NationStates Jolt Archive

From 'The Guardian', Aug 3rd 2004

The Final Showdown?

By Alfred Nobilis, International Correspondent, Commune Charlie Goodman, FFAC.

Weeks of heavy fighting between the last vestiges of the capita-fascist falanges and the FFAC Militias were last night reported to be heading to a climax. News received at the Central Administrative Region Head Office in Commune Charlie Goodman, and later confirmed by the delegate-elect of the Committee for Federal Security, suggested that the falanges were rapidly running short of food, water, and power. Dug in around the tech industry complexes located in the Western Administrative Region, they could only watch and wait for the inevitable as the Militias finally secured control of the surrounding areas. Some reports said that the falanges could be down to as few as 10,000 fighters, the majority of them hardline capitalists who are not used to the physical demands of counter-revolution.

The forces of the State Internal Security Services (deridingly known as Sissies to the revolutionaries), relied on by the capita-fascists to enforce their doctrine in pre-revolutionary times, were defeated fairly early on in the struggle as the masses stormed the SISS lines and fortresses united under the slogan 'They've got the guns but we've got the numbers' (which soon became 'We've got the guns and we've got the numbers!'). The revolutionary cause was also aided in its infancy by large numbers of the State Armed Forces, both conscripts and enlistees, who joined the Militias en masse along with large amounts of expropriated munitions. Organisational capabilities within the capita-fascist ranks were further hindered after it was learned that many of the senior military commanders had been shot by the deserting ranks. A hierarchy without hierarchs is a very unstable system indeed, as one grinning FFAC commentator put it. Particularly one without a trained defence force to back it up.

The capitalists do, however, still have nominal control of the Thatcher Corporation, a sprawling military-industrial complex located 20 km east of Commune Wapping (the newest member of the Federation following its liberation last week) and where they are now entrenched. This has given the reactionary forces access to the latest hi-tech weaponry, although they remain remarkably inept at using it in any effective way. In recent days several hundred falangists have died at the hands of their own weapons, most recently near the town of Murdoch at the heart of the Thatcher complex. A Megatov incendiary device was mis-ignited, destroying the batallion of capita-fascists stationed nearby. The orange glow from the explosion was seen several kilometres away within FFAC-controlled areas, amid much jubilation. The newly-enfranchised Commune Wapping was named in celebration of this event.

The ranks of the Militias have recently been boosted by newly-liberated Commune members, some of whom had already formed clandestine Brigades that were engaged in acts of sabotage against the falanges prior to the arrival of the FFAC Militias. With the intelligence gained from the populations living in the newly-liberated areas Basi 'Red' Rathore, delegate-elect of the Bobby Sands Brigade (United Celtic Militia), said 'Our morale is high and our revolutionary goals are in sight. Our resolve was further heightened when, using local knowledge, we were able to take control of the Ionic Industries' factory and secure access to the latest in sub-molecular weapons technology. Our techies are currently working on developing a non-lethal sub-atomic particle blaster that will enable us to deliver sedative chemicals through the nano-carbon shields and clothing that the falanges are relying as their last line of defence. With these weapons about to be deployed, we anticipate victory very soon.'

Nevertheless, in order to avoid as much loss of human life as possible, the FFAC has also put out an appeal for practical solidarity to other members of the Anarchy Region. The delegate-elect for the Committee for Internal Affairs, Malachy O'Riordan, said that, whilst it would be unwise to reveal just what help had been offered and received, 'munitions and personnel for the advancement of the revolutionary cause' were on their way from neighbouring states 'as we speak'. Other members of the Region have so far refused to comment on the issue.

Eddie Noble was stripping and rebuilding his rifle for the third time that day, partly because he had used it so much in the previous week and partly because he found the activity strangely meditative, his fingers unconciously performing their task. It allowed him time to consider the relevance and consequences of what was happening with his life at any given moment. Right now, he felt on top of the world.

