J.T. Marsh

APOCALYPSE RISING

A Novel

James 5

1 Go to now, ye rich men, weep and howl for your miseries that shall come upon you.

2 Your riches are corrupted, and your garments are motheaten.

3 Your gold and silver is cankered; and the rust of them shall be a witness against you, and shall eat your flesh as it were fire. Ye have heaped treasure together for the last days.

4 Behold, the hire of the labourers who have reaped down your fields, which is of you kept back by fraud, crieth: and the cries of them which have reaped are entered into the ears of the Lord of sabaoth.

5 Ye have lived in pleasure on the earth, and been wanton; ye have nourished your hearts, as in a day of slaughter.

6 Ye have condemned and killed the just; and he doth not resist you.

7 Be patient therefore, brethren, unto the coming of the Lord. Behold, the husbandman waiteth for the precious fruit of the earth, and hath long patience for it, until he receive the early and latter rain.

I

London, England

In the Not-Too-Distant Future

1. Before the Fall

Fifteen years ago all Europe was aflame. The working man’s passions, so long suppressed, were unleashed in a triumphant surge of insurrection and violence. For three weeks, a few million workers seized the continent and through pure strength of will held the whole world under their sway. It was a time not of heady ideals but intemperate, undisciplined outbursts of the working man made to live a life shackled by poverty, unemployment, and despair. Only a child at the time, Valeri Kovalenko was made to watch as his mother and father were among the striking workers killed in a hail of bullets. On a bright, unseasonably cold winter’s day, Valeri had the chance at a normal life taken from him by the black-clad troops meting out death by the bullet. But events are conspiring, and soon enough he’ll have his chance for revenge.

As uprisings go, this one saw much bloodshed, unlike what anyone would’ve expected in the middle of such countries as France, Germany, Spain, and here in Britain. There were strikes and demonstrations, angry voices and raised fists, workers seizing their factories and mills, students their universities, parishioners their churches, the whole lot of them forging a camaraderie from their common stand. But their newfound camaraderie succeeded in changing very little for the working man right away; once the bloodstains was cleaned from the pavement outside Westminster Abbey there was much hatred and recrimination vented but little progress made. Now, there’s war in the offing again, with erratic gunfire rattling into the night and bombs bursting in the streets, here and there the rage of the working man erupting in impassioned acts like the lashing out of cornered prey at the predator. Still the halls of his flat smell of cigarettes. Still he wears shirts and trousers with holes that grow wider by the day. And still he feels tired and sore all over when he returns home in the evening, where he lives under threat of eviction. Valeri Kovalenko knows this is not the life his mother and father died for. In the morning, one morning, Valeri rises, still tired and sore from the last day’s work, the little flat in Dominion Courts he shares with his roommate filled with the summer’s thick, oppressive heat. She’s not there; his only company is the dull roar of the crowds filling the street. In the sweltering heat of an unseasonably warm summer’s morning, Valeri makes for the window and mops sweat from his brow, then turns to the task of facing the day.

Fifteen years ago, Valeri was only a child. Now he’s a young man, and his heart rebels against any injustice, however slight, whether perceived or real. As a young man he still holds in his heart bitterness for the murder of his parents at the hands of the troops who’d put down the revolt. Today, he arrives at work to find the machines out of order, with the movement of big, heavy pallets to be done by manual labour. Inwardly he steels himself against the soreness and the tiredness already in his muscles, sure to be magnified a thousand times by the end of the day. At work, Valeri is as a machine, his body moving smoothly, rhythmically, every motion rehearsed ten thousand times until so learned the act of performing his work requires no thought, no input, leaving his mind free to wander. In the city, today, there’s angry voices shouting, heaping insults on the policemen surrounding them, and there’s unemployed youths throwing stones and empty bottles in all directions, with the distant rattling of gunfire seemingly nowhere at all. But on this day when the lights at Valeri’s shop flicker and the ground quivers and the dust shakes free from the bursting of bombs in the streets, Valeri seeks cover not in the imaginary protection offered by the shop’s safe spaces but in the temptation offered by memories lingering in his future.

He remembers the way his mother and father would promise to always provide him a place to call home; now a man, he feels forever left to wander the world aimlessly in search of this home so taken from him. It’s in this mindset that he comes to find himself working as a common labourer in a common shop, witnessing, living the exploitation of man by man, not in the wide expanses of the shop’s floor but in his heart. No matter how hard Valeri works, it’s never enough. Targets are met after strenuous weeks, months even, then new, still higher targets set, again met, then set higher again. This is the life of the working man, but one which Valeri’s come to believe with all the passion and intensity of a religious zealot need not have been. Valeri’s immediate challenge, therefore, is to see himself through the day, where once he might’ve had a future now he has only a limitless malaise. But Valeri is a working man, and like all working men he steadies himself against the day about to unfold. He knows of the men in the streets who fight back, with their bare hands if they have to, risking the truncheon and the bullet, but he doesn’t know he’s soon enough to join them.

In the common shop where Valeri works there’s always work to be caught up on, missed targets and quotas to be made for, and in this environment men like Valeri can but subsist from day to day. But little has changed since the war fifteen years ago. The wealthy man whose excess caused the rising has only kept on hoarding his wealth, the city sprouting so many glass and steel towers which mark the exact spots where he has seen fit to plant his flag. Each week that passes seems to mark the starting of some new project, the skeletal shells of so many shopping malls, casinos, and luxury residences lined up in a row along the street where once there stood simple, functional apartment blocks. It seems to working men like Valeri vast sums are flooding in and then disappearing quicker than anyone can make sense of, even as his life is marked by the degradation and deprivation of poverty. Now Valeri is part of a larger movement, one about to make good on the promise of the failed rising fifteen years ago, the streets to fill once more with the blood and sweat of men like him. Used to the occasional attacks in the street, the working men of Britain and their bosses don’t foresee the coming apocalypse, but when we all look back on it we’ll see it was inevitable.

The boss lady, an Indian woman named Harpal, comes around a few more times that day, each time eyeing Valeri with all the suspicion of a policeman silently interrogating a suspect. It’s not been that long since Valeri was at her mercy, dragged into an office and accused of all sorts of salacious misdeeds, from deliberately slowing production to slandering the name of the shop’s owners. As Harpal comes around for the last time today, inwardly Valeri can only look back and recall each of those accusations as entirely true, salacious or not. You see, Valeri is a dashing figure, prone to outbursts, so confident in the moral superiority of the working class that he brooks no patience for the managerial shenanigans. Only his strong work ethic and his relentless commitment to detail have saved him so far from being fired. Even these habits will soon prove inadequate. He speeds about the floor, dashing madly, hoisting twenty-kilogram boxes onto pallets and shunting pallets into their spaces, the noise of gears whirring and the sound of hydraulics sliding overpowering the senses but never making him feel overwhelmed. Bursting in the distance a wave of sound bounds through the air, seeming to rattle and roll the s hop’s frame gently, in the morning light a thunderous explosion booming across the city, a train derailing somewhere sending scores of men running for their lives with only the clothes on their backs and the air in their lungs. The dashing figure in Valeri imagines himself joining the hopeless fight, making himself one with the ragged, haggard mob, but the better part of him knows he’s destined for something more.

Once the machines have come back to life, the whole shop is abuzz with activity, with Harpal barking out orders made redundant by the handful of workers who follow a plan already in the works. Valeri presses himself to work harder and faster, hauling his pallets at a pace that leaves him breathless, as Harpal shouts and screams at them all to move faster still. Soon, it becomes evident even to her the workers are working the pace of their work faster than ever before; still she shouts and screams all the same, playing the role she was meant to play. But Valeri knows, in the instinctive, guttural way all working men can know that the larger struggle is underway, the coming escalation of the working man’s war for freedom will be different. It has to be. In the streets of Britain already the columns of smoke rise from the fires of liberation burning through the night, tempting Valeri to join the fight immediately. It’s not for the ragged, haggard mob to know, but theirs is a disorganized, disoriented lashing out that can only end in failure. As the police slam their truncheons against the heads of the unemployed youths, nor can they know the working man’s fight for freedom should soon disabuse itself with such outbursts, these mobs to evolve into the mightiest fighting force the world has ever seen.

The shop where Valeri works is near the junction of three different highways and four different rail lines, not far from the port which permits the steady flow of cargo en route from here to there and from there to here. It produces nothing, but ships essential supplies to many factories, power plants, ports and airports, and more. It’s back-breaking work; he’s seen many of his fellow workers break their backs in exchange for the pittance they’re paid. As he turns in his gear at the end of his twelve-hour shift, he’s utterly exhausted from an entire night spent on his feet. On the way out, he passes a young man there to take over where he left off, the two exchanging a brief but knowing glance, Valeri leaving much undone work for his co-worker to finish, just as his co-worker will, twelve hours from now, leave much work for him to finish. Men like Valeri know this is their way; it’s from them all is taken and to them none is given. His parents knew this. They died trying to change it. On this, the busiest shift he’s worked, he harbours a burgeoning resentment for having worked so hard simply for the sake of another’s profit. Still, between Valeri and his replacement there’s the unspoken knowledge shared of the coming wave of protests; but for Valeri’s tendency to give in to the intemperate passions of rebellion he’d have kept secret his leanings and spared himself much pain and suffering. His struggle is not yet one with they who burst bombs and rattle off gunfire in the night, but soon it will be.

Since his parents were killed in the failed uprising fifteen years ago, Valeri’s worked many jobs; dishwasher, cashier, night watchman, now as a labourer earning a few hundred pounds a week. It’s a pittance when held up against the sums on the ledgers of the company whose profits he advances every day, but it’s a pittance which, in this day and age of transient work and disposable workers, neither Valeri nor any of his brothers and sisters in union can afford to risk. Valeri has worked there for more than three-and-a-half years, and by now his fiery temperament would’ve had him out the door were it not for his work ethic. There are shifts when he accomplishes more work than half his co-workers put together, leaving himself so utterly spent he can hardly move when he goes home. After Valeri’s parents were killed, murdered, a family friend took him under his wing and offered him guidance, a man now known to him and to many other workers as their brother, Murray.

But he’s never resentful of his tendency to outwork the rest of them, not at all. He simply knows how to do nothing else but work at the same pace, day in, day out, as if there’s something in him that compels him to throw himself into the work. As Valeri mechanically acts out this day, he thinks on the noxious, quixotic fantasy of the war fifteen years ago, as he’s come to fill his own thoughts with these fantasies, the days blending into one another as he willingly drowns them beneath the half-drunken haze so offered in escape to the realm of the imagined. During the frenzy of the busiest shifts of the week, Valeri has no time for himself, the frenetic pace of the work demanding his full attention, he along with all the other workers on the floor seeming to fit around one another, acknowledging each other with a nod and a nudge but always speeding through their task; they never finish on time, they can never finish on time, the managers berating them at random intervals, the whole floor overwhelmed with action. Not far from the shop where he works Valeri lives in one of the simple, functional blocks left over from another time. Inside, there’s leaky roofs, mice living in the walls, threadbare carpets and the faint after-smell of cigarette smoke filling every available space. For men like Valeri, it’s home, oddly comforting in its familiarity even as he dreams for himself something more. Murray’s the union representative at the shop, a man of quiet action, always working behind the scenes, managing connections ever so carefully. Although Valeri’s grateful for Murray’s having guided him through the tumultuous years of his youth, still he sneers at Murray’s aversion to confrontation. Stand tall, Valeri thinks, and boldly confront evil no matter the cost. Soon enough, the war in the streets will offer Valeri the chance to do exactly this.

There’s always someone fighting; some nights the couple in the unit next to Valeri’s keep him awake with shouting and screaming and thumping on the walls. There’s always someone fucking, too; some nights the couple in the suite on the other side of Valeri’s keep him awake with over-exaggerated panting and moaning and the rapid, rhythmic squeaking of bedsprings. Outside, there’s the sound of buses stopping, of bottles smashing against the pavement and of police sirens wailing day and night. Sometimes Valeri lies in bed, awake, watching the flashing red and blue lights that slant in through his bedroom window’s blinds and make for a show like a caricature of the northern lights. At work, Valeri is with his people, segregated among his own by the way of things. These men work every day to build something they can never afford. These men work to change the face of the city they were born and raised in, enslaved as they are, whether they realize it or not, by the pittance they are paid. At home, they are surrounded by the implements of their impoverishment.

It’s not their fault. They’re employed as an apparatus, as a mechanism, nothing more. They work to tear apart a community and install another in its place, to eject the ordinary, working-class people who live by the values of honesty, integrity, thrift, chastity, and in so ejecting they clear the way for the extraordinary, wealthy-class people who live by the values of duplicity, deceit, indulgence, corruption. Living in an older building, decrepit, decaying, Valeri looks to the future that’s being built and realizes, in some instinctive, almost primal way, that it’s not his people’s future, that it’s for those who would be our betters. He realizes, later than he should’ve, his is no future, not under the way of things, that he are to be ejected from his own home without concern for where he might go. That day, at work it might’ve looked outwardly as though nothing happened, but at the moment when Valeri and Harpal crossed paths for the last time she gave him an evil look amounting to that last little nudge over the edge.

It’s a perverse irony that after so many years of fallen wages, of old, decrepit flats in a permanent state of disrepair, and of days spent working himself ragged and raw all over that something so simple as a mean look should finally push him to fight. But men like Valeri, they’ll fight back, and they’ll win, if only any of them might live to see the day when they should transcend their own lives and aspire to become more than what they are. You see, Valeri has fallen in love, and in falling in love he’s come to embody everything that is right in his world. No longer content to allow us to live in our simple homes and live our simple lives, those who would seek to wring every last drop of blood and oil from us now seeking to remove us altogether. Every tall building in London stands a different height, the designers of each competing with one another to create the most impressive symbol of their ambition and greed. But to the objective eye all they’ve succeeded in creating is self-mockery, a grotesque mass huge and confused.

Only the streets themselves break up endless slabs of concrete and glass, like rivers cutting canyons through rock. There’s rarely anything interesting to look at. There’s plenty of colourful neon signs, billboards, even some lively banners advertising an upcoming festival. The woman Valeri has fallen in love with, a fellow worker named Sydney Harrington, she’s been there as long as he has, it’s only recently he’s come to take an interest in her. For all the political upheaval in the world at large, it should seem a strange thing for love to strike at this time, given as Valeri still is at nearly thirty to the impetuousness of youth. When the managers announce wage cuts, he protests. When the managers announce longer working hours, he objects vociferously. When the managers announce a new round of firings, the shrinking workforce meaning more work for the rest of them, he declares it an act of pure, unvarnished greed. And still, some small part of him clings to the ideal of romantic love even as he’s about to embark on a path that will turn him against his growing love for her. Through Valeri’s objections, he’s kept hold of his livelihood, but when he’s deprived of his pittance he’ll be liberated, made free to fight back without fear of loss. When he’ll have nothing, he’ll have nothing to lose.

But with this woman, things are different. She’ll come to be the focus of his life, and he the focus of hers, even as the coming war should seek to tear them apart and pit them against one another as war has been so tearing apart lovers and turning them against one another since time immemorial. For you see, theirs is not a unique love, and we focus on it, in part, through the coming war not because they are special but precisely because theirs is a love ordinary, almost mundane and pedestrian in its expression. At work the day after Valeri had made the turn against over the edge, in the aisles between the racks of pallets reaching three or four stories high he comes across this woman, trading glances with her, at once reaching an understanding that theirs is a connection taboo yet entirely unremarkable. We should celebrate the mundane, the pedestrian, and in time, we will. But first, we must live through this before-period, in which Valeri must navigate a complicated course through the psyche of a working class on the verge of self-actualization, and with it, an apocalypse rising.

In the middle of the night, as the rest of his world sleeps, the Valeri sometimes sits alone on the windowsill in his little flat’s bedroom and smokes a cigarette, looking out into the darkness of the night and allowing himself the subversive pleasure of imagining a near-future where not all is for nought. In the streets there’s a nascent consciousness, perceptible only as a series of random events, of happenings in the shadows soon to be moved out into the light. Men like Valeri don’t yet realize it, but the salvation of the worker lies not in the intellect of the learned but in the pain and suffering of the lowest, the most pathetic among him. To lead the way to the future, painted as it should be with the blood of they who would seek to oppress, to humiliate, to degrade us all. After the failed rising fifteen years ago, the working man’s parties fragmented in defeat, leaving only sporadic acts of resistance by men here and there, acts like the brief, hardly perceptible slowing of work by Valeri and a few of his fellow workers. But from the ashes of defeat there should rise our apocalypse, the instrument of liberation to form from nothing at all.

This near-future has been gathering strength for much longer than he’s been alive, for so long as there’s been history to advance. As all will come to see, these sorts of things have a way of finding an outlet for expression, and in so finding make use of what they have been given to change the course of all our histories forever. Here in London, not altogether far from the exact spot where the industrial age was born, such a small thing as a group of dedicated workers can foment the rise of the apocalypse. From the hopelessness and from the despair that’d consumed Valeri’s mother and father fifteen years ago there will soon come the advent of the next stage, the birthplace of this stage also the birthplace of the next. It should just so happen that Valeri will come to join this dedicated group of workers, the few soon to become the many and emerge from out of their individual weakness form a collective strength. In the meanwhile, men like Valeri will experience an awakening, already the ground sown by experience, to be reaped when the time is right by forces set into motion on a night not unlike the night after Valeri had turned from one state of mind to the next.

An explosion, it takes for the working man to realize his place, a series of bright lights atop towering heights bursting into flames all at once, as the working man sees into the future from his vantage point above the darkness of the night and imagines something more. Earlier in the day, not long after most of his co-workers have already left, there appears on the floor that small, slender, half-Asian and half-European woman who would turn out to be named Sydney Harrington. But circumstances soon conspire to push them together. As a greater and greater number of people become forced into smaller and smaller spaces, these things come to happen with an increasingly alarming frequency, as if there’s a hidden actor in play. It’s a fraudulent notion, the temptation on the working man’s part to concoct elaborate conspiracies in explaining his current crisis, his current predicament. The working man sometimes walks along the side of the street, a rare day of leisure permitting him a lonely moment surrounded by a sea of people. Lacking in the spirit which once characterized his people, the working man, now, can only look into the sky and imagine the towers that have yet to be built in the very quarters where he is now permitted to congregate with his own. But as he looks on the city which has always been his home, the thought seems irresistible that it may no longer be, that the energy flowing from within the streets themselves is slowly fading into the steadily darkening night. Still as we are in this early period, the working man has not yet committed to the path of rebellion, memories of the war fifteen years ago lingering in his mind like a waking nightmare.

They don’t speak that night, and it’s only from the way she’s glanced at him a half-second too long that he knows she’s a young vixen who may enjoy the playing of games rather than the joy of a sincere companion. After their first night together, she stands at the open window in his little working-class apartment and casts a look over the alley running behind the building. In the night, they talk, about life, about love, something in this young woman moving Valeri to bare himself to her in ways he’d never bared himself to anyone. And she, in turn, reveals herself in kind, in the night all laid out for either to see. As distant gunfire rattles into the night, the fires of liberation burn, and in those fires there burns the essence of the working man’s need for a release from this prison he’s trapped in. Already on course with the rest of his life, in time Valeri will come to make himself one with the apocalypse already rising in the streets.

Turning against one another, Valeri and Sydney take in the sight of the darkened night’s sky turns a dull, faded amber by the fires in the streets, sharing an embrace before parting ways. If what Sydney has told Valeri is true, then she will prove to be a righteous ally in the war for dignity and compassion, for liberation and intimidation. For, you see, when they were sitting on that little nook behind the window overlooking the alley, she had turned to him and, in the kind of hushed voice that indicated she was unsure not of him but of herself, said, “I love you.” And he, almost reflexively, turned back and said, “I love you.” At that moment she’d crossed over and fully embraced his way of life, in spirit if not in form. Still in the twilight of his youth, Valeri has the advantage of recalling the idealistic passion of his younger years yet able to look ahead with pragmatism to see the way through to a future better for all. Now, the challenge facing Valeri and all the other working men in Britain is the simplest yet most difficult any have ever faced: rise!

In the morning after Valeri and Sydney have each other for the first time, he visits the cemetery where his parents were buried after dying in the failed uprising fifteen years ago. Not far from the apartment block where Valeri lives, they’re buried in a small plot with a simple headstone. Every year for the past ten years he’s visited, but only on this very day in the early summer. This time, he kneels on the ground before their headstone, then places a lily upright against it. Many different kinds of people died on the day they died, mothers, fathers, children, brothers, sisters, all cut from the same cloth as his parents. Valeri stands, and before he leaves he says, “I’ll make you proud.”

2. In Union

Life in London’s working class districts is never easy, and since the failed rising fifteen years ago it’s only become harder for all. Around the city and across the country, the life which had once so dominated every minute of every day has all but ceased, its place taken by a muted despair. Where once the wealthy man had stored his ill-gotten wealth in the form of a mad rush to build, build, build, now he stashes it away in secret holdings, inaccessible to all but the most intrepid of inquisitors, hiding behind assumed names and front after front, only hoarding what never belonged to him for so long as he believes it’s absolutely necessary. Inevitably, he’ll make a mistake, he’ll let slip some key piece of information to exactly the wrong person, his scandal soon to flash across the screens of millions of the working man’s own. And when that moment comes, the rebel immediately seizes on it, pointing to the wealthy man’s stashing of wealth and voracious appetite for his own profit even as the world’s falling apart around us all. But then, nothing will happen, nothing apparent to the public eye. It’s as though the wealthy man’s ashamed of his corruption, compelled by his self-consciousness to hide his true character even as the better part of him fully understands all can see it anyways. As for the working man’s own concerns, he might be forgiven for looking ahead and seeing only still more bare cupboards and empty stores, but this time, this time he looks back and wonders where this long and confusing path has led him, never more assured of his own denial. Like all working men, Valeri is consumed in surviving from day to day; but like all working men, he dreams himself close to the day when he’ll have his chance to strike back. Too consumed he is with his own day to day survival to see his chance is sooner than he thinks.

Despite the unrest and all the hardships that’ve come about since the failed rising fifteen years ago, London and all the other cities in Britain have seen much change. Finding work here, finding work there, the working man sees only the way from one day through to the next fraught with peril, with broken bodies and with broken minds. Sometimes, as he’s working through the day, each muscle smoothly contracting and expanding a thousand times over like the hydraulics of the machines he operates, he wonders if it’s all been worth it, an insidious, corrosive line of thought, he knows, that can only take him into a place of deeper, darker suffering than ever before. No, as the working man finds just enough work to keep a roof over his head and food on his table, he comes to realize he owes it not only to himself but to his children, and their children, and their children as well to push through this hardship, this poverty of values and of vice so as to provide for them in the future what he could never provide for them now: a new beginning, a better tomorrow, a world in which they will never have to fear eviction from their own homes, a world in which they will claim as theirs a dignity never before afforded to them, a world in which the last vestiges of the wealthy man’s excess will have been long ago purged. In surviving for so long as he has, Valeri has learned working men like him must earn everything they have, must fight for every scrap of meat and for every thread of clothing on his back. For him, it’s been this way for as long as he can remember, but there’s a better way.

But there’s trouble afoot which’ll awaken in him an instinct. Our history is replete with examples of men like Valeri, young men or men who were at one time young and became old not by virtue of having aged but in being made to surrender their dignity to their wealthy paymasters. Once home, Valeri spares a glance in looking for that little old lady, but she’s not there, at least not in the hall or in the lobby. Once inside, he comforts himself amid distressing thoughts of the coming strike by reaching for a space on his bookshelf where there’s one of his copies of that little red book, turning through its pages, imagining himself immersed in the ideas it represents. No one knows exactly where or by whom it was written; some insist they’ve worked it out, but their various theories are all wrong. Yet Valeri finds a certain solace in reading it, still in his dirty, ratty work clothes as he lies back and takes in these forbidden ideas. At work, the working man finds his use, but not his purpose, trapped as he is in a relentless nightmare of routine drudgery. Every day he rises in the morning and every day he returns home in the evening, never any further ahead than when he’d started, all the while enriching the wealthy man by way of selling his labour for the pittance he’s offered. At work is where the working man finds his temporary escape from the madness of the way of things, under the harsh, fluorescent lights and under the slowly spinning industrial fans his momentary peace arriving. His is feeling like a piece of machinery the same as the equipment he operates all day. On the wealthy man’s time, he becomes a machine, his body having learned to recite its movements from memory, leaving his mind free to wander. He allows his mind to fill with elaborate fantasies, of running wild and free, free not from the burden of work but from the limits imposed on him by his reduction to the level of a cog in the machine. He half-listens to the sound of gears whirring and hydraulics smoothly expanding and contracting and he wonders on his lot in life, on his future, on no future at all, on a fighting back that’s been in the works for a long time. The subversive thrill makes it seem, to him, as though it’s all new; but he’s been thinking of fighting back for a long time, as he’s been fighting back for a long time, for so long as there’s been the working man there’s been a fight for what’s his. But it’s trapped inside that the working many hears the call of the rebel, a call that speaks to a common thrumming of our universal pulse. Inside, the working man works diligently through the day, ending with muck on his face and a wound on his heart, but still yet unbeaten as he’s spent that day preparing himself to be part of something greater than he is. Outside, the seeds of rebellion, long ago planted, have been growing for a while, for so long as there’s been exploitation of man by man a rebellion fighting it in kind, now sprouting a stem which should form the basis for that next, decisive rise. But we’re not quite there yet; it’ll be some time before we make good across the distance between where we are and where we seek to be. In the midst of the evils of the world eating away at all that is good and pure, the working man will soon have at his masters, and in so having at them he’ll change the world.

Though Valeri doesn’t know it, not yet, the police have stepped up their disappearings, seeking to head off the coming uprising even as they unwittingly yet actively work to foment it. “Don’t upset your father,” his mother would say when he was a small child before sending him off to school for the day, “be good.” But he never would, always finding some trouble to get himself in, on returning home his father there to tell him, “you must learn to be better than anyone else. It’s the only way people like us can survive.” It’s only in this time of radical ideas and violent upheavals that Valeri will come to learn what his father meant. For weeks after Sydney started working here, Valeri had been certain she was there to pick and choose the workers who were to be terminated in the company’s latest bid to make more from less. As he arrives that day and takes to the shop’s floor, he arrives to find the machines out of order again, but this time with one of his fellow workers having been among the disappeared that morning. He’s a younger man named Jack Kingston, and Valeri doesn’t learn right away he’s been disappeared; it comes out later, the company having informed on the activities of one of its workers to the police. In the afterward of the failed rising, this became the new norm. Whenever some worker fails to turn up for his shift, it’s assumed he’s been disappeared. The assumption is right more often than it’s wrong.

It seems like the sort of thing you’d only hear about in a tyrannical regime, and perhaps it is. It’s not nearly as dramatic as it sounds. The police who drive about in their lorries looking for trouble and making it wherever it’s not found are neither all-knowing nor all-powerful even as they seem to leap on trouble before it can begin. But as he and Sydney lie in bed after their first night together, she turns onto her side and says, “do you know I’ve been planning my route around the floor to get a look at you?” Valeri thinks for a moment and then says, “well, I do now.” It’s a small moment, one which promises something much more. But events in the world around them are about to overtake their budding affair and turn it on its head. In the morning, Valeri comes to realize what a fool he’s been all along, and after Sydney has bid him farewell for the day he regrets the wages he’s spent pursuing this affair; fulfilling and exhilarating though it may be, the adult in him knows emotional fulfillment and exhilaration mean little when his stomach growls and when his clothes are threadbare. But Valeri sees the diversion of a tryst with a virtual stranger as an outlet in times of need. Like all working men in Britain and across Europe, he’s learned to start fast with his love, lest any given woman be disappeared suddenly in the night like all the others.

In the morning, Valeri searches through his kitchen for something to eat, reaching for the top cupboards and feeling around the bottom, finding them bare. He looks through his wardrobe and picks out the shirt not with the fewest holes but the shirt with the most, pulling it on and straightening it as best he can. He downs a mug of coffee thick and black as toxic sludge. His is a routine overshadowed by the strain of a night’s sleep spent unslept. But his is hardly a unique situation, the working man around London and across Britain faced with the kind of privation and hunger that coexists alongside the abundance and the luxury of the working man’s nemesis, the wealthy man, who lives not far away but whose presence is felt by the working man in everything he does, everything he sees. Sometimes Valeri stops and wonders what his parents would think of his life now, even worse than the lives which prompted them to join the millions in their failed rising. More and more, lately this wondering has made him feel shame gnawing at the back of his mind, stronger still, soon enough to compel him to do things he’d never thought he’d do.

After the war fifteen years ago, still there are many working men who work themselves tired and sore every day and who return home to bare cupboards, broken windows, and faulty switches, as if his rising has only prompted a new wave of anger and discord in the hearts of they who would deign to fight back. This, Valeri knows; as the hot and sticky early-summer’s morning makes him sweat, he goes to his apartment building’s shared washroom and turns on the shower’s tap only to find nothing comes out. On the door, on his way out, he notices a sign declaring the building’s water out for an indeterminate length of time. Valeri sighs and returns to his unit to give himself a sponge bath using jugs of water kept in the kitchen cupboard for exactly these occasions. “Save some of that for washing the clothes,” says a woman, “if you ever plan on washing them, that is.” She thinks nothing of approaching Valeri even as he’s nude. And he thinks nothing of being nude in front of her, not even bothering to turn to face her much less conceal himself behind his towel. Life in Britain’s crowded working class flats has become too hard for embarrassment over such things.

Valeri’s roommate is a young woman named Hannah, her hair as red and fiery as her temper. She walks into the main room and approaches Valeri, intending to ask him where he’d been. He can hardly believe all the years that’d passed since the two were children, playing in the yard of her childhood home in the northern hinterlands. All those years ago, before the rising that took his parents, she would’ve never imagined they’d be in want of running water. She says, “you must be tired by now.” But Valeri says, “you’d think so.” They exchange knowing looks, not unlike the knowing looks Valeri exchanges, from time to time, with Sydney. With Hannah, though, the moment is entirely absent any romantic or sexual overtones, rather that of one member of a close-knit family concerned for the other. He tells her what he saw on the screens, but she doesn’t seem bothered by it. “I’ve seen it too,” she says, reaching into the cabinet for a brush, “and it only means more work for me.” Valeri tosses a look over his shoulder and says, “but you enjoy that, don’t you?” But she’s gone.

Even today, Valeri is not what he seems to be, with a mop of unruly hair, black as oil and twice as dirty. His boots are held together by the glue he’d applied himself, the glue he keeps on applying whenever his boots start to come apart at the seams again. Nearly everything he owns, he owns second-hand, given by a friend or family, or outright bought at one of the charity shops doing brisk business in his part of town. His little flat overlooks a gravel lot where, late at night he can often spot illicit drugs, cash changing hands, in smaller quantities each time. In the little flat he shares with his roommate, they live on the edge of the working class district, almost within sight of the glass and steel towers reaching for the sky. Earlier in the month, Valeri spotted a sign, erected, he thinks, during his day, though he also thinks it might’ve been there for a long time and this is just the first time he’s noticed it. The sign boasts of a coming development, in big, bold letters marking the future site of luxury apartments, right on the edge of the working man’s part of town, right at the boundary separating one world from the next. It’s an open secret this luxury development is not meant to house people; scarcely anyone in Britain could afford the million or so pounds to buy in, save a few who already have everything they need, and even those few would never want to live among the restless rabble. Amid constant shortages of the essentials of life, the livelihoods of men like Valeri are traded like cattle by men wearing suits that cost more than he makes in a year. As the night is always darkest just before dawn, the lives of working men like Valeri are so filled with despair at the moment before their liberation is at hand.

While Valeri lives in the working-class part of London, Sydney lives somewhere else, not quite in the wealthy part but in what another time might’ve called the middle-class part, back when there was such a thing. “Are you always so…” she starts, seeming to search for the right word. “…Pensive?” she asks, once, as he sits on the edge of his bed after they’ve had each other. She seems naively unaware of the fight in the streets threatening to explode into war at any moment.

“I like to think before I speak,” he says, thinking of the gravestone he visits every month, once a month, noting himself the steward of his family’s future.

“Too many people speak before they think,” she says.

He turns back to face her, finding her sitting propped up against the bed’s headboard, and as he leans in for a kiss he chooses to imagine she believes everything he believes, even as she doesn’t. Then, he says, “let them,” and pulls back from her before saying, “the value of truth doesn’t change only because everyone else is lying.” She nods. It’s a lesson Valeri’s come to learn in life, but at some personal cost. Struggling to control his urge to lash out at any authority is Valeri’s day-to-day task, a routine well-rehearsed from his boyhood days when he’d turn against every teacher and thumb his nose at every after-school nanny, only to come home and find his mother and father tired.

