NationStates Jolt Archive

Ennis, County Clare
A great number of people had gathered on O’Connell square, and the setting sun painted the scene a foreboding blood-red. The crowd was of a semi-spontaneous kind – the one which started off with a nucleus of devoted people deliberately coming together, people usually derided as professional revolutionaries, with bystanders and sympathisers caught in their gravitational field coming along because of group pressure or true zeal. Zeal, especially when it came to something related to The Cause, was not an unusual thing to find in the Irish population of Clare.
The cause of the day, as apart from the ever overarching Cause, was that of Brian O’Toole, a local with a reputation for being a ladies’ man and a republican, who had been charged with aggravated assault. The word on the street, and in the police’s own records, was that Patrick had originally been taken in for questioning about a double murder. Nobody had heard of a double murder in Ennis recently and Patrick had a lot of friends who could confirm that he had been at a party at the time of the supposed murder. After a few weeks the police had been forced to let him go; only to take him in later that day to question him about a burglary. The burglary had allegedly taken place in Patrick’s own house by himself, as his keys had been confiscated as evidence. This kind of harassment had been going on for a few weeks until Patrick finally had had enough and hit the interrogator. Patrick was thrown back in his cell, a prosecutor was brought in and he was charged with assault and then resisting arrest. A normal day in Ireland, if wasn’t for the fact that Patrick was a republican. People love their heroes.
And therefore a band of republicans had gathered on O’Connell Square to show their support for Patrick. Banners and signs with slogans such as “Release Brian” or even the more overtly republican “Free The People” were seen as the crowd slowly began to move up Abbey Street towards the police station.

A patrol of four policemen, like many officers of the Munster Constabulary former soldiers from the mainland, observed. One of them, some former lieutenant dishonourably discharged for one reason or another, clicked his radio.
“Command, this is Patrol Six, we’ve got a 10-15 on Abbey Street, requesting backup.”
“Patrol Six, this is Command, roger 10-15 on Abbey Street, backup will arrive in five minutes. Stand by.”
The former lieutenant, like all policemen in Ireland, was a staunch unionist. Or would have been, had that ideology actually been recognised as such. Now separatism, as the independence movement was called in the news, was seen as some form of apolitical terrorism or just plain organised crime. To oppose separatism was therefore just to uphold the order. And to uphold the order is the duty of every policeman, is it not?
As if duty was not enough, continentals often felt contempt for the islanders, and officers even more so than others. So not only duty, but personal disgust also would motivate the actions of the police tonight.
Needless to say, the islanders felt the same kind of contempt for continentals, and also a deep, fiery hatred. After all, who wouldn’t hate those who oppressed you, or those who defended the oppressors in the name of law and order? Things like that can breed an insurgency, or whatever the modern word for a good old fashioned uprising was. True, Ireland had not seen a true uprising in decades. Then again, Ireland had not seen a draft in decades either.
So the policemen’s presence would not be well-received by the protesters, especially considering they were protesting against the police.

The mob, for it was a mob now, frenzied itself as it advanced down the street towards the police station. Someone waved a burning union flag – a Blackwood tricolour with a golden harp – and apparently someone else had brought a few fistfuls of shamrocks, for soon a vanguard of young republicans wearing the green had formed. Burning the union flag, not to mention wearing the green, was a serious offense. Things were spiraling out of control; the antics drew people, which pressured the vanguard into more antics, which drew more people, and so on. The police’s presence didn’t help either. A lone patrol is by far outnumbered by a mob, encouraging more and more provoking acts and rowdiness. Someone was singing The Rising of the Moon.
The police reinforcement had arrived, three black vans filled with cops in equally black uniforms. They looked like storm troopers, with their faces concealed behind black Plexiglas visors. These weren’t true riot police, in Ireland policemen of that sort were even more brutal, but they would get the job done. There were jokes back at the police station that the storm troopers actually had a “knocked unconscious quota” – a specific number of civilians to be beaten senseless by the end of the day. At least, they behaved as if they did.
The police formed up in a line, two columns deep, extending from one side of the road to another, banging their shields as they advanced down the street towards the crowd. A hundred demonstrators against thirty storm troopers. Gas canisters, shot from “media-friendly” grenade launchers or thrown by hand, flew overhead, clouds of tear gas blowing in the wind. The troopers charged, batons held high. Batons, riot shields, tear gas and pepper spray against rocks, knives and bottles. A gunshot was heard. Someone had fired a gun. Be it demonstrant or police it did not matter. More gunshots replied. The police panicked. Charge! Fix bayonets. They didn't have any! Batons would do! Charge! Get the bastards! Get them! Ready, aim, fire! A boy threw flowerpots at the coppers from a balcony. He was shot. Amongst gunshots, tear gas clouds and vicious baton beatings the protesters were driven on the run. After them they left 17 dead and 4 wounded, one of whom – a boy named Connolly – would die later that night after being denied medical assistance.