Eddie's unit, the Swing Brigade (Diggers Militia), so named after the band of brigands that terrorised the emergent capitalists of Olde England, had been part of the mass drive into the Western Adminstrative Region, where the last of the fash were holed up. The fighting had been tough and, for a time, relentless. Eddie reflected on the Militias good fortune in all of this. Their losses had been mercifully small despite the obvious superior firepower of the enemy.

He chuckled to himself as he thought of the fat suits who were right now trying to goad their corpulent bodies into further physical action, exhausted, frightened, losing. He glanced at his own frame and admired the contours of his muscles. The years of toil in the factory had certainly honed his physique, and his mental agilities had evolved along with his body. Despite having to endure the 12 years of compulsory 'education' under the old regime, Eddie and many of his comrades had learnt how to analyse and interpret outside of the old constraints. The Union had provided classes on everything from critical thinking to creating a web site, and the Library enabled him to access books near-impossible to find elsewhere. Proudhon, Nechaev, Durruti, Bone, all opened up new worlds to him. Worlds whose very existence he was now helping bring into being.

Despite the attempts by the authorities to curtail their work, the Union had developed a clandestine schooling network, often in the homes of the workers themselves. Right in the heart of the beast, he'd learnt of workers councils and collectivist methods of organisation, set up classes on working class history, produced pamphlets and papers written by and for the working class, recounting its strength, its defiance, its destiny. He himself had lectured on the great miners strike of '84, the first campaign he'd ever been involved in and one where he cut his revolutionary teeth. He'd seen things back then that had set his desire for a free humanity burning and he recalled it all in the way that only an active participant can, the emotion carrying the words and the meaning to the hearts of the group.

He'd also become a dab hand on the bass guitar thanks to a convenient night class, and quickly ran his left-hand fingers through a riff he was working on while his right polished the barrel. He couldn't wait to get back to his Commune and the hand-made bass sat there waiting for his touch. He missed the buzz of the gigs at the social clubs with his band, translating his ideas into vibrations that would connect with the very humanity of his audience. Beer, spliff, music and sex were the ideal bedfellows as far as Eddie was concerned, and all were almost guaranteed on a gig night.

All of these thoughts and more tumbled back into Eddie's memory as he focused on the final part of his task. It was crucial to get this bit right if he didn't want to end up second-place in a shooting contest with the fash. He slid the last pin smoothly back into place, tightened it down and placed the weapon gently on its bag. Reaching over it, he picked up a magazine and a box of ammo and quickly filled it. The hand of experience at work. He hoped that, soon, this action would become as reduntant as the enemy ahead of them, slipping almost unnoticed from his recollection. Five more mags swiftly followed, enough to ensure a rapid respose should the need arise. As it surely will, he conceded, in spite of what he'd just been thinking.

At that moment, Bob Cryer came into his room. No knock to announce himself, just waltzed straight in, typical Bob. He didn't mind though, they'd been mates since they were kids, hit the streets together, sweated in the works, in their youth exploring and experimenting with each other's more intimate physical desires. If Bob saw him in the nuddy it was no big deal. As it was, he was dressed and ready to go.

'Come on sunshine, stop wanking that thing' chirped Bob, pointing to the gleaming SA80-X.'The Brigade's all in the canteen, the delegates from the rest of the Militia are on-line in less than two hours for a chin-wag, so it's time to eat then get down to business. There's fash to be taken care of, in case you'd forgotten!', the last line shouted over his shoulder as he span round, leaving as briskly as he'd entered.

'Cheeky bastard', grinned Eddie and, with that, grabbed his gun, clipped the ammo to his belt and followed Bob out across the university campus to the mess.

Diver Squad...it had been awhile since anyone had heard their name. Due to recent events though, they had decided to bring back their old ways: blasting the shit out of anything and everything that pissed them off. Over a decade ago, Diver Squad was nothing more than a bunch of smelly crust punks who yelled at cops and cursed the government. They had no homes, no jobs, no families, and not much hope for making it through their upcoming years. But somehow they had made it.

