The Revolution

[Socialist Commonwealth]

"We have presented your ultimatum to the union, general. They haven't replied yet."

The general nodded and dismissed his aide. His ultimatum demanded a return to work of be considered insurgents. Beckman wasn't sure they'd accept it, he had seen similiar ultimatums be rejected in the past, when he was still with General King in Orashi. He remembered a village in particular that had been suspected of aiding rebels. As punishment, King had issued a general provision ordering two months of punitive labor. The villagers had expressed their rejection of the terms by torching the rubber plantation they were supposed to work in. It fall to Callahan to subdue the village by force and, from what Beckman had heard, his comrade had been thorough.

Despite such vivid memories of defiance from the locals, Beckman also knew that the policy was an overall success. In Port Calabar he had spoken to businessmen praising the approach, remarking, when Beckman pushed them on acts of vandalism, that the damage done by insurgents was far outweighed by the free labor done by the Orashians in compensation. Faced with the prospect of penal labor or open combat against the military, most chose to bow their head and comply. The general was expecting the same from Kents textile workers and if not, he'd have them all arrested and they could go to work wearing chains around their ankles. He would not allow them to flaunt his authority.

Beckman would have been happy had that been the only crisis he had to pay attention to, but something else had been brewing across the horizon.

The state of Kent was predominantly catholic and in that, it was unique amongst all Implarian states. Like most of the rest of the country, General Beckman was a protestant, though not a particularily religious one, he still shared a certain disdain for the catholics and their pope. When the news came of the trouble in Remion, the flight of the pope and the dispute over the existence of a papal state across the Thaumantic, he considered that a meaningless squabble. Still, he knew that catholics would see it differently and he had to be prepared.

Atwood was due to return the next day; law and order in Kent were still the generals sole responsibility. He knew his friend the governor wasn't a religious man either, nor was he catholic. The priority had always been to maintain calm in the state, to supress public unrest in order to recommend Kent and by extension its governor as an example to follow in all of Implaria.Governor Atwood, the general figured, would want him to move swift and forcefully to contain any unrest, just like he had done with the eviction of the Hartvilles.

He was about to give the order to mobilize the National Guard, when a telegram arrived. It was Atwood, whose intentions the general had thoroughly misjudged. The governor knew his old friend better than the general knew Atwoods political strategy, it seemed. Preempting any rash actions by Beckman, the telegram told him to meet with catholic leaders of Kent and ask for their support in keeping the peace in the state, while Beckman was ordered to stand by and tolerate public protests despite the contested, but still active emergency measures banning protests in the state.

Atwood needed the catholic vote, he could not rule Kent if he was seen moving against the church. Beckman wasn't about to disobey the governor, but he still wondered what impact such flagrant display of hipocrisy would have on the socialists and how they would react to his ultimatum after witnessing the state tolerate angry mobs of religious fanatics on the streets.

 

[Socialist Commonwealth]

"Darling, you seem tense."

Marianne had leaned closer to her husband, gently stroking his face, then proceeding to pour him another glass of champagne.

"How couldn't it? The kairos of our century is just a few days away."

The Remingtons had returned from Artemisa, a kind of... business associate... in tow. By the end of the week, if everything went according to plan, the Remingtons would throw the dice for the fate of the entire country, perhaps even the world. Perhaps it was their background as venture capitalists that had instilled in them the will and the hubris for such an undertaking, but now the wheels had been set in motion and all that was left was to wait and see if their investment would yeild the dividend they were hoping for.

Still, Marianne, ever the bold and adventurous half of their marriage felt far more certain of the future than Richard, who seemed more acutely aware of the risks they were taking and whom a dark sense of foreboding desaster had gripped. It had first hitched a ride when in Artemisa they had been informed that the filthy little Aurariano that had been recommended to them for this task had agreed to the proposal. Now that they - and by extension him - were back on the mainland, the feeling had only intensified and began robbing him of his sleep.

"What if our plan fails," he whispered to his wife, lowering his voice without need, as if a part of him believed he risked summoning his own doom if he spoke too loudly.