The effects of this, apart from the drops in the ocean sorrow of those who had lost relatives that Monday night, were not immediately apparent. On the continent it seemed that the even had gone largely unnoticed, lost in the news somewhere between the sports and the forecasts, and those few who had noticed generally praised the policemen for their “cool-headedness in the face of separatist terrorism”. An official inquiry concluded that the demostrators had fired the first shot. In Ireland the immediate effects were fewer, someone spat at a copper and got beaten up, another five cursed in secret and Abbey Street was filled overnight with murals. The murals were removed, the people were just beaten up.
A few weeks after though, it became more intense. Street were filling up with protesters all across the country, even what few “Free Ireland!” groups there were on the continent were singing Free The People. Of course, not everyone was content with peaceful means. Several hundred years of virtual apartheid tended to make people violent. Strange that, really. Anyway, the “armed resistance groups” as they called themselves, had no problem finding recruits. Guns and swords in the hands of young children, or whatever it was Dylan sang. A hard rain’s a-gonna fall indeed.

“And what if we are recruiters, Cathal?” asked one of the men. He was tall, though he seemed as if he could appear smaller if he wished, as if he could disguise himself with but a few changes in posture and facial expression. A scar ran down his forehead and cut through his eyebrow. Not the disfiguring kind, mind you, just the kind of scar that says “I’m dangerous, don’t mess with me” to the guys and “I’m dangerous, sleep with me” to the girls. One could from time to time see a glimpse of a three-leafed clover tattoo under his high-collar shirt. Fenian. Unarmed resistance groups didn’t use the shamrock as their symbol; they preferred the harp. The harp had the advantage of not being illegal.
“Then I would ask to join!” the boy said with enthusiasm. The retort provoked a coughing laughter from the other recruiter. He was not as tall as his Fenian brother, rather he was short and compact. He gave the impression of being a sturdy and steadfast man with a keen and devoted mind.
“They boy’s just had too much to drink, Éamon. We’re wasting our time. I mean, look at him! He’s just a child! Look, how old are you, lad?”
Cathal fixed his eyes on the other man. He had a pair of piercing charcoal eyes set deep beneath a Neanderthal forehead. Large, bushy eyebrows with a ring in them. No scar though.
“Almost sixteen!” cried the boy in bold defiance, indignation in his eyes. True rebel spirit. None would stand in the way of him joining the Fenians. The riposte missed though, parried itself one might say. It provoked but yet another coughing laughter from the Neanderthal. Sixteen, especially “almost sixteen”, was much too young in his mind. The tall one reminded him with a sardonic smile and a raised eyebrow that he had been no older when he had signed up himself.
“Different times then and you know it,” he said.
“Has Ireland become free since then?” retorted the tall one. The Neanderthal was silent.
“Don’t forget why you have that tattoo.”
At this the Neanderthal banged his fist on the table. He sprung to his feet, the chair knocked a good two feet backwards. His eyes shot lightning.
“Are you questioning my devotion, Éamon!? I say that I am twice as much rebel than you’ll ever be! I will take this boy and raise him up a rebel, and even this sixteen year old boy will be a more devoted rebel than you!”
And with that the Neanderthal seized Cathal by the wrist and stormed out of the pub, out into the cold and rainy night. The tall one leaned back in his chair and took another swig of stout, a smug smile on his face.