After night has fallen the dogs come out, sirens wailing as the troopers speed by in their lorries, chasing the latest hotspot. Across the city the sounds of explosions booming can be heard, here and there, intermittent like the summer’s rain. A crisis looms in the night. As the workers, the students, and the parishioners have yielded the streets for the night, the streetlights flickering on, one by one. While the working man sleeps, the wealthy man schemes, hosting meetings in his boardroom on the top floor of a sleek, stylish, glass and steel tower situated almost exactly at the city’s centre. The wealthy man has always schemed, true, to harvest what rightfully belongs to the working man and to reinvest his harvest anew, but this time is different. This time, so late at night with the city’s lights splayed across the darkness, the wealthy man raises his glass and toasts his own ingenuity, the boardroom filling with the sound of glasses clinking. Meanwhile, across town, Valeri thinks on the way it’s all happening again, seemingly just as the way his parents and their generation were provoked into rising fifteen years ago. But they, at least, had some small measure of personal comfort in their lives; as a generation, not everything had yet been taken from them. After Valeri and Sydney part ways again, each carrying the implicit threat of a permanent separation, he barely has time to throw on his tattered old clothes and bound out the door himself before there’s the sound of a booming explosion, rolling in across the city like a smoothly undulating wave. Still a ways off from the rising of our apocalypse, and already all of Britain seems at war with itself, caught in an orgy of hatred and recrimination fuelled by the ghosts of yesteryear. Still there’re burnt-out shells of blocks set ablaze fifteen years ago, still there’re collapsed ruins of roadblocks bulldozed by police, and still there’s the lingering threat of the next rising in all.

The wealthy man’s is a scheme to change nothing real, not at first, but to rearrange fictional entities, entities that exist only on paper, creating distance where there’s none, instituting a complicated legal framework wherein relationships are obscured, mangled, creatively redefined until it’s all just right. Once given the ministry’s seal of approval, a rubber stamp, it’s expected to be sprung on the working man, the unsuspecting public; by then, it’ll be too late to stop. There’ll be squabbling in parliament among the self-interested members, but nothing will come of it. It’ll prove to be one of history’s most perverse ironies when this scheme, the grandest of all, turns against him. This time, though, it’s different. This time, while waiting for their rubber stamp, the architects of this new arrangement realize belatedly what’s happened, that news will break over the coming days on their collusion with one another to parcel off the property of others and sell what doesn’t belong to them so as to enrich themselves. This is the news that’s broken on the screens of Valeri and his fellow workers at the shop, this is the news that seems not to bother Hannah, and this is the news that’s compelled Sydney to act in her capacity to rid the shop of a tenth of its workers. Amid the light rattling of distant gunfire, the day’s work rushes on.

It’s hardly the first time they’ve been found to so scheme; they’ve been so scheming since the advent of our way of life. And although a few of them might pay some small price for their collusion, this is not but the latest proof on the insidious way the wealthy man can, writ large, not only survive but thrive in his duplicity and in his conspiracy. In handing to the wealthy man a slap on the wrist, the way of things implicitly endorses and condones his thievery, channelling it through an apparatus that recognizes his place and enshrines in law his ownership of that which isn’t his. In the street on the way to the bus stop that day, there’re more troopers speeding about, taking the homeless, the prostitutes, and even the odd worker into their lorries to be tossed into a jail somewhere in the Welsh highlands. It’s become a routine of sorts. The police step up their disappearings, targeting only those whom no one can particularly care that much about. It’s not part of some well-planned strategy but a well-rehearsed act played out from instinct. The police and their managerial apparatchiks might dress up their acting out in the air of some master plan, but in truth they lash out all the same as the crowds of workers, students, and parishioners who fill the streets so often. For Valeri, the news breaks that day not to a muted ambivalence among his fellow workers in union but to a rousing anger, the whole lot of them gathering around their screens to mutter expletives and trade thinly-veiled threats against their enemy. For a time, it seems a wildcat strike might break out right on the floor. But it’s not to be. The threat of losing their pittance is enough, for now, to keep them in line, as with all the other workers in all the other shops across Britain. But it won’t be that way for much longer. Valeri looks forward to the coming gathering at the union hall, where it’s expected they’ll raise the votes needed to take part in the planned general strike. This, he thinks, is the fighting back he finds his element in. He’s only half-right.

At work, days after they’ve last had each other, Sydney walks past Valeri, like every other encounter the two trading surreptitious glances. But, unlike every other time, this time she quickly and quietly drops a folded-up scrap of paper in his lap. He stashes it in his back pocket, only later, when he has a moment to himself retrieving it and reading it. ‘Love you.’ The rest of his day he thinks to ask her what it means, but he sees her nowhere, and she doesn’t respond to his messages. He leaves confused and disoriented. Still in this early period, with fallen wages and fallen bodies, men like Valeri, in love with women like Sydney, see for themselves a future which can only still-more privations. But for Valeri, in love with Sydney, he thinks of his parents killed by a hail of bullets in the failed revolution fifteen years ago and feels emboldened. His roommate, Hannah, settles for a more comforting remembering of the failed rising, having been living in a small city up in the provincial hinterland. That was before the last of the factories closed and Hannah’s father, Valeri’s uncle, found himself out of work for a very long time. Now, in the city, the days see her tie her hair back neatly and tightly into a bun while donning a nurse’s teal scrubs; she looks workmanlike, yet authoritatively feminine. By the end of her shift, she’ll be covered in the sweat and blood of patients dead and dying, and her hair’ll be a tangled, matted mess. This has become her routine.

When Sydney takes Valeri by the hand and leads him into her bed, she says, “I love you,” before pushing him down and falling on top of him. He reaches for her hair and runs a hand through, then says, “I love you too.” She kisses him, then breaks the kiss to say, “I’ve been in love with you from the moment I first saw you.” He kisses her, then breaks the kiss to say, “I know.” It’s still so early, but in this day and age the twenty- and thirty-somethings like them have learned to move quickly with their relationships, lest events overtake them and tear them apart before they’ve even had the chance to say the words. It’s hard, when men like Valeri have so little, to cling to such things as love for the almost-spiritual sustenance they crave. Amid the cracked, graffiti-covered façade of his apartment building and the sidewalks littered with cigarette butts, used needles, and persons sleeping in whatever little alcove can offer shelter for the night, there’s a spark waiting to be struck, a spark which might grow to a towering inferno that would consume all. But first, we look through this early period and we wonder if freedom will ever come to be.

In the local hospital’s A&E room, Hannah tends to an overdose, struggling to take a blood pressure reading while the overdose writhes in place. He goes into cardiac arrest; they can’t save him. They don’t often save them. A new drug’s ripped through the working class neighbourhoods. This nameless young man isn’t the first Hannah’s seen lose his life to the drug right in front of her. At the end of her shift, she passes by the reception at the hospital’s main entrance, too tired to offer her usual wave to the guard at the door. Arriving home, she finds Valeri and absent, wondering if he’s gone to the hall like he’d said. Exhausted, she soon falls asleep. Sidling along the streets, the working man steps gingerly around every crack in the pavement, every loosened slab of concrete left to slowly disintegrate as the seasons bring new challenges to bear, the rain, the heat, the snow and the sleet. It’s not that this latest collusion hasn’t meant anything; in fact, it’s the current example of the effort hundreds of years in the making, of the wealthy man to take from the working man and, through acts of the imagination turn what he’s taken into so much more than it is. At the union hall, in an industrial district on an island located right where the river flowing through the city separates into a delta on its way out to sea, Valeri flashes his card to get through the door. Once inside, he joins the crowd watching a man standing on the auditorium’s stage giving an impassioned speech.

“…Relentlessly attack our enemy and keep alive the spirit of the revolution fifteen years ago,” the man says, holding a little red book out as he speaks with the passion and intensity of a firebrand preacher. “…And in so keeping remember always that our enemy is still yet determined to win through, to beat us back like cattle, and to shepherd each of us to our slaughter.”

These always strike Valeri as more entertainment than education, given as he is to looking on the street with the kind of forced bemusement and apathy that’s come to be altogether too common among the working men in his generation. At the union hall, things have not always been this way. At the union hall, where once there was little to be done but keep the lights on and hold the occasional, perfunctory vote, now there are men and women, Valeri’s brothers and sisters languishing in unemployment. More than a few have taken to sleeping on cots put out some years ago, with small piles of crates holding everything they own alongside.

Sometimes Valeri counts himself lucky not to be among them, to still have his little box of an apartment and his weekly pittance to subsist on, but as he stands among his brothers and sisters and listens with them to the speaker on stage, he can’t help but feel an arrogance about himself at thinking these poor souls unlucky, for their hopeless lives have not come about by accident but by deliberate campaign to make them so. “Fear not, brothers and sisters,” the man on stage with the little red book says, “for our future is won, but only so long as we diligently and faithfully apply ourselves to the task of working towards it. Read, my brothers and sisters, read and so train yourselves for the imminent arrival of the future.” The troopers never much come around here, but for their watchings of the regular demonstrations more or less leaving the working man to his misery. Men like Valeri know this means their women disappear from the streets at night, some turning up dead months or years later but most never turning up at all, as if the streets themselves swallow each woman whole.

Some argue the working man, people like Valeri’s parents only brought this on themselves, in rising fifteen years ago only prompting the wealthy man and his troopers to seal off the working man and leave him to his own devices. “It’s good to see you,” says a voice, Valeri turning to see an old friend and one-time colleague by the name of Mark Murray. He’d been among the workers at the plant, working right alongside Valeri some days, only to be selected from among their ranks to serve the union higher up. Seeing him again, for Valeri, is bittersweet, for it reminds him how little leverage they have in these trying times even as Murray comes to deliver news usually good. For Murray, you see, is the commensurate politician; he’ll meet with company officials and strike a friendly, conciliatory tone, laughing, telling jokes, shaking hands, only to, when the meetings are over and the sides separate to plot their next moves, denounce fraud, deception, lies. “And yourself,” Valeri says, shaking Murray’s hand. Keeping quiet has always felt a betrayal to Valeri. In so participating in the act, men like Murray draw boundaries, creating a safe space for themselves in which they can act out a theatre, surrendering in the wider struggle. Men like Valeri long for change, and men like Murray seem to have found their niche in demanding change. The vote is held; it’s unanimously in favour of joining the general strike. Later that night, Valeri comes home to an empty and dark apartment. With a spare piece of poster paper and a felt pen he draws up a sign and posts it to the window facing the street. The sign reads: “NO SURRENDER” It’s a small act, but one which’ll come to have great significance in the years ahead.

“…Our final victory is foretold not only by the Heavens but by the natural, inevitable course of our common history, thrumming like the beating of a common heart. But still it must be won!”

The man on stage back at the union hall continues to speak, holding a clenched fist in the air to emphasize his last point. There are talks of taking part in the next general strike; this speaker is urging the whole lot of them on. It’s unsettling to a man like Valeri, someone who would prefer loneliness to a single spot of company, and amid the hushed voices and the muttered agreements he begins to feel his pulse quicken slightly and his breathing shallow a bit, forcing him to turn and make for the edge of the square.

“…And we must never turn away from our destiny!”

3. A Divergent Verse

A knock on the door.

“You didn’t get caught up in any of that business, did you?” asks Valeri’s landlord, a much older man named Graham with trouble standing up straight and spots all over his skin from aging.

“Not yet,” Valeri replies. Graham had come of age in a more liberal time, when drugs were seen as bold experiments rather than the scourge of the working man’s streets we know them as today.

“You’ve always you’re your rent on time,” Graham says, “I don’t want you getting mixed up in that kind of stuff and making me have to find someone else to pay rent on your suite. God knows it’s hard enough to find a decent tenant these days.”

“I’ll be careful,” Valeri says.

“Who’s that girl you’ve been bringing home?” Graham asks.

“A friend,” Valeri says.

“This isn’t a whore house,” Graham says, then quickly adds, “anymore.”

Valeri, without skipping a beat, says, “I’ll try to keep that in mind,” then politely closes the door and returns to his reading.

Graham was born abroad and spent his youth in the drug-addled counter-culture movement that’d seized a whole generation. Fleeing a drunken father who beat him whenever on the drink, he came to see his own salvation in the warmed-over haze of his drugs. After getting caught up in a police raid on a drug den and later arrested at some demonstration against the then-current war raging abroad he fell into a deep depression. After losing many years to his fight with the insidious illness, he moved from the States and tried to escape what he’d been through. He might’ve succeeded, if only he could’ve forgotten the things he’d seen growing up in times almost as radical as the times we live in today. Beaten, humiliated, thrown in prison for want of a relief, he scraped together the wherewithal to survive on what little money he could make. Through it all, Graham had filled his life with prostitutes and addicts and common criminals, each in his life just long enough to take what they wanted from him, leaving him bitter. But Graham won’t have long to wait until the war that’s in the offing explodes on these very streets once more.

At the shop, things are different.

“You always were the quiet one,” says a man named Ruslan Kuznetsov, one of Valeri’s fellow workers at the shop.

“It doesn’t concern you what I do,” Valeri replies. Ruslan always was one of those workers who likes to try and play manager’s favourite, tattling on the other workers over the most trivial of offences. Part of Ruslan likes to think he’s earning himself a position as a middle manager by currying favour with them, while another part of him simply revels in reporting on the other workers’ misdeeds, however trivial or harmless. But the better part of Ruslan honestly believes. When a new policy decision comes down, Ruslan not only embraces it but brings himself to honestly believe in it. He’s a complex figure, more complex than he likes to let on, and in troubled times it’s exactly this complexity that’ll ultimately doom him to the same fate as all the others. For now, though, he reduces himself to a managerial sycophant to inoculate himself against the possibility of losing his job and thus the pittance that keeps him barely alive.

Still it bothers Valeri when Graham intrudes like that; as a private person, Valeri doesn’t like questions, even questions neither intrusive nor inappropriate. “You never have any women over,” Graham said once, and it struck Valeri as a pointed question, implying an accusation of homosexuality. But when Valeri had Sydney over, once or twice, he’d thought it, then, something to be concealed should his personal life become exposed, in some small way, to people like Graham or the little old lady across the hall. “In a hurry?” Sydney had asked him once as he led her through the halls and up the stairwell, with Valeri only replying with a half-knowing wink. On this day, as Valeri mulls over his landlord’s latest interjection in the back of his mind, he can’t know but could likely divine the landlord’s role as only an apparatchik of sorts, there to carry out the absentee owner’s will in exchange for his own personal pittance. In his own way, Graham had continued to suffer all those years in silence, tortured not by the beatings or by the transient relationships that’d characterized every period of his life, but by the loneliness in being made to feel as though there was something wrong with him.

At the shop, Valeri and Ruslan are still at it.

“Why aren’t you working harder?” asks Ruslan.

“I’m working as hard as I can,” says Valeri.

“What’s wrong with you today?” asks Ruslan.

“Nothing’s wrong with me,” says Valeri, “it’s just hard for me here.”

A pause. Ruslan shifts his stance slightly. For a moment it seems he might offer sympathy to Valeri. But it’s not to be.

“What’s come over you today?” asks Ruslan.

“Today?” Valeri asks,

“I’ll tell you what’s come over me today. Just look at this place. We work ourselves tired and all we get besides this pathetic wage is heaps of abuse and intimidation. Even you! You run yourself ragged but you never make enough to do anything more than keep yourself alive.”

It’s not the first time he’s let out some pent-up anger, and it won’t be the last. Soon enough Valeri will learn to see him for the frightened man he is, though by the time this personal enlightenment occurs to Valeri it’ll be far too late for any of them to extend much empathy for one another. This particular run-in, though, is but the latest in a string of run-ins between them breeding resentment and mutual distrust.

By the time war broke out in the streets fifteen years ago, Graham was already too old and too enfeebled to take part in the way Valeri’s parents had. Consigned to the sidelines he watched as the younger generation lashed out at the wealthy man’s oppression, every now and then pausing to mutter to himself, “it’s all happening again.” As the crowds of people like Valeri’s parents seized the streets, it seemed to Graham and all the other survivors of a lost generation that, for a moment, this war might see them succeed. Managing to pull himself out of his depression, he found his way into the streets just in time to see it all come crashing down. But all Valeri or anyone else can see in him is a gruff and bitter old man. After sleeping through most of the day, Hannah rises and spots Valeri on his way out the door, thinking to call out to him but choosing against it. Instead, she turns to her own affairs in the few hours until she must return to the A&E. “You don’t understand,” she says to her mother, a thousand kilometres apart and linked only by the screen in each woman’s hand. “If anything happens I’ve got lots of friends here I can take in with. Besides, I’m too overworked at the hospital to get caught up in all the street fighting.” But her mother isn’t so easily reassured. In any case, both know there’s nowhere for her to go, the burden of her wages keeping her stuck in place; with simmering tensions and life stagnant in working class districts of major cities and small towns across the country, anyplace she could go would see her in much the same danger. After the war fifteen years ago, Hannah’s mother, like all mothers, worries on the safety of her daughter living in the city. After seeing ordinary workers cut down in the streets of Britain’s cities and towns, her mother worries Hannah might be caught up in the next war. But she doesn’t know her daughter has come of age in a time of bombs exploding and gunfire rattling in the street; to Hannah, this is simply background noise. Only too late will Hannah realize events about to occur aren’t the new normal, that all our lives will be so radically changed.

After a long and hard day, a punch at the clock releases the working man to tend to his own affairs; his family, scattered across the country with even one or two halfway around the world. In his is a way of solitude, coming home to an empty little box of an apartment sitting amid a hundred other empty little boxes, each hundred little boxes built, once upon a time, to make a way of life for millions. Among his ranks live elderly widowers left to subsist on fixed incomes, single mothers, addicts and prostitutes, yet also families, children, couples who’ve lived here all their lives and others who’ve only just arrived. As fires burn half a world away the working man clenches his fist reflexively and sleeps through the night, tossing and turning all the while, imagining in his dreams a personal vengeance against an impersonal force, a struggle against the forces of nature that’s closer to paying off than you might think. The wealthy man would have the working man believe that this is the envy of the world, that this little cube of air held three stories up off the street, filled with second-hand furniture and cigarette butts and cockroaches hiding in the cracks in the kitchen walls, when the working man comes home in the evening and flips on the lights the whole swarm of them scurrying for cover. Messages bombard the working man through the airwaves and through the data line, messages proclaiming the endless abundance in this day and age, messages declaring skyrocketing prices to be a sure sign of progress even as the working man has cut back on eating meat for the cost of it all. This, as explosions and intermittent gunfire tear holes in the silence of the not-infrequent night-time power outages that plunge London’s working-class districts into total darkness.

It matters little, I suppose, that half of us all can’t afford the essentials of life, that half of us all wear clothes three or four wearers from the factory and with little rips and holes in the seams strategically hidden so as not to give away the our shame. It’s all an elaborate fraud, and it’s always been an elaborate fraud, a fraud perpetuated against the self, eagerly so. But not much longer. When the working man works his way through another day, he stamps across the same, familiar ground, the soles of his boots brought down into the same holes made from the same stamps of boots a thousand and one times before, this time, though, his boots falling a hair’s width aside, in some small act of defiance the working man staking out a spot in his own mind for they who would seek a better way of life to claim. After Hannah arrives to work her next shift at the hospital, there happens the one thing she would’ve never expected: an empty bed in the A&E. It’s empty only for a brief time, perhaps a half-hour or two, then filled with another poor young man dying a quick but painful death. Still, Hannah wonders if this is to be an isolated case, or a regular occurrence, as she takes up her station and looks over the master chart on the wall of all patients, a storm of red and blue streaks and smudges loosely arranged into words on a whiteboard. “Another long night?” asks another nurse, a younger woman named Whitney. “It’s not long if you do it every day,” says Hannah, eying the coffee machine in the corner. Short-staffed and overworked, this is the life they chose, even as young men wearing suits and ties speed along the streets in sports cars outside. In the night, they’ll lose a patient, a young man who’s been dying for some weeks now. He’ll die not of an incurable disease or some traumatic injury but for want of a medicine kept in short supply by the company that holds the rights to it. This, as the hospital’s power fails intermittently, plunging the A&E into darkness for only a moment before diesel generators kick in. But nobody flinches, neither at the death nor the darkness, carrying on.

“Nothing is certain,” said the man standing in front of Victory Monument that day, “even as it is inevitable!” Still Valeri doesn’t quite know what that means, even as he swears to himself that he does. “Don’t love me,” Sydney had said once, in a way that’d seemed, then, to be less melodramatic than it seems, now, as Valeri recalls the look in her eye as she’d said it. As he falls asleep this night with the little red book falling gently onto his chest, the last thing he recalls is the image of his mother and father, standing over him as he kneels at their grave, looking down on him, his father turning and saying to his mother, “it’s almost his time.” Astride a wave of enthusiasm and atop a mountain of riches and power built up beneath him over hundreds of years, the wealthy man looks across the urban sprawl and sees nothing but opportunity laid before him, opportunity reaching for the horizon and beyond. The wealthy man wears his suit and tie which cost more than the working man earns in a year’s wages. The wealthy man cruises the public streets in his armoured cars with blackened windows and with a paid driver who sympathizes not with his master but with the men who live outside his master’s safe and sequestered in a little bubble. Astride a wave of enthusiasm the wealthy man can hardly contain his exuberance, leaping whenever a string of numbers scroll across his screen, the odd red mark drowning in a sea of green. In truth, every green mark signifies the loss of a hundred livelihoods and the thinning out of a hundred more. It’s been this way for a long time, for as long as anyone can remember. But it needn’t be this way much longer. As I lead you through the beginning of the end, we take stock of all sins, so that we may settle accounts when the time is right, not with pounds but with blood. This is a messy business, ugly and vulgar, as it’s always been and should always be. In the night, we seek solace in the certainty that the dawn shall always come.

But then, sometime in the future, there should inevitably come the morning which sees no dawn, where the darkness lingers into the day as if we’ll all be living in a permanent night. In the A&E this night it’s another wave of admissions from the streets, Hannah keeping up but only barely, fourteen hours of tending to overdoses, failed suicides, and breakdowns leaving her with pain behind her eyes and strain in her muscles, worst of all a lump in her stomach. Arriving home to find Valeri already asleep, she walks into their shared bedroom and without taking off her scrubs she collapses into bed, asleep herself before hitting the sheets. “Well, what came of it?” Whitney had asked, two-thirds through their shift. She’d been speaking of the invite Valeri had given her to come to the hall, a thread they’d talked about between drawing blood from one man and injecting a sedative into another. “I have no time to get involved with the rabble,” she’d said. At that moment, for only a moment, the hospital’s power cut out, the lights falling dark and alarms sounding for a brief period before generators kick in. “Well, thank God somebody does,” said Whitney. When Hannah wakes up in the evening, she has the apartment to herself, and at once thinks of her own promise, not to her distant mother but to herself, the promise not to lose herself in the romantic radicalism of youth. Now in her thirties, she feels much older than she is, the temptation towards romance seeming to grow with each year that passes, through the rose-tinted glasses of nostalgia for youth the radicalism seeming much more romantic than she knows it to be.

In the night, the city comes alive, brimming with a restless energy that seems to emanate from every open window and from every darkened alley. The working class apartment blocks sit spaced close enough for residents to link hands and form a human chain dangling from building to building like power lines. Loose debris litters the sidewalk, swept aside by the overworked crews that run through this place perhaps once a week, at best. Cigarette butts are found scattered everywhere but the ashtrays left out by the city for the working man’s use. Used syringes line the gutters. Blood splotches hide in the trash. This, we would be led to believe, this is the envy of the rest of the world, this is the ideal all aspire to. Left to fester, the looming spectre of so much pent up despair, frustration, resentment can but slowly take shape, its form rising from the formless. We are locked in with our own sort of people, confined into a steadily shrinking space until our space can be shrunk no more; then, still it will be made to shrink. Still in the night you can see the spaces where working people used to work; the ghostly outlines of their figures reaching into the sky, astride a boxed-in feeling more powerful than the highest of drug-induced highs. It’s foolish to wonder what might’ve been, but never is it so foolish to imagine what might yet be. In this spirit, the working man sometimes spares a thought for all that he would’ve been working for all his life had but the force of law not subordinated him to his master. His would’ve counted history’s greatest achievements, the weight of the greatest victories, the tallest towers, the longest spans and the widest roads all made by the hands of the working man. But it’s the littlest achievements, too, the modest house built in the countryside, the carefully-sculpted garden tended in the narrow space on an apartment’s balcony, the small potholes filed in on the highway that make up the working man’s proudest achievements, those mundane acts that make day-to-day life possible.

But not all hope is lost in these quarters, a vitality sharing the same time and space as despair. No matter how much is taken from him, the working man will always have his soul, the essence of his self, that lingering sense of identity lying at the core of his being. But all this is lost in the hurried, frenetic, disjointed day-to-day struggle for sustenance. The working man feels the soreness in his muscles and the tightness in his back, but he’s lucky just to feel, so many of his own dying in the night. Down the hall, a retired lady lives out the last of her days, emerging to let in the nurse who comes to bathe her once a week. Down another hall there’s an apartment where, not all that long ago, an elderly man died in his sleep, only to be left for days, discovered when the stench of rotting flesh became too rancid and overpowering to be ignored any longer.

Already there are those who would deign to fight the way of things; but they are the few, the proud, the many lost in a sea of even more, in the night a burst of gunfire rattling off somewhere in that maze of densely-packed apartment blocks, in the morning a concrete wall riddled with bullet holes standing a macabre backdrop for the children who walk to school along those very streets and step over the weeds sprouting from between cracks in the sidewalk’s concrete slabs. Spent shell casings sit in the gutter and splotches of crimson dry out slowly on the road, their colour hardly noticeable against the oil stains dotting the asphalt. ‘NO SURRENDER’ scrawls across a wall behind a dumpster, scrawled not in the night that’s just passed but some months, perhaps years earlier and left to slowly fade in the harsh glare of the summer’s sun. It matters little what’s happened in the night. It’ll matter someday soon, but not yet. This, now, is the current expression of our state of war, of the undeclared war we’ve been fighting for so long as any of us have been. It’s a crime, that some old man should suffer the indignity of dying alone, in his little box of an apartment, and then in death to be subjected to the continued indignity of being left to rot like human trash, only disposed of when his odour grew too noxious and disgusting to be ignored. It’s a criminal act that goes unpunished, for now, but not forgotten, even if this one man’s indignity might become lost the indignities of the thousands nevertheless searing a permanent mark on the consciousness of the working man.

4. Ensemble

At the polytechnic in Brentford, Sean Morrison studies the social sciences. Born and raised in Derry, Northern Ireland, he came of age in the time after the failed revolution fifteen years ago. His parents, Irish nationalists, found themselves in the midst of a pogrom when the chaos of the revolution unleashed long-simmering tensions. They survived, but their home was burnt. Fleeing the province, they moved into a working class block and found just enough work to raise their son. Now in his second year of undergraduate studies, he marches in the streets with the thousands of others, always out of control, but never out of hand. “Never in our name!” he shouts, marching in lockstep with a thousand other students. His feet strike the pavement in strong, confident motions, and he hurls his voice as far as he can. They protest the raising of fees, or so they think; truthfully, they protest only to strike out at the vague but certain perception of injustice, wherever it might be. “Never in our name!” shouts another student. “Never in our name!” shout the thousand others, all at once. The police watch, but don’t intervene. Sean Morrison and the others from the polytechnic are emblematic of the intellectual character of the working class, and they’re courageous in asserting the superiority of their collective knowledge. They revolt against the hierarchical knowledge of the wealthy class as dispensed by the wealthy man’s apparatchik, the teacher.

At the Anglican Church there’re more parishioners than ever, the war fifteen years ago having made many believers. Darren Wright’s been coming to this church all his life; still the same meals are served to the needy, though the soup’s thinner than it’s ever been. He serves the food, hands out blankets in the colder months, and bottles of water in the warmer months. Though the priest, Father Bennett, purports to teach compassion for the poor, but his is a church steeped in a tradition of closeness with the way of things. Darren thinks it wrong the church amasses wealth and power for itself, but he hasn’t yet come to take it on himself to change the church’s course. As it is written in Proverbs 15:27, ‘He that is greedy of gain troubleth his own house; but he that hateth gifts shall live.’ Still, the act of challenging the wayward church’s dominion over his own faith is but a critical step in the parishioner’s revolt against the hierarchical faith of the wealthy class as dispensed by their apparatchik, the priest.

A gruff, older man named Garrett Walker used to work in a factory somewhere in the North of England, a factory that stayed open by all rights far longer than it should’ve. When the factory closed and its new owners moved operations to a city in Bangladesh and another in Poland, Garrett and all the others were thrown out of work. Left to fend for themselves, some took up work at much lower wages as servants, others turned to drugs or alcohol, and at least a few committed suicide out of despair. Garrett, though, moved with his wife and two young daughters into London. Now, he and his wife work night and day to provide for daughters who will soon have their chance taken away for good. As he languishes in unemployment and despair, in Garrett’s mind there’s already flipped a switch from open to closed, his mind hardening against the wealthy man’s dominion. The act of his mind hardening and his heart rendering itself immune to the lies of the managerial apparatchiks is the decisive, critical step in the worker’s revolt against the hierarchical control the wealthy man exerts over all our wealth.

In the British Army serves a young private named Craig Thompson, who joined only a year ago. Stationed at a base not far outside the boundaries of Greater London, he spends his days cleaning the guns and scrubbing floors, on his rare days off spending what little money he earns on booze. It’s a miserable life. But Craig is like so many others in the Army, drawing his pittance on the expectation he’ll never be sent to war. The Army, these days, is a pathetic imitation of its former self, its weapons outdated, its soldiers poorly trained, its officers spending most of their time imagining themselves as inheriting some grand legacy from an empire that no longer exists. On this day, Craig’s cleaning the barrel of an artillery piece older than any of them, winding up dirty, tired, sore, only to look on the officers in their clean, finely-pressed uniforms; he feels the slight tinge of revulsion towards them, but most of all towards his commanding officer, a colonel named Charles Cooke. This army’s a shadow of its former self. The act of recognizing this, of turning his mind against the allure of tradition is that all-important choice the soldier is made in turning against the hierarchical authority the officer exercises over the vast crowd of men.

When he was a younger man, Stanislaw Czerkawski emigrated from his native Poland to England, and found work among many others in shops cleaning floors. By day he cleans, and by night he cleans, always tired but never angry. Sometimes his employer cheats him out of wages, taking off sums for taxes and fees Stanislaw is sure don’t exist. But whomever he and the others complain to, they’re met with racist insults, mocked as dirty Polacks who aren’t worth the wages they’re paid. This, while he cleans human waste off the floor for his wages and lives in a little, one-room flat infested with bedbugs and mice. Too late has Stanislaw realized there’s no place for him in this present-day England. In the meanwhile, like so many other working men mired in poverty and despair he’ll survive despite the indignities meted out on him, and in surviving he’ll learn at some great cost to place his faith in the certainty of the working class struggle. Each of these five men will find their place in the burgeoning resistance, still carrying itself out in the shadows but sooner than any man thinks to step out into the light.

At the general strike that’s about to unfold, coordinated not by months of careful, deliberate planning but by the passions of the moment, memories of the failed uprising fifteen years ago will rule the day. Still Valeri will be there, there to witness history in the making. But among the crumbling walls and the rusting metal beams surrounding him whenever he walks the floor, there’s the spirit of no surrender, the instinctive need to act against the way of things, before this current chance is lost. At night, one night, while Hannah and Valeri sleep, in the alley behind their little apartment there’s a rusty, old pipe, one of many, this pipe springing a leak in just the wrong place. In the morning, Hannah wakes up first, discovering the water shut off. There’s a note slid under the door. ‘A pipe burst. Going to be 2 weeks until the parts get in. No hot water until then. – Graham.’ Hannah swears, then leaves the note on the counter. Valeri finds it, swears again, then leaves it on the counter. The next time they see each other, a few days later, with still the water shut off Hannah has already decided to fix the water herself, heading down into the basement with little more than a few pieces of rubber tubing and a toolbox half-filled with old tools. At the end of the day, Hannah wipes the muck and grime from her hands and heads back to the apartment, turning the tap on and running her hand under the stream of water, warm, then hot, feeling satisfied. Even as this minor victory is won, there’s a thousand defeats handed down on people like her, in secret, in offices and in boardrooms men in suits and ties cutting deals to trade off entire city blocks at a time. These acts of war are interspersed with the attacks of the policemen on the streets here in London, all over England, too, though the policemen’s attack can no longer succeed in terrorizing into submission the policemen carrying their attacks out anyways. As the working man acts, so must his opponents react, compelled as all are by greater forces to play their roles to the end.