His wife just looked at him, lovingly, firmly, soothingly. She had this way of looking at him that could calm him, steady his nerves, soothe his fears without making him feel weak or belittled. Just by looking at him, she assured him that everything would be fine, that he was far too clever, bold and strong to fail at any task he committed himself to. There was genuine love and admiration in the way Marianne looked at Richard. It wasn't the ploy of a manipulative woman who knew how to play the men in her life - though she surely could have done so - she really believed everything her eyes conveyed to her husband.

"I love you," she said and stroked his face again, gently.

"Still," she added after a few minutes when she noticed he had calmed down and regained his confidence. "You are probably right that we shouldn't entirely bet on a success. Let's get our assets out of this country, just in case. Quietly, of course."

Richard nodded. "I'll make the orders. By the end of the week, most of our capital will be in safes and banks in Gallo-Germania."

"Just in case..." he added.

"Just in case..." Marianne concurred, smiling at him.

 

[Socialist Commonwealth]

It was a sad, rainy day, but James Strickland wasn't going to let this stop him from campaigning. It wouldn't have been the first speech he'd hold in a downpour and, chances were, it wouldn't be his last. He knew that, given the weather, only diehard supporters and partymembers would attend the rally. No one who needed convincing to vote for him in january, but his wife had made an excellent point when she insisted that he would show persistence and determination and if he left that impression it would reverberate beyond the limited circle of his audience.

His days were busy ones and James was hoping january would come sooner rather than later. Spending all week on the campaign trail, holding speeches, shaking hands and inbetween? Meeting journalists. Answering the same questions over and over again. "Are you a radical?" "Do you want to destroy our country?" The same loaded questions by people who don't write to inform, but rather to prevent his presidency. He could only smile politely and answer. "No." And "No." Don't give them any ammunition, let them make fools out of themselves, not out of you.

"Mr. Strickland, the Communists of Natal have recently sent you a message of solidarity in which they say that you and your party will create the worlds first socialist state in Implaria. Any comments?"

"I appreciate the enthusiasm from our Himyari friends, but I, personally, don't share it. My campaign is a campaign of pragmatic progress for the workers of this country, none of revolutionary upheaval. In fact, I am fairly certain socialism is still some fair way in the future and I don't believe I will personally live to see a revolution."

Carthage was a small city on the eastern coast. Wholly unimportant in the grand scheme of things. When James Strickland had given his reply to a reporter from the local newspaper, he didn't expect it to become famous over night. He had merely reiterated his position. James Strickland was a moderate, a reformer, a man of compromise not of rebellion. It was never his plan to become a symbol of revolution, that wasn't his politics and he never chose that path. His enemies had made him into one, their paranoia, their hysteria, their fear of socialism was to blame.

In some sense then it was fortunate that on that day in Carthage, just a few hours before the rally, James Strickland had given this interview, had said these words to a journalist who would publish them the next day to nationwide, perhaps even international attention. Not that he had known at that time but it was a final chance for Strickland to decide, by his own words, how history would remember him.

-

Autumn up north in Implaria was cold and wet and nasty. Jesus Morales missed his island, missed Artemisa and he was growing uncertain whether he'd return to see it after this day. As the fateful hour approached his uncertainty grew, fear gripped his throat and a dark foreboding sense took hold of him that he had made a deal with the devil it would swallow him whole for the sake of a cause that's not his own.

The most awful thing about a deal with the devil? There is no turning around once you've shook his hand. Your soul is forfeit and your fate is sealed. You've made your mistake and now you have to face the consequences of your sins. In Jesus' eyes, this wasn't just hyperbole. He was quite literally certain that the man who had visited him in that jail cell, who had made that deal with him that saw him travel to this dingy little town in mainland Implaria, was the devil himself or at least one of his subordinates.

Who else would put him in such a dreadful position, make him commit such an atrocious crime?

With a catholic prayer on his lips, Jesus Morales mingled with the crowd that had assembled in front of the podium. There weren't many people here and Jesus could keep some distance to them, sticking to the edge of the group while he waited, along with everyone else, for James Strickland to appear. Jesus wasn't a political man, he hadn't followed the election. Artemisans weren't allowed to vote either way. The people he worked for had been quite insistent that Strickland was dangerous, a godless man who would plunge the world into chaos. Looking at the gentle old man that approached the podium now, Jesus wasn't so sure anymore.