“The Confederacy? Never heard of them.”
“You wouldn’t have. Quiet lot. Keep mostly to themselves, they do. They’re not even a real country, they live in some kind of hippie community, they do.”
“What? They’re squatters?”
Cathal’s remark provoked another of the coughing laughs that now seemed so familiar.
“Yeah, I guess you might say that.”
It had been almost a month now. A month of training, indoctrination, training, small tasks to prove his loyalty and more training. This was Cathal’s first big job; accompanying the Neanderthal – Patrick, I mean – to the anarchist rabble in the Third Spanish States. A strange name for an anarchic society, come to think of it, but as any anarchist would be quick to point out, anarchy is not the opposite of order. It just requires a bit extra effort.
“Great place to look for guns though. Place’s got no gun restriction laws.”
They made their way towards Gate 7, having checked their luggage and gotten their passports reluctantly approved by a security guard from the continent. Apparently they were looking terrorists. Silly guards.
In about twenty minutes they were up in the air, leaving Dublin International Airport on two week vacation to the Confederacy. They would arrive twelve hours later, check in a hotel, go around town and get the guns and return home. In two weeks. If all went according to plan. A very optimistic plan.

It would soon became visible that Third Spanish States was anything but a hippie community or bunch of squatters. Just when the aircraft was on its way to Hampshire's Haven International Airport, with the vast island visible from their seat next to the window, it could be noticed a quick glimpse of something in the sky colored like the sky itself, as if the clouds were alive, heading towards a large quantity of forested area far ahead to the south, the Bacconi Woods. Maybe it was just their imagination, or maybe some sort of fighter just passed through afar heading to those woods.

When the aircraft arrived at the airport, the first thing of notice for those with keen eyes was that the vehicle with disembark stairs was fully automated, or maybe remotely operated, for it lacked any driver inside. The runway was quite clear, and a peculiar military aircraft, a sort of local fighter with canards and cranked arrow shaped wings, painted in black like a F-117, was landed on the other side, for apparently that was perfectly normal for civilian airports to be used by their military. Further to the disembark area and customs, their luggage passed through a metal detector as a man, which seemed to be a high hierarchy executive rather than a clerk, attended them, a series of questions then came, while he was consulting a sort of computer, apparently he wasn't caring much on pleasantries but on finishing such business quickly and efficiently, he also gave to the newcomers an introductory guide to Third Spanish States, and somehow he hinted that was a mere need and that they were already accepted:

"Passports or ID cards?"
"Business, leisure or political asylum?"
"Have you ever killed an innocent?"

Although there were several staff personell from many different cooperatives and foreign airlines, where the latter rarely had any visibly local individuals employed, there was not a single security personell in the entire place. However, despite the illusion of lacking safety, some of the local crowd had visibly holstered pistols, and a few local passerbies had even some sort of futuristic looking bullpup submachineguns with, although nobody actually looked at those with fear or worry. It was perfectly normal there, there were even half-a-dozen carrying assault rifles or shotguns and a man carrying an unloaded GEM missile launcher on a large cart with the aid of some others to the luggage area. Another fact of notice was that some people really cared little about formality. There was a large group of probably friends, presumably going to a beach, who were waking around in underwear and bikinis. Men walked shirtless around and some clerks were visibly in their pajamas. Some punks and real counterculture were also going through, and there was even a man pulling a woman with a collar around for an "walkie". It was truly different, and the guide would explain it pretty well. There were about six sessions.