But on the streets at night there’s an odd peace. Amid the gradual disintegration of the current order, things seem to have a permanence that grows stronger and stouter with each passing day. As one factory shuts down, another opens somewhere else in the world; it’s a pattern that repeats itself a hundred times over with the passing of each and every year. After closing his shift at the plant in the industrial district, Valeri leaves as he always does, walking the same street, he comes across a young woman he’s never seen before, no one’s ever seen before. She’s sitting in the dark, her whole body seeming to crumple in on itself, her hair a mess, her face bruised, blood trailing from cuts on her cheek. He stops, just close enough for her to see him, and after a moment or two she says, “please.” Valeri wants to keep walking, but his instincts overpower his good sense, and he approaches her and offers a hand. Outside, the troopers circle round the block, prowling the city’s streets at night, looking for trouble. There’s the usual riffraff milling about, the odd homeless person sifting through a dumpster, bored youths sitting on the steps of apartments while smoking cigarettes and drinking cheap beer. In the distance, the sound of sporadic gunfire pops like a firecracker, while sirens wail high and low. Already the fighting has started; still the order prevails against the random, disjointed outbursts directed against it, in the middle of the night Valeri suddenly emboldened to take his own personal crusade and make it into something vastly more than what it is. Risking a beating and arrest at the hands of the police, Valeri seizes on the boldness inside him and shelters the woman for the night, the working class slums all around them burning tonight brighter still than ever before. Under the cover not of darkness but of the fire’s light, they leave.

At night, tonight, Hannah tires quickly, but keeps a smile on for the overdoses and the gunshot victims, through the night keeping on her feet thanks not to caffeine but to a well-practiced gumption. As she works, the pipe she’d fixed holds but some of the water leaked pools and drops onto an electrical circuit, shorting the circuit and cutting power to the whole building. She’ll come home that night, tired, and she’ll fall into bed without thinking much of the darkness, across the city trouble brewing in the streets. At night, tonight, the homeless, the prostitutes, the usual flotsam and jetsam of the city take up their usual spots around Victory Monument deep in the working man’s territory. At night, tonight, there’s no crowd of demonstrators, and the only troopers are a pair of junior officers who come around every once in a while to walk the beat. At night, tonight, when no one’s looking and when the passions of the restless have taken respite to lick their wounds, it’s almost time for Valeri to live up to his promise. At war almost continuously since the failed uprising fifteen years ago, the streets in the working class neighbourhoods are dangerous at night, in the darkness lurking the impending dawn.

In the industrial district where the trains often come through so late at night, the three or four or five men have made good their meeting and have gone their separate ways, leaving only a few bootprints and discarded cigarette butts as evidence of their meeting. In the morning as the working man rises to have at the day, the latest acts of dissent lay themselves bare for all the world to see, if only anyone should look. Things are as oppressive and ascetic as they are not because of some new law which declares who may and may not speak but because of the constant threat of deprivation, a threat which insulates us all from each other. In the meantime, Valeri’s fate lies not in the past but in his own personal future, and it’s a chance encounter with the troopers in the streets that’ll soon send him on a journey careening headlong into a collision with the rest of the history binding us all to the same fate. Valeri to pick up the tools of his trade and use them to fight back. He thinks of Sydney, and after leaving for the night he calls her. He speaks in an almost-hushed tone, holding the phone close. “Come to the hall,” he says, and she reluctantly agrees. In these times of radicalism and imminent war, the lives of ordinary workers like Valeri become lost in an ever-escalating storm of death.

But if you look very closely, you can see the beginnings of dissent. True, there’s always been dissent, in one way or another. Whenever the way of things imposes its will on the working man, it necessarily empowers him by implicitly creating its own counter-will, its own anti-will, and in so creating unleashes a sequence of events that will surely bring about its own downfall. This time, though, the dissent might yet bear fruit. All the way down the street, the sound of sirens seems to chase Valeri and the woman (her name’s Maria), even as it’s just the background noise that’s come to fill the nights like a subdued soundtrack. In his apartment, Valeri says to the woman, “you’ll be safe here.” Quickly he adds, “for now.” She looks up and says, “thank you.” He gives her food and water, some rice and beans is all he can manage so close to payday, which she gratefully accepts. Once the adrenaline wears off, though, he’s confronted with the fact that there’s a strange woman in his little box of an apartment, and he hasn’t the slightest idea what to do next. But in death, there’s the promise of rebirth, the imminent war to clear the way through the future.

In his apartment sometime later in the night, Valeri offers to take the woman to the hospital or to the police, but she insists against it. Naturally his first instinct is to suspect she’s a drug addict or a prostitute beaten up by some john, but even this suspicion makes him feel guilty. He supposes she’s an attractive woman, with deep blue eyes, long blonde hair, and a gently sloping face that seems sculpted rather than grown. He suddenly realizes he’s been staring when he notices her staring right back, halfway through a mouthful of rice with a single grain sticking to the edge of her lip. “I’m sorry,” he says, before standing and starting towards his bedroom. “Wait,” she says. He turns back. “You don’t know what you’ve done for me,” she says. “No,” he replies, “I don’t,” and then turns in for the night, half-expecting her to still be there when he wakes up, but half-expecting her still to be gone with what little he has gone with her, she, on the other hand, half-worrying through the night that he might, at any time, have himself at her. In time, both he and she will come to realize the folly of their mutual distrust, even as they’ve already come to rely on one another in ways still yet they can’t begin to fathom. “Oh, well he was frightfully stuck up about it,” Hannah says, later, describing an encounter with her roommate to Whitney, “and he told me not to waste so much time on it. There are more important things to worry about, he said. In times like these we need to help ourselves.” In the hospital moments later, they receive the first of a new batch of casualties from the latest takings to the street, Hannah half-wondering in the back of her mind if her roommate might be among them. Working frantically, she can hardly spare the thought to glance at every bloodied and bruised body brought in to check and see which one could be him. As for the poor and the distraught, well, from the colours of the shirts they’re wearing she can tell they’re agitating for change, and from the broken bones and gunshot wounds she can tell they’ve not yet made much progress.

In this, the working class part of town, sometimes it seems we’re all dying a little bit each day. No, as the buses trundle along the pockmarked streets flanked by shuttered shops and burnt-out apartments, we look to the skies and we see pillars of smoke rising, not from a mob of angry workers but from the burning of a chemical plant’s tanks and the expulsion of toxic gas into the air mixing. In the darkness of the night war does not stop, breaking only for a few hours; the bodies will be left until dawn. In the morning, Valeri rises to find the woman still asleep on his little couch, clutching a pillow tight against her stomach. “What were you doing out there last night?” he asks later, after she’s woken up. “I was…” she starts, but can’t finish.

“Yes?”

“You don’t have to interrogate me, you know.”

“Seeing as you’re in my apartment I think I’ve got the right to know why.”

“You know why.”

“I suppose I do. Should I be regretting it?”

“That’s for you to decide.” It’s a futile exchange, but one which will, in its futility soon prove to make all the difference in the world for them.

One of the other residents in the building Valeri lives in, a black man around his age named Jeremy Washington, came from a background of lies, deceit, and betrayal, all help denied him by the way of things which deems him of no value. But he’s survived this long by way of the instinctive will to live which powers us all through even the darkest times of our lives. But events are afoot. Men like Jeremy Washington, though, learn to carefully navigate through their lives, dodging drug addiction, muggings, but most fearfully of all the troopers who stop them for the most frivolous reasons, sometimes for no reason at all. It’s one night, many years before Jeremy came to work at that plant with Valeri, when he was stopped by troopers outside a convenience store and beaten to within an inch of his life. The troopers take him and dump him on the side of the road a few city blocks away, an old, white lady waiting until the troopers had driven off before she helps Jeremy into her home and tends to his wounds as best she can. In the morning, she offers to take him to the local hospital, but he declines. For Jeremy Washington, the brutal beating at the hands of the troopers had a lasting effect on him. His family, his live-in girlfriend and their two young daughters, watched as he fell deeper and deeper into despair. The beating left him with a limp, making it hard for him to work. He used drugs, partly to cope with the pain, but also because they were cheap and readily available on the streets where he lived. He lost his job. He lost his family. The courts, an adjunct of the troopers who’d beat him, took them from him and made him pay for it all. When he couldn’t pay, they put him back in jail. This time, he emerged toughened by the experience, in the confusion his family scattering while he found his way into the building he now lives in. Still through the first years Jeremy Washington lived in this apartment block he kept on using drugs, eventually resorting to selling them to help make ends meet while still he can’t afford the medication he needs. Strange men came to visit him at all hours of the night, cash in hand, no questions asked, the troopers who patrolled the streets keeping an eye out but never seeming interested. All this had happened before Jeremy had even turned thirty years old. But now, for men like Jeremy, the promise of a new uprising offers him redemption and with it rebirth.

After the failed uprising fifteen years ago, the union is full of mainly ill-tempered but otherwise harmless layabouts. But like everyone else, the war fifteen years ago struck Jeremy at exactly the wrong time in his life, not when he was capable of taking part. It might seem men like Jeremy are the flotsam and jetsam of life, the degenerate criminals living on the margins. But while Jeremy Washington may well be a degenerate criminal, his whole life having come to revolve around drugs, but it’s in exactly his sort of person the future lies. The way men like Valeri will achieve their own liberation is not by the learned wisdom of the academic, nor by the charity of the sympathetic elite, but by the hopeless causes, the most pathetic and degenerate among the vast ranks of the deprived. Although Jeremy had not taken to the streets in the war fifteen years ago, men like him were rounded up and sent back to prison again, randomly selected in the wave of terror that swept across the country once the war had ended. He was taken in not because he’d committed a crime, though he’d done that; the troopers took advantage of an opportunity to purge the streets of men like him. He’s only just been released from prison when the current wave of unrest begins in earnest. He doesn’t think much of it, as the smoke rises from the fires burning in the streets, but while he falls in with his old habits he secretly hopes the troopers who beat him within an inch of his life all those years ago are out there again to be killed in the unrest. But not all is lost.

5. Adrift and Powerless

Soon Valeri and Murray march in the streets along with the thousands and thousands of their brothers and sisters, singing songs, holding signs, denouncing the attacks on them. “All power to the people!” shouts Valeri. “All power to the people!” shouts the crowd. It’s times like these Valeri feels his boldest, times when he feels utterly confident in the fate of the working man to seize his own destiny. The storm troopers are there, but they do not attack, under orders only to look on; they know what’s afoot. “This is only the beginning,” Murray leans in and says, his normal speaking voice barely audible against the din. “And what a beginning it is!” Valeri replies. The demonstration was called to protest rising prices of food, fuel, rents, but right now all that matters is the rage vented in the streets. (Valeri had invited Hannah, but she’d declined, opting instead to spend what precious time she has between shifts for some much-needed sleep). As the revolution forms, working men realize on their isolation; but the revolution itself may yet acquire a bloodlust that could drive it to do things it might’ve never thought possible. At the shop, Valeri’s nemesis Ruslan works, having refused to take part in this demonstration for fear of provoking the managers to get rid of him. But when Valeri comes in the next time, Ruslan says to him, “you should know I’ll report you if you don’t pull your weight today.” But Valeri’s in no mood to put up with his tricks. “Why don’t you get your nose out of the manager’s rear for once?” he asks, then says, “I do more work in a day than you do in a week. You only have it in because the managers use you to spy on all of us.” Later, Valeri’s alone with another worker named Albert Nelson. “You shouldn’t talk like that around him,” says Albert, “you know he’ll report you.”

“Let him,” says Valeri, “I can’t hold my tongue. Whether I’m punished for it or not, the truth is plain and obvious. What kind of cowards can see the way of things but choose to speak as if the opposite is true?”

The next time Valeri and Ruslan cross paths that day, Ruslan is chattering with Harpal after having done little work, and the three of them exchange a look. Harpal looks at Valeri with a slight grin. Already Valeri’s tired and sore all over from the day of work, and in his tired state he can’t keep up pretences. He says, “I see you’ve decided your dignity is worth whatever little extra they pay you.” Ruslan says, “at least I’m not the one about to lose his job.” Harpal says nothing. The better part of Valeri knows Ruslan is only toying with him. Still he can’t help but let the notion of impending unemployment nagging at the back of his mind. In the streets hidden under the venting of rage there’re whispers of what’s to come. “It’s not yet time,” says one man to another. “It’s exactly the time,” insists the other. “And if we fail we’ll lose everything,” says the first. “We have nothing to lose but our selves,” declares the second. The men talk of war, confident in the righteousness of their cause; this is the fertile ground in which the current rebellion could soon escalate into revolution. In Britain, the current order which has lasted for hundreds of years teeters on the brink of a spectacular collapse, needing only the gentlest of nudges to send it tumbling over.

In the night, the police move. In cities across Britain, they raid randomly-selected apartment blocks in working class districts, breaking down doors and barging into bedrooms, rousing families from their sleep. Stanislaw’s left out of these raids, but he turns up for work the next day to find some of his fellow workers absent. Immediately it occurs to Stanislaw that the ones who’ve disappeared were the ones who’d complained most vociferously about their stolen wages in the months before. “Did you enjoy yourself last night?” he asks the manager. “Why yes,” the manager says, “I did.” But the manager has a sneaky, almost impish grin as he speaks, and Stanislaw thinks not to press the matter. Later, he recalls the faces and the voices of the disappeared migrant workers and he feels pangs of regret at his failure to learn more about them than he did; but the police may yet come for him. As the consequences of this current round of police raids continues to bear itself across the country, it doesn’t yet occur to men like Stanislaw Czerkawski these are among the first, restrained gasps of a regime in its death throes.

Still Valeri can’t escape the hollow feeling whenever he marches with his brothers and sisters in union. It’s a feeling of intense loneliness; but there’s an essence lurking, far above the crowd Valeri marches in. This essence watches as men like Valeri walk along the path laid out for them, through this darkness nearing the light with every step. The immigration raids have no effect on Private Craig Thompson’s life, none that he’s immediately aware of, confined as his concerns are to the narrow cone immediately around him.. “Don’t tire yourself,” says Colonel Cooke, “I don’t want you to have much use of yourself in the day after tomorrow.” Craig says, “understood, sir,” but wonders why a colonel would come around to inspect the troops. It’s still the early morning, and the armoury’s silence is deafening. The colonel’s uniform is impeccable, and his gait is smooth and well-rehearsed. Even so early in the morning and Craig is already dirty from cleaning the battery’s guns. Still Craig must consider the raids, as they’ve become a fact of life for us all, the disappearings of among the poorest and most vulnerable in the night discussed by the men in the mess hall but never fully understood.

Random conversations intersperse the days. “I don’t know much about these parties,” says one man. “But if there’s help needed,” replies another, “can we count on you?” The first man says, “you can.” These workers are but a small part of the ferment. Valeri and Maria soon meet again, like the first time in the streets but unlike the first time in more amicable circumstances. Holed up in a one-room pad (not much smaller than the little apartment Valeri shares with his roommate), she sits on the edge of the bed while stands, afraid to sit down. “It usually dies down pretty quick,” she says. “I know,” he replies, before quickly adding, “thank you.” But she says nothing more, only nodding, herself apprehensive about letting him into the one space where she can feel something at least vaguely resembling the feeling of being safe. Not long into the current crisis and Garrett Walker sees his work interrupted by the raids, at the warehouse where he works no one taken in the night but several workers connected to someone taken. At his station on the dock, he says to another worker, “all this business about catching criminals has got to be a sham.” And the other worker, the son of a pair of migrants who came to England from India decades ago, only nods his agreement. “If I knew someone who’s caught up in this business, I’d shield them from the police,” says Garrett. Again his fellow worker only nods. They’re walked in on by a manager who shoots them a sharp glare but says nothing, a sharp glare enough to compel them back to work, harder than ever. On this day, Garrett works himself tired and sore, only to go home and find his young daughters tending to themselves, his wife still working herself tired and sore. But he finds a notice posted to the door of their flat announcing their impending eviction, the notice with no date. Outside, there’s screaming and shouting, noise flooding in through the broken windows in the little apartment Maria calls a home. In the night, news breaks, news that’ll embolden the working man even as it’s meant to scare him into giving up on his cause.

Whenever Darren Wright looks to the pulpit for guidance, he finds only a vague and empty devotion to tradition and ritual. The priest, after Sunday’s sermon, stays behind as always to counsel the faithful. “We should open the church as a sanctuary to those fleeing arrest,” Darren says, sitting across from Father Bennett in his small office. “We must minister to the needy,” says Father Bennett, “but we must also remember the powers that be were put in place by God. We must never endeavour to upset the law.” The conversation leaves a bitter taste in Darren’s mouth. It’s not the first time Darren has questioned the church’s teachings, but it is the first time his questions have come out. The episode doesn’t shake his faith but reaffirms it, for Darren’s spirit is governed not by tradition but by his smoldering, yet burning belief in righteousness amid a world listless and corrupt. In the meantime, conversations abound. “I can’t afford my child’s medication,” says one woman. “I haven’t bought new clothes for my children in three years,” says another. “I feed my child instead of myself sometimes,” admits a third. Each works, cleaning clothes, washing dishes, waiting tables, sorting through bottles and cans at the recycling depot, and more. But shortages are common, highly localized, sometimes confined to a single household, a single cupboard, a family left to hunger. A family left to hunger multiplied a million times over makes for shortages unlike those the world has ever seen, shortages in a land of limitless plenty, all while the screens are filled with cheerful advertisements for jewellery, luxury apartments, expensive vehicles, vacations to tropical islands, mocking the hungry with the sight of an unlimited feast. And it’s been this way for as long as anyone can remember, long before the war fifteen years ago. Too late will the purveyors of these lies realize their power to deceive is waning in the face of a steadily mounting anger.

Among the students at the polytechnic there’s a broad consensus in opposition to the police raids, but too many diverging ideas on how to proceed. “We learn much theory in the classroom,” says Sean Morrison, “but what good is theory if we choose not to put it to work?” He’s not in class but outside the polytechnic’s main hall, discussing the raids with concerned students. They stand in the thick, humid outdoors and pause only to mop the sweat from their brows. Another student, a young woman from Wales agrees, saying, “we can’t allow ourselves to become another generation who failed in aspiring to their ideals. We must be the generation that finally turns the page.” They hatch a plan, one of many, to march in the streets, with the support of faculty. Although they may be united in spirit, they are a ragged, disjointed mess, acting out not on ideas but on feelings ill-conceived. And they are one small group of many, the totality of them a huge group of people in dire need of coherent form. Already Valeri has come to see through these lies, and he looks on his screen with the kind of hard-fought and scarcely-won sense of disdain. As this current demonstration has its way with the streets, Valeri waits. Maria would offer him food, but her cupboards are bare. Her bedspread is worn, dotted with little holes along its edges, its colour faded, yet neatly and carefully laid. A stuffed bear sits on her pillow, missing an eye and patches of fur. Conspicuously absent are any needles, drugs, or empty liquor bottles. As this current demonstration dies down, its screaming and shouting slowly dulls to a distant murmur, but Valeri doesn’t leave right away. He sits with Maria, and they talk for a while, each in the middle of their own personal experience with the rest of all our lives. Not unlike the world’s impending descent into chaos and open war, each of them lies in their own misery, left dazed and confused, but not without a certain clarity allowing either to see in the other a fraternity that will soon grow into something neither could’ve ever expected.

In the streets, there’s talk. “This is serious business,” says one man, “it seems like yesterday we could expect our children to grow up in a better world than we’d grown up in.” Another man nods, and says, “but now they will grow up to have their wages stolen from them even more than we’ve had ours stolen.” A third says, “and if we steal them back then we become the criminals.” This discourse winds its way through the streets, emanating from the alleys, the pubs, and the train stations, all the places where working men gather to trade subversive thoughts. “This keeps happening to us,” Valeri says to Maria not long after they’d come across one another a third time in the street, surrounded as they are by the impending rise of the next way of life. He doesn’t tell her of his labour, and she doesn’t tell him of her past. “Strange how that happens,” she’d said that third time before walking past him and on down the street. They both see themselves as fighting a hopeless cause, but for different reasons. They both avoid the demonstrations running wild through the streets even as they both secretly long to see those very demonstrations amount to something more. Suddenly, it’s as though Valeri and Maria see each other everywhere they go, imagining in the faces of strangers the look of one another, not unlike the hallucinations of a drug-induced stupor, the quixotic and ill-advised chance encounter on the street late that night proving to have connected them in ways neither could’ve ever hoped for, neither could’ve ever imagined. In time, as she continues to work the streets of the city at night and as he continues to work the floor of the factory in the day, theirs will be a friendship sorely tested but never broken. But when the storm troopers move in, they unwittingly expend what remaining goodwill they have in an attempt at smashing apart the beginnings of something more.

When the timing’s right, we’ll all think ourselves on the right side of history, not merely the winning side but the moral side as well. When the timing’s right, it’ll all come crumbling down, and when we’re left standing in the rubble of the old way of things, it’ll still be unclear, to some, just who among us was truly in the right. Ours is a whole made from the many, a cause that capitulates only to the idea of the great international, and in so capitulating we find unity in strength. Ours is no colour, no creed, and ours is a production that seeks its own love. It’s all a fraud, though. Stuck as we are in the grips of a mindless decay, we are made to be maligned as we put one foot in front of the other and pull ourselves through the day, we are declared lazy, shiftless, lacking in ambition even as we arrive home in the evening tired, sore, dirty all over, and we are, above all, forever consigned within the way of things to the ideological margins, forever, until we learn to take it upon ourselves to fight back. Still yet we’ve not arrived at the precipice of the revolution, despite all the indignities and all the injustices visited upon the working man. Still yet all the acts of resistance blend into a rising action that escalates through our shared history and which must surely lead to something, anything at all. The first acts of resistance, centuries ago, were ill-advised, over before they began. Each successive act, though, was a little bit better planned and executed and lasted a little bit longer.

A young woman, perhaps in her mid-to-late twenties, named Isabella Bennett works as a maid in a luxury hotel not far from the city centre. Every day she changes sheets, cleans floors, and washes linens and clothes for the wealthy guests who come here from around the world. Every day she earns her own pittance, supplemented with what meagre tips the hotel’s wealthy guests give her. And every month, she sends a sum to relatives living in their home country, keeping for herself only the minimum she needs to survive. But the sum she sends has been shrinking for a while, each month the remittance a little less than the last. In the streets, she sees anger, and in the moment of weakness she gives in to her anger, pocketing a watch she finds among one of the rooms. In an age where hardship is made to be experienced alongside abundance, women like Isabella do what they must to make ends meet. Every day Isabella Bennett changes bedsheets and washes floors for wealthy guests who think nothing of spending on a night’s entertainment more than she makes in a month. She comes to work in clothes clean, skin without a blemish, and in hair perfectly bound in a ponytail reaching halfway down her back, chosen to serve the hotel’s wealthy guests because she is pleasing to the eye. One night, near the end of her shift when there are few other staff on this floor in the hotel, she finishes folding towels in the bathroom of the wealthy guest’s suite, the one she’d taken that watch from, turning to find standing in the door that very wealthy guest. “I know you took my watch,” he says. He steps towards her and shuts the door. It’s over quickly, but for Isabella it seems to last an agonizingly long time. When it’s over, she leaves the room and makes her way to fire escape’s stairwell, letting the door shut before sitting on the steps and crying softly into her hands. The night, for her, soon ends. Even as she’s been punished for her act of theft, hers has not been an act of theft but an act of return, this small piece made of the exploitation of labour and now made whole by its return. And so is visited on her punishment for her act of liberation. It’s a small act, one lost in the disorder slowly extending through the streets, but in smallness lies the essence of our times.

That night, Isabella heads down through the stairwell to the laundry room in the basement, there telling her co-worker what’s happened. Nothing comes of it. Of course nothing comes of it. The next day she returns to work, able to compose herself by forcing a friendly look onto her face and by working her way through the day by reciting from memory a series of motions as is the way of people like her. But inside she’s changed. When she next comes across the wealthy man who’d taken her, she can’t look him in the eye, walking past in the hall quickly and quietly. At the end of the hall, she looks back and sees the wealthy man looking right at her, a wicked look on his face. All through this time she continues to wire her wages back to her family abroad, seeming to find the wherewithal to keep sending the same sums by cutting back on her own, sewing up torn clothes in strategic places so no one can see the stitches, still looking like the perfectly-kept young woman the hotel’s wealthy, foreign guests expect. But she’ll get even. Although she’ll never be the same, although she’ll always have the memories of being so violated, she’ll never lose the will not only to live but to survive through it. As she is of the working man’s stock, she doesn’t know how to do anything else but survive. Like all working men and women, Isabella Bennett is infinitely strong, in her resiliency lying the future.

At last, the troopers attack. In the early morning hour, papers are posted to the doors of each apartment in the block next to Valeri’s, papers announcing the impending eviction of every resident in the building. Mysteriously in the night, that night, a sign is posted along the building’s façade boldly proclaiming the impending construction of some new luxury villa with every section already sold. ‘Thank you,’ the sign seems to cynically say, ‘for making this new community a success.’ But as Valeri watches, the little old ladies living on fixed incomes and the single mothers dressing their children in second-hand clothes must come to grips with what’s been done. The actual evictions take some time; before even half the residents are gone crews have already started tearing out finishings and copper wiring from the walls. It’s a sad irony that these crews should be made up of the same kind of persons as those working men and women so unceremoniously put out of their homes and onto the street. But a grander game’s afoot. This eviction is an attack, part of a broader offensive mounted by the criminals in parliament, working men across Britain finding the same notices posted to their doors. The wealthy man senses the coming revolt; this campaign of evictions is but an attempt to forestall the inevitable. The wealthy man’s folly lies in hastening his own demise.

6. A Dangerous Element

Already the thin wisps of smoke have begun to emanate from the little cracks in the sidewalks, from the storm drains lining the gutters, feeding into a dark cloud that will soon engulf us all. The dark essence that’s watching from above, it slowly gathers strength as it’s been slowly gathering strength for so long as there’s been men like Valeri to bear witness to the pit of despair the working man finds himself in. Soon enough there’ll be a pivotal moment when this dark essence will descend on us, exactly the moment when the working man should rise, the two to meet high above the surface of the earth in a cataclysmic display that will realize our historical inevitability, at last. At the polytechnic, classes are underway, Sean Morrison and his classmates studying through crippling shortages and not-infrequent power failures. But meanwhile, they plan. After the immigration raids have disappeared scores of men from the streets, if only for a short period of time, the students declare their solidarity with the migrants and prepare their counterattack. It’s while they plan that their first, critical error is made. Sean and the others in the students’ union openly declare their intentions, going so far as to publish bold declarations on the screens of the world that the end of the current order is at hand. Meeting in a classroom at the polytechnic with some of his fellow students, he says, “theory urges us to take direct action. We strike to take direct action by seizing the streets and holding them.” Another student, Julia Hall, says, “every moment we can hold the streets is a moment we deny them to the wealthy who control them.” But not all are sympathetic to their cause; one of the students in their group’s a spy.

In the midst of this crisis, Valeri’s true work begins. As news breaks of a trade deal unlike any before signed between countries, it becomes widely known this’ll surely put even more working men out of work. Valeri pledges his life in service of the opposition. But he’s not alone. At the church, there’s an undercurrent running through the pews, a spirit parishioners like Darren Wright can sense but never see. It’s this spirit which compels Darren to pray for guidance in troubled times. He comes to church more often, one weeknight praying silently in the pews when there appears at his side a younger woman. She says, “I hope you’ve found more inspiration lately than I have.” She says her name’s Sheila Roberts, and for a moment Darren thinks she might be a vision in answer to his prayers. “I’m afraid I have to disappoint you,” he says. But she invites him to a meeting of concerned parishioners, the laymen organizing in the face of the church’s inaction. The church may be bride to Christ’s bridegroom, but Darren and Sheila find themselves among they who have come to believe the bride has strayed too far. As it is written in Proverbs 29:2, ‘When the righteous are in authority, the people rejoice: but when the wicked beareth rule, the people mourn.’ This is a truth all too evident to men like Darren and women like Sheila as their brothers and sisters among the parishioners have come to see wickedness in the halls of power.

Still the conversations meander through the days, idle chatter mixing freely with wistful ideation. “Give me a lift to the station?” one woman asks. “Climb on behind, but mind you hold on fast,” says another. A third interjects, “We’ll meet again someday. Don’t forget me.” It’s an unknown exchange in one apartment block somewhere in the maze of blocks that make up the working class districts, but an unknown exchange with profound meaning. Elsewhere, as their friendship deepens through a series of unlikely coincidences, Valeri and Maria find common ground where neither would’ve before expected it. Over the days that turn quickly into weeks, theirs is a shared cause, which they realize in a mutual struggle against a common enemy. There’s no moment when this takes place; he seeks her out, and at first she rebuffs him, but he persists. Finally, he offers to pay for her time, and she reluctantly, half-suspiciously agrees. Again they sit in her little one-room apartment, alone but for the rage of the streets filtering in through that same broken window, and she looks uncomfortably at the clock every so often. Still she sits on the edge of the bed while he sits on her one chair, the two exchanging small talk until, near the end of his time with her that afternoon he says, “you must join the fight for a new tomorrow.” But the words seem to fall on deaf ears. She’s not ready to commit herself irrevocably to the struggle. Although he can’t see it, nor is Valeri, although they’re drawing closer to commitment with each passing day. Hidden among the criminals, the prostitutes, and the mentally ill addicts there’s an element that lives off the enterprise of the working man’s most degraded and dejected form. It’s a hopeless feeling, to be made unwelcome in your own home, to be made to feel an outcast on the very streets that’d raised you, to be made to seek refuge from deprivation in a world where an abundance exists. After Garrett Walker and his family have found eviction notices posted to their front doors, everything changes. At the dinner table the next time all four gather, Garrett says, “we’ll live with my mother in Surrey for a while.” His wife objects, saying, “she lives in a one-bedroom flat. There’s not enough room for us all.” But Garret says, “it’ll only be for a little while. Once I’ve found work again, we’ll get our own place, somewhere.” The dining room is silent but for the ticking and rattling of the refrigerator on the fritz. Left unsaid is the understanding there’s little work to be found, none of it paying well enough. It makes Garrett feel helpless and emasculated, powerless to protect and provide for his family in the face of the overwhelming despair of unemployment. But he won’t feel this way for long, as there’re those lurking still in the shadows who would empower him.

At the union hall, out-of-work workers talk. “A skilled worker won’t go under in the villages these days,” says one worker. “There’s as much work to be had as you might want,” says another. Both know it was never for want of work that they’re made to languish at the hall along with many others. There’s plenty of work and there’s plenty of workers; this is the question of our time. After that hour together, Valeri hasn’t the money to pay for another hour, having worked to save such a sum for more than two months. Only later does he realize she has not paid her rent in a long while, the money he gave her being instead put to use paying for a new winter coat in anticipation of the coming season on the street. Never left in the open, we all look like her at one point in our lives, she being the strongest in her weakness, the bravest in her fear, the wisest in her narrow, short-term outlook on life. The next time Valeri sees her, not walking the street but in a shop buying food, he dares not approach her, instead exchanging with her a knowing glance from across the grocery store’s aisle as they pass one another, that little light behind her eyes suggesting she has begun to feel something for him, if not love then something that might well yet blossom into love. But it’s all a fraud. It’s a false narrative, framed within the confines of the human heart, made to seem more than what it is. At the armoury, Colonel Cooke puts Craig Thompson and the rest of the brigade through a series of drills and musters, while imposing a strict curfew on the men. Naturally, no reason for the change, leaving the men to come up with their own. “We might be deployed abroad,” says Craig in the bunks after hours. “Where?” asks another. “Who knows? Ukraine maybe,” says Craig. “They’re going to want us to fight the Russians,” says the other. “I won’t go to die for some imperial ambition,” says Craig. And the rest of the brigade share his feelings. But these are young men serving in want of a paycheque. In times of crisis, the war in the streets of their own homes is the war of real concern for ordinary troopers like them.