Mark sat on the rusty old bench tightening the laces on his worn boots. Next to him sat Big Matt, who calmly took puffs of his cigarette. On the ground sat Aeronne, Ray, and Zoe. The five of them all knew what to expect in the next few hours: a whole lot of anarchy.

They picked up their arms and began to do a quick once-over. Mark made sure his AK-47 was alright, Big Matt cleaned out his shotgun, and Aeronne made sure his Steyr TMP was in working order. Ray and Zoe continued to sit on the ground and assemble some more molotov cocktails. The sky gently began to turn a dark grey color, and the temperature lowered a few degrees. Night began to set in...


Chris sat in deep thought for a few more minutes. He could hear the explosions and the screams. The gunfire wasn't too bad though, because it was being droned out by the afore-mentioned public affairs. He finally stood up and looked out the window. He didn't expect to see the whole block up in arms, and he didn't believe that the neighboring apartment complexes would be on fire. But they were. He shrugged and was just thankful that he wasn't there. He casually paced back and forth in his empty apartment, only occasionally stopping to think about an available option in the battle to come. he quickly dismissed most, and felt his best option was to just take over as god for a little while. He turned and walked over to his closet. He slowly tunred the door knob and turned on the light. Chris then removed his H&K PSG-1 long-range sniper rifle, TEC-9, and Russian Baikal pump shotgun. He threw most of the ammo into a large backpack along with some binoculars, a canteen, some jerky, a gask mask, and his radio transmission interceptor. He zipped up his tactical vest, put on his hat, and tied his bandana around his mouth and face. He then proceeded to the roof of his apartment building to find a nice spot. He had been looking forward to the hunt today. The Ghost was back, and the world would soon know of his presence. Many would die for the cause today, but The Ghost would make sure he protected the ones who would help to further it.

As he reached his rooftop perch, he noticed a group in the distance walking towards the town. He thought for a minute...

No, it couldn't be...Diver Squad had disappeared. No one had seen those lunatics for years.

"It's good to see some friendly faces..." mumbled Chris, half to himself. He forced a grin, but after that it came more naturally.

Today he was Diver Squad's guardian angel. They would go through this fight without so much as a scratch as long as Chris could breath. They were family to him, long-time friends who had traveled and fought with him for years before the great uprising. After that, everyone had kind of vanished.

Slowly but surely they were coming back from the dead. They would soon know that Chris was still alive, because they would feel his protection. They didn't have to see him. They all knew he was there.

And they all knew it. All of them except for his targets.

"At dawn this morning, three troops of crack chaoticists of the Erisian Knights of Dischordiac made their way to the tops of the three tallest hills of the Free Anarcho-Communes. Evading notice of all by dressing in garb of the colour of the new sun and the fresh dewy grass, the chaotic ones uncovered a number of streams, the obvious source of much of the region's water supply.

"Following a quick prayer to the goddess and a swift kick to their fellows, the agents of madness each removed a bottle from their green coloured pants. Carefully removing the stopper, they stooped and poured the entire contents of the sacred apple juice into the water supply.

"All of the people of the Free Anarcho-Communes, revolutionaries, reactionaries and others, should now note that the apple juice moves faster than water and should reach general supply by midnight. At that point, all who drink it will be overcome by the divine grace of her greatness, the Chaotic Goddess of Gleeful Madness - Eris Herself. "

Doctors's Note: "Erisian Apple Juice has strong psychedelic properties and is not for recreational use. Use only to disrupt conflict or to worship the goddess."

Presented by Pope Vassilly Deferns, the delegated vocal vanguard of the free peoples of Dischordiac.

PS. Enjoy the trip.

Red jumped as the radio beside him screeched with static and a broken stacatto voice. The cloud cover could do that sometimes. It didn't help that he was on the graveyard shift and, although alert, the previous day's disruptions had not given him the best of sleeps. He was tired and on edge. He grabbed the handset as the digital circuits kicked in and the words suddenly became smooth and clear, a gentle roll that instantly soothed his nerves.

