took a glimpse over the Capital city. The lantern grid used to lighten the streets was alternating and some sectors of the city were loosing at times power. It was typical for the 50s moreover since all the scientists fled the island in search for a better life.

"Robert!" someone shouted over his shoulder. It was Commisioner Brickman, Faulkner's right hand and Robert's mentor. He reached his hand and tapped him on the shoulder.

"The meeting will begin shortly" he said and held him one more second by the hand, looked into his eyes and added on a lower tone "If you are asked, answer honestly each question. Don't try to outsmart him. There's a reason he's the head of the senate."

Robert bowed his head to confirm and they both went to the big heavy wooden door. The chamber was boyling with people. Some were examining charts on the board, others were debating fiercefully. The chancellor was looking over the window his arms crossed in his extraordinary uniform, something resembling a fine suit and an imperial military uniform. If there was something Chancellor Faulkner knew best - that was the way to impress the masses, the way to speak at radio to hold his position while giving cold-hearted decrees and execute traitors without shedding a tear. There was something inside that man that compelled submission and order. Even now, in the blurred reflection of his face in that window Robert could see his sparkling eyes and a cold trembling could have been felt in that moment by anyone.

 

[Socialist Commonwealth]

Madman Theory - 15 July 1954

There was a thin mist hanging in the morning air and James Hardt could feel the moisture on his tongue as he breathed in. Cars passing by vanished into the fog within seconds and the crowd of people moving alongside the scrawny, balding man were mere shadows behind a gray courtain. Just like all other men on the streets of this unusually cold summer morning, Hardt was headed to work, a heavy suitcase clenched by tired hands. Unlike them, these strangers with whom he shared the road each morning, he was independent, at least. That's what he kept telling himself, owning a small bookstore in a less than preferable location. "I'm free," he kept telling himself, mumbling it under his breath like a mantra, just to reassure himself that there was a difference between those wage-slaves and him, despite the fact that they all would have stayed in bed if it weren't for the bills they all could barely pay.

His suitcase was filled to the brim with communist literature. Not because Hardt was a communist, he despised them and their prole-cult as much as he despised the Chancellor and his henchmen. No, Hardt was a mere pragmatic who knew that, every now and then, some communist groups would distribute their books for free in an attempt to missionize the public. Hardt capitalized on such opportunities and resold the books in his store, reaching an audience which either missed those give-away stunts or doesn't want to be seen taking books from the reds in public, yet has some interest - private or academic - in them anyways. For Hardt it was a much needed way to earn a few extra-Shillings by cutting costs. Business wasn't so good in Solway, not just books.

Every morning, his road led Hardt straigth through the government district, behind which poorer parts of the cities laid, together with his store. He wasn't very comfortable carrying a case full of communist literature past grim looking soldiers standing guard in front of the official government buildings. Owning and selling such literature wasn't exactly illegal, the government was thusfar taking a careful approach towards combating the reds and kept life outside of the political sphere relatively free, at least compared to some other places on the continent, or even to the time before independence. "Conservation of force" were the keywords the military officials kept saying in every public statement as far as Hardt could follow. He just wasn't so sure that the soldiers would care too much for the actual legality of the contents. There was a secret police, Hardt knew it, the rest of Solway knew it just as well and the aging shopkeeper tried not to attract their attention.

As if god himself had heard his thoughts and found it fitting to play a practical joke on James Hardt, the lock on his beatdown suitcase tore, being ripped out of the brown leather by the weight of the books stored inside. They plummeted to the ground, some of them falling apart in the process, their pages sent flying across the street by a mild breeze. Hardt cursed profoundly, hectically trying to pick up the books again before any of the bypassers - none stopping to help him - would take a glance at the titles of the books. The indifference of the people around him - for the first time in his life, Hardt was thankful for it.

Then a bright light flashed in front of him, the sound of brakes being driven into car-tires was heard and within seconds, before Hardt could even realize that a driver had been startled by the paper being blown into his view, the car had crashed into a nearby brick wall. James Hardt was in pure shock, looking at the scenery in total confusion and before he could regain his composure to join the efforts to help the victim of the car crash, his catatonic stare glanced upon the military uniform of the man being dragged from the wreckage, gold and silver lining its silhouette. In his left hand, Hardt held an edition of Karl Marx' "The Capital" and between that and the dying man across the street, Hardt knew only one answer.

As fast as he could, James Hardt ran.