Over the past several months, Valeri’s been meeting with his neighbours, never sitting down with them and talking at length but running into them in the halls on his way to work or in the laundry room. It’s the little moments that add up over time, the traded glances and the half-serious exchanges that began to tend Valeri towards action. In these radical times, men like Valeri are soon to find themselves at the head of a burgeoning movement which the dark essence may yet choose to use to give itself expression, and with expression, life. But we’re not there yet. While Stanislaw Czerkawski’s ruthless boss never hesitates to fire anyone who looks at him the wrong way, Stanislaw has come to tire of holding his tongue. “I need to stay put,” he says, sharing views with one of the workers on their break, “but sometime my turn will come.” His fellow worker, another Pole, agrees. “It seems so hopeless,” says Stanislaw, “for I have so little. Why do we act as though those with the least to lose are the most afraid to stand?” But soon their break is over and they’re all back cleaning floors and scrubbing toilets. His mind wanders, and he stands tall in a clear picture he has for the future, and once he’s finished cleaning one room but before he moves onto another he looks abroad for his troubles. If he’s afraid of losing his meagre living, then soon he will have no longer any reason to fear. Among the Poles who form this permanent underclass, there’s a grim certainty, and Stanislaw’s wife shares with him a sad, sad perception of gloom.

Still yet evictions put working people out of their own homes, forcing each to find successively more and more creative ways to house themselves. If ever any should look back they’d see another tower, another sleek, glass and steel tower where once a simple, efficient block had stood. Sometimes it seems the same apartment blocks are emptied of the families living inside, made hollow and then torn down, only to reappear the next day again filled with those same families, the act repeating itself in the same time and in the same space for so long as there exists space to be filled. It makes little sense, and if the working man had access to the kind of apparatus that’s at the wealthy man’s disposal then surely, the working man believes, he would use that power to usher in a golden age free of the burden of so much wanton, unbridled greed and waste. The values of the working man, values like chastity, grace, hard work, and ingenuity contrast against the values of the wealthy man, values like vulgarity, indecency, parasitism, and infirmity; it seems, now, impossible to imagine how the wealthy man could’ve ever become so wealthy despite all his weaknesses seemingly making him fit only to lie in bed and wither away into nothing.

As the current spree of evictions and demolitions run their course, the working man sees in the propaganda outlets proclamations of jobs added, of monthly, sometimes weekly increases in the prices of this and that, and daily reports wherein the talking heads gleefully announce the value of their own imagined holdings reaching new heights. The working man sees as none of them stop to spare a word of concern for his own, as he’s always seen, and it inspires in him an instinctive, visceral revulsion he’s become intimately familiar with through his lifetime and which he will never forget even after history turns in his favour. Though emotions run high, this strike peters out over the coming days, its failure laying the groundwork for future victory. The union hall burned, now a smoldering wreck, leaving men like Valeri to think towards their next moves. But the world carries on, and so too must Valeri, returning to find the plant closed, its front gates chained shut with guards standing in front to ward off the small crowd of workers looking on.

After emotions have run high, we may be forgiven for expecting this ad-hoc assembly to explode into violence at any moment, but it never comes. Men like Valeri must focus on their next meal, this recent strike having succeeded, it seems, only in proving on the ability of the way of things to weather this current storm. But in this interlude, this in-between period when working man keeps on working, Valeri keeps these things in the back of his mind even as he tends to affairs closer to the heart. Valeri and Maria don’t see each other for a while after that chance encounter in the market; he stays away from anyplace he’s seen her and she, well, she tends to the simple task of surviving in these increasingly hostile times. Despite it all, there are others, they who would disseminate a forbidden knowledge, forbidden not by force of law and the threat of violence that gives law its force, but by the lifetime each of us has spent being taught on the taboo character this knowledge possesses. Books circulate around the edges of view, in used bookstores barely taking in enough money to pay their rent, and on computer networks that reach around the globe from obscure party web sites disseminating this knowledge for free.

Hidden among the criminals, the prostitutes, and the mentally ill addicts lives a man, neither young nor old, who may yet come to lead us all through the future, through a future wherein we’ll all be made to share in whatever prosperity and poverty should be meted out to the whole lot of us. Clutched tight against this man’s chest is neither a book nor a pad but pieces of crumpled-up paper with the day’s last ramblings written on them in ragged handwriting. As the working man works, he shares, whether he realizes it or not, an unspoken connection with those of his own lying in the streets soaking in a pool of their own urine and sweat, the long summer’s days never so long as to take from either of them that last ounce of dignity either of them possess. In time, when these men learn to put aside their petty differences and unite against their common enemy, the crowds around Victory Monument will assume a new character, surrounding the monument with a single mass. On this early-summer’s evening, the sun sets lazily, leisurely, at just the right moment casting a long shadow from the base of the Victory Monument’s spire, its tip reaching down a street towards some miscellaneous point in front of the nondescript apartment block where Valeri entertains the notion that a woman with a pedigree like Sydney’s might well yet come to sympathize with his budding revolution. As he returns to work with all the others, he looks for her, hoping she’ll have made the choice to do the right thing. But she’s not there.

In finding friendship, Valeri and Maria come to see one another not as compared to those around them but in not yet the same. “Are you going to be free for yourself?” he asks her, almost as an afterthought while they force their way through a lonely night in a burning city. “No one will ever be free,” she replies, turning away from him to lead him down the street. It’s too hot to be wearing jeans and a jacket, too hot to be wearing a mask, in the sweat and the dirt a shared truth emerging. “We still should fight them anyways,” he says. “We should all just stay alive,” she says, “for as long as we can, let the fight run its course.” They see the anger in each other’s eyes, the pain in each other’s breath. Still in these long summer’s days the crowds around Victory Monument never seem to thin, with the crowds of angry workers, students, and parishioners only occasionally occupying this public space. Most days, you see the usual assortment of homeless people sitting quietly, back from the streets with their hats upturned, the odd one standing on a plastic crate while declaring the surely imminent end of the world. (A delicious irony that we should ignore these men who prove to be right in the end, albeit in a way none of them could’ve known). There’s the merchants who never seem to have any customers but still make good with whatever they have. But on these streets there’s a mounting sense of gloom, as though all know, in one way or another, the ongoing campaign against them, the steadily encroaching glass and steel towers of the wealthy man’s world rising in the distance, threatening to soon cast their shadows on this working man’s redoubt, to soon after invade and conquer this neighbourhood, taking for themselves the spoils of war. It’s a deeply confusing time, a time when each of us is fully aware of what’s happening to us, what’s being done to us, but when none of us seem able to seize the moment and fight back. These evictions sweep across the working man’s neighbourhoods seemingly at random, the lack of any apparent pattern making clear their true purpose. These evictions aren’t meant to clear the working class apartment blocks of their residents so as to, in turn, clear the land for something more, but rather to perpetuate the state of fear the working man lives in, to terrorize those who would contemplate resistance to this oppression. Sometimes it seems the same families are evicted from the same apartment blocks over and over, a cruel joke perpetuated on the working man.

“You’re not the man you think you are,” Maria says. “What does that even mean?” Valeri asks, “we work all our lives for this meagre sum and when we become all used up we’re discarded like some broken tool. And they kick us out of our homes to tear them down and build their palaces, their great monuments to nothing at all. It’s not right! It’s not fair!” But once set alight, the working man’s passions cannot be contained, the current wave of demonstrations seeming to encompass all grievances in the aspirations of one man to realize his own destiny. In times like these, with the wealthy man and his managerial apparatchiks seem invincible, but men like Valeri can instinctively sense weakness in the strong and strength in the weak. Led by his instincts, Valeri already thinks to the future when he’ll become part of something more. In the world there’s a mounting tension, between countries and among them. All working men know it, but few have the wherewithal to talk about it, not in ways that might help reveal the critical truth. You see, Britain is a fallen power, and like so many other fallen powers she still dreams herself strong. As countries build up their military strength while beset by internal strife, they willingly set on a path towards a collision of powers. But the war in the offing will be unlike any the world has ever seen.

“When the war comes, what will you do?” asks Maria. “I won’t give my support to the war effort,” says Valeri. “You may not have a choice.”

“No one can force me to war.”

“You’ll be arrested for sedition.” A pause. “Why all this talk of war?” asks Valeri. And Maria doesn’t reply, not right away, letting a silence settle in the room. This meeting, this conversation is a forbidden act, forbidden not by law but by something far more sinister and far more powerful, the power of a taboo handed down from generation to generation long enough to become almost as instinct. But, Valeri knows, each such conversation, each word uttered amounts to an attack on the power of this taboo, in this and in every other conversation held across the country and around the world. Six months have passed since we’ve started following Valeri and the revolution simmering in the working class and winter’s almost on us.

For free, we look through this time and imagine ourselves not unlike our mothers and our fathers, whether living or dead. In the distance, a burst of gunfire rattles off, sounding like a firecracker. All England seems cast under permanent overcast skies, the temperate heat of the summer having given way to the pattering of a constant rain. It’s dark, it’s always dark, and in the darkness it sometimes seems, even to men as limited in their worldview as Valeri, that this is a darkness never to be brightened by hope. But there’s always hope.

7. An Eye For an Eye

People die, sometimes, killed in industrial accidents, and nothing changes. A few fines are levied and at the last possible moment duly paid. The working man watches as his own are killed, to the wealthy man each death an expense to be paid, an item in a ledger to be accounted for. A young man, crippled in his pursuit of his pittance, taken away in the back of an ambulance, never to be seen at work again. An older man, killed in the sale of his labour for his own pittance, never to be seen or heard from again. As there’ll be wrangling, back and forth, letters sent and calls exchanged, but nothing ever changes. The working man loses a friend, a brother, all for want of money. In the meanwhile, events in the world at large have begun to overtake the deaths of men, a factory’s closure somewhere halfway across the country met, this time, not with muted ambivalence but with anger, defiant workers seizing control of their shut-down factory and refusing to leave until their demands for compensation are met. Fear of death keeps men like Stanislaw Czerkawski under the thumb of their paymasters, enslaved to their pittance. Now, Stanislaw cleans a floor at the shopping centre when his ruthless boss calls him back into the office and says, “you’re only a Polack, and I can find a hundred more like you in a day.” The sudden assault stuns Stanislaw. “Now keep in line,” says his boss, “or you’ll be out on the street picking through trash for food.” Though Stanislaw doesn’t know this, the boss is fully aware of the conversations had by the workers among themselves. Mocked and belittled by racists as simple, dirty Polacks, Stanislaw and his family have little choice but to struggle for whatever little wages they can.

It’s a tense moment, and the fears of a thousand generations have all led to it, the chance seeming self-evident to make a stand and prove, once and for all, on the strength of the working man’s will. The more radical among the occupiers talk of fighting; but theirs is a small voice, the few among the many, and as the police surround their factory and wait for nightfall before turning on powerful lights. Then, they wait, the darkness lingering outside as they cut the factory’s power, in the hot summer’s night the thick, humid air soon invading, straining will and faltering discipline, over the next few days the standoff lingering like the odour of dead flesh left to rot. At the armoury, rumours abound of the brigade’s surely impending deployment abroad. Gunnery exercises are rare, interspersed with endless cleaning and polishing of the guns. But still the Colonel comes to inspect the troops wearing his finely-pressed, perfectly-creased uniform. It gives Private Thompson the impression the prospect of war excites rather than troubles the Colonel. Later, in the barracks with the others Thompson says, “he thinks it the chance to make a name for himself.” Another trooper says, “he comes from a long line of officers. He traces his lineage back to the War of the Roses. He sees war as a gentleman’s endeavour.” The men agree this is abhorrent, but their chance to act on this agreement is not yet at hand.

The stench of decaying infuses every breath Valeri draws in, his nemesis Ruslan having been promoted to some modest level of power. Every day, the shop could shut down; amid the chaos outside Ruslan stops Valeri and says, “it’s high time a good-for-nothing like you was sent packing.” Valeri says, “I support them and I don’t hide my support,” before looking Ruslan right in the eye. But Ruslan only says, “and if your attitude could cost you your livelihood?” Valeri says, you have nothing to threaten me with. You can take away my job, but I’ve been through worse.” Then, Valeri turns and walks away. The move to Surrey takes Garrett Walker and his family some weeks, and they make it out of their old home on the very last day. It’s hard to understand what’s happened to them, except in the most basic, visceral way. The morning after they’ve moved in with his wife’s mother, Garrett wakes in the flat surrounded by boxes and crates, having only slept a little that night. “I’m not much of a man,” he says, “if I have no work and no home. Look at my family, kept up in this tiny flat. I should have the chance to do better.” But even his wife’s mother lives in fear of eviction, at any time the criminal bankers to decide her simple flat worthy of being torn down to make way for luxury towers for profit of another. It makes little sense to people like Garrett, how the wealthy can keep on hastily assembling their towers in the midst of England’s, Europe’s descent into madness and civil war. Too late will he realize the truth.

In truth, there have been many demonstrations since the failed rising fifteen years ago, many haphazard strikes scattered here and there. Even some of them have seen raids like the one that’s burned the union hall to the ground, though such raids have taken place far less often than the strikes that precipitate them. Men like Valeri are still young enough to muster passions not yet dulled and worn by the passage of so much time, and it’s for this reason the future of our rising lies in the hearts of men like him, if only they could see it. Still we’re in that uncertain early period, with the demonstrations of one kind or another so regular an occurrence that they’ve come to blend in with the cityscape, as though inserted by some skilled painter then subtly disguised by the blending of colours around the edges. At a meeting of concerned parishioners, Darren Wright and Sheila Roberts hear myriad views. It’s in a basement beneath a disused shop, dim, with leaky pipes and a smell Darren can’t quite place. “The church has no authority when it consents to war on the working class,” says the speaker, an older man. “Where Christ lives,” says the speaker, “so is there the working class liberation. Our church has no grand palaces, no ostentatious vestments on its priests, no obsession with ritual, no empty shrines. This church must remain as it is, and our church not only lives but thrives wherever the working man yearns in his heart for freedom.” All present, perhaps thirty, shout their agreement. Darren notices, as the meeting runs its course, there’re Catholics and Protestants alike at this underground church, the rogue priest assuring his new congregants, “all are welcome in a House of God.” The experience sends a shiver running the length of Darren’s spine, and he becomes convinced in an instant this is where he is meant to be. Darren returns to his church but does not tell the priest nor anyone else what he’s heard, keeping to himself the burgeoning spirit that will soon come to commit him irrevocably to the coming war. As it is written in Matthew 24:6, ‘And ye shall hear of wars and rumours of wars: see that ye be not troubled: for all these things must come to pass, but the end is not yet.’ Not condoning of war, the rogue priest is declaring to his newfound flock they must be ready at all times for no man can know when all will be called to account.

At the polytechnic, word has spread of the coming protest, with Sean Morrison and his fellow students breathlessly declaring the impending occupation of the streets like a religious zealot confidently predicting the imminent apocalypse. “Our fight is to stop the government from increasing our fees,” says Sean, “but it’s more than that. What use is our degrees and diplomas if we become part of the apparatus used by the rich to expropriate wealthy from the poor?” Sean’s helming a gathering in the polytechnic’s main square, with some dozens of students and the odd member of faculty listening in at any given moment. “There have been many demonstrations over the years,” says Sean, “but ours will be something more!” Already the demonstrations in the streets of London, Manchester, Liverpool, and all the other cities in Britain have reached a fever pitch, the loose alliance of students from across the country standing as one. It’s exactly this moment the traitor in their midst should choose to turn his trust in.

At the shop Valeri nearly come to blows over the way of things. “I’ve had enough of your provocations,” Valeri says, “I can’t stand one more word from your tongue.” But Ruslan lets Valeri have at it, seeming to enjoy watching Valeri dig his own grave. A couple of other workers watch, Albert Nelson one of them. “I’ve always worked harder than you,” Valeri says, “and I won’t be much good to anyone if I can barely stand on my feet.” Ruslan studies Valeri’s face with a look somewhere between contempt and pity. Finally, Ruslan says, “you don’t look so good. It’s all their fault. They ought to have let you go long before now. They’ve been too busy with all these difficulties to notice. But I notice. I’ve had my eye on you for some time.” With the threat of unemployment and thus starvation hanging over their heads at all times, most working men in this day and age would be fearful of such a threat. But Valeri’s lacking in an instinct for self-preservation combined with his intense passion against injustice lead him to only to give himself over to rebellion.

One man looks at another and says, “they’re clearing out.” Elsewhere, another man looks down the street and says, “it’s all right for them to leave.” Still elsewhere in the city another man looks out his window on the busy street and says, “they’re sure to kick us all out of our own homes and tell us it’s our business to find a place to live. But they’ve already taken the other places from us!” It’s written, somewhere, an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth. In it, we sometimes see murderers put to death under the guise of this fairness. Yet, as some worker is killed at work, he is killed by the choices his wealthy paymasters have made in the name of their own profit, his killing accounted for, marked as another line-item drawn against another expense, the persons who made those choices still free to return to their mansions in their gated communities while a family across town faces a bleak future without their pittance to see them through. Meanwhile, Valeri continues to work for the same basic wage, returning every day as he had. Not yet broken, only battered and bruised he comes home exhausted as ever, still there to see his roommate Hannah come home in bloodstained scrubs from another hard day’s night. At the shop, Valeri’s latest run-in with Ruslan has had some effect. “Stop your noise,” says Ruslan, “or you’ll get more than you bargained for.” But Valeri’s insistent, saying, “I’ll speak my piece no matter what. If the truth earns me a target on my back, then I say let there be a target on my back all the same.” Valeri takes a half-step toward his tormentor and nearly lashes out at him with both fists when the fear of losing his job stops him. But the point is made. This is among Valeri’s glimpse of the bottommost depths of life, the very ugliest of its poverty. It’s like the musty, mouldy stench of swamp rot wafting up to him from some unseen point below, and he reaches so eagerly for it.

Among the men Valeri works with, there’s chatter. “There’s been nobody in authority for two weeks,” says one. “If you know too much you’ll get old too soon,” says another. “Sooner or later we ought to make a stand,” says a third. Whether one man or one thousand men, it makes no difference. All are valued; in the death of one, all die, as the smallest grain of sand may contain all creation. Halfway across the country, the workers who’ve seized their shut-down factory don’t know what to expect; they leave doors unlocked and windows open, daring the police to come in and arrest them, expecting to make their point that way. But the police are more cunning than this. The police sit and wait, manning their post outside the factory’s doors, while the local politicians make a show for the cameras out of negotiating, talking, always talking, drawing out the moment just long enough to let the working man’s passions cool, once cooled his passions allowing in a shade of doubt. Soon, the working man agrees to a pittance, in the heat of the moment their pittance seeming like a fortune. It’s been but a few days, perhaps a week since these workers took control of their yet-shuttered factory, in that time much having happened in the world, treaties signed, laws written on scraps of paper and passed, only to be evaded by those who passed them, loopholes sought, terms creatively interpreted, the essence of law building into itself the very mechanisms used to undermine it. When the workers return to their homes, pittance in hand, they resign themselves to the reality of life after death, and after a night or two of drinking and dancing each of them sets themselves about the task of finding their next sustenance, from wherever it may come. We don’t understand what they’ve done, what they’ve been through, and neither do they.

In the midst of this current crisis, Valeri sits in the dark and thinks of Maria, imagining her caught on the street in this latest blackout, until he can stand it no longer. All have roles to play, he’s slowly realizing, in the darkness of his factory’s cavernous innards the light dawning on him like the rising sun. Still we’re in that uncertain early period, even after the failure of this latest general strike still other strikes and demonstrations carrying on, the streets filled with the working man and his natural allies the student and the parishioner, still seeming to effect no change as the wealthy man continues his work in the background to put up so many glass and steel towers in a fevered bid to wring every last ounce of wealth from the world before the real war begins. An eye for an eye, the real war will call for, every humiliation and every injustice to be paid back in the eruption of an unvarnished rage. While the working man lives in poverty, the wealthy man far away lives in lavish opulence, but it’s a lavish opulence that can never last.

The working man dies, yet still the wealthy man carries on in his wealth, paying not with his own life but with some small amount of time and money, each of which he has in abundance. None will soon be ready to commit themselves to change, stuck as they are in acting out their assigned roles, reading from a yet-unwritten script. After the workers accept their pittance and leave, their factory is shuttered for the last time, to be torn down, the land underneath to be left for the weeds to reclaim. It’s a small episode, otherwise lost in the hurried transition from one stage of history to the next, and in the wealthy man’s world the act of preserving memory of this episode becomes a small act of subversion. Even as there are no laws forbidding talk of what’s happened, nor recording, transmitting, storing any account of it, knowledge becomes overwritten by the endless stream of not-knowledge and soon the whole episode becomes forgotten in the world at large. “If only we had a chance,” says a man in the street out in front of a church after one Sunday service. “I wish the rebels would come back,” says another man, “We’re all going to get something for our troubles,” says a third. These men have been out of work too long, pathetic and hopeless men pushed to the edge of starvation, almost ready to receive the gospel.

But it’s not so simple. As the working man dies, he’s made to suffer the indignities in death he was made to suffer in life, hauled around and thrown out like a diseased and rotting piece of meat, disposed of so that his little box of a living space can be cleared to make room for another, and after that another, then another, then another, human capital collected and expended for nothing but the profit of another. This elderly man, no one knows how he spent his life working for his pittance in the once-bustling mills in the hinterlands of the province far to the north, on the closing of those mills despair chasing him to the city far to the south. Thereupon, this not yet elderly man became as one with the bulk of the working man’s mass, and in so becoming he losing the very essence of his being, becoming alienated from that which he’d been and reducing himself to the level of an object to be manipulated for the profit of his better. In Valeri’s mind, his work comes not from a place of necessity but from a place of courage, in the face of his own survival choosing to disregard his own self and press forward. Still he works behind the scenes, attending meetings held not in secret but in the open, churches standing in for the burnt union halls. It’s at one such meeting when he meets a young pastor who changes his life, forever.

In the future, this sort of action will take place on a grander scale, but as it’s already come to be. While these workers have ended their occupation and returned to their homes, fires burn across the country and around the world. The wealthy man continues his campaign to cram the working man into steadily shrinking plots of land, in the urban landscape so many made to live in steadily fewer neighbourhoods, no new homes in these forcing the working man into ghettoes, driving the working man not by force of arms but by force of politics. An explosion, sudden, lights up the night in a burst of orange and golden flame, the imminent arrival of storm troopers met with rifle fire, scattering blood and bone across the city’s street. It lasts only a moment, but in that moment another life’s taken, another young man cut down in the prime of his life. Sirens wail, ambulances speed here and there, the local hospital is overwhelmed with casualties, with broken bones and shattered backs and gunshot wounds piercing right through shoulders and arms and necks, tiled floors and gloved hands soon drenched in blood as nurses work frantically to save lives. Amid the chaos a stale smell rises into the air, from the burnt-out storefronts and from the charred remains of upturned trucks and buses the acrid stench lingering like the memory of a still-fading nightmare in the early hours of a long afternoon. “I don’t know if I can answer that,” Sydney says. Valeri had asked her if she’d stay with him until the end. She’s been here all along; in fact, it’s she who brought Valeri to this church and introduced him personally to the pastor. Valeri’s not been a religious man much in his life, but still he clings in his heart to the hope offered in a spiritual awakening. An essential moment has been reached, if only men like Valeri could know it. Amid the exploding of bombs and the rattling of gunfire in the night, there’s hope, there’s always hope. It’s at this church, which Valeri will never attend again, that he meets Sergei, one of Sydney’s childhood friends. They shake hands firmly, and at once Valeri senses Sergei’s a man to be trusted, a good friend. Later that night, Sydney tells him how she and Sergei had grown up together, attended all the same schools, kept in touch even as adulthood separates so many good childhood friends. He’ll die, later, a tragedy hardly unique in these troubled times.

In the ranks of the striking workers there’s a young woman named Andrea Newman, and she works not because she needs to earn an income but because she needs to sell her labour to feed her family. But as she’s become lost in a hopeless depression, she can only muster the energy to force herself through each day at her thankless job waiting tables at a restaurant attached to a casino. Sometimes, she sees the columns of black smoke rising from fires halfway across the city, juxtaposed against a screen somewhere nearby broadcasting news of the latest factory’s closure, the smiling, perfectly-groomed talking heads briefly mentioning the workers to be put out of work. Sometimes, she sees the news which makes her reflect on where she’s been, on all that’s led up to this moment, to what would turn out to be a seminal moment not only in our shared history but in her own life as well. Soon, Andrea loses her livelihood-no, it’s taken from her, in the act of one wealthy man meeting with another and conspiring to rearrange imaginary lines on a sheet somewhere. It makes no sense to Andrea; she’s always taken to her work with the same careful touch and with the same diligence. Now, cast aside like some old piece of machinery deemed not worth fixing, she pauses to think on what to do next. It’s an impossible torture to be made to feel like an object, a tool manipulated by your betters for their own benefit only to be discarded when no longer needed. For Andrea, through no fault of her own she now must contemplate a near-future littered with dreams broken and fires smouldering still into the night. Not far away, Andrea leaves her home with her daughters, taking refuge in with an aunt she’s not seen in years. With no other means to provide for her daughters, she takes to selling her body on the street at night when no one will see her. At the best of times it’s dangerous work, but during these troubled times to walk the streets at night in search of cash it’s an invitation for every predator to take by force. Some nights Andrea sees no work wander her way; these nights come to be common. But worse are the nights when she’s taken by some thug who then refuses to pay her and strikes her with his fist. She learns quickly not to press them, but still she can’t avoid the men who would beat her black and blue. Pushed to life on the margins, she hides in the darkness of the night’s shadows, able to shroud herself in the shadows only a shade darker than the night. It’s in the shadows the future lies, Andrea among that class of people who count among the most pathetic and hated among us.

For Andrea Newman, though she feels a void in her brought on by years of hard living and utter loneliness still she feels the call of the rebel, that tugging on her heart we all feel whenever instinct rises against education. For Andrea, the walk home at night, one night, sees her looking not at her feet in despair but into the sky behind the apartment blocks flanking the street, at the dull, orange haze created by the fires of liberation burning in the distance. She steps gingerly along the cracked, cratered sidewalk, her body having learned to recite the movements of the walk home each night in the way that only the working man can, and she leans on memories to push her through this current crisis. Her father, her mother, ordinary workers them, each working wherever some small pittance could be meted out to them every other week. They’ve been made to lose their jobs, deprived of their livelihoods in the time it’s taken one of the wealthy man’s many apparatchiks to dash a line across a form on a screen somewhere no one’s ever heard of. But it’s the pain she feels in her heart, radiating out along her nerves to every point in her body that makes her feel alive, like every point in her body has been doused in gas and set alight. She has two young daughters as well, having fled with them only a few years earlier from a man who beat her whenever he took too much to the bottle. There are so many threads needling through our lives, and in these times of disorder and distrust we can only realize our destiny in embracing the horror. Next, we strike.

8. An Icy Heat

A crowd forms around Victory Monument, angry like all the others, chanting slogans and holding signs that accuse the wealthy man of various crimes. A crowd forms, made up of people who are afraid whenever they’re singled out but who become emboldened whenever they combine into a single mass. A crowd forms, giving us a taste of what’s to come, but only a taste, like the first drop of water falling on a thirsty man’s tongue after years of wandering the desert. As the crowd gathers, so gather the storm troopers, a handful of them standing around the edges of the crowd, strategically positioning themselves at the entrances to alleys, on steps in front of apartment blocks, at the intersections of streets feeding into the square, only waiting until the crowd has mostly assembled to move in. The storm troopers rely on experience to steady their nerves when confronted by an overwhelming number of angry people. Still the voices of working men speak in hushed tones, exchanging subversive thoughts, saying things like, “our strike may be broken but our spirit never will be,”

“the fire has been kindled and it can’t be put out anymore,” and “may the dead not have died in vain!” As Valeri lives among them, he looks up sometimes and sees flying overhead jets belonging to the air force, in formation, it suddenly occurring to him these are times of intimidation. Still in this early period open sedition is confined to the apartment blocks and the sprawling shantytowns wherein the working class live, in the distance the wealthy man’s gleaming, glass-and-steel towers looming as a stark reminder of the invasion drawing nearer with each day.

Nothing will happen, not this time, nothing besides a few broken bones and a few scraped knees. As the crowd thins out, the storm troopers linger just long enough to see the last of the troublemakers leave, once satisfied the day has passed and the threat has faded returning to their barracks as they’d started out the day. Most of the troopers felt no anxiety, no fear at being confronted with such a crowd, but there’s one young trooper among them who through he’d never make it through the day. There’s always at least one. Before Sean Morrison and the other students from the polytechnic can join in, the police move in. With military precision they arrest the leaders of all the student groups, Sean in the hall when the police break in and push him to the ground. There’s a lot of screaming and shouting but no blood is spilled, Sean soon cuffed in the back of a lorry along with the other student leaders. Speeding for the station, the police put him in a cell and leave him without having said a word to him through this whole affair. But Sean’ll be back out soon enough. Most of the students taken in by the raids will be, too. The police don’t have much evidence against any of the students, and they’ve broken too many laws themselves in bringing the students in. But the damage is done. The police have waited until the students and their consciousness reached its apex, then moved in, throwing the student groups into chaos. Sitting in his cell with the others, Sean thinks himself a fool for having traded in dissent so openly. But when he walks out of jail the next day to the embrace of friends and family, he’s learned a valuable lesson that he’ll soon put to good use.

In a few months, when there comes the moment at which a definitive moment will be reached, all it will take is that one trooper, perhaps not this particular trooper but some other, to give in to a moment of weakness. And when one of them gives in to weakness, so will another, then another, then another, all of them faltering at exactly the moment when they, for their own sake and for the sake of the wealthy man they serve, should be steadying themselves again. This time, Hannah can’t make it in to the hospital, the trains having been shut down and the streets closed to all traffic, leaving her no way to get to work.

“Well, now we’ll see what comes next,” she says to herself, “but what is there to talk about?”

A young man named Lawrence Jackson accompanies her, having met her only some weeks earlier in the middle of a power outage on one of those long summer nights.

“Who’s room is that?” he asks, pointing at Valeri’s.

“My roommate’s,” she says, “but he’s out all the time. Working. Taking part in these rallies. He likes to think of himself as a rebel. But so far all he’s rebelled against is good housekeeping.” She turns back towards Lawrence. “But enough of that,” she says, “we’ll leave as soon as the power comes back on or dawn breaks. Whichever comes first.”

“Am I interfering?” he asks.

But she doesn’t answer. Instead, she leans in for a kiss. In the basement of that disused shop, Darren Wright listens intently to the impassioned sermons delivered by the rogue priest. The police raids and the mass unemployment have driven the faithful in increasing numbers to these underground ministries; once only some dozens, now hundreds visit this particular priest to hear the gospel of revolution. Tonight, the priest declares, “and in the book of Acts, chapter five, verse twenty nine, the apostle Peter declared ‘we ought to obey God rather than men.’ Brothers and sisters, we have seen the police evict the working class from our homes, and we have seen the police arrest they who would deign to take to the streets in outcry.” All are taking in every word, amid the leaky pipes and the damp, mildew-laden air the fire and fury reaching the hearts of every man and woman. The priest continues, “in the Bible we are taught to ‘heal the sick, raise the dead, cleanse the lepers, cast out demons.’ Brothers and sisters, I tell you this: if we are to answer this call to ministry, we must cast out the demons who have lived in our government, who seize the fruits of our labour from us, and who use force against us should we dare oppose them. In service of Christ we must willingly enslave ourselves to the cause!” Again Darren feels the electric sensation running the length of his spine, compelling him to shout out, “amen!” Soon enough this rogue ministry will surge to the forefront and make its own war for the salvation of the working man. As it is written in 2 Corinthians 10:4-5, ‘For the weapons of our warfare are not carnal, but mighty through God to the pulling down of strong holds; casting down imaginations, and every high thing that exalteth itself against the knowledge of God, and bringing into captivity every thought to the obedience of Christ.’ And so Darren knows their ragged, haggard congregation not only will but must inevitably surmount the overwhelming power massed against them; in fact, their time is sooner than any could know.