'...spotted near the Three Sisters. Obs report three units, five or six members in each unit. No apparent sign of heavy weaponry. Do not, repeat do not appear to be falange, uniform does not conform. Militias Durruti and Crass have despatched a Brigade each to intercept. Over.'

'Received. Can you be more specific on the uniform, over.'

'I don't quite get the reports, Red. Apparently the units weren't spotted until the cloud rolled in about half an hour after dawn. Some kind of camoflague affair that wasn't designed for our inclement weather, stood out like Belisha beacons once the rain started.' Even in war we talk about the weather, Red noted with a little humour. 'Brigades should be making contact right about now, they'll be ours within the quarter, over.'

'Understood. Bring 'em in Joan.'

'Roger. Out.'

Red put the digitalk down, stood up and walked out into the main block. The description didn't match anything he'd encountered before. Who in their right mind would try and carry out a military operation on an island renowned for it's changeable climate, even at the height of summer? The Western coasts were particularly unfathomable, facing as they did out onto the Atlantic.

His thoughts turned immediately to how these squads had arrived here. He had to admit that naval security wasn't at it's best around the Western coasts at the moment, much of the fleet tied up defending the major port complexes that dotted the region. It wouldn't be too difficult for a trained unit to guide a couple of small inflatables into the nooks and crannies of the craggy granite cliffs. The sooner this war was over the sooner we can get on with sorting this sort of shit out, he reasoned. Last thing we need is bloody outside agitators.

He laughed deeply at the irony of his last thought, outside agitators was a phrase regularly used by the Sissies when they were justifying their latest assault on peaceful protesters in the fascist media. Bastards. Even now he could see their grinning faces as they laid into families with kids, old folk who couldn't move away fast enough, truncheons cracking skulls as they set about their bloody work. He recalled the sheer joy he'd experienced the first time he'd seen a half-brick land in one of the fucker's faces, the shocked expressions of the target and his colleagues slipping into place as they suddenly became all too aware of their vulnerability. If one person could do that with half a brick, think what a million with arms could do. The concept had almost rooted him to the spot as he considered the possibility.

And at that moment, Basi Rathore, Red to his mates, became an anarchist. He didn't know that's what he was back then, as far as he was concerned he was just young, angry, he wanted to change the world and these idiots were all that stood between him and freedom. Going through them seemed to make a lot of sense. Over the years, he'd got to know some of these 'outside agitators', coming as they did from the same kind of crappy estates as him, getting by in lousy jobs if you were lucky or however else you could if you weren't. Even the ones who'd 'escaped' to University had for the most part ended up back in the urban sprawl. You couldn't escape who you were or where you were from that easily. Not that these people wanted to, they just wanted their lives to be fair. Not much to ask for when you looked around, he observed.

Enough daydreaming already, he gently admonished himself. Time to gather the Intel mob and prepare for the new arrivals.

And with that he strode down the corridor with a new-found purpose, the fatigue melting away as quickly as the morn sun had behind the drizzle now falling.

The prisoners were a little damp from the morning's rain but seemed well enough. Apart from the glazed look in their eyes that is, noticed Red. Bloodshot whites were never the best sign of a stable person either.

Joan was walking alongside the group, her gun slung loosely at her side. Red smirked at the difference in size between Joan and the prisoner beside her. He'd hoped that the guy had had the good sense to surrender quietly. Despite her small stature she was a hardened street fighter, and the years of martial arts training, rioting and bar-room brawls with Nazis had made her one tough bastard. He'd seen her fell six-foot muscle-bound boneheads with barely a second glance.

Joan caught his eye and winked, automatically slipping the safety catch on as she approached Red. The rest of the Brigade began moving the prisoners into the holding cells, noting down their names on the chalk boards beside their cell doors.