The first explained the first common worry of tourists, mentioning that in Third Spanish States "there is no official force: police work is everybody's duty. Everybody must watch and stay vigilant against crime, and everybody has in their hands the legal and physical capability to ensure human dignity at all costs against criminals. Thus, basically every honest citizen is a policeman. If you are sure you can handle it and spot any criminal activity, you have the legitimate right to intervene". A small part also mentioned that there is no prisons in Third Spanish States, and criminals are either sent to the graveyard, ostracized or relocated to an independent commune in an isolated island to "learn the importance of mutual aid through necessity of survival", which is basically their rehabilitation program, depending on the severity. A photograph of a quaint little town "built by rehabilitated criminals in the middle of nowhere" is visible, and it doesn't look like a fraud. The second section explained about the libertine and "shocking" aspects of their society. It was explained that nudity was entirely normal around, and that it is commonly practiced during summer, even in the most "conservative" cities. Another notice is that there is no form of obscenity and very little taboos. Everything is allowed everywhere, unless if restricted by democratic consensus of a local community, like in the case of the Christian city of Fátima. A list of "sex-free locations" is included, pointing places where the more conservative tourists won't have any chance of finding a group of persons of same or different sexes in all sorts of possible sexual activities. Also a quick notice mentioned there is no watershed in local broadcasting and sex is considered a normal thing to talk about, even with children, while the local age of consent is, expectingly 12 years. Other notices included the fact abortion is fully legal, designer babies are commonplace, the closest thing there to marriage does not tend to include exclusivity in relationships, but preference, and that a common law there is that "as long as it's consensual, it's allowed" regarding such things. The third section of the small guide consisted in an explanation of its economy and a guide of advices for business in the Confederacy. Which included a quick comparison between the mutualist credit and the dollar(according to it, each mutualist credit was worth 1 dollar and ninety cents, how there are no taxes, as all services are done by cooperatives rather than by a central government, and that "despite being associated with socialism: In theory, Third Spanish States is a fully free market. However, it's consumers conscience is actually make from it a socialist nation. People won't prefer buying cheaper over buying things from cooperatives", it mentioned, while it also added as a notice: "It'll be virtually impossible to find people looking for wage labor in Third Spanish States, although, it is definitively possible to find shareholders and associates, for there are some capitalism supporters around.". It also included some more irrelevant data and statistics, but nothing that could catch their attention.

Fourth chapter was about the "Internets", for Third Spanish States had two parallel networks using completely different protocols: the known Internet and its EDDNet, which is a portmanteau of "Electronic Direct Democratic Network", basically it's their electronic government, or sort of. With no official capital, it's said the EDDNet is their virtual capital. However it noticed tourists cannot access the EDDNet for "safety reasons", and also explaining how such government works and about the decentralization and voluntary organization principles and giving examples of people who decided to live by their own rather than being forced to be part of a specific society of the communes, but the Internet has enough information for those interested, with the .tss being the basic domain of all local websites. Fifth chapter was a simple road and public transport mentioning the urban monorails of the larger cities and claiming how everything locally used in transportation was completely based in renewable fuel sources like biofuel and hydrogen. Sixth chapter was surprisingly a simple guide on how to operate firearms safely, decorated with the images of some of the locally developed firearms, probably as a sort of subtle advertisement. Its last page, apparently not following the same standards of the rest of the guide, might have been something they received customized for their needs. It was a simple "How to blow a fascist helicopter" which was very propagandized, including swastika shaped rotors to add to the feel and a snake coiled inside the helicopter. It had the image of the Durruti Man Portable Air Defense Anti-tank system being carried by a red shaded man, a sort of all-in-one anti-tank and anti-air recoilless launcher also being advertised, maybe they were "in the know" about those Irish, or maybe it was an wild guess. The seventh chapter was a guide to languages and cultures, claiming that every citizen knows at least Spanish, English and Portuguese and those are the most spoken languages around, and that there is no official language. Also it was pointed Hampshire Haven is basically inhabited by the culture of British anarchists who joined the Confederacy decades ago, something which was in certain ways ironic for those Irish, while the Southwest and Southeast of Third Spanish States were mostly Spanish and Portuguese, respectively. Soon it would be very visible that place was... somewhat exotic. Also, there was a gun shop just right inside the airport, which stands had even a few missiles and a single missile launcher being exhibited asides from assault rifles, shotguns and a single light machinegun, and some "Lightweight Small Arms Program" advertisements in it, although it had no foreign design weapons, only local ones.