It’s the second kiss they’ve exchanged throughout their friendship. Laurence, who had been with his share of women since he was a teenager, thinks of this woman as different, the experience of having taken in with her making him feel so much younger than he was. He breathes in the perfume of her hair and seems to see her eyes in the darkness. “I love you, Hannah,” he says. “Don’t say that,” she says. “Why not?” he asks. “It doesn’t lead to good things when men say that to me,” she says. “Then why am I here?” he asks. She doesn’t have an answer. Theirs is a secret romance, secret even to either of them. As if to punctuate the silence, a distant explosion rattles walls and shakes glass like a rolling thunder, the night guaranteed to be dark. It’s only a gas tank at some industrial state bursting into flames, but neither Hannah nor Lawrence know it. Hiding out, they make it through the night, fearing to fall asleep in each other’s arms they sleep in either room. In the streets outside Garrett Walker’s new residence, there’s the noise of sirens wailing and the cracking thunder of gunfire in the distance. Since taking up residence with his mother-in-law, Garrett’s found work, here and there, odd jobs fixing leaky pipes and broken-down cars, never enough to support a family. But when his daughter doesn’t come home one afternoon, he takes to the streets in search of her. Though only sixteen, she’d taken to hanging at a local college in Surrey, and it was at this college when she was caught up in the police raids. It mattered little that she was only a casual observer. The police took in anyone who looked at them cross. After some hours, while he’s in the middle of searching through a back alley his phone rings in his back pocket, inspiring in him a creeping dread. It’s his wife. She says, “they’ve got her.” Immediately he turns back, through the twilight’s shadows a desperation welling up in him, as though some part of him fears by the time he makes it to the station his daughter will already be dead.

But we’re not quite there yet. In the night, a blackout strikes, this not one of sabotage but still enacted deliberately. The signs are already mounting of the impending collapse, not of the way of things but of the current boom, brought about not by the working man’s mounting resistance but by the wealthy man’s repeating cycle of greed. Looking out across the city, already the skeletal towers are reaching higher for the sky than ever before, the wealthy man in a frenzy to wring every last ounce of wealth from the way of things before it all goes up in smoke. After Valeri’s spent the night in the streets, shouting and screaming and hurling abuse at the officers who stand them down, he returns to the mill and finds posted to the front door a notice of closure. Looking back, he sees the short, stocky figure of Murray beside the taller, lankier figure of a man named Arthur Bennington. “What is this?” Valeri asks. “The boss came around twice,” Murray says, “he’s been looking high and low for someone to take his place but couldn’t find anyone. He’s afraid to let the plant run with only his subordinates in charge—he thinks they’ll be too weak and the workers will just do whatever they want.” Valeri laughs. “He’s right! If the managers all quit and we ran this place ourselves it would be in much better shape. Safer, too!” Murray nods, and says, “yes, I know that. And so does Arthur Bennington.”

At the armoury, the Colonel arrives to inspect the troops, looking entirely out of place in his finely-pressed uniform. Standing at a podium before the assembled brigade, he says, “you men are the finest in this army. Though we are at peace now, the time may come when you are called to war. You may even be called to bring peace to the streets of your own country. Whatever the task required, know that in all things we shall all remain steadfastly committed to God, Country, and King.” Private Thompson stifles a chuckle. But others can’t help themselves. The Colonel looks equally mortified and betrayed. The whole brigade, after the inspection ends, is made to stand in formation for eight hours straight, then retires to immediate lights out. Still Craig Thompson whispers along with the rest of the troops, already thinking of the day when they’ll serve their own. But this seditious line of thinking must end, Craig’s nagging self-doubt seems to say, before it takes them all to a place where none of them can go. Murray’s companion hasn’t said anything, but looks Valeri in the eye with a steely gaze that seems to pierce through to his soul and bring out his innermost thoughts. “This one’s a good one,” says Arthur Bennington, his eyes never wavering from Valeri’s, “but he’s got much to learn.” It’s a small encounter in the grand scheme of things, and when the plant reopens a few days later Arthur Bennington’s nowhere to be found. No one’s heard of him, either. It’s as though he’s a ghost. But Valeri knows he exists. Imperceptibly, a friendship springs up between them, such a small thing in this day and age, but as the world burns in an icy heat Valeri must carefully consider who he takes among his friends. As men like him struggle to make ends meet, the wealthy continue to encroach on their neighbourhoods, the sleek, glass-and-steel towers seeming to draw nearer every day. It’s only a matter of time, Valeri thinks, until they’ll be forced to stand and fight for the right to stay in their own homes. Valeri, for one, can only look forward to it like the starving man salivating at the thought of a feast.

“Come on, put your back into it!” shouts the boss at Stanislaw and the rest of the workers. Halfway through the night perhaps ten migrant workers, Stanislaw among them, have been mustered to put up fortifications around a police station not far from Victory Monument. “We’re already four days behind! Work faster or you’re all fired!” shouts the boss. Though it’s dark, floodlights mounted on tripods make the street outside the station bright as day. Stanislaw erects fencing topped with barbed wire while others assemble walls from cement panels. But when he stops to mop his brow he thinks of his wife and children here in England and the rest of his family still living in a small town outside Krakow, Poland. “You there!” shouts the boss, “I’m not going to tell you again!” His rebellious instinct stifled for a moment, he turns back to the fence, fumbling with it while looking out of the corner of his eye at the boss, unsure how much longer he could stand the man. In the morning Hannah ventures into the street, finding the crowds dispersed and a sense of normalcy returned. For all the screaming and the shouting, still the way of things remains firmly lodged in place. Factories close, then reopen, the closed and the open occupying the same time and space. Hannah is an oddity, a woman who sees the best outcome among a sea of equally unpalatable possibilities. “We’ll be all right,” she says, “as long as we stay together.” She’s talking to Whitney, each smoking a cigarette while on break. They lean against a brick wall and look into the dimly-lit haze of the late-summer’s night. “We’ve spent our whole lives preparing for a future that can never be,” says Whitney, “and now we have a choice to make.” Hannah draws the last drag off her cigarette and then flicks it away. “I’m very tired,” she admits, to herself as much as to Whitney. Hannah thinks to tell Whitney of her budding affair with the stranger named Lawrence, but decides against it. With power failures common, bombs exploding and gunfire rattling in the streets, and the smashing of windows and the shouting of angry voices, practical concerns demand full attention. In the middle of the night, the women see in themselves what they want to see, if only for this rare moment of honesty. But events are mounting, quickly, quietly in the background yet soon to surge forth. In the meanwhile, always in the meanwhile we wait, Hannah and Whitney tending back to that rare slow night in the A&E, like everywhere else in the world today a place where crisis could erupt at any moment. But we’re not there yet.

After this latest demonstration the working man returns to work, in the morning the streets cleared of debris, the few patches of dried blood mopped up to make way for the trucks and buses that trundle along these roads every day and every night. At work, this day, the working man works a little slower than usual, not enough to be noticeable at a moment’s glance but still enough to be measurable by the programs used to maintain a steady watch over him. Nerves rattled, many of Valeri’s friends and colleagues talk. “Not so far as you think,” says Murray, talking to Valeri in the aftermath of this latest strike. “How can you say that?” Valeri asks. “Things can only get so much worse,” says Murray. Having returned to work, Valeri finds himself dispirited. The days seem slower and longer, more tiring. Even the noise and the bright lights of the floor seem to have dulled. It might seem Valeri’s too tired to give much of himself, and it’s true. Even as he’s too tired to move, he moves. He knows how to do nothing else. Still he wishes only to return to the street for one more chance at venting his anger. “Are you sure you can see through this?” asks Murray, looking Valeri in the eye.

“I may not know much,” Valeri says, “but I know silence will help no one but the rich.” And Valeri is not alone. In truth, the working man knows that he must work harder than he does, not for his own benefit nor for the benefit of his wealthy paymaster but for the benefit of us all. Every day he works advances him towards his fate. Every day he fails to work delays the advent of his fate. Acutely, this struggle against the self has become like a fight. In times like these, Valeri finds the fight to push forward and reach for the new day. From the floor, he sometimes looks up and catches the eye of the company’s owner, a bald, fat man wearing spectacles. His name’s Noel, but most refer to him as Mr. Kennedy. Although Valeri has been working diligently and quietly through the day, the momentary glimpse exchanged between them from this distance makes clear the burning animosity between them. Mr. Kennedy doesn’t know Valeri, probably doesn’t even know Valeri’s name, but that’s not important. As Valeri has come around to realizing his place in the working man’s rising consciousness, he sees in Mr. Kennedy something he’s never seen before even as he’s seen it all along. The boss is still here. The boss rarely comes around, but when he does his presence is felt by the pair of eyes looking down from that office high above the floor.

After this latest demonstration the streets are reclaimed by the way of things, the current order seizing them anew from the temporary occupation by the angry crowd. Still war rages that we can’t see, lying beyond the sight of men like Valeri. Every minute of every day we are immersed in a sea of grey from top to bottom, the firm, steady scrutiny of a tight fit strained across his broad, powerful back. In some visceral way it’s never seemed right, the fit and the strong working men like him answering to the authority of a balding man who grows fat off the work of others even as he’s never done a day of honest work in his life. But Valeri doesn’t know the bosses like Mr. Kennedy have been nursing a bitter hatred for the men and women who took part in the failed rising fifteen years ago. It’s only Mr. Kennedy’s ignorance of Valeri’s mother and father having taken part in the failed rising that keeps Valeri employed. This is not because Mr. Kennedy lost much of anything; a few profits can’t compare to the loss of loved ones. But hatred and recrimination are the way of the wealthy, something Valeri has come to learn at some great cost. It matters little, though, who the individuals are that may yet achieve the advance of our history from one page to the next. Whether Mr. Kennedy has his way or not, the sort of person he is will have their way with the future.

A young man named Sherman Ross has little to lose, in seemingly forever without even a pittance to sustain his hopes for the future. He hasn’t worked a steady job in many years, sometimes given the chance as a day labourer selected only when needed to tear down working class apartments or put up in their place luxury quarters for the wealthy bankers who never seem to come around. His muscles and lean and sinewy, and callouses cover his hands and feet. The clothes he wears have holes, some of the holes small but grouped together in clusters, others gaping wide but lonely. His stomach sometimes growls, but he silences it with a glass of water and an unfiltered cigarette with nothing but Chinese characters all over the package. Twenty-seven is too young to have lost hope, yet here he is, made to watch as screens boldly proclaim the rising in value of some imagined figure making them all wealthier than ever before. Sherman Ross is much too young to be so jaded, so cynical on his lot in life. But Sherman sees the gleaming, glass and steel towers reaching for the sky in the distance and feels an instinctive anger rising from his heart. Sherman sees on his screens triumphant declarations of new projects built, promises of lavish new quarters of the city to be built, even fanciful proclamations of a bold, new vision for the city marked by gleaming spires and a dazzling array of multi-coloured lights. It’s all a fraud. Sherman can never know belonging in this new world taking shape all around him, something he realizes in a purely instinctive, guttural way, like an animal sensing the gathering storm. Out of work, he looks on the unrest in the streets and he joins in, not to further a cause or help wage war but to vent his rage, in hurling bricks and smashing glass adding his own voice to the chorus. Though young men like him can’t know it, limited as they are in their vision to the ground right in front of them, their undisciplined and misguided outbursts are like the sowing of the fields, with the reaping to come only when enough blood has been shed to make the land fertile again. Already at war, we see the fires of liberation burning into the night, accompanied by the intermittent rattling of gunfire and the muffled thud of bombs going off.

Still one event has transpired that gives us a glimpse of the very near future, in the time it’s taken for one moment to yield to the next a sense of impending doom invading the streets like a thick fog seeping in from the sea. As night falls, the flashing lights and the wailing sirens sound out through the darkness and pierce the restless murmur of the thousand-and-one voices lingering in the background. In the midst of a planned power outage, one young man cast out on the street takes his last breath before his now-lifeless body slumps over. A life extinguished, one of so many, in the darkness of the night a banner flying, invisible to all but the few among the working man’s ranks who’ve read the forbidden book, acquired the forbidden knowledge, soon to be given the opportunity to put it to good use.

9. An Intemperate Nature

A knock on the door in the middle of the night wakes the working man suddenly, and he leaps out of bed at the sound. Another knock, then another, then another, while the working man pulls on clothes and makes good his escape through his bedroom’s window. This is not what’s happened here today, but in another time, another place, leaving the working man alone and confused as storm troopers sift through his things in search of something that isn’t there. After a traumatic day, the working man ought to have a peaceful night, his peace interrupted by the braying of horns and by the wailing of sirens pouring in through his open window. Not entirely unaware of what’s going on in the streets below, the working man thinks to fight back with whatever means he has; it’s in this mindset that men like Valeri find themselves longing to lash out. In Valeri’s little apartment block, the storm troopers move, barging through doors, knocking down old men and frightening little children in search of something that isn’t there. Moving floor by floor, flat by flat, the storm troopers soon make their way closer to Valeri’s. Roused from bed, he crouches half-naked, Sydney at his side.

At the police station it’s to take weeks for Stanislaw and the rest of the crew to fortify the place. In that time Stanislaw sees the police lorries go out empty and come back full of prisoners many times. The nights are long and made longer by the gnawing guilt in the back of his mind. At home, he tells his wife, “I feel guilty for working to help the police become stronger while they keep going out and arresting ordinary people.” In the dining room, she passes him a cup of coffee before pouring her own. He says, “I know we have to make ends meet and we can’t afford to upset our pay. But how I’d like to put that ruthless boss in his place.” His wife sits next to him, and reassures him simply by resting her hand on his and giving a warm but firm touch. But the storm troopers pass him by, and he looks out only when the morning has come and the last of the troopers has left. In their wake they leave shattered glass, holes punched in walls, and broken bones. This attack, this current wave of invasions into the working man’s homes in an attempt to root out subversive elements is but the instinctive reaction of the wealthy man and his political apparatchiks against the burgeoning movement which should one day seize what’s rightfully his.

After the inspection, Private Thompson and the rest were punished for their show of insubordination further by confinement to their barracks and a stricter than ever regime of marching and mustering in formation. But it does little to quell the tensions. “Tell you what,” says one of the soldiers to Craig Thompson at night, “if that Colonel thinks we’re going to be his playthings so he can get some glory he’s sadly mistaken.” But Craig only murmurs something in response. In the early morning the whole brigade musters, then piles into the backs of their lorries, guns in tow, and makes for the range. But hardly a hundred yards out of the motor pool the first lorry breaks down. A few hundred yards later, the second breaks down. Less than a mile from the range and two more break down seemingly at once. These lorries haven’t been taken out of the motor pool in several months. The truck Craig’s in suffers mechanical trouble but doesn’t break down, the driver able to get back on the road and limp along in first gear, painfully rolling into the range’s garage two hours later. It’s deeply degrading for Craig and the rest of the troops to stand at the side of the road while the mechanic tinkers about in the engine, the scene playing itself out in the shadow of the small but still looming threat of war. In the midst of all these strikes, the shop where Valeri works can hardly stay open. Still petty concerns dominate. “If you keep on talking then everyone will hear,” says Ruslan, taunting Valeri with a wry, sly grin. “Let them hear, I’m going to wind up leaving this place anyways,” Valeri says, “I’d rather take my chances in the street than hang around this den of jackals. They spy on us, they threaten us, they treat us like dirt. And it’s always been this way. What good is staying around to earn enough to keep on starving for one more day.” By now, a few others are listening. “Keep talking,” Ruslan says, “and you’re going to get exactly what you want.” It’s a tense moment, and Valeri can hardly feel his face for the rage surging in him.

At the police station, Garrett Walker’s young daughter is already out of the cells by the time he arrives. It’s an outrage, and Garrett feels his anger rising with every step that he takes forward into the future. “It’s enough that we spend all our lives working to put up the palaces these parasites live in,” says Garrett, “they live off our backs for so many years while they let us keep only just enough to ward off starvation. It’s all a criminal act.” The other unemployed workers shout their agreement. A strange man near the back of the room looks on, silently measuring the mood of the workers. In the darkness of the night the passions of working men are roused, in ways they’ve not been since the failed rising fifteen years ago. And the rolling hills of Surrey have seen much bloodshed in that time, along with wailing and the gnashing of teeth. In the night, tonight, the unemployed workers assembled accomplish little but to vent their rage, each of them returning home to find their families in full agreement with the emerging consensus, soon their moment to be at hand. As an interim measure, the wealthy man arranges his holdings through a series of complicated measures meant only to conceal his crimes. But it’s more than something so simple as the concentration of power in the hands of a small group of people. It’s the way we’re all taught to look at the world. It’s the way we’re made to expect certain urges, certain thoughts and feelings whenever we look on our own that put in our minds certain ideas about how the world ought to work. It’s the way we’re built by those who were built before us, in turn by those who were built before them, given a set of instinctive ways of thinking by something larger than any of us, something that, itself, does not think or feel, and seeks only its own survival. “Valeri,” says Harpal, the two running into each other when next he arrives at the plant, “I hope you’ve learned your lesson. I expect you to be here every day.” The act of the plant’s resuming operations and taking back what workers who will come is meant not as an act of reconciliation but as an act of humiliation, clearly signalling to Valeri and the others on the futility of their struggle. Strike all you want, Harpal seems to be saying, but you’ll still wind up working here, enriching us. And so it is; with every smooth, rhythmic contraction and expansion of his muscles, that first day back and every day thereafter, Valeri surrenders a piece of himself to the day’s labour and in so surrendering allow his flesh and his spirit to be torn asunder. At the shop, Valeri says, “I go home tired and sore every night and still I get threats every day. I won’t sit still. We won’t live like this forever.”

“You might,” says Ruslan, “however long forever might be for people like you, if you’re not careful.” It’s clear to both Valeri and Ruslan they’re talking about much more than the job in front of them. But then Ruslan strikes a nerve, saying, “you’re going to wind up just like your parents.” But this is said with deliberate intent, although Valeri can’t see it for the anger that seizes control of him and compels him to lash out.

At the Anglican church which Darren Wright still attends, Father Bennett is acutely aware of the secret sermons held by the rogue church, though he knows not how many of his flock have been drawn to them. He stands at the pulpit and declares, “and in the Book of Matthew, chapter five, verse seventeen, Christ said ‘Think not that I am come to destroy the law, or the prophets: I am not come to destroy, but to fulfil.’ And in the Book of Romans, the epistle Paul wrote ‘the powers that be are ordained of God.’ My children, this is why we must turn away, even in these trying times, from the temptation to disobedience and rebellion.” There’s more, but Darren, Sheila, and the others hear little of it, after the sermon is over confusedly making for the across the vestibule and out into the street. But on his way out Darren spots the Father looking downcast, almost lonely. As it is written in 2 Corinthians 11:13-15, ‘For such are false apostles, deceitful workers, transforming themselves into the apostles of Christ. And no marvel; for Satan himself is transformed into an angel of light. Therefore it is no great thing if his ministers also be transformed as the ministers of righteousness; whose end shall be according to their works.’ In these trying times, men like Darren and women like Sheila have come to see Father Bennett as in service not of God but as a false apostle whose works are made of fraud.

It’s a troubling sight, with the tapping of the thousands of boots against the asphalt lending the scene a surreal mood. After Ruslan invoked the memory of Valeri’s dead parents, it was a step too far. Before he knows it, Valeri’s clenched fist shoots for Ruslan’s jaw, Valeri stopping himself with his knuckles just centimetres away. But Ruslan doesn’t flinch. It’s a seminal moment in Valeri’s life, one of many, but one which will only gain some significance in his own mind with the passage of so much time. Already it occurs to Valeri he’s lost his job, but he can’t simply walk away. He must make the managers take every painstaking step in forcing the inevitable, as the managers must resist every step forward for the workers against them. In the morning when next he turns up at the shop, Valeri’s hauled in for an interrogation, with Mr. Kennedy himself present. While Mr. Kennedy watches silently, the managers recall Valeri’s every sin, whether real or imagined, reaching back as long as he’s been working at the shop. He’s made to confess to them all; he refuses, then storms off, his intemperate nature giving him to an open display of melodramatic fury.

After the arrests, it seems to Sean Morrison there’s nowhere safe from the police raids. In truth, the failing of the student groups is their uncertainty over why they must strike. At the student hall, the room buzzes with the chatter of the polytechnic’s students who’ve assembled in response to the mass arrests. All eyes turn to a short, slender man who takes the stage and gives his speech. He uses terms they’ve heard before and know of in only the vaguest of ways, terms like ‘class warfare’ and ‘industrial democracy,’ Sean listening intently with all the others. In the wake of the arrests, they are more receptive than they’d have been. It’s as though a dark cloud, a noxious gas has seeped into the hall and expanded to fill every space within, lending a surreal sense to the scene. Men like Sean are caught in a trance, enraptured by this new speaker, from within the shadows emerging a presence that compels them all to this way of thinking they’ve all heard of before yet which seems so new and exciting nevertheless. It doesn’t take long. After Valeri storms off, he’s found by the managers, with a pair of muscular guards. “This is serious,” says Harpal. “I’m aware of that,” Valeri says. “I hope you are,” says Harpal, before making past him and down the floor towards the next returnee. She stops at every one. But she’s only discharging her duties, carried out on behalf and under the orders of men vastly more powerful and important than her. Valeri returns home that afternoon, the power of a pittance to sustain and to restrain him lost. “It’s not over,” says Murray, approaching from behind to rest a hand on Valeri’s shoulder. “Of course not,” says Valeri. “We must be relentless if we’re to succeed,” says Murray. They exchange nods, then part ways, for the rest of the day this exchange leading only to the next, and then the next, and the next. Murray speaks, from time to time, with a knowing look in his eyes assuring Valeri he must know more. It seems everyone knows, in some instinctive way, every person has their role to play and must play it through to its logical end in search of a meaning that was never there. But herein lies the problem. Any search for meaning inevitably leads to a confused and disoriented understanding of our difficult and tumultuous times, which only induces every player to keep on playing their roles. In the streets and on the factory floors across the country an increasingly desperate energy takes root, infusing itself into the teeming masses who act out impulsively, sometimes dangerously, not provoked but elicited nonetheless. In the morning the smoking, burnt-out remains of a working class apartment block collapses of its own accord into a pile of debris, the wreckage left to smoulder while the fires of liberation burn.

Not long after, news breaks of the impending closure of a factory not altogether far from the shop Valeri was recently fired from, a brief note made on the screens of the hundreds of men put out of work. Left unannounced but widely understood is the factory’s new home half a world away, to be manned not by men but by children, as so many factories already moved are manned, paid a fraction the wages British workers were paid. But the game’s afoot. In the morning a new gathering takes place, occupying the square around Victory Monument as all the others have, only this time the gathering fills the air with singing and shouting of slogans in one voice. It’s as though someone has begun to manipulate these people like a skilled conductor slowly teasing a symphony from his orchestra. And he’s almost got it. In this advanced stage of historical development, the way of things seems strong as ever, the wealthy man’s power so firmly entrenched that it seems as though it’s always been. As the storm troopers take their positions it becomes lost in the moment that they’re wearing the insignia of a forbidden army, one thought lost to the pages of a long-dead history. As these storm troopers look on, the working man assails himself against an imaginary foe, never more confident in his own assured tomorrow, losing sight of another’s today.

10. Days of Rage

There’s trouble in the streets. The sound of horns braying and of men angrily shouting slogans fills the air among the crowd gathered not far from the city centre. There’s always trouble in the streets, but today those troubles have surged to the forefront, if only for a short time. The face of our common enemy appears calm, dispassionate as he methodically contains the anger venting in the streets. He’s done this before, many, many times. Standing in front of the crowd, he adopts a wide stance and readies his truncheon and shield. But it’s more for show than anything else. His is a routine well-rehearsed, his nerves steady and his motions smooth, rhythmic, his work a ritual requiring him only to allow his body to re-enact from memory. After the speaker at the hall filled the polytechnic’s students with old ways of thinking, Sean Morrison has joined the crowd. To him, this is their occupation, a moment when they have seized control of the streets and deprived the enemy of the control they’ve had for too long. But when the end comes, they will yield control back to the enemy, having won little for their cause. It’s a frustrating cycle, and in the streets Sean can’t foresee an end to it, looking into the future revealing only still more occupations to end in yielding control all the same. Little does he know the mysterious speaker at the hall has this in mind; it’s important the pressure is kept unrelenting in the mounting struggle against the way of things.

This time, at first, it’s no different. This time, the crowd of some thousands gathers, then disperses, in the aftermath the smoke-filled streets to be cleared in the days to come, the police withdrawing to their stations and the usual troublemakers who’d made up this particular crowd returning to the universities, the pubs, the union halls and the churches, to return when next the occasion calls for it. But Valeri doesn’t take part in this mass action, having taken in with the crowds of day labourers who turn up at every construction site, every factory, every shop left open looking for a day’s wages, most turned away. Today he’s among those chosen, working with a burly, bearded man named Michael on one side and a short, thin, red-head named Samantha on the other. Between the three of them, the ninety-pound girl works the hardest and the fastest. On the floor it’s cold, but Samantha wears thin pants and a short-sleeved shirt and never complains about the cold. “Do you ever think we should just stop doing this?” asks Michael. “All the time,” Valeri says, “every day, in fact.” But Samantha says, “we should never stop. This is the only thing that’s made the years bearable.” She speaks of her work with a passion admirable if misguided. Although Valeri has come to know his labour is sold for the benefit of his bosses, he can still only articulate his knowledge in the sort-of basic, instinctive way he can. In this state of despair, only instinct can be relied on to guide men like Valeri through. At the underground church, the rogue priest urges his new flock to join in, his gospel of sedition taking a new turn. Darren remembers his dead family, those cast out of work like disposable tools only so the wealthy man might profit, and his heart hardens against the way of things. He feels his pulse quicken and his fist clench whenever the rogue priest calls forth the faithful to take to the streets; his friend Sheila stands with him, one look into her eyes proving she’s as committed as he is. But their time is not yet come. “I don’t know what will come of this,” he says to her as they sit in the pews together, “but I will never forget what’s been done. This is not the Britain I’ve ever wanted to live in, and it’s not the Britain I want to leave for the next generation to live in. it’s a certainty that God is on our side.” They sit not in the underground church but in the pews of the Anglican church, surrounded by opulence and ritualism, their surroundings dead but either of them alive once more. “I place my faith in the liberation of Christ,” says Sheila, “and we will be delivered from the evils of poverty and deprivation only through him.” But theirs is belief sincere and steadfast, as is the beliefs of the rogue priest, he one of many rogue priests across Britain preaching this new gospel. This is not merely the product of worsening poverty but a spiritual awakening, the essence of liberation making itself felt like the warmth of a tired man coming in from the bitter cold. As it is written in Proverbs 31:9 says, ‘Open thy mouth, judge righteously, and plead the cause of the poor and needy.’ Men like Darren intend to fulfill this commandment, and in so filling will play their role in the coming revolution.

As yet, the revolution is a young child, still learning to walk and talk, but surely destined for greatness. They leave behind broken windows, smashed-in storefronts, and burnt-out cars. But there’s one thing that’s made a difference, one little change, a young woman, a young mother struck in the face by a canister of gas fired haphazardly into the crowd, her death so sudden, so violent, leaving behind a young child with no father to be raised by a rotating cast of characters and in so leaving a young child alone setting off a chain of events rooted in the common history we all share. In the midst of a simmering crisis, a calm emerges. At times, it may seem like there’s no greater purpose at play, no higher cause to ennoble the weakest and most pathetic among us, but it’s not true. In the night, an agreement is struck, in the morning news breaking across the screens of a new pact signed between countries, a corollary to the agreements already in place. Not a military alliance, this pact commits all parties involved to the removal of all impediments on the flow of capital across their borders, making it easier than ever for the wealthy criminals to abscond with their ill-gotten gains. Valeri reads this, and it inspires in him a quixotic mix of fatalism and rage. From his mother-in-law’s flat in Surrey, Garrett Walker reads this news as well, inspiring in him that same mix of emotions. “This can’t stand,” he says, assembled with a small crowd of angry, out-of-work men at the office of their member of parliament. The MP isn’t a conservative but a member of the so-called Labour Party. “This won’t stand,” says another man. In the moment there’s that dark essence coursing through the working man’s veins, nestling in the hearts of every unemployed worker there and in the hearts of every unemployed worker not there, the announcement of this new treaty ill-timed.

But with his step through this time, men like Valeri seem preoccupied with their own selves; but there are times when, in the midst of all this struggle, he sees beauty in the arms and in the heart of his former co-worker and current lover, the half-Asian woman named Sydney. “There’s a rumour going around,” she says to him over the phone, “a rumour there’s something big about to go down.” Though Valeri can only imagine what this means, he still looks out his window while half-listening to her. Having stayed away from the mass action, Valeri sees at the end of the day only the same walls that’ve towered over him for so many years. Still he’s in his little apartment, lying wide awake in bed and staring at the darkened ceiling when the arrests begin. A man named Neal Clarke works every day not in the streets but alongside them, putting up the beams and trusses that are to make up the skeletons of the next set of glass and steel towers. Neal’s not caught up in these arrests simply because he’s not at home when the troopers go from door to door. Valeri escapes by virtue of not being targeted. But Samantha’s taken. In truth, this wave of arrests are random, little more than names drawn from a pool. The point isn’t to arrest the troublemakers but to sow fear. At the range, Private Craig Thompson hears of the new trade deal. “How is it parliament signs treaties to put our own people out of work?” he asks. The troops stand at their stations, a moment of calm amid the frenetic, unending drills. “All this will do is close more factories and mills,” says another trooper. “And they’ll send our livelihoods elsewhere leaving us with nothing but more poverty,” says a third. All the men seem to have arrived at an unspoken agreement, the dark essence coursing through them like a drug through their veins. The act of voicing their agreement is a formality, not the means by which consensus is arrived at but the manner in which their consensus is expressed. Theirs is a consensus hundreds of years in the making, still lurking in the shadows but edging closer every day to moving into the light.

But for every one of Valeri’s brothers and sisters who’re disappeared in the night, there’s ten more to take their place on the front lines of the war for work. Every day Neal is acutely aware the fruits of his labour are to be sold off by foreign investors, the wealthy men of the world for profit, each tower erected a monument to the boundless greed and exploitation that’ve come to mark the current order. Every day he arrives at some work site and every evening he returns home, cash in hand, paid under the table by a foreman who doesn’t know where the money comes from. Neal’s been nursing a broken hand for a week, lucky as he thinks himself to have broken it without the foreman seeing it, allowing him to keep working through the pain. When his partner, an older man named Artem notices him wincing slightly as the two pick up a fifty-kilo bag of cement together, the two exchange a half-nervous glance, Neal’s colleague nodding slightly in a silent understanding. They work in the day after the mass arrests, a few of the workers at their site having been disappeared in the night only to be replaced by new faces. Some are old, some are young, all are hungry. “You were meant to be watching him!” says the foreman, a man named Max Kelly. He’s berating a subordinate for inattentiveness when one of the temporary workers made off with some power tools. Across the way, Stanislaw Czerkawski watches the exchange. He’s working at another police station, putting up the same fortifications as at the first. The foreman’s voice can be heard clearly despite the distance. “I’ve warned you before,” says a voice, belonging to the boss, “and I won’t warn you again. Get back to work!” This time, Stanislaw considers, for a moment, standing up to the boss, his jaw instinctively clenching and his fist tightening, only for a moment before the urge passes. The sound of gears whirring and hydraulics smoothly contracting and expanding like muscles overpowers the scene, making it hard for Stanislaw to think. But he manages all the same, years of hard labour having taught him how to practice the art of seditious thought while still working steadfastly at his task. He’ll be among the last of the working men to give in to their seditious fantasies, but when the time comes he’ll make himself counted among the righteous the same as anyone else.

Industry lies decayed, buildings sit as dark, empty concrete shells, caged in by chain-link fences with wires twisting off their poles. Ghosts of families pushed into obscurity still lurk around every corner, in every alley, behind every door. It’s not their fault. It’s never their fault. You can read, sometimes, about some mill somewhere that’s been sold off and closed up, and there’s always a momentary outcry for the working men who’ll be made destitute, perhaps even mention of the vast swathes of our province that’ll be plunged into despair. Even as he’s done what’s been asked of him, still yet it’s not enough, it’s never enough, for no matter how he works the wealthy man still demands of him the elimination of every possible redundancy, the straining of every resource to the breaking point. Men like Valeri are only beginning to see this even as they’ve known it all along, forced as they are by near-starvation to contend with affairs too petty to amount to much. “Go and live with her, then,” says an older worker named Lyle Carson, “see if I care!” He’s on his phone, and it’s not immediately clear to the others who he’s talking with. “It’s always trouble with him,” says Artem, and Neal nods his agreement. “Back to work!” says foreman Kelly. The workers snap to it. In the aftermath of the mass arrests, the day’s work must go on, the workers enslaved by the daily pittance they’re handed. Through the noise of the construction, the hammering of nails into wooden planks and the chattering of a distant jackhammer hardly obscuring the truth.