'Mornin' sunshine' she said, as she reached up with both arms to hug him, kissing him gently on each cheek. 'Here's your crew. Pretty mental, the lot of 'em. Kept babbling on about Eric or something. They had these bottles with 'em, something tells me that the loopy juice these contained might just have something to do with their state of mind. Wouldn't mind trying some myself once all this fuss has died down.' Joan had always liked her drugs, 'phets, weed, trips, pills, 'shrooms, anything that would give you a laugh and not too much grief the next day. She held out the containers. 'Come back to mummy soon dears', she said as she handed them over to Red.

Red tutted good-naturedly and took the bottles. 'Not much to look at, are they. I'll get the lab boys to give 'em the once-over. Can you go with a couple of Intel peeps and get started on the first two. Take blood samples and we'll give 'em a quick screen, just to be safe. And you play it safe too, Joan, they don't look like trouble but they're definitely mad as fuck, don't wanna mash 'em up totally by using the wrong drugs.'

'Look at 'em Red, you trying to tell me there's something they ain't used? Far as these guys are concerned there's no such thing as a wrong drug!'

Red knew she was taking the piss. Joan was as gentle as she was strong, and could always be relied upon to use the right attitude. Chances were, the labs would have the formula cracked by the time Intel had worked out what the prisoners dietary requirements were. Not that he minded this approach. Anarchist interrogation techniques were invariably benign and far more effective at getting the actual truth from prisoners as a result. But people weren't as fast as machines, and right now he needed to know what was in these bottles and what could be done with it.

He touched Joan on the shoulder, squeezed her gently. 'I'll catch you later, love, be kind to 'em', returning and making off towards the lab block.

It was an early shout for the techies, they generally kept more nocturnal hours, but they didn't mind the call. After all, it didnt happen that often and they were fighting the class war after all. Bed would still be there an hour later.

'Alright fellas' said Red as he passed the bottles over to Ho, who straight away held them up to the light. 'No probs, Red', he answered, before Red had even finished his sentence. 'There's enough liquid here to put through the spectro, should have a result by the time you've made us a lovely cuppa.' Fagin, his colleague, laughed. 'Yeah, my gob's like my granny's fanny' he said. 'Two sugars, there's a love.'

Red cracked a grin back and left them to it. He didn't doubt they'd be true to their word.

The three cups were jangling together, and the techies heard Red before they saw him. 'Here comes the tea-lady' Fagin shouted, as Red came down the corridor. He entered the lab and put the cups down, immediately picking two back up and passing them to Fagin and Ho.

'What's the news, lads?' he asked.

'Psychotomimetic, plant origin, non-toxic but ingestion will result in one spaced-out trip. Where'd ya get this shit?' replied Ho.

'Found it with that lot' he said, pointing vaguely behind him. 'And Joan's already got first refusal if you need a guinea pig to try it.' 'Too late' said Fagin. Red glanced at him and instantly caught sight of his enlarged pupils.

'For fuck's sake Fagin, it's not even breakfast-time yet'.

'I know,' said Fagin 'always more fun on an empty stomach.'

Ho carried on. 'Given where you found 'em, I'd say these chaps have been doing naughties to the water supply. Not a problem this end, we can easily run decon to deal with it, no chance of it hitting the Communes. But the fash are also relying on the same resevoirs for their water. We've managed to restrict their supply in order to bring 'em out into the open when they have to collect rainwater from their butts, but I'd suggest letting this stuff do it's work. Up the flow a bit so that the pipes are running to all parts of Thatcher again. They'll put it down to the rain raising the water levels and increasing the pressure, so it won't look too odd. Then we just send in the Militias and round 'em up, nice and easy.'

Red was one happy man. As was Fagin, who rose unsteadily to his feet. 'Wooh, who turned the floor into rubber when I wasn't looking' he slurred. 'Come on cowboy', said Ho, 'let's get you back to the security of a blackened room. Laters, Red.' He took Fagin's arm to lead him away to his bed.

'Cheers lads, behave now, y'hear?' he called after them. Red rose and made to head off to Comms. The MCU needed to hear the good news. If all went well, there would be no further bloodshed in the FFAC that night or any other.