But as he had already said to himself, once you make a deal with the devil, there is no turning back.

With a shaking hand and cold sweat on his brow, he reached into the inside of his coat. He could feel the steel grip of a pistol, warm and wet from his own body, and from that point onwards, he was beside himself, could watch his body do one swift motion without any control from his mind, without anything Jesus could do but watch himself shoot one, two, three bullets into the presidential candidate of the Social Democratic Party, then drop the gun and run before anyone around him had really realized what had happened.

Bang.

Bang.

Bang.

"I don't believe I will personally live to see a revolution."

 

[Socialist Commonwealth]

"How is she holding up?"

"What do you think?"

The mood in the headquarters of the Social Democratic Party was unsurprisingly depressing. Everyone here had lost a close friend, but of course, Mrs. Strickland had been the hardest hit. She had truly loved her husband and losing him in such a manner was a devastating blow.

Beyond that fact, there was a sense of aimlessness and stewing, unvented anger that had no clear direction to discharge towards. Events on the streets were unfolding without control from the party, the country was in flames and everyone was certain that it had been the goal of this assassination. Now the likes of Atwood and his right-wingers would seize control of the situation, citing calm and order as pretense to add insult to injury and do by violence what they couldn't have done at the ballot box. Stop the socialists.

"Atwood his deployed the National Guard once again. Somehow I don't think any legal challenges will stop him this time," Nikola Pugachev threw Emilia Roth a challenging stare, but the lawyer immediately relented.

"I fear you are right," she said, defeat in her voice.

"So that leaves us only one option." Nikola didn't spell it out. Everyone in the room understood he was asking the party to unchain their rabid dog. The rabid dog was him. He wanted his Proletarian Self-Defense units to meet the National Guard in battle.

"If we do this, we start a civil war."

"Wake up," Nikola barked. "We already are in the middle of one. The time for hesitation is past!"

"No, not yet. We still have other options."

Nikola shook his head in anger, but his comrades continued elaborating.

"We can't start a war now. It would unify everyone against us. We have the public sympathy right now, we can put forward another candidate and win a sweeping victory in january if only we survive this crisis."

"Enough!" Nikola had risen from his seat, his head swollen read in anger, a vein on his forehead pulsating visibly. "James isn't even buried yet and you already want to replace him? Just like that? And you think the people will reward such cowardice, such irreverence?"

Emilia once again chimed in, putting a hand on Nikolas shoulder and staring into the assembly coldly.

"Nikola is right. We need a display of decisiveness, of action and strength, else the working class will go one without this party, will have no need for our leadership any longer. But," she added, turning her head to Nikola and looking at him pleadingly. "This isn't the time for a war either. At least not yet. If you deploy the PSD to Kent, you will achieve nothing but weaken our position, both politically and, dare I say, militarily. And if neither of these arguments hold weight in your eyes, do it for James. He would have wanted us to give diplomacy another try."

Nikola stood there, silently, but not protesting Emilias points either. It was perhaps the most he could concede given this situation and it was, perhaps, something no one else but her could have achieved.

"So, what do you have in mind? We need something that shows strength and fightfulness to the proletarians to make sure they follow our lead in this crisis. But at the same time we must signal willingness to solve this through diplomacy and constitutional means. That's quite the task, dare I say?"

-

President Hart hadn't slept over the course of the weekend. Reports from across the country were piling up on his desk, many of them unread. The country was in crisis and everyone expected him to steer it out of the danger it had been caught in. Well, perhaps not everyone, but everyone who mattered at the very least.

The assassination of his competitor, whom most expected to beat Hart soundly come January, would have maybe not been a joyous moment, but at least a moment of respite and relief for Hart. Not that he particularily condoned political violence, let alone murder, but he was certain that, were the Socialists to win the election, the consequences would be far more desastrous than the death of a single red agitator. However, if he had hoped that the anger over Stricklands death would blow over soon enough, he would have been sorely mistaken. The first protests on friday had already hit the country hard and thoughout the weekend, they had only gotten more intense with police everywhere retreating, unable to contain the rioting.