And then, the outcry will fade, bleeding into silence, the world writ large carrying on as it should without concern for all the lives destroyed and the families torn apart by the need of a few at the top to grow themselves fatter off the sweat of the rest of us. Sydney brings news. “Are you caught up in all this?” she asks. “You must already know the answer to that,” Valeri says. “You still have a job to lose,” she says, “you shouldn’t risk it by joining the gangs.” He winces at hearing her use the word ‘gangs’ to describe the rebels, be they real or imagined. But he can’t dispute her reasoning. Neal is something of an oddity in this day and age, like Valeri unmarried, childless, but unlike Valeri has not yet given up on all hope for his own personal future. At the end of the day, one day, Neal leaves his work behind and makes down the road for an old pub, its owner’s stubborn refusal to sell to the wealthy developers leaving at least one spot for working men to feel at home. He steps inside and muscles his way to the bar, the bartender handing him a pint and shooting him a look that seems to half-ask, half-tell there isn’t to be any trouble tonight. It’s only been a few weeks since the owner of the place had that window near the door fixed, and a few days since Neal paid for it in full. “I want to be there when you get what’s coming to you,” says his neighbour, Hugh Turner, “for all the good it’s going to do me.” But Neal says, “learn your place, old man,” and muscles a scowl onto his face.

It’s summertime, it’s that late-summer time when the heat’s thick and oppressive, when the heat comes in waves and when the air’s filled with a swampy musk. This summer, after so many years of stagnation, the stench of so much lavishness and opulence has become overpowering. Down the streets of yesteryear, we look on the spaces once left open, now filled with empty shells, with monuments built to a way of life that’d never been, that we’d only ever convinced ourselves had been. In the midst of a simmering crisis, we’ve all taken too long to arrive at this proto-revolutionary epoch. For one day, the working men of this city have ceased their work and have taken to the streets, the latest measure enacted by law having been aimed at enslaving them further to their wages but in fact having served only to enrage them further. “What’s in that bag and why are you hiding it here?” asks Graham Russell, the old man who manages the building Valeri lives in. It’s only been a week, maybe two since that latest wave of arrests, and the old man’s suspicion seems to overpower his good sense. “What could I possibly be hiding?” Valeri asks. “Don’t be frightened,” says Graham, “I just need to be sure.”

“Then be sure,” Valeri says, and turns away, walking down the hall and leaving the old man to his business. Though Valeri doesn’t know Neal, and Neal has never heard of Valeri, they will share their fate. You see, Neal is, like the others, emblematic of the general oppression and prostitution meted out upon the working class; with the fires of liberation burning in England and across Europe brighter with each passing day, they will soon have their vengeance.

It’s a mild delirium, a rising insanity that makes the experience seem like a dream. As it’s summertime, we see in the distance a shimmering, shimmering pool of silver hiding behind rising waves of heat. As it’s summertime, we wade through the crowds and make our way to the leading edge of history, once there finding ourselves trapped in a little cone of silence even as we’ve immersed ourselves in a sea of people, each of them there for a different reason yet all of them united behind one cause, for at least one day. “Sergei is dead,” says Sydney. “What?! When?!” Valeri asks. “Today,” she says, “not long ago. He was killed in one of the protests. He was struck in the head by one of the canisters of gas the police fire. He died on the way to the hospital.” Valeri sits in silence for a moment, Sydney, for a second or two, letting the silence hang. “Valeri? Valeri?” she asks. “I’m here,” he says. “Please don’t run out and get yourself hurt,” she says. And he says, “I don’t think that’s up to me…” But this night at the pub, Neal has one drink too many, his tongue loosening just enough. “No!” he says to Max Kelly, “I’m tired of doing what you say.”

Not much comes of it, not right away, but the next day when he shows up at his construction site there’s no work there for him, even as the foreman hasn’t enough workers there to accomplish the day’s work. Distraught, Neal goes to the union hall, the very same union hall where Valeri still calls home, asking for work, any work, to sustain himself for at least some time more. But the clerk on the other side of the desk shakes her head, already their ranks swelling with others in need of work. Some of them have children, wives, elderly parents to provide for; there’s no work for someone like Neal, a man responsible for no one but himself. Even as the talking heads on the screens proclaim a dire labour shortage, still there are thousands left idle, to rot until such time as they are deemed worthy of receiving their own pittance. Neal argues with the clerk, as many others have, but the square-jawed look on her face never wavers, having been practiced many times over the past few years. And Neal is only one man, like the thousands of others, pleading the same case, appealing to the same sense of decency, asking for the same favours from they who’ve learned not to care. “You must be mad, coming here like this,” says Max. “You’re damn right I’m mad,” says Neal. “You stand there and accuse me, but where were you at the time?” Max asks. “I was--”

“You were still in primary school when I was almost killed in the street,” Max says. “I’m not--”

“You’re not what?” Max asks. There’s more, but they can’t have at it all day. Punches are thrown, dust’s kicked up, some scrapes and bruises but nothing worse. At the end of the day, Max gets to keep his job, while Neal’s tossed out with all the other surplus workers. His spot’s filled instantly. He winds up in a church, receiving his rations from the overworked clergy, with no knowledge of when next he’ll be able to have at a pittance to sustain him. Thin soup is his meal, and he forces down this watery soup from a spot at the end of a long table which permits him a look through a window and out across the city. The distant glass-and-steel towers going up on the edge of the working class districts taunt him, their opulence and their garishness contrasting against the sight of him wearing still the boots and vest he had worn when working every day to put those very towers up.

After events have unfolded, the working men of the world return to work as if nothing had happened, as if their lives were to be carried on regardless. We all have rent to pay, and we pay our rent not by agitating in the streets but by selling our labour for less than what it’s worth; our loss is their profit. We go home in the evening with sore backs and dirty hands, returning to our ramshackle apartments filled with second-hand clothes and torn, ragged furniture, with the smell of cigarette smoke hanging in the air even in the rooms of those who haven’t ever smoked a day in their lives. Our enemies, soon to be known by another name, have left us only unemployment and addiction, and in turn they declare us lazy and shiftless, lacking in the virtues of hard work and ingenuity they themselves lack; these stampeding marches, these impassioned riots are but a symptom of the disease that has come to infect the way of things. The revolution has not yet begun, yet still it has begun gathering strength, conserving its power even as opposing forces themselves begin to muster, these opposing forces having not yet coalesced into something real, something capable of striking back except in ways brutish and instinctive. We all pay the price, together, for our foolishness, for our impetuousness, and in so paying we earn our place in the future we’ve yet to build. As a calm settles on these streets, I invite you to hear the screams and the shouts that only hours earlier had filled them, hiding as they are amid the silence. It might take a little imagination, but I can hear it, and if I can hear it then so, too, can you. If you can’t, then I pray for you to be visited upon by the wisdom to see what’s coming. But it’s not here yet. No, wisdom isn’t necessary, and it’ll never be. Just watch. All that’s necessary is for each of us to play our part in the coming days of rage.

In the morning, news breaks of the signing of a new treaty among a group of countries, including this one. It’s left unsaid but widely understood this’ll put many more men out of work, left to fend for themselves. The wealthy men of this country can foresee the impending revolt and are seeking to evacuate their holdings beyond the reach of the working class alliance, this turn of events met still with a muted ambivalence from the country’s workers. Too long betrayed, the whole lot of them are in a state of mind where outrage and ambivalence can occupy the same time and space in their collective consciousness. There’s a sporadic outbreak of protests, of disenchanted youths tossing rocks at troopers mustered. But for Valeri, it’s different. For Valeri, it’s personal. In Valeri’s dreams, memories of his mother and father nourish his own personal flame, soon to blend with the fires of liberation already smoldering around the world. If the wealthy men of this country expect a revolt, then Valeri will count among those who oblige them.

11. No More a Chance

In the night, one night, there’s a meeting in the basement of one of the churches in the working class districts. It’s a meeting between two working class parties, one called the Worker’s Party, the other called the People’s Party. Both are illegal, banned as extremist. Between them, they have perhaps ten thousand members nationwide. At this meeting, they sign a secret protocol pledging themselves to a union of parties in pursuit of a common goal. But this secret protocol and the act of signing it is a formality; the true agreement has been reached through months of careful negotiations and consensus building. They’ve been preaching their gospel of unilateral disengagement from the way of things for decades; it’s only been in the wake of the failed rising fifteen years ago working men have been given to this gospel. Since the death of his parents, Valeri has become exactly the sort of person this gospel is meant for.

As if to punctuate the arrival at this union, in the night a new round of riots begins, the darkness lit up by the fires of liberation burning at the behest of this new holy alliance. Still thinking of Sergei’s death, Valeri can’t sleep, instead lying in bed with the window wide open and his bedroom flooding with the distant emanations of the unruly masses seizing control, for the night at least, of the shantytowns in which they live. In the morning, Valeri rises to a world seeming identical in form to the world of the night before but radically different in essence. He says to Hannah, “you’re paying a small price compared to what she’s going through.” In the night, Stanislaw reads through the daily reports on escalating prices of homes, of food, of fuel and of clothes, and he, like the others, feels a mounting gloom. It’s been this way for so long as he can remember. But as he’s put to work in the days preparing fortifications for the police, he thinks of his family in the city and he wonders if they might yet see through the day. None of this means anything. It’s all a confused and confusing mess. Stanislaw means well, but when he turns in his gear after another long day of putting up barbed-wire fencing and armoured walls, he comes home too tired to think straight. And this time, this time is no different. He’s late to the party, so to speak, for this very reason, but when his wages can no longer suffice to pay for food, he still hasn’t come to think of doing away with this whole way of life.

Although Valeri is not yet a member of either party, he learns of this new union from Mark Murray, with the implied understand Murray’s learned of it from his friend Arthur Bennington whom Valeri hasn’t seen since their first meeting. Soon, the news finds its way onto the screens of millions, not from official sources but on the dark corners of illicit networks reaching around the world. What Valeri doesn’t know is this new union of parties has pledged itself to follow the path not laid out for it in full view. “I don’t think I could live alone again,” Hannah says in a moment of clarity. “This isn’t just about you,” says Valeri, “it’s about what’s best for all of us.” And Valeri says this as he looks wistfully into the night. “I miss moments like this more than anything,” he says. “Me too,” she says. Although the power’s gone out in the night, the fires of liberation burning in the streets cast a flickering, orange glow through the windows, shadows dancing against the far wall. At the armoury after a week’s exercises, Private Craig Thompson has not seen the Colonel since that inspection of the troops. The sergeant squelches any dissent, leaving still the only forum for discussion the bunks after lights-out. They don’t know of the secret protocol, only of the still burning fires of liberation across the country. “It can’t be we’re going to war,” says one private. “I heard they’ll send us to Northern Ireland,” says another. “Have you seen the riots there?” asks the first. “There’s riots everywhere now,” says the second. Thompson interrupts, saying, “they’ll send us somewhere. We’ll find out soon enough.” Lurking in the shadows there’s that very same essence which guides all revolutionary men, looking on these dispirited troopers, watching, waiting for the perfect moment to descend on them and make them whole with it. But they are young men, too young, given as young men are to flights of fancy, already Private Thompson filling his mind with fantasies of rebellion entirely of his own accord. He’s almost ready.

This is the true flag of the union of parties, not colours bled onto fabric but darkness emerging from the light. In an alley behind an apartment block nearly identical to the one Valeri lives in but some kilometres away, an older woman named Miriam Doyle stands in the shadows and says, “do you ever think we should just stop doing this?” Her companion, a younger woman named Monica Dawson says, “you make me feel like I’m not good enough.” Miriam says, “I don’t often get the chance to talk to someone like you,” then reaches into the gym bag she’s brought and draws out a gun. “Don’t leave this lying anywhere,” Miriam says, “keep it hidden until the time comes.” Monica quickly takes the gun and stashes it in her bag, then asks, “how will I know when the time’s come?” Miriam says, “you’ll know.” After the power comes back on, they’ve disappeared into the night. After standing outside their member of parliament’s office for hours and venting their rage, the unemployed workers they hear nothing but further platitudes from the member who won’t come out and confront the lot of them. Someone throws a bottle, then another, soon a full-fledged riot has broken out, with Garrett Walker retreating at the first sign of trouble. He’s too old to go down this road, but taking his place the younger men who hurl bottles so well. It’s a deeply confusing mess. Nevermore assured of himself, Garrett returns to his little flat and sinks into a deep depression, tempting him with the tantalizing possibility of a new tomorrow but always keeping it out of reach. He has two daughters and a wife, and he can provide for none of them. His is a deep-seated shame. But when his older daughter’s caught up in the police raids, he wonders where he’d gone wrong. Before this crisis is ended, his daughters will be killed, gunned down in the streets in an exchange of fire between the rebels and the troops. It’s all spinning out of control, careening towards an impossibly violent cataclysm which will burn everything we know. Men like Garrett can’t even fathom what’s to come, but when it comes an instinct will seize them and compel them to join in. That time is coming much sooner than any of them think.

As the world burns, so too do we burn, not in our essence but in the very components that when put together make up who we are. In the aftermath of this fire having claimed another victim out of the fabric of the unreal, it seems sometimes there’s a low cry, a silent song lamenting the plight of the children who once lived inside. In the streets Valeri sees poverty, hopeless causes, the wretched lying in pools of their own blood and tears. After he’s seen enough, he turns to Sydney and says, “whatever you’re going to ask, the answer is no.” Sydney says, “you must be mad, coming here like this.” But Valeri asks, “you’ve done a bad thing for a good reason before, haven’t you?” Sydney shrugs and says, “bad or good there’s nothing that can be done to bring Sergei back.” They speak not of the union of two parties but of something far more personal, something intimately known between them but left unsaid too long. “Could you be happy here with me?” he asks. But she can’t answer, not right away. “We could be arrested for this,” he says. “That wouldn’t be the worst thing that could happen,” she says. “Don’t even joke,” he says. She only flashes the briefest smile before turning away. After seeing Father Bennett looking so downcast after the last week’s sermon, Darren Wright feels in him a gnawing guilt for having turned his back on the church that’d been good to him for so many years. Before the next Sunday’s sermon, he approaches Father Bennett’s open door, announcing his presence with a subdued knock on the doorframe. “It’s good to see you,” says Father Bennett, his voice sounding sincere. “It’s been a while since I’ve come to meet with you,” says Darren, sitting across from Father Bennett, the two looking each other over quickly. From within the confines of the Father’s office, they can hear the distant sounds of the streets burning, and Darren struggles to control his enthusiasm for the men fighting and dying even before their war has begun in earnest. Darren and the Father talk not about the faith, for either of them is, despite their struggles, committed as ever. Instead, they talk on the coming rebellion, on the discontent brewing in the streets, with Father Bennett voicing concerns that lead Darren to consider, for at least a little while, the Father might be more given to the rogue priest’s cause than he’d thought. He won’t know it until it’s too late, but he’s wrong.

Then, Monica receives a call. “Midnight, under the bridge,” says an unknown voice, “come alone.” An hour later, he’s there, under one end of the bridge looking towards the other. Monica meets Miguel Figueroa. He’s one of the few who yet count themselves among the members of the newly-formed popular front This meeting, carried out in secret, marks the beginning of a new step in our struggle. He passes her instructions; this has to be done in person because of the need for secrecy which no electronic communications can provide. For now, this is all the people of the new front task themselves with, ordinary men like Valeri concerning themselves by contrast with the minutiae of their own lives. While Monica will end up sacrificing herself for something much greater than herself, Valeri struggles against the little indignities that’ve come to characterize every day of his life. In the nights after the Worker’s Party and the People’s Party join forces, a simmering tension takes hold in the streets, imperceptible, but surely there. It’s as though the physical vessel of our world has become inhabited by some new essence, the secret act of two working class parties joining in union silently marking the moment our histories turn from one epoch to the next. In taking to the streets, Sean Morrison and the other students vent their rage, knowing as they do that their future is filled only with the unemployment and despair already dominating the lives of millions. But soon there will be a place in the popular front, training as they are to join its ranks whether they realize it or not. In the student hall at the polytechnic classes have been called off for the crisis gripping the streets, leaving Sean and Julia free to commit themselves to their own growing radicalism. They meet in secret, or so they think, speaking of the union of parties. “Will they help us?” Julia asks. “No one knows,” Sean says. “What will they do?” Julia asks. “They’re the only parties that want to free us from the wealthy man’s grip,” Sean says, “and that’s good enough for me.” The existence of the illegal parties is widely known in the working class blocks, but still it gives students like Sean and Julia a thrill to talk about them. Soon the name of the illegal parties will not thrill but will embolden them while striking fear into the hearts of the enemy. For now, though, Sean and Julia know the popular front will remain small, with few soldiers and fewer weapons. But in these troubled times, it’s the spirit, the essence of the illegal parties and their popular front that’s important. They’ve been working behind the scenes since the failed revolution fifteen years ago to make sure the next revolution won’t fail, and their time is almost at hand.

After having made it this far, we must always be careful to recognize we still have more to accomplish, that we’ve hardly taken our first step and still have a thousand and one left to take. News breaks that another law is set to go into force, signed in secret by the parliamentarian, to be released to the unsuspecting public only later, months later, perhaps even years later, by which time it’ll have become an immutable fact of life in the public discourse, with no legal challenge to stand a chance against the overwhelming political inertia. At Vanessa’s, this fighting and drinking and shouting leads, one night, to the inevitable. In the morning, her body’s taken to the nearest hospital’s morgue, while her husband’s taken in cuffs to the nearest jail. He’ll spend a few years locked up. Her daughters’ll spend the rest of their lives lost and confused. In the years to come, caught up in the disarray to follow they’ll hop from home to home, guardian to guardian, sometimes given off by someone who can no longer care for them, sometimes taken in after whoever’s been caring for them winds up killed, still sometimes picked up by some predator taking advantage of the chaos to prey on children innocent no more.

After the emergency measures fail to placate the working man and his natural allies, the student, parishioner, soldier, and migrant it seems something else might be on the horizon, some new scheme which could succeed in lulling the whole miserable lot of them into a false sense of security and in so lulling make them vulnerable to attack. But we want something more. We’ve always wanted something more. We reject, with full throated enthusiasm, the terms of the debate that’s been foisted upon us. Although we focus on events close to home, know that around the world tensions are on the rise. At any moment some little spark could ignite long-simmering tensions and set the world on fire. Men like Valeri have always been an afterthought in the wealthy man’s designs on hoarding more and more wealth, left to fend for themselves in a world overtly hostile to them. It’ll prove to be that the future must lie in men like him, that the first shall be last and the last shall be first.

Some look out on those streets and see only a cobbled-together assortment of the same ragged and haggard men who must wander along each and every day as though in a trance, but that’s not what I see, not what you should see, only what the wealthy man would have us all see. At some point, there passes a moment when, like a switch, the whole lot of us come to realize we’ve been lied to, not in the basic, sort-of factual way we’ve always known we’ve been lied to but in a primitive, almost instinctive way that lends itself readily to the changing course of our shared future. At some point, there passes a moment when something in all of us changes, drastically and irrevocably, reconfiguring the way we look at the world but reshaping the way each of us thinks so we come to honestly believe this mew way of thinking has been our way all along. In his little bedroom with Sydney, Valeri feels a wave of relief wash over him as he plots his next move, the next move in his quest to become more than he is. It’s a strange sensation, to be so caught up in the passions of a revolutionary fervour that even the love of a woman can’t compare to the burning desire he has in him for justice and freedom. Even as Valeri thinks on this feeling, he knows it to be trite and adolescent to give himself over to self-denial, even as he fully understands it to be enlightening. Now’s the time, or at least as good a time as will come.

Reaching into his pocket, Valeri draws out a small box, handing it unopened to her. “Valeri,” she says, opening the box, a small gasp escaping her lips as she sees what he’s given her. But the only jewellery Valeri owns is a small pin given to him by his union in recognition of his years of service. It’s a small thing, but it means so much to him. It marks him as one of his own. He believes this is something someone like Sydney could never understand, not without having lived his life and felt all the things he’s felt in being made to feel shame for who he is. In the night, it starts to rain, a drop here, a drop there, soon the air crackling with the thousands and thousands of raindrops striking the pavement all at once. But in London’s working class districts men like Valeri have little time for indulgences like love. Even as they stand together, an unspoken understanding invades the moment, the grim knowledge they must not see each other again as lovers for all the need they have to commit themselves to their own respective struggles. Self-denial, Valeri’s come to believe, is the path forward, and he’s about to cast himself irrevocably into a place where she can’t follow. In the grim, grinding poverty that’s gripped London’s working class districts since even before the failed rising fifteen years ago, love is a luxury that must be cast by the wayside, and in the working man’s struggle for justice and freedom Valeri casts love by the wayside in the time it takes him and his lover to bid each other farewell. Soon enough, Valeri returns to his life as a day labourer, the thought lingering in the back of his mind that one day he’ll see Sydney again, a thought subversive, yet tempting.

As a day labourer, Valeri sees new people every day, some days exactly the last sort of people he should come to expect. At a work site, Valeri finds in line to use the portable bathroom none other than his former nemesis, Ruslan Kuznetsov. They exchange bewildered looks. Valeri says, “what are you doing here?” Ruslan says, “they fired me.” A pause. “They got rid of me,” Ruslan says, “after they’d gotten rid of enough of you scoundrels they had no more need for people like me. But they said once things pick up they’ll take me back. That’s what happens when you don’t make yourself into an enemy of the owners. You get a second chance.” Valeri says nothing more, and avoids Ruslan the rest of the day. It’s a pathetic thing, for someone’s mind to be so enslaved to the way of things that they can do nothing but continue to place their faith in those who’ve so enslaved them. But from across the worksite Valeri catches a glimpse of Ruslan working, the look in Ruslan’s eye making clear his steadfast and earnest faith in the way of things. Even after having been deemed surplus and then cast aside like some old piece of disused machinery, Ruslan still can’t summon the strength to turn his back on a lifetime of subservience. In the aftermath of having bid his love farewell, Valeri can’t summon the emotion needed to tell his former nemesis he got what he’d deserved.

Though Valeri and Ruslan will never again cross each other’s paths, it’s a perfect absurdity that Ruslan should live out the rest of his days kept imprisoned so willingly. After night has fallen and the dogs of war are freed from their chains we look to each other for comfort amid these trying times. It’s almost time. Though our war has not yet begun in earnest, there’s hints, here and there, of what’s to come, whether the faint glimmer of hope in the eyes of young men like Valeri or the ashen look of the old men around them who’ve given up.

12. Alter Ego

A burst of gunfire rattles out into the night, erratic, light, from a distance sounding like the popping of bottles. As this revolution-is it too early to call it a revolution?-springs into being, the weakness in the way of things becomes manifest. Teetering on the edge, about to collapse at any moment, leaving little but for the frantic and confused motions of the wealthy man’s efforts to extract every last drop of blood from the working man that he can. It’s a sudden shift, jarring, yet it’s a shift so smooth, so seamless it hardly dawns on the working man there’s anything out of the ordinary going on at all. This is the work of Miguel Figueroa, but if you should ask him he would insist he’s only an agent of change. In the alley between two working class apartment blocks Miguel says, “you must find it before they do,” to an older man named Scott Grey who says nothing but nods in response. Instructions received, Scott turns away and makes into the night, arriving across at a disused warehouse halfway across the city to complete his task. “In the garage,” an unarmed man says, his body half-obscured in the shadows. He points Scott in the right direction, then withdraws back into the shadows. In the garage, Scott finds a crate of rifles, the rifles older than any of them, looking like they haven’t been handled in years. It’s not much of an arsenal, but it’s what they have. There’re others out there who are far better armed, or who will become far better armed, but Miguel can only secure what he can, each of them kept isolated from the other in this early period when yet the rising has not begun in earnest. Scott looks the rifles over for only half a moment, then takes them and conceals them in the cab of his pickup truck under some blankets, crumpled-up papers, and empty beer cans. In time, these rifles will be put to use.

At the polytechnic, classes remain cancelled. Some among the faculty and student body have come to believe the polytechnic will be liquidated by government fiat, but it’s only a rumour, one of many to make the rounds in times like these. Still among the students, though, there’s hope they can return to their studies soon, and that this’ll all quiet down just as every other wave of protests has since anyone can remember. For Sean Morrison, he realizes the truth of the matter when calling his parents who still live in Manchester. They have little time to speak; Sean says, “I hope you won’t worry about me.” His mother says, “of course we worry about you. But we also trust you.” Sean says, “I’ll come up to see you as soon as I can. But it might be awhile.” He doesn’t dare tell her of the pitched street battles, concealing from his own mother his slowly but steadily deepening involvement in a cause even he can’t yet understand. After Scott’s picked up his crate of rifles, he doesn’t distribute them right away. Instead, he returns to work at a construction site, along with his co-workers Randall Reed and Ralph Hughes. “Just give me my cut of the money and I’ll be out of here,” says Randall. “There’s no money,” Scott says. “There’s not?” Ralph asks. “There never was,” Scott says. As they work, hastily assembling the next glass and steel high-rise to be put up, it becomes apparent to the enemy what’s afoot. When Randall calls a friend named Dennis Moore, it never occurs to him that his friend’s calls could be monitored not by the troopers themselves but by a member of the working class turned against his own. Information, names and dates and places soon follow a complex network of intermediaries, too complex to have been deliberately engineered, from Dennis Moore to a clerk named Clarence Lewis who works in an office next to a warehouse, from Clarence Lewis to a dockworker named Eric Roberts, the latter among them electronically filing a false report under a false name with the troopers. It’s a seemingly random sequence of events but it leads the troopers to engage in a series of raids which we’ll get to later. In the meantime, Scott, Dennis, and Randall work, Scott thinking back to that crate of old rifles he’s stowed in a safe place, looking forward to the time when they’d have the chance to put them to good use.

A dramatic turn of events has taken place, but still to come is the most dramatic turn of all. After Darren Wright disclosed, in the way that he did, the existence of the underground church, Father Bennett passed on this disclosure to the diocese. Father Bennett isn’t the first and he won’t be the last to do so. Over time, the totality of these reports will add up to something substantial, but for now it seems only to be a small piece of information amid a torrential outpour of raw fact. But at the next sermon delivered by the rogue priest in the underground church, the gathered faithful are delivered not empowerment but warning. “Do not expect the struggle to be over soon,” says the rogue priest, “for no man can promise you this. Your reward for struggle is not pleasure but pain. Our struggle shall deliver us only unto hardship. Your reward for your faith, your service, your chastity will be in Heaven, and not in Earth.” Still men like Darren Wright aren’t fully committed to the path laid out for them, though soon they will be. Though it might seem men like Valeri are accomplishing little more than eking out their survival, much more is afoot. For Valeri, each day that passes means absorbing still more knowledge, real, useful knowledge of the world around him, some instinctive part of his mind keeping a silent tally of every wrong to be righted when the opportunity arises. “Be safe,” pleads Sydney, as he’s about to leave her apartment for the union hall, as though she knows, as though she’s learned to know he’s up to something. He nods, then turns away, heading to try at nothing but survival, for now. For some people, for most people, life is made up of the public and the private, of the side of ourselves we’re compelled to present to one another and the side we keep to ourselves. A woman named Nicole Foster operates a toll booth on a highway leading into the province’s northern hinterlands. She fears for her livelihood, as there’s always news in the works that she will be replaced by automatic sensors, with no concern given to her future. With all the factories and mills either shuttering or long ago shuttered there’s little hope for women like her. Nicole knows Monica, but only in passing. Monica drives through the booth Nicole operates one day, stopping to pay the toll. But before driving away, Monica takes a small parcel from Nicole, at exactly the right moment so as to make it look like nothing at all. It’s a small moment, but one which’ll amount to much more when the dust settles.

Arduous though unemployment may be for Garrett Walker, frightening is the darkness staring at him when he looks through to the future and sees only despair. His bed is a crumpled mess, lost until the pale moonlight pierces the thick, rolling clouds at night and casts a sickly glow on the flat’s far wall. So early in this struggle and already he thinks himself losing his family and with them all he has left to lose. His wife pledges to stand by him, and she does, faithfully discharging her duties in the home even as she works to earn some small income at a restaurant. Soon, she convinces the manager to hire on her husband as a dishwasher, working a few hours a day for a pathetic wage. It’s hard for men like Garrett to swallow their pride and subject themselves to the indignities of this work, but he takes the job out of the will to provide for his family. Still, as he’s trapped in the noisy, steamy kitchen hosing off plates and glasses, he can’t help but let his mind wander to the tempting and salacious thoughts of revolution. He’s known of the working class parties, but never before this moment has he thought of himself as fit to join. There’s violence and there’s mayhem in the streets, and it’ll only take the gentlest of nudges to send men like Garrett over the edge and compel them to fully commit themselves to the war. For Simon Perez, the moment he steps out of the light and into the shadows marks the moment in his life when he finds his true calling, if only he could realize himself for what he truly is. Tonight he goes to work, crowbar in hand as he looks inside parked cars, glancing into one, then the next, then the next, at each just long enough to look in the seat for something, anything of value. There. In the front seat of a white sedan, a screen left in plain sight. He strikes the window with his crowbar, shattering glass, then reaches in and quickly takes the screen, putting it in his coat’s inside pocket before turning and making back for the alley. A day later he sells the stolen screen for his own pittance, a pittance he spends on his drug of choice. For years this drug has eaten away at the streets, killing, consuming, corroding like a potent acid. No one knows where it came from, no one on these streets knows the complicated, roundabout way each of the countless chemicals blended into each drop finds their way from some obscure corner of the world to here. To men like Simon, all that matters is the pain that goes away whenever he takes this drug into his veins, relief washing over him in a dull warmth. But the relief always fades, and the pain always comes back. Trapped, Simon is like so many others, once a working man discarded like some piece of old, disused machinery, now corrupted beyond repair by an insidious poison.

Not far from where the last man died in the night, Private Craig Thompson and the rest of the artillery brigade bed down for the night, thinking themselves suspicious, but not yet suspect. More than a few copies of banned texts circulate in the barracks, subject to occasional searches which reveal nothing. Private Thompson sometimes hears the rattling of distant gunfire in the night, something unthinkable even a few years earlier yet so common now. Over six weeks their lives seem to normalize, the drudgery of routine offering some small comfort in these trying times. They march, they muster, they travel to the range and fire off the guns in rehearsal for the war always seeming to be in the offing. “No force could ever suppress the human desire for dignity,” says Private Thompson, speaking as much to himself as to the others. “You may count your place in the stockade if you keep talking like that,” says another. “You’re not wrong,” says Thompson, “but there are people in the streets and all they’re fighting for is the right to live in their own homes.” The other soldier says, “I don’t disagree with that, but you must look out for yourself. If the Colonel has you brought up on sedition charges then you’ll be no good to anyone when you’re hanged.” An exchange of gunfire rattles through the night, the working man roused from his restless sleep just long enough to listen for a time. When he’s certain the exchange is taking place at least a few kilometres away, he returns to bed, closing his eyes and falling asleep as the gunfire stops, the exchange never really ending so much as subsiding, like an outbreak of influenza. For Simon Perez, his descent into the madness of addiction and crime marks an impossible tragedy all too common in this day and age. He sits, one morning, in his cell, the first of his cellmates to wake up, and eyes the guard. He’s memorized the guards’ patrols, and once he’s sure this morning’s patrol takes the guard out of sight he reaches under his mattress and draws out his drugs, quickly and quietly shooting up, a wave of relief, warm and soothing, washes over him. Meanwhile, the real criminals, they who grow fat off their theft of wages from the working men of the world not only escape punishment but receive exaltation in the annals of power. The real criminals remain anonymous, but not for long.

For men like Stanislaw Czerkawski, the act of working to fortify the police stations may be considered an act of self-harm, but in fact it’s a demonstration of the irrepressible working class spirit. By day Stanislaw works, but by night he harbours the same subversive thoughts as his brothers and sisters of the working class, each thought sending the same surge of energy through his body like the common thrumming of a universal pulse. Still he works, on this day his crew putting into place the last piece of fencing to complete one particular fortification, with just enough time left in the day to string razor wire along the tops of the fences. Stanislaw is not like the others, just as any one person is not like the rest; Polish by birth, he remains skeptical of the burgeoning working class movement in Britain, remembering as he does the stories his grandfather would tell of life under the old Polish People’s Republic. In time, he will learn to embrace the new character which the working class movement has come to embody. This’ll be time when the tables are turned and men like Simon are empowered to dispense their own justice, handing out the harshest of penalties to those guilty of looting and plundering the wealth of the world. As matches to kindling, all will be called to account for their crimes, for their dispensation of misery and poverty on ordinary men who’ve sought only to sustain themselves. It’s not unlike us all to realize our place in the scheme of things. Men like Simon Perez, the most pathetic and reviled among us will come to be exalted into the annals of power, and in so receiving exaltation will usher in a new era of the people’s rule. Simon Perez, locked in an overcrowded, decrepit prison, may not live to see it. Many young men will rot in this prison, consigned to never realizing their full potential, and many will die here. But theirs will be a vengeance meted out by the hand of another.