"Mr. President?"

One of his aides had walked into his office unannounced and Hart, slightly annoyed someone would barge into such a weak moment of his, slid the half-emptied bottle of whisky into the drawer of his desk. Then, however, he noticed the look of urgency and concern on the face of his assistant and realized that, most likely, there had been a very good and valid reason for him to interrupt Harts moment of self-pity.

"The Social Democrats have made an official announcement."

Harts interest was piqued. A raised eyebrow signalled his aide to go on.

"They call for a general strike and they are assembling a march tonight."

The President received the news with gloomy silence. He had wanted to crack a joke about how the reds went on strike for anything, but he couldn't get it right even in his head and so he just sat there, an angry stare on his face.

"The march is on your office... They are calling for your resignation."

"Those bastards," Hart spat out in anger. "Typical, just typical. Sitting on this desk is all they ever wanted. If they lose their chance to get it in an election, they will just use force," he cried, wailing his arms around him.

"I have only myself to blame," he then added, a dark gloom in his voice and hunching over his massive presidential desk. "I've been too lenient all the time, too hesitant. They wouldn't try this kind of shit with the likes of Atwood. That little conniving pederast, he has the right idea. We can't give them an inch, else they take a whole mile."

Hart leaned back in his chair, breathing a heavy sigh.

"Give me General King."

-

General King had anticipated the call. He knew it was the President even before he had picked up the phone. He wasn't blind, after all, he had followed the news and seen the crisis unfold before his very eyes. Everyone, himself and his family included, were sitting on a veritable powderkeg waiting only for one of the actors to make a false move. The survival of his country hung in the balance.

"General, I need you to deploy the army as we discussed. The socialists are staging a revolution."

"That is a heavy accusation, Mr. President." General King replied calmly, but courteous. "I will require some evidence of this."

President Hart was irritated, he had expected this conversation to proceed differently. Months ago he had asked the general for an emergency plan, to be prepared to deploy the troops if ready. As commander in chief he was now giving the order and instead of a "yes, sir" he was being questioned?

"General, the Socialists are marching on my office, demanding my resignation. This is a coup d'etat, I order you to stop it."

The General closed his eyes, bracing himself for the moment that was about to come. He was being cast into the position of arbiter of fate, his choice now would make or break the nation. He could only hope and pray he would make the right decision.

"Mr. President, with all due respect, neither a public protest nor demanding your resignation are in violation of our constitution..."

"Are you out of your mind, Howard?" The President was yelling into the phone now. "These people want my head, you have sworn an oath. Do I really need to remind you of it?"

"I have sworn an oath to our constitution, Mr. Hart, not to you."

"In a few hours I will declare the Social Democratic Party an unconstitution and terrorist organization," Hart growled. "Will you defend this state against its enemies or do you truly intend to abandon your post?"

There it was, General King thought to himself. There was the moment he had always dreaded with President Hart. A veritable crisis, a moment of true danger not only for the country as a whole, but for the President as a person, too. A moment that required level headedness, calm, true leadership. Instead, Hart was acting on base impulses, on false images of what he thought himself and his presidency to be. Running headfirst into danger where he will get the people around him killed for the sake of his own mistakes.

No, he could not partake in this foolishness. Even if it meant the end of his long and succesful career. Even if it might end him in front of a tribunal for treason.

"I am sorry, Mr. President. I do consider these orders to be unconstitutional. I can not follow them."

-

President Hart slammed the phone. He was fuming, seething with anger. Already he was being abandoned by his allies. The rats were leaving the sinking ship, he though to himself. But the general? Really? This man, always so dutibound, so overly correct and formal, he was the last man he would have expected to betray his nation in an hour of need.

The people who had gathered in his office looked at him with unspoken questions on their lips. There were his aides, there was the chief of the Westport Police, there was his vice-president, all as forlorn and helpless as he himself was at this moment.

"Without the military I don't think we can restore order in Westport," the chief of the police said soberingly. "My officers may be able to cordon off your office and create a secure perimeter, but that is assuming the socialists don't engage in firefights and disperse if threatened with lethal force."

"Even if," the vice-president added. "It would mean we are shut in. For god knows how long."

The room went silent once again.

Only the clock was ticking.

A countdown to the inevitable.

Perhaps I should step down after all, Hart thought to himself in the oppressive silence. He looked at the face of his vice-president. Surely he would like that? Was there a glimmer of hope in his eyes that Hart would resign, making him the most powerful man in the country? That fool. As if his head wasn't the next to be demanded as tribute by the reds.

Suddenly, a man barged into the room, enthusiastically slammed the doors wide open and staring into a number of surprised, dull and helpless faces.

"What are you all waiting for?"

The man asking the question was a senator from Harts party. A jovial man, bigger than life and always loud and cheerful, even at the most inappropriate times. Such as now. He was also known as close political ally and confidante of Atwood and, unbeknownst to both the governor and the president, firmly in the pocket of the Remingtons.

"I have a plane waiting for all of you. New Tibur is expecting us. You still have allies there, Mr. President."

The senator was also an aviation enthusiast.

 

[Socialist Commonwealth]

The sun had already set somewhere over the Santee mountains and darkness had fallen over Westport. Electric lighting, still a novelty in large parts of the world but almost omnipresent in the metropolis, had gone out in the city as workers walked out on strike. Only fires, burning trashheaps and barricades, were casting the city in a dim red hue, a hellish gloom visible from the suburbs, including the small hill on top of which the residence of the Van Hoovers stood.

"What are you doing?"

Judge Van Hoover had tried to ignore the madness of the last dies to the best of his ability, but he found his wife increasingly unsettled with ever new report reaching them from within the city. Now that they had heard of the flight of the president himself from the city, Martin Van Hoover had expected his wife to overreact in some manner while he himself just sat in his office, studying his correspondence. Still, when she came walking down the hallway, a fully packed suitcase in tow, even he was surprised.

"What does it look like? We are leaving."

"Clarice, you are being hysteric."

Martin didn't even look up from his papers, saying his last sentence calmly and as matter of fact as possible. In his eyes, it was just a neutral assessment and he expected her to accept the words of her husband as truth, accept that she should listen and calm down.

"Martin, I am not waiting here for the mob to find us. This is madness. They are already looting the villas down Oakridge Avenue."

"That's just a dumb rumour, Clarice. You put the suitcase back this instance."

But Clarice had no intention of listening to her husband. As he looked up he saw the wild unkempt hair, the maddened look of fear in her eyes. It was fight or flight for her. And she chose flight.

"Clarice. Sit down."

Martins voice had gotten harsher, more commandeering and slightly irritated. It had been a while since his wife had disobeyed him and it bothered him that she was disrespecting his authority in such a way.

"I said we stay, so we stay. I am not letting some crazed rabble drive me from my home."

He was the highest judge of the nation. President Hart, coward as he is, may flee the capital, but Van Hoover wouldn't. He had a job to do, uphold constitutional rule and make sure that, once this crisis blew over, the presidential election could get back on track with minimal damage to the constitution and the rule of law.

"You can stay, I am leaving," Clarice hissed defiantly.

Martin grabbed her by the arm as she tried to push by him towards the exit.

"You are not going anywhere," he ordered her. "You are my wife and you will do as I say." His hand was wrapped around her wrist, tightly, even painfully. He was giving her one last chance to come back to her senses, Martin thought to himself. If she didn't, he would need to punish her. Spank her? Maybe lock her in the cupboard for the night? He wasn't certain yet.

Suddenly, there was a pistol. His old pistol. He hadn't taken it out of the safe in years now. Somehow she had gotten her hands on it.

It was fight or flight for her. Now she had to fight.

A shot.

Suddenly, Martin Van Hoover lay dead on the ground inside his own house, a bullet through the heart.

And Clarice Van Hoover, with shaking hands, breathed a sigh of relief that surprised even herself.