Still the working man ventures beyond his own quarters, leaving the simple, staid, stout apartment blocks lined along the road and entering those quarters where once his kind had lived. After all that’s happened it might seem the working man lives a life filled with terror and lawlessness, but it’s not so. There are those little moments of peace even in a violent world. Overhead, a plane traces a white slash across the deep azure sky, a plane full of people headed somewhere, anywhere in the world but here. At the centre of a vast network of treaties, each backed by the full force of law, the working man seems lost, with none of these exigencies fitting in with one another but made to be compatible anyways. Still the working man ventures beyond his own quarters, the search for wages leading places he’d never thought he’d go. In an old industrial quarter, he looks to a small shut-down factory repurposed as a recycling centre. This isn’t the life he was promised. This isn’t the life he was sold on. As the working man returns home after another fruitless day, he withdraws into an isolation, a bottle of cheap liquor dulling his senses and fogging his mind. These thoughts, he knows, are subversive, even criminal. They should be pushed from his mind, but so long as he keeps them to himself then he can’t be implicated by them. As he shuts off the light and goes to bed, he spares himself the trauma of contemplating the consequences of these subversive thoughts, choosing instead to joy in surrender to the thought of a new tomorrow. Meanwhile, across the way an unemployed youth spray paints on the side of a bus, ‘NO SURRENDER,’ in black lettering, an act of defiance unchallenged in the night.

After what’s transpired here tonight, none of us will ever be able to forget the courses of our disparate histories joining together like all the little tributaries merging into a single river. But then none of us should ever want to forget, even as we all know we someday will. This might be the only reason I’m writing this, to give an account of these events so that, wherever this leads, we’ll have some way of thatching together some kind of narrative, even if all this turns out to be wrong. With the decaying hulks of industry long abandoned still littering the country like tombstones and with long lines for welfare cheques like a funeral procession reaching down crowded sidewalks along the city’s streets, we have seen what has happened to the working man’s livelihood, in this wondrous age of unprecedented freedoms and ever-fading lines on the map how yet the working man may find his deliverance in a new tomorrow. It’s strange, in a roundabout sort of way, that we arrive at the same place as if we’d gone right at it.

13. Nor the Traveller to the Path

Along the streets sometimes come gleaming white tour buses, filled with travellers from halfway across the world. These buses stop and unload their passengers who stand around in a gaggle and take pictures all at once; then the gaggle pile back into their bus and speed off to some restaurant where the servers speak only some language from halfway around the world. The working man rarely sees these travellers, working as he does in some dark little corner of the city, only occasionally permitted by happenstance to venture to parts beyond. Though the working man knows those very travellers may not know what they’re doing, he sees them and he has a visceral reaction to them, knowing as he does that the working man transcends all national boundaries but that so, too, do the working man’s enemies, the very people who would seek to take what rightfully belongs to him and hoard it all for themselves. If not building fortifications at police stations then it’s hastily assembling ad hoc jails on empty plots of land across England that Stanislaw Czerkawski’s been mustered into service for. In the hot and humid early summertime, he sweats to excess, returning home tired and sore. Though he’s never told the purpose given to his labour it becomes evident to him by way of his working class intuition, the instinctive sense he has that the fruits of his labour shall be used against people exactly like him. Though men like Stanislaw don’t know it, the wealthy man has learned the lessons of the failed revolution fifteen years ago, and puts those learnings to use not to ward off the next rising but to prepare himself to withstand it. Still Stanislaw sees it when ordered home at the end of the day, his wife there to welcome him back into the little sanctuary they call a home. For the migrant, Stanislaw, his is a place caught between two worlds, two identities, learning, over time, to bleed himself into the space between them, subsuming himself within the greater struggle, and in so subsuming making peace with the greater good.

Despite an excess the wealthy men continue to order production, then withhold the things produced from us by way of elaborate schemes to drive prices higher still. Valeri is confronted every day with the wealthy man’s apparatchiks on the screens gleefully declaring the rise in prices of fuel, food, and homes; a sea of green arrows pointing up represent, to Valeri, an act of thievery long escalating. “If I’d only gone over when she’d called,” he says, half-mindedly thinking of Sydney. “If you do this, you’ll be dead to me,” says Murray, the man responsible for organizing their shop’s role in the coming general strike. His voice had never sounded so cold and forbidding. But cloaked within Murray’s sudden distance, Valeri detects the slightest hint of concern. He stares hard at the table as he tries to recall his attacker, but can recall only the lifting of his head and the darkness of the alley in the dead of night. “Now,” says Murray, “it’s time to go to work.” Despite this excess in production, morale among the troops at Private Craig Thompson’s brigade is something of a valley, gently sloping downwards but forever on the verge of plummeting into an abyss. But whenever the troops muster on the armoury’s parade grounds the guns can be seen, barrels stabbing at the sky proudly. No longer have they been standing in formation for an hour when the officers arrive, Colonel Cooke not among them. In the address to the troops, the mounting unrest in the streets isn’t mentioned, instead much time devoted to praising loyalty and faithfulness to the rich and illustrious tradition which these troops are said to have inherited when once they enlisted. The thought offers Private Thompson no comfort, and he succeeds only in forcing a blank, straight-faced look. But no prepared speech can obscure the fires of liberation burning in the distance, the columns of still-invisible smoke rising from the city in the distance. These streets, they’re engulfed in chaos, but they have yet to see through their purpose. In the life of the soldier, we’ve yet to broach his true purpose, his reason for being, but the time is almost at hand when men like Private Craig Thompson will be called upon to make the choice to serve a higher purpose or to live down to the ideals of men laid out before them. The guns arrayed on the parade ground, they’re old, they’re obsolete, and they’re worth nothing on the battlefields of some distant nation against the guns of a foreign power. But this is not their true purpose. The guns, they’re made to be turned against they who would seek to oppress. And that night, as Private Thompson lies in his bunk and thinks on all that’s happened not only on this day but on all the days since he can remember he accomplishes with the passing of the day at least some small part of his own personal journey towards joining the working class struggle. His day is almost come.

Along the streets sometimes come those gleaming white tour buses, and as the working man finds himself embroiled in a steadily worsening crisis, it becomes readily apparent that he has so little to be lost in sacrifice to the struggle, that his life can only but improve in lashing out at these instruments of oppression. It’s a tempting fantasy. Until there rises something that can harness this essence of resistance and channel it into an effective fighting force, the working man stockpiles his energies for the coming war, not by his conscious actions but by some vague yet powerful instinct coming from a place somewhere near the centre of his chest. As foreign travellers come to be an increasingly common sight, so, too, does the foreign visitor come to spend increasingly more time in those glass and steel towers built where once the working man had lived, the foreign visitor in his suit and tie and with his sleek luxury car so unlike the working man in his dirty, ratty clothes and in his bus running the same route every day for years. The working man has become unwelcome in his own home. And so it is that Garrett Walker is among those evicted in waves, not by force of arms but by fiat of law, prices raised beyond what he can afford with the pittance meted out to him by his wealthy paymasters. His wife, his two daughters are steadfast in their commitment to him, just as he is steadfast in his commitment to them. They recognize theirs as values alien, hostile to the wealthy man, who seeks to manipulate them with unemployment, hunger, and fear, but they recognize this only in the basic, primal way they can. Nevermore can we look back and declare ourselves as having left for the next generation more than what we’ve had; this is Garrett’s shame. But as he looks ahead to the future he sees the promise of the coming revolution, at the dining table with his family only half-listening to his wife’s voice, half-listening still to the sounds of simmering disorder fading in through the open window.

As sirens wail to mark the latest round of protests rapidly spiralling out of control, the working man looks ahead to the coming storm with a mounting anticipation, some part of him surely wise to the vengeance soon to be meted out on his behalf. While Valeri follows Murray to the union hall, there’re others taking to work as well. Three people, Eve Hanley, Amanda Conners, and Peter Tanaka arrive at the nearest shelter, taking refuge from the coming attack. “Are you here to spend the night?” asks the lady at the counter. “I don’t know,” says Peter, the others nodding their assent. They’ve only arrived by coincidence at the same time; they don’t know each other. “We’re over-capacity as it is,” says the woman, “but if you can find a space to sit then you’re welcome to stay as long as you like.” The three enter the shelter’s assembly, only to find a sea of people with hardly any open floor space anywhere. It’s a wretched, dishevelled mass of humanity, and now Eve, Amanda, and Peter are among them. At the underground church there is not a dark essence but the essence of the light, in the shadows a hidden spirit thriving on the collective consciousness of the awakening parishioners gathered here. For Darren Wright this hidden spirit manifests itself not only in the shiver running the length of his spine whenever he receives the forbidden gospel but in his own gradual awakening to the gospel’s truth. At his side, Sheila Roberts looks on, herself growing into a spiritual accommodation with the path laid out for them. But not all is as it seems. In the night, as the rogue priest disseminates this forbidden gospel, there invades the secret presence of the dark essence expanding to fill all available space like a noxious gas. Though Darren and his young friend Sheila have come to see this place as the home of their renewed faith, Darren can’t help but feel doubt lingering in the back of his mind. He feels all the more guilty for this doubt when looking at Sheila, seeing in the light behind her eyes not the slightest doubt at all. They have hardly begun their studies of the forbidden gospel and soon enough they will be made by act of God to put what they’ve learned to good use.

Along the streets sometimes come working men to put up gleaming, glass and steel monoliths to be owned but not lived in by those travellers. It’s a rising struggle, a long, slow climb toward the end of the beginning, toward the next step into a shared history for all. The working man puts his head down and presses through the day, each smooth, rhythmic expansion and contraction of his body’s muscles moving him forward, moving him toward some unseen and unknown goal, towards his future’s end. The day is long and hard, yet it’s over almost as soon as it began. A pattern emerges. As the fires of unrest burn in the streets, the working man makes through his days, each seeing his head fill with fantasies of rebellion, impassioned and romantic scenarios playing themselves out of fists raised and scowls muscled onto faces and of crowds advancing on armed troopers with only their strength of will to muster against rifles.

In the midsummer’s sweltering heat, the working man imagines himself among a small but growing number of rebels brave enough to stand for something more than their own selves, as the cracks in the façade of the way of things begin to widen each of their number learning to provide for each other a cover for their own other way forward into the dawning of each and every new day. For Valeri, at the union hall this day there’s a rousing call to action, Murray taking to the stage with all the passion and intensity of a firebrand. “…and still they demand more,” he says, “still the wealthy demand more cuts to our wages, more of our funds diverted to fill their coffers, still higher prices at which they will sell our homes and our lives to their investors so they may fill their coffers until overflowing with their ill-gotten wealth.” At the front of the crowd, Valeri cheers and roars with every pause in Murray’s speech. When Murray fires up the crowd, Valeri can’t help but let his doubts evaporate and his confidence surge like electricity coursing through his veins. After Murray’s spoken, Valeri seizes the moment and shouts at the top of his lungs, “all power to the people!” It’s enough to make them all forget who they are and where they live, the momentary passion obscuring the harsh realities of the life waiting for them as soon as they should leave the hall. At the shelter, Eve, Amanda, and Peter sit together, afraid as they are of venturing too far from what little they know to be true. Each finishes a bowl of thin, watery stew quickly, then avoids each other’s eyes. But once Peter dares to look Eve in the eye, he sees a sadness in her face, the loose, tattered clothes she wears and the bruises on her face betray the life she’s fleeing. But Amanda has only a blank look.

It’s the way of things; even as the working man is under eviction, never should he be so evicted. The wealthy man will forever force him from his own home, and so shall he forever resist, in the way that he does, but never should he be so forced. It’s like a dream you can only half-remember, like a rebirth that allows only the vaguest memories of the past to return, each successive rebirth allowing a little more, still yet a little more until the working man can cobble together enough knowledge to rise above and break the cycle once and for all. As we watch this drama unfold, I want to tell you the truth, that it’ll take no small effort to break the cycle and make good into the future. Still the working man faces the challenge imposed on him by artificial means. Still the working man forges ahead, pressing through this latest hardship the only way he knows how, by putting his head down and turning into the wind. Still the working man returns to his little box of an apartment in the evening, his hands dirty, his clothes tattered and worn, his shoes falling apart and his back sore, with no relief in sight the working man falling asleep to the sound of thunder cracking across the darkness of the night. In the morning, the working man rouses, sore and still-tired, overcoming his lingering fear as he takes to the streets and makes his way quickly and quietly through this latest crisis, the anthems of the working class running shivers the length of his spine whenever a spare moment presents itself for him to wonder on where his loyalties should lie. And still the foreign tourist, the foreign investor is there, looking over him, conspiring with his enemies as part of the current order to take what rightfully belongs to him. Elsewhere, at the union hall, much transpires but all of it behind closed doors. “We will strike,” Murray says, “all at once.” Seated next to him is a woman named Rose Powell, a counterpart of Miguel Figueroa’s from the popular front so recently formed. “And we shall support you,” says Rose, “in the weeks ahead we will mount our attacks with every available man and woman. We will march alongside you in full support for all our brothers and sisters in union.” And so it comes to be. But not everyone in the room’s loyal to their cause. Outside, Valeri’s still caught up in the passion of the crowd, unaware of the subterfuge unfolding in the building. “All power to the people!” he shouts. “All power to the people!” His voice blends in with a hundred others’, and all anyone can hear is noise.

At the union hall, there’s a palpable tension in the air. “We’ll have them right where they need to be,” says one of Rose’s colleagues from the popular front, a man named Kim Dae-Jung. “Perhaps,” says Rose, “but we still have much work to do.” It’s later now, and the small contingent from the popular front have completed their subterfuge, Murray having left the room to inform the crowd on their agreement. But Rose and Kim are only one contingent, others making contact with unionists, students, and parishioners, the same agreement reached a hundred times over. Although the rebels in the popular front will not take part in the demonstration, it’s critical that all involved believe they will. To this end, Rose and Kim leave the union hall that evening having made a firm commitment neither have any intention of making good on.

Along the streets never come relief from the constant terror and the lawlessness that pervade life for the working man, the threat of his livelihood being taken, the threat of eviction from his home, as those tall, thin, glass and steel monstrosities replace the short, square blocks once built for men like him and in so replacing transform the character of his city beyond recognition. The streets are in crisis, in a state of never ending crisis as the forces of the wealthy class muscle their way across the city, not with the truncheon but with the fountain pen, taping notices to the fronts of doors, erecting chain-link fences around closed and darkened apartment blocks, before bringing the working man in to tear it all down and put up in its place something meant for someone else. It’s one of the cruel ironies of our time, that the working man should be made to become the instrument of his own demise. As he works for the profit of another, his body is like a machine, his mind reciting a routine from memory, his body executing its routine in a series of smooth, well-rehearsed motions, his muscles expanding and contracting like the pistons of an engine firing in rapid succession.

But it’s not their fault. The streets never lie idle under the hot summer’s sun, nor do they meekly consent to the trundling of a thousand footsteps along their black surface, instead fighting as it only knows how. Even in these times of immense hardship and deprivation, there are little moments of warmth and happiness, when the working man comes home to see his children at the end of a long, hard day. It’s never easy. The working man watches, feeling stationary in a world advancing by leaps and bounds every day, feeling as though it’s leaving him behind, trapping him in a little cone of his own silence. Crossing the end of the world would but leave him further in a little box of his own malfeasance, as he makes home at the end of the day his life having changed little, as he climbs the stairs to his little cube of an apartment his time having yielded only more sweat, blood, and tears. He looks out the window and into the half-darkness of the alley behind his home, and for a moment he wonders if the night might conceal within its expanse the very force which could deliver him from evil and into his own personal salvation. Not in those words, of course. The working man doesn’t think in these terms. Instead, he thinks in terms of his own future’s end, that he must work towards this end each day, with every foot brought down on the ground in front of him, every breath drawn in and pushed out, every heartbeat pushing blood through his veins bringing him closer to his own victory.

After ending its last shift ever, this factory is to be shut down, like the factory on the other side of the street to fall dark, some of the workers to return tomorrow to put up the fences and the razor wire that’ll guard the factory’s empty shell. It’s a final indignity, that these workers should be put to work one last time caging in the remains of his livelihood, at the behest of his former paymaster ensuring that no one will ever return to work here again. The working man will find something to do, somewhere to go during the days to earn some modest wage; resourcefulness and resiliency are the values of his class. Still, he knows this to be a seminal moment in his life, as history runs its course all around him the aggrieved injustice of it all striking him in a way instinctive, almost guttural. Should he be so inclined, this would make for a perfect moment to fight back; at the moment, though, he’s not so inclined, thinking as he is of ways to feed himself. He returns home to his small, hollow apartment, sparsely furnished, with dishes piled in the kitchen sink and clothes in a laundry basket square in the middle of the living room’s floor. Though he’s tired, the working man sleeps little that night, in a hundred other such apartments the same scenario playing itself out a hundred times, the working man’s little apartment never a real place but instead a place imagined, unreal, even esoteric in its unreality, the war against the working man having visited upon him hopelessness and poverty. With the world wallowing in crisis and with conditions there to breed a smouldering discontent, we must be careful not to allow ourselves to be governed wholly by the passions of the moment. Our struggle, you see, demands of us a focus on an ultimate end, one which can only be reached should each of us conserve our strength for decisive action. The working man, tired, can only yield to the banalities of life, to the hard work for little pay, to the small, run-down box of an apartment, to the small but widening holes in his jeans and to the ever-present threat of losing that which is the envy of no man but which is better than having none at all. In this state of mind he is trapped, needing as he does his own to take on the burden of shaping these vague impulses and these subversive urges into something more. In the world at large, there’s trouble afoot, working men like Valeri in the other empires agitating for their own future. While the screens fill with news of foreign armies moving this way and that, never fighting but posturing for a fight, it may yet take only the slightest provocation for all of these troubled empires, filled with restlessness and agitation, to set themselves on one another in a bid to relieve themselves of their own troubles.

At night, it’s still too hot out for the working man to bear, these heady summer days concealing a frustration and an antipathy from within which there can be drawn the steely determination and the straight-faced strength needed to win through this most difficult time, this tentative early stage where nothing seems certain but continuous defeat. At night, the streets become shrouded in darkness, the sickly, pale orange light of the streetlamps casting an eerie glow on the road. Though we’re in the midst of a mounting crisis, I hope you’ll join me in admiring the beauty of these streets, these rivers of amber and golden light coursing through the dark, its life-giving brightness an anaemic imitation, a caricature of the brilliant radiance of the sun’s natural light. It’s in these troubled times that we learn to find that kind of small beauty wherever it can be found, for without it we might be tricked into thinking the world we live in to be black as the night itself. If we don’t take advantage of these last opportunities to savour what few pleasures are reserved for the working man, then our history’s future may yet take them away from us forever. But as the fires of history burn, the working man still lives his life, working in the day, tossing and turning at night, all the while recalling the sight of so many columns of smoke rising from the city’s streets, imagining himself drawn to the fight for history’s future.

Nevermore lacking in spirit, we take what’s happened so far and we look at it in sum. As the working man makes his meagre wages stretch further than ever before, the wealthy man continues to parcel off the land and sell it to the travellers from halfway around the world, the whole lot of them conspiring against him whether they realize it or not. Then, the working man adapts, as he is so accustomed to adapting, to making life work with a steadily shrinking wealth, space, energy, life. Each time, this sequence of events repeats itself, each taking less time than the last, each forcing the working man to subsist on less than he’d subsisted on before, the vicious cycle reducing itself until there should come a time when it can reduce no more. What happens then will leave all of our lives changed forever, in ways we’d never thought it possible for them to be changed, in the darkness of the night all bearing witness to the deception in all our histories combined.

14. In the Trenches

Although classes are suspended at the polytechnic, Sean Morrison and some of the more committed students continue to spend much of their days on campus. For the student, the battleground has always been in the study halls, fighting not over territory but the consciousness of men, his weapons not guns but ideas, words marshalled in their service like a rifle’s bullets. Still in his formative years, Sean must learn to temper the lofty expectations of youth for short term gain in order to harness the passion burning with the fire of a desert’s sun. After he’s given a speech to the small crowd of gathered students, he yields the steps outside the polytechnic’s main hall to another, then listens all the same. “…And our memories of the war fifteen years ago shall never be forgotten,” the speaker declares, “for so long as we keep the fires of liberation burning the light they provide shall never be extinguished.” In the time left before this current crisis escalates dramatically, the students have much to learn. For the working man, work has become like warfare, a constant struggle with an overwhelming force for the right to what’s his. As his world crumbles all around him, the working man drives over the same ground rhythmically, compulsively, in a ritual familiar to him from hundreds of years of experience. For the working man, work is like warfare, every day his struggle one for a steadily shrinking sustenance. Even before the working man fashions for himself a means of finally seizing that which is rightfully his, his is a constant war, in the act of going to work and submitting himself for exploitation at the hands of his wealthy paymasters he commits an act of war, just as his wealthy paymasters themselves commit an act war in taking from him his labour and giving him, in exchange, his pittance, this sort of mundane struggle over the expropriation of wealth at the centre of daily life for all. A bomb bursts, blowing out a storefront, mangling bodies and spilling blood. When the police arrive, gunmen attack, the tell-tale rattling of gunfire chattering across the street while the policemen take cover. It’s all a confused and disoriented mess, men shooting at nothing, nothing shooting back, stray rounds burying in concrete while voices shout. When it’s over, two rebel gunmen are dead, one policeman wounded. With nothing gained from the attack, it seems the rebels have sacrificed two men for nothing. But not all is as it seems.

Across the city, there’s action. “Nobody move!” It comes without warning, the doors to the underground church broken down, following it a series of troopers rushing inside. There’s no gunfire, only the sound of voices shouting at the troopers, men and women clutching their Bibles. The troopers go round, demanding the identities of every parishioner, frisking them for weapons, finding none. It’s a fruitless search, these troopers acting on an exaggerated report of illegal firearms stored somewhere on the premises. Darren Wright’s there, but his younger friend Sheila has found herself work for the night, sparing her the experience. In the heat of the moment Darren loses sight of himself, looking for something that isn’t there, the sanctuary that is his underground church violated like the rough and coarse action of a man having his way unwanted with a woman half his size. This is only one of many ill-timed raids the police stage, on this night, on many nights past, on many nights to come, but it’s this night that brings the raid Darren will remember much longer than he should. After Valeri picks himself up off the ground, he turns and comes face to face with a storm trooper, a young man who seems frozen in fear. Valeri looks the trooper in the eye and is about to say something when another explosion bursts in the street, sending him running, sending all of them running, the young trooper a little slower than him but running for his life all the same. They leave the sounds of disorder and confusion behind, drawing away from the scene; not far away the young storm trooper’s radio starts squawking, but he gives it a moment before answering. It’s a hard day for everyone, but by nightfall only two have died, with the hundred injured drawing the care and the concern of the world’s screens. Meanwhile, elsewhere in London a pair of rebel gunmen happen across a convoy of police armoured cars, in the night a confused exchange of gunfire burying bullets in the pavement, shattering glass, and puncturing tyres. But most rounds fire at shadows, at flickers of light in the night, at something imagined where there’s nothing at all. The rebel gunmen are shot dead. A couple of policemen are injured, but both recover in hospital.

It’s not fair, it’s never been fair for men like Garrett Walker to languish in the misery and shiftlessness of unemployment while half a city away the wealthy live in luxury despite having never broken a sweat. Still he senses the impending disaster, in the primal, instinctive sort of way all such men can, in the street telling a neighbour, “I’m sick of the way they talk about us.” His neighbour agrees, as have many in England since the failed rising fifteen years ago, and many more in the years before. “They close all our mills and shut down all our factories then pin the blame on us for not being able to find work,” he says, “and then they raise the rent!” This, as news breaks of the latest rise in rates, in charges and surcharges which’ll send prices climbing ever higher. Soon he learns the lesson generations of working men have each had to learn for themselves. But while Garrett and his neighbour agree on their state of affairs, in the background events continue to mount. As the wealthy man’s campaign of construction reaches its fevered pitch, the working man’s aching and sore muscles become used to the unending exertion even as his mind, free to wander as his body moves rhythmically like a machine, tempts him with fantasies of joining the scattered, disparate crowds gathering in the streets. At work, his muscles contract and expand, the same routine performed on command a thousand times over to make a day, working himself tired, earning himself his daily pittance while enriching the wealthy man many times over. But as the working man looks aside and casts his silent sympathies in with the rabble rousing trouble in the streets he allows his mind’s eye to fill with quixotic fantasies of raising his fists in anger right alongside they who would have nothing left to lose. In the night, another pair of gunmen ready themselves for action, this time not lying in wait but striking out. Staking out positions near a police station, the gunmen open fire, cracking holes in the station’s red-brick façade, shattering glass, sending policemen diving for cover. There’s screaming and shouting, the light, erratic gunfire of the rebels soon met with the chattering of the policemen’s rifles. The gunmen die. Three policemen are wounded, and one later dies of wounds in hospital. Between these three attacks, six rebel gunmen dead for one trooper dead and another wounded. Other attacks take place throughout Britain, the rebel sacrificing what few men he has in these tentative, early attacks. These seem a fool’s exchange, but the rebel leaders are no fools.

A black sky hides all motives. A dark room bares all thoughts. At the armoury, things have taken a turn for the worse. All the days spent cleaning the guns can’t make up for the steadily growing dread that’s invaded every moment of every day. For Private Craig Thompson, this means little changes but for the imposing sentence of confinement to the barracks. With the rest of the troops he learns of the unrest despite the strict controls on the flow of information into and out of their base. When Colonel Cooke learns of their subterfuge, he has the base thoroughly searched and every unauthorized screen destroyed. No one knows yet what’s happening, why it’s happening, and as Private Thompson looks over the guns just after the day’s inspection it occurs to him something must be coming, the instinct in him taking over even in the presence of a suffocating information blackout. “Don’t feel too bad for yourself,” says the Colonel, suddenly standing above and behind him, “it’s not for men like you to worry about the grand scheme of things. It’s not even for men like me, to be frank.” Private Thompson snaps to, but takes a half-second too long. Soon, he’s in the stockade. Over the next several weeks, these attacks occur sporadically, leaving the troopers confused and disoriented. On the face of it, there seems to be no motive, no coherent organization to these attacks. Naturally, men like Miguel Figueroa and women like Rose Powell understand; word spreads through the working class apartment blocks and the shantytowns that a resistance is afoot, years of neglect and abuse rendering them a sympathetic caste to the lashing out against the symbols of power. At a meeting of concerned citizens, held in a church not long after these street attacks have begun, Valeri takes the pulpit.

“Brothers and sisters,” he says, “we have stood by and watched the theft of our homes for too long. Some of you might still believe in the power of compromise, but I tell you this: any compromise between right and wrong is a moral fraud. We want only dignity, and they want only to take away our dignity. Do we compromise and offer to surrender to them only half our dignity? No!”

A raised fist prompts shouts of agreement from the audience, in turn a smile on Valeri’s face.

“We are not animals,” he continues, “and we are not objects of theirs to be manipulated, to be traded for the profit of another.”

It’s a rousing speech, but one which fails to command even Valeri’s full attention, thoughts lingering in the back of his mind of the things he’s done to Maria, these thoughts struggling with themselves in a confusing mess of guilt and pride, arrogant pride. You see, Valeri’s a much more complicated figure than our history has chosen to remember, and he’s yet to reach his destiny.

After finishing one set of fortifications Stanislaw Czerkawski can have only one night’s rest before made to head out for the next. He hardly sees his wife. In the night he sleeps patiently, dreaming of the day when he’ll become master of his own destiny. For so long as his half-second of peace endures Stanislaw’s he can count himself among no master’s slave, no bossman’s plaything. In the morning he sees through the brightened darkness of the dawn and into the next day over, imagining only peace where there’s war. But imaginings aren’t enough. Arriving at his worksite, he finds there’s no work for the day, the foreman telling him to beat it. But then the foreman says something that pushes Stanislaw the wrong way; the foreman yells, “you dirty Polacks can find someone else to bother today!” By the time he’s collected himself, Stanislaw’s in cuffs, piled into the back of a police lorry along with the rest of the ne’er-do-wells, trundling along the streets of the working class neighbourhoods heading for a police station to sit in a cell. They don’t know the true purpose of their labour, but soon enough they will find out. After things have begun to fall into place, Valeri steps up his efforts, meeting with his fellow workers at the plant, one at a time, gathering pledges and signing men, in his dreams building a grand coalition that could topple even the mightiest tyrant. But it’s not that simple. It’s never that simple. In the union hall that night, no agreement is reached, the skeptics still outnumbering the hawks, for the moment Valeri bitterly accepting their work must continue. Though the vote has turned against action, Valeri knows not to accept this vote, for he has come to appreciate, in the way that he has, that consensus is not measured; it must be forged. “Don’t worry,” says Murray, “we’ll be there.” In the night, it’s always in the night, Valeri arrives home to find Hannah asleep, still in her scrubs, dried blood stains and all. He thinks not to disturb her, and toes gently past the door to her bedroom. But just when he thinks he’s made it, he hears her voice. “Water’s out again,” Hannah says. “You would be better to tell me when it’s on,” Valeri says. “You can’t be serious,” Hannah says. “Why can’t I?” Valeri asks. Hannah sighs. “I wish you would become more cheerful in my company,” she says, “what’s the point of fighting if you don’t take the And Valeri doesn’t reply to that last remark, simply reaching for a bottle of flat beer on a shelf and taking a swig. It’s dark, with only the hall’s dull light to cast a half-illumination on the scene, making it look like they live in a world where up might be down, where right might be wrong, where black might be brighter than the brightest of whites.

As war goes, this is a war as yet lacking in decisive battles, in daring offensives marked by bold, red arrows striking across a map. This is a war familiar to the working man only in some basic, visceral way, the kind of familiarity bred by years of hard living, by scrounging and saving for so many years just to buy a simple jacket, a pair of boots, an ordinary desk fashioned out of ordinary wood. He is confronted every day with made-up images of actors pretending to enjoy the wonders of the modern world, but he has not yet become desensitized to them. Every time the working man’s screen fills with these propaganda advertisements for luxury and opulence he can never have, he is filled with a simmering anger, his thoughts again drifting to the romanticism of the war fifteen years ago, where once the working man had dared to dream. In the days that follow, Valeri looks tired, working to struggle forward, never looking back. “I don’t fight for nothing,” Valeri says, “I always fight for what’s right and fair.” Hannah shrugs and says, “if you don’t stop saying such things I’ll get really annoyed with you.” Valeri laughs. “If you haven’t gotten annoyed with me already then I’ll just have to try harder.”

“I’m serious,” she says. “Me too,” he says. But Valeri relishes, in a perverse way, this kind of antagonism; he likes seeing her frustrated at his attitude.

Keeping an even keel becomes difficult in these trying times. At night, the noise in the street rises and seems to come from all places at once, making it impossible for the working man to rest. But then he’s used to the sleepless nights, just as he’s used to that tired feeling, that aching sensation that twists from the backs of his eyes at all hours of the day and which makes it harder than ever to function. The working man is paid his pittance by the wealthy man who profits from his labour, and then is made to hand over his pittance to the wealthy man again in exchange for the necessities of life sold at vastly inflated prices, the whole of the working man’s production made to be surrendered to his wealthy paymasters, his person, his being becoming a mechanism for the wealthy to use for their own profit and then unceremoniously discarded when he’s too old, frail, or broken to be of further use. Little does Valeri know how close Hannah has come to the breaking point. So consumed he’s become in the coming apocalypse he can hardly see the unraveling of her life even as she unravels right in front of him. “Valeri,” says Hannah, “I love you. Do you hear me? You’re so stubborn. Why did you go away that time? Now you’re coming to us, to me. I can’t go for anything. I can’t let you go. You’re all I need in the world.” Valeri shakes his head. “What if they find me here?” he asks. “Don’t go,” she says. “I have to,” he says. And in the time it takes them to have this conversation, Valeri’s personal life goes up in smoke. But with the strike in the offing, he can devote no further energies to such things, even as he knows full well this isn’t the last he’s heard of his roommate and her love for him.

Still yet the wealthy man continues his campaign aimed at wringing every last ounce of wealth he can from the working man’s world. Announcing the closure of another mill, the wealthy man declares so many livelihoods liquidated, condemning those who’d held them to another lifetime of poverty and neglect. As the workers leave at the end of what would be their last day, they pass alongside banners, electronic banners announcing the limited availability of as-yet unbuilt luxury towers. As the workers make good across the city and into their neighbourhood of working class apartment blocks there’s still that image of gleaming, glass and steel towers put up in place of industry, in place of industriousness to threaten their insecurities and to mock them in their moment of weakness, a mockery that’ll be remembered when once their places switch and their fates inverse. “I know,” says Maria, “but you’ve got to think of what kind of risk you’re taking.” Valeri sucked in his lips and looked out the window. “As I see it,” he says, finally, “I’m sick and tired of running. If it was up to me, I’d be up in there with them, attacking rather than waiting for the signal to march without arms.”

“Be patient,” Maria says, “everyone has their role to play. You can’t throw your life away now, because you haven’t realized your true purpose yet. It’s not your time.”

“Bah!” Valeri won’t hear it. He can’t hear it. Too caught up in the passion of rebellion, his emotions render him short-sighted and naïve. His mother and father were the same way, just before they died.

Proof enough of the discontent simmering in the streets, a truck rolls past, in the driver’s seat a young man with a lit cigarette hanging precariously between his lips. As he passes an apartment block, one of so many identical such blocks in this city, he catches the sound of a voice shouting, but only for a half-second before he’s out of earshot, the voice’s shouts coming from a woman struck by her husband in the night. He’s out of work, like so many of the working man’s brothers. She’s hardly working, like so many of the working man’s sisters. In the night, these are the moments when the superior character of the working man becomes self-evident; it’s in our weakness, in our avarice and in our inebriation that our moment is come. It’s precisely when we are weak, in character if not always in form, that we must seize the moment and attack the wealthy man who would deem himself our master. It’s an unconventional wisdom, to attack when one is weak and to relent when one is strong, but this is the way of the working man, and it is through his way and never the way of another that he will find victory.

No sooner have we left one crisis do we find ourselves immersed in another, this new crisis seeing the working man put his newfound knowledge to the test. Outside, somewhere across the city not altogether far, the working man makes his way home for the night, his feet sore, his hands dirty, his clothes looking respectable at a distance but up close looking slightly ragged and worn, with small holes in key locations around his waist and sleeves marking the exact places where his body had learned to work through the day without any input from his mind. The sky, still light in a late-summer’s swoon, is thick and hazy, smoke from fires burning hundreds of kilometres away obscuring much of the sun’s light, the city itself shrouded behind a dense smog which makes it all seem to the working man more than a little surreal. A stormy discharge of orange bolts could loose fire under his little rented apartment at any time, and this thought strikes him gently as he climbs the stairs towards his little box of a home waiting for him at the end of a long, hard day. Across the city, the hours had passed, and in those hours the streets had become all but deserted. The streetlights flicker, the trees rustle in a light wind, and every so often an ambulance comes wheeling through, sirens screaming, lights flashing. Four lights emerge from a field dozens of tiny triangular spots, receding in the distance along with the sound of an aircraft’s engine receding along with it. The lights push back like rockets of, the company of aircraft on their way from one landing strip to another, moving unknown cargo, still as they all are in that prelude to something more sinister, something more dangerous. As has become his routine, the working man sets across the day and looks forward to that time when he can be something more than what he is. But with the world careening through its crisis, the working man will yet join with the others, the student, the artist, the pastor, and many more in looking past these meagre attentions and concerns, every mass protest, every strike, every walkout contributing its little bit towards escalating tensions, the inflamed passions to rise until the barriers meant to contain them can contain them no longer, unleashing, then, a violent cataclysm that’ll destroy the old and build in its place a new unlike anything that’s ever been.

A small act of defiance takes place. Some jobless young man spray paints ‘NO SURRENDER’ in black across a wall inside a construction site, deftly stepping out through that same narrow hole in the fence he’d used to step in. No one sees him. They only see his handiwork, when the working man arrives in the morning to continue his work. As the working man is made to paint over this small act of defiance, rewriting history to make it seem as though the act had never taken place, he silently commits it to memory. It’s a subversive act, to store the memory in some hidden part of the mind out of the hope that someday it might become expedient to take it out and expose it to the light. No one but they who found it will ever know what it means, and yet so long as the essence of the act remains carried forward in the spirit of the working man it will always have a way to break free.

15. Apocalypse Rising

During a lull in the action, it seems as though a peaceful interlude has set in. As tends to be the way of things in the time immediately before a crisis explodes, in the streets a tension having set in like the bone-dry underbrush of a forest in the midst of an unusually hot summer, with only a spark needed to set it all aflame. It’ll come. It’s not far off. But there’s still that before-period, when the drama of it all has yet to play itself out and which leaves us all looking ahead in anticipation of what we’re sure should’ve already come. In a world filled with countries, kingdoms, empires beset by internal tensions just like ours, it might seem entirely out of place to look ahead and remark on how quickly things are to fall apart. But for Stanislaw Czerkawski, the next days he spends in jail is time spent off the street, the darkness of his cell shared by the others caught for one crime or another. He looks across the dimly-lit room and he sees not hardened criminals nor dangerous psychopaths but the out-of-work or the soon-to-be, holes in their jeans, dirt and muck on their faces, their hair ragged and tangled. For want of a piece of bread and a roof over their heads, these men have been made to lead lives of addiction, criminality, and despair. It’s a sign of our times that the working man is arrested for some trivial offence while the real criminals, they who loot and plunder the wealth of the world not only go unpunished but are exalted in the realms of power. This is something all working men know, in the basic, instinctive way they can, but which each must learn for himself. It’s taken Stanislaw longer than most, but here he is. “No more asunder,” he says, “no more to blame.”

When next he meets Maria, she hardly looks at him. “I don’t often get the chance to talk to someone like you,” he says, finding her where first they’d met in the street. “You’ve shown no concern for me,” she says, tightening her jacket. It’s later in the year, the summer’s heat having given way to the late-fall’s rain and bitter cold. He says, “I want to turn back the clock to before…” She finally looks him in the eye and says, “I can’t believe that.” He looks aside. In the street there’s ragged, haggard men walking quickly, trucks and buses rolling past belching smoke and grinding gears. But when Valeri looks at Maria she’s starting to turn, as if to make down the sidewalk away from him. In the stockade Private Craig Thompson isn’t alone, with a handful of others awaiting their punishments for their minor crimes. It seems someone up the chain of command has decided the time is now to institute a new crackdown on even the most trivial of offences. They’re not bound to be in the stockade for long, not with crisis in the streets about to explode into war. At the barracks there’s a lingering sympathy for the crowds in the streets, soldiers like Private Craig Thompson already counted among them in spirit if not in fact. Sequestered on base owing to the current troubles, they have little to do but sleep and sit. The troopers in the street have yet to call on the army for help, and when the time comes the won’t use raw recruits like these men, not at first. That’ll come later. Craig will be among those men needed to bring order to chaos and to introduce chaos to order. When once Colonel Cooke comes around, nowadays he seems more involved, looking over the men with a sharper eye and walking among them with a leaner, more purposeful gait. No one dares laugh when now the Colonel exhorts the men to God, country, and King; the Colonel says, “if called upon to make war on his majesty’s enemies, then all you men will give all that you have to give, even your lives if deemed necessary.” And Private Thompson can only look on with a mounting uncertainty, the experience of living under threat of war only succeeding in keeping him awake at night, staring at the underside of the bunk above, wondering what the day will bring. He won’t have to wait long to find out. “No more asunder,” he says, “no more to blame.”

Yet, it seems only yesterday when we were in the midst of a frantic, frenzied boom. New glass and steel towers reach for the sky every week even as the working man struggles to pay his rent. Screens are dominated by talking heads breathlessly proclaiming the release of numbers heralding some impressive new gains in wealth even as half the population patches holes in their jeans and cuts back on the meat in their diet for the doubling, tripling in prices. In front of another block of working class apartments there appears mysteriously in the night a sign boldly proclaiming the coming of a new luxury tower that no one in this neighbourhood will ever be able to afford, while in the night not-homeless men and women pick through dumpsters looking for anything that can be pawned. Still languishing in the prison of listlessness and discontent, Garrett Walker has taken to drowning under a storm of red ink for all the debt notices he’s posted in the mail. It’s a criminal offence, for able-bodied men like Garrett to be cast out of work, discarded like some old, disused piece of machinery, then come after to be torn into pieces and then sold for scrap. Though his wife pledges to stay at his side, Garrett knows his daughters can’t make the same pledge, nor should they. As he listlessly and methodically looks for work where there is no work to be found, Garrett sees on his screen the same news break as everyone else, bold declarations of an impossible feature, the rising in value of the wealthy man’s holdings heralded as progress, prosperity, the talking heads breathlessly announcing the hoarding of wealth as though it were the dawning of a golden age for all. In it Garrett sees only cruel mockery, a celebration of excess while millions try only to fight off hunger for one more day. At some point, and no one, not even Garrett can know when, he gives up hope, some switch inside him flips even as outwardly nothing in his life changes, not immediately. As he looks into the distance and sees the fires of liberation burning deep in the heart of London, he commits himself to breaking out of this prison of the mind called impoverishment. “No more asunder,” he says, “no more to blame.”

If you stop at just the right time of day in just the right part of town and listen, just listen, you’ll hear the voices of the thousands and thousands of workers, students, and parishioners cheering in the streets, their faces and their voices reaching from a future we can only dream of to encourage us, here, in their past, our present. In the night, with this city calm, we wait. Unwilling to let it be, Valeri starts after Maria, but stops a half-step on. “Don’t leave,” he says, “I just need you to come with me for a minute. We must talk.” But Maria doesn’t stop, and Valeri doesn’t pursue her. He watches as she disappears down the sidewalk and into a crowd. “You there!” a Police officer shouts at Valeri, “keep moving along! This is no place for loitering!” The officer advances, but Valeri stands his ground. “This is a public street,” he says, “I can go anywhere I please.” He thinks to pick a fight with the officer, but the better judgement in him wins out. He can see the officer himself is looking for a fight, and he withdraws, muttering something under his breath. “You trash should learn your place,” the officer says, “you’re the wretched scum who’ll all rot in jail.” It’s as though Valeri exudes an energy that attracts all the wrong kind of attention. But still he withdraws from the scene. At the underground church, the rogue priest has nearly finished preparing the congregation for the next step in their salvation by the time he’s taken into the back of a police lorry. Though the congregants, including Darren Wright and his young friend Sheila Roberts have yet to learn all they need about the forbidden gospel, and it’s in their ignorance they’ve become ready to stand. Studying the Bible, the Word of God, Darren happens upon an epiphany which can only come from study. For now, he waits, along with all the others gathering here and in underground churches across England and around the world, waiting for an unmistakable sign from God that their moment is at hand. They won’t have long to wait. This is the moment in which all doubt is passed, when Darren is committed irrevocably to the way forward and is turned away from evil. As Darren closes his Bible and leaves for the night, he casts a look down the street and imagines the fires of liberation burning through the night and long into the coming day. “No more asunder,” he says, “no more to blame.”

But the streets are eerily quiet, the air free from the chattering tension that should be thriving. As Valeri steels himself against the coming day, he scarcely notices Hannah on her way in. “Are you a heroic figure?” she asks. “Hardly,” he says. “Then what are you?” she asks. “I’m nothing more than a man. And I do only what good men do. Anyone in my place who is good would do what I’m doing.” He stops. “And do you know what’s going on in the world?” he asks, turning to face her. “Who can think of the world? We have to look out for ourselves,” she says. “If everyone only looks out for themselves,” he declares, “then we’ll all have so much pain and suffering, without any hope of relief.” No longer talking just about Valeri’s deepening involvement in the struggle, it seems they’re both determined to have this conversation in the privacy of their own home. “Since we’re both here,” she says, “I want to tell you one thing.” He says nothing, instead letting the weight of the moment invade the space between them. “Valeri,” she says, “this is no time for heroics. You should stay here with me. I need you.” She pauses, then steps at him and rests her hands on his broad shoulders. She says, “I love you.” She kisses him, but he doesn’t respond. His hands remain at his sides, and his lips remain closed. At the polytechnic, the students continue to gather despite the continued cancellation of classes. In the central courtyard Sean Morrison has taken up residence, occupying the open space with tents. Amid the steadily mounting crisis gripping Britain’s streets the occupation of the polytechnic is only a minor episode, but like the other minor episodes it’s emblematic of a larger struggle to wrest control of the public space from private hands. The police watch, standing in a loose circle, waiting for the students to act out. In the distance the fires of liberation burn, their thick columns of smoke reaching for the sky, threatening to blot out the sun and cast darkness over the cityscape. It’s not Sean’s time to speak; with Julia he listens to the student body president declare their occupation as a strike against the criminal order, in seizing and holding this space for so long as they must the students are depriving the criminal order of the control it needs. But there’s more to it than that. While the polytechnic has all but shut down, the students keep on studying, assembling knowledge by their collective experience in asserting their own identity. Now, Sean realizes their true purpose. Now, he sees clearly. “No more asunder,” he says, “no more to blame.”

At their apartment, Valeri and Hannah still argue. “Don’t go,” she says. “I have to,” he says. “If you didn’t have to, would you still go?” she asks. “I would,” he says. “Then go,” she says. As she takes a half-step back and begins to withdraw the embrace, he reaches for her and pulls her back in, kissing her, savouring the taste of her mouth. Finally, he says, “this has been a long time coming.” She says, “it has.” He says, “but it’ll have to end here.” They don’t speak of the kiss, of their shared feelings for one another in the meanwhile, awkwardly dancing around the subject as has come to be their way. Neither can forget, though, the confession of love, and both feel an almost-regret at the knowing perversion of a love that can never be. Somehow, the next time Valeri turns to the streets, he can see anew how many crushed and mangled lives are left behind by the day’s business. In the night, it’s always in the night, it’s easier to destroy men and women; even the jackal prefers the dark hours of gloom. Still Valeri has himself a glimpse of the bottommost depths of life, the very sump of its ugly pit. At a younger age, he might’ve taken the musty, mouldy stench, the smell of swamp rot wafting up to him as a chance to reach for something new and unexplored. Indifferent to all this in the narrow alleys lie the lacerated, tormented, broken bodies of young girls with arms thrown back in convulsive gestures of agony. Only at the very riverfront, in the black, ugly night does Valeri find a respite from the gloom, watching the water’s ripples lap against the hull of a passing grain carrier. He thinks back to his mother and father, to their heroic deaths in the failed war fifteen years ago, and he feels a gnawing shame at having come to see as sexual and romantic a woman like his roommate, as though the temptation exists in him to concede that men and women must develop these attractions to one another when confined to such spaces together for so long. A horn breaks the silence; a train’s light appears in the distance, drawing nearer.

Tomorrow, Valeri will join Murray and hundreds of thousands of workers, students, and parishioners in the streets of lawyers across Britain and throughout Europe, from Barcelona to Bonn, from Liverpool to Lviv, from Paris to Ploesti. In union, each will look to one another for a spiritual support, in solidarity providing one another with that critical part of what it means to be. It’s insidious, and it’s vile, the way the wealthy man sets himself about the task of expelling the working man from his home and then seizing it, without firing a shot, without deploying the truncheon, by force of law taking what should never belong to him and making it his own. In the night, the fires of liberation still burn, only now the flames have been hidden behind the rising clouds of smoke billowing from a thousand and one smokestacks like burning embers lodged at the base of a still-smoldering home. It’s still that between-time, when it still seems possible for us all to pull ourselves back from the ledge, if only we could find the courage to take that necessary step back. This is a tempting line of thought, but it’s foolish as well. History doesn’t work that way.

As we’re all about to discover, as we all should’ve known all along, the way to the future is marked by the blood and tears of they who should’ve known the inevitability of it all. Even as I look ahead to the imminent escalation of this war three centuries in the making, I can’t help but imagine us all, at a much younger age, someday in the future bearing down on this, their past, with all the faded-out weariness of the lost orphan in search of the family he never had. It’s a fraud. Even as this night sees the fires of liberation burning in the distance, colouring the sky a crisp, burnt-orange gold, the working man’s already tired but somehow also filled with an electric energy coursing through his veins and seeping into every movement he makes, every smooth, rhythmic contraction of his muscles as he works through the night.

After all that’s happened in his lifetime, the working man can only convince himself he knows what lies ahead, from experience thatching together a narrative which demands special accommodation, enabling him to account for all his failures and all his successes. Missing the bus home one night, he walks along the side of the road, kicking an empty can of beer ahead of him, the hollow clinking sound of the can bouncing off the sidewalk there to distract him from his own thoughts. At the height of this late-summer’s heat, a restless energy has set into the city, with the days slowly growing noticeably shorter and the evening’s skies turning a burnt, brown colour when the sun dips beneath the skyline to the west. Loose pieces of paper litter the street. A car alarm sounds off. A pair of dogs bark at nothing. All the shops along the street are shuttered, hardly after sundown and already the city sheltering itself from what it’s come to expect the night holds. But not tonight. No, tonight there’s only a subdued quiet, altogether out of character for what we’ve come to expect from the night, where there should be shouting and raised fists and smashed-in windows on this night there’s only that eerie almost-silence that comes from a people brimming with discontent.

The working man knows what the future holds, but only in the sort of primal, instinctive way that he can. Still coming home at the end of the day, he retires to his little box of an apartment and sits at his window, looking out from his vantage point over the alley that runs between apartment blocks in this part of the city. On this night, the city’s in the midst of a heat wave, the unseasonable warmth pushing the temperatures almost to forty degrees. Through the wide-open window a breeze wafts in. Suddenly, the power fails, the whole apartment, the alley outside falling dark in an instant, the city beyond immersed in an unending sea of black. In the distance there’s the sound of sirens wailing and the sound of something thumping hard against the ground. Still the working man sits, watching another sleepless night pass slowly in this, the interlude that always precedes an explosion of hatred and violence. Still the working man leans back against his windowsill as a thousand different thoughts pull his mind in a thousand different directions, events weighing on him so. This place, this city in this country seems in the midst of an identity crisis, outright schizophrenic in its ability to embody all the conflicting truths competing for the minds of the people who live within its vast, sprawling expanse. No more than a few days are left before the inevitable happens, and still there’s so much left at stake, so much left to be said between the whole lot of us, if only we were still talking to each other. In the night, things change, for the night is the working man’s time, under the cover of darkness the alley behind his little apartment coming alive with the deafening sound of silence.

At some point, events seem to take on a life of their own, defying any attempt to rein them in by any party to the unfolding conflict. At some point, one can only read so many headlines, so many stories of the working man deprived of his livelihood and evicted from his home before one becomes numb to the working man’s plight. It’s the way history changes. History is like an impersonal force; it finds whatever it needs to advance. We often think of our history as being led by great men, as being made by dramatic events, and without them the future we live in would’ve turned out radically different. And in some ways this is true. No matter who steps forward to make themselves into the icons of men, history will find a way to achieve its inexorable advance. In the working man’s quarters, there comes a moment when he changes irrevocably. It’s as though a switch has been flipped, in an instant his awareness graduating to a higher plane. No longer aware of himself only as one of many, the working man suddenly conceives of himself as many of one. It doesn’t matter what happens to prompt this in him; if you ask him, he’ll swear with absolute certainty that he’s seen himself this way all along. It’s like this, it’s always been like this, as the night passes slowly and the sirens wail in the distance it’s as though by some divine influence the working man has come to silently accept what must be done only days before circumstances align to allow change we’ve never seen before.

Before we proceed any further, I have to warn you of what lies ahead. Though we’ve seen much misfortune meted out by man against man, what comes next will make every life lost, every livelihood deprived until now seem not a tragedy by comparison but mere happenstance. As men are wont to do, the working man has his own idols, even if most of his brothers do not recognize his idols as such. Right now, the working man’s leaderless, like a ship without a rudder, cast adrift, at the mercy of the currents. Right now, the working man is decided on throwing his lot in with the rising tides of history, but without a steady hand to guide him he may find himself hurled against the rocky shores at the base of an imposing cliff. In the night, the sirens in the distance never stop wailing, instead fading in and out, warbling and whooping while the city lurches and lumbers through another night of disarray.

At last, dawn breaks. A new day promises the arrival of a new era, one in which all accounts shall be settled and all debts shall be forgiven. A future lays itself out before us like a road reaching across the desert landscape towards the horizon, offering itself as the way forward. But it’s not for the faint of heart. Before the day is out, Valeri will join in the fires of liberation burning brighter and hotter than ever before, in this, our apocalypse rising.

16. The Die is Cast

After so many years of neglect, it’s all come to this. In the streets, the day has come, across the United Kingdom ordinary workers, students, and parishioners take to the streets of cities large and small, among them Valeri Kovalenko in with a crowd on a street somewhere not far from Westminster itself. Although their stated reason for gathering is to protest the government’s austerity measures, events soon degenerate into the venting of rage. The crowd advances towards a line of troopers standing across the street with their arms at the ready. We’ll never know the reason why it happened, what happens next. A thrown rock or bottle, someone trooper’s jostled elbow, or just plain panic. A gunshot cracks through the air, then silence. Another gunshot cracks, then another, then another, soon the rattling of indiscriminate gunfire chattering in the air, tearing holes in the sound of so many people screaming, this time screams of raw terror. The black-clad troopers move forward in a ragged, jagged line, shepherding the crowd down the street with a wave of death, leaving behind blood-soaked asphalt and a scattering of broken, lifeless bodies. It’s a sight that recalls memories of the Bloody Sunday massacre in Derry more than fifty years ago, for those old enough to remember such acts of cold-blooded murder. At the polytechnic, news breaks of the massacre moments after the first bodies hit the pavement, and the students riot. Sean Morrison’s one of the first to pick up a stone and hurl it through a nearby window, soon the whole crowd seemingly ten times larger as they rampage across the polytechnic’s grounds, setting fires, overturning cars, and smashing glass.

Hearing the crack of gunfire and the screaming of voices in terror, Valeri makes for the side of the street, seeking cover. But he trips over the curb and finds himself set upon by a young trooper, shielding his face with his hands as the trooper rains blows on him with a nightstick. In the chaos, this exchange becomes lost, the two men struggling against one another drawing the attention of Valeri’s friend Murray. In two strides, Murray’s alongside them, his iron fist describing an arc in the air and landing on the trooper’s head; a second later Murray tosses the trooper aside, the trooper’s body sagging under the impact of two leaden blows to the face. Murray reaches for Valeri, grabs him by the shoulders, and sets him on his feet. “Let’s go,” Murray says, “we should leave.” Valeri nods. They make off down an alley. At the underground church, the parishioners cut off from their rogue priest emerge into the street, clutching Bibles, chanting in time with one another, demanding justice for the fallen. As Darren Wright is among them, he feels not afraid of the policeman’s bullets but emboldened by their use in massacring the demonstrators, at the centre of his chest an anger rising that should guide his steps along the street and never lead him astray.

In the working class blocks, the mood strikes immediately. “They’re murderers,” says one man. In the days to come, everything changes. “You don’t know two hundred were killed fighting for our homes!” insists another. “They gave up their lives gladly for our happiness,” still another says. “And for our cause!” says one more. At the union halls, in the classrooms, in the pews these views are angrily shared among men. Workers stage massive strikes. Students walk out of classes. Churches hold sermons where pastors and preachers alike deliver moving eulogies for the dead and call the faithful to action. Video screens replay the carnage from every conceivable angle, slowing down the footage, breaking the furious action into a series of lifeless stills, at once seeming to magnify the gravity of what’s happened even as they transform it into a caricature of itself. But for men like Garrett Walker this massacre strikes home, Garrett sees the carnage played over and over on his screens, shown from every conceivable angle, slowed until one can see the blood spilled frame-by-frame. He imagines his daughters among those killed, not by choice, as if the dark essence has seized his thoughts and taken them places he’d never go on his own. Soon he’s in the streets with all the other unemployed men, so emasculated by their forcible unemployment, mobbing the nearest police station, hurling stones and voices over the fortifications until nothing seems as it was.

The furious and confusing turn of events isn’t lost on Valeri, who feels in his blood a heat rising with his heart’s every beat. With each breath he gulps down air. It’s an impossible moment, but necessary and transformative. It’s as though a switch has flipped and the common interest given rise anew like a surge of raw electricity through a long-dead circuit. Still, he thinks of Hannah. Still he wishes for her safety. Meanwhile, amid the bloodshed across the city and around the country people like Rose Powell and Miguel Figueroa wait with their fingers on the trigger, sensing their moment is almost at hand. It’s an incredible time, with war in the offing and for more men and women than not it will see us through our destiny. “We must not waver in our commitment to law and order,” says a uniformed man in on the screens, “we must not give in to terror and lawlessness.” But he says these things even as his voice is drowned out by a chorus of voices all crying out in anger, fear, and sorrow, his words emanating under the wailing and the gnashing of teeth, seeping through the streets while people like Valeri draw every breath as though it’s their last. After his release from the stockade, Private Craig Thompson hears of the massacre, the whole barracks waiting for news of their loved ones in the area. Though they know the odds anyone they know is killed are minimal, still they fear. For a little while Craig considers this might be the worst, that the next day will see order arise out of the chaos. But it’s not to be. They’re given orders, the Colonel says, to be ready to deploy immediately, and the troops assume this must mean to the streets of Britain. In time, their future mission will lead each of them to do things they never thought they’d do.

In the streets, Valeri and Murray become separated; for Valeri, the day is ended by limping back to his apartment to find Hannah gone. But outside, word has already spread of the massacre, leaving more questions than answers. “You’ve wasted your time talking,” says one woman in the working class slums that reach across the countryside. “There can be no more talk,” agrees another. “It’s time for action!” insists a third. The fourth, a younger woman, on the cusp of realizing her place, says, “surely the answer to killing doesn’t lie in more killing.” You see, we’re not there yet. At Valeri’s apartment, the halls are abuzz with energy, and the wailing of distant sirens invades through every open window. Still Hannah has not returned; he’ll later learn she’s at the hospital tending to the dead and dying, working twenty hours and sleeping four. He fears she’s died in the violence. “You must be crazy,” says Graham Russell, Valeri running into him in the stairwell on the way back out, “going out in a time like this.”

“No, I’m not crazy,” says Valeri, stepping past the old man, “I’m mad.” Still in jail when the massacre shocks the world, Stanislaw Czerkawski pushes with the other prisoners right up against the bars of their cells, banging, rattling, all at once shouting for the loved ones in the streets who could be fighting and dying at this very moment. Somehow, one of the cells is burst open, then another, then another, soon Stanislaw running with a mob down a corridor, each of them wielding a makeshift club as they charge the jail’s guards. There’s the cracking of gunshots and the spilling of blood, but the guards are too few and the prisoners too many, too angry. Soon the inmates have seized control, ejected the guards, and set fire to parts of the building, none of them guided by anything other than the passions of the degraded so released.

But there are others, yet unknown, who will soon step into the light. At a Royal Navy base not far from the city of Westminster there’s homeported Her Majesty’s Ship Borealis, an Aurora class cruiser. Her sister ship, the Australis, is also homeported here. Sleek, modern vessels armed to the teeth with missile batteries and gun turrets, they were originally built to match the latest American, Chinese, even Russian designs entering into service around the same time. On board the Borealis serves a sailor named Dmitri Malinin, under the command of Captain Abramovich. In his bunk when news breaks among the crew of the massacre, Dmitri feels the same simmering anger as the others, leaping out of his bunk and making for the mess hall where many of the sailors on board have already gathered. “It’s outrageous,” says one. “They’re murderers,” says another. “They gun down innocent people in the streets,” says a third. As Dmitri’s about to add his piece, the loudspeaker crackles, the Captain’s voice announcing, “all crew are confined to quarters until further notice.” The non-coms arrive and start shepherding sailors out of the mess, Dmitri among the last to leave. “I must contact my wife,” he says, later, back in his bunk with the others. “Are you worried she’s caught up in this?” a bunkmate asks. “No,” Dmitri says, “but there’s no telling how this will end. She might get caught up in this whether she wants to or not.” His bunkmate nods, then says, “we all might.” Dmitri agrees.

The working man eventually returns to work, the student to class, the pastor and the preacher to their desks counselling troubled wives with their troubled lives. None are as they were. All have experienced some slight change, imperceptible at a glance, yet surely there. As outrage spreads, this slight change manifests itself in disparate bursts of anger, a thrown stone here, a homemade bomb there, the sound of gunfire chattering off and on through the night. It’s the little differences that catch your mind’s eye. A light, erratic pop of a guerrilla attack followed by the heavy thumping of the police responding, not in kind but with an overwhelming force. It’s over quickly. It’s always over quickly. Already the gunmen, Ian Coleman and Kate Higgins along with a few others disappear into the night. “Have at them!” declares Ian, as they’re on their way back. “We follow our orders,” says Kate. Meanwhile, as Valeri searches the streets for any sign of Maria or Sydney, at the union hall Murray tries to piece together an explanation for why the promised support from the popular front’s guerrillas never came, why they never showed.

It leaves behind no bodies; as with all the other armed clashes that’ve broken out in the time since that dark, dark day, a few rounds have been exchanged and a few holes put into the windows of the shops lining the street, but little else has happened. Again and again this same scenario plays itself out in the streets over the weeks and the months that follow, interspersed against the impassioned dramas of the working men in the street and the students in their lecture halls angrily denouncing the powers that be and plotting their next moves. It’s a deeply confusing time, a time made all the more confusing by the roused passions of each of these disparate interests, each pursuing their own agency, each struggling against the limitations of themselves. None can know where it all must lead, where it all must eventually end, even as all believe they know and that their knowledge is to the exclusion of all others’. The working man is used to invasions of his quarters by the policeman’s truncheon, but not like this, never like this, in full view of the whole world innocent men and women gunned down by straight-faced police. But in the early afterwards following the massacre, questions remain. “They weren’t there,” says Murray, a few days later while talking to Valeri, “they weren’t there.” He speaks of the popular front and their failure to show. By now, a state of emergency has been declared, public gatherings banned, a curfew imposed, and troopers patrol the streets looking for trouble. With nowhere else to go, Valeri has returned to his little box of an apartment where he speaks with Murray on the phone while chafing and chomping at the bit to take back to the streets. Only some hours have passed since his brothers and sisters in union were murdered in cold blood, and the young man in him given to irrational acts of futile rebellion resents being made to seek shelter from the storm.

Let’s take a step back, for a moment, and consider all that’s at stake, all that’s in play. “You must calm down,” Murray says, “or you’ll get yourself killed.” Years earlier, we were all so caught up in the petty minutiae of our own lives that we couldn’t see the sinister forces at work in the background, lurking in the shadows as they’d always lurked. “I’d rather risk death than sit cooped up in this apartment waiting for something to happen,” Valeri says, “they have to pay for their murder.” I’ll be clear; there is no conspiracy and there’s never been a conspiracy. “They’ll pay,” Murray says, “but you’re no good to anyone if you’re bled out on the street.” Elaborate conspiracies are the domain of those with views limited by their own ignorance. “What happens to me is unimportant,” Valeri says, “so long as I can be of use to the cause.” No, these forces I speak of are as forces of nature, as the wind blows and as the tides rise and fall, so too do these forces of men act by vague compulsions and confused motivations, not as self-aware but as self-assured. “You’re a noble man,” says Murray, “and you should serve a higher purpose than sacrificing your life in a street battle.”

“You speak of the men in the streets as if they’re mere rabble,” Valeri says. “I know they’re not,” Murray says, “and neither are you.”

Days pass. Unusually, a rhythm returns to the streets, amid the heavy handed presence of the troopers and the martial law that’s been imposed. Working men like Valeri have been an afterthought in this city for some time, chewed up and then spit out when he’s no longer of use to those in power. For his whole life, he’s watched as his world has been transformed, as this city he’s called home for so long as he’s lived now seeks to expel him in a frantic, fevered campaign to eat themselves whole. It’s a disgusting sight, made all the more wretched by the thick stench of a foul winter’s night and the noxious smoke emanating from still-spewing stacks across the river. He leaves his simple, working class apartment, and although he knows it’s an absurd thought he can’t help but entertain the notion that he’ll come home after his shift to find his simple, working class apartment gone, the whole building demolished and replaced by elegance and luxury reserved for those of a higher pedigree than him. He sees in this time the memory of his parents and their failed rising, and chafes for his chance to avenge them anew.

The noxious smell of industrial smoke still lingers in the air, mixed with the foul stench of cigarette smoke. A younger co-worker of Valeri’s, Kyle Bridges, was among those killed in the street. He was a passionate young man, young enough not to know a passion ruined by the creeping cynicism that occurs in all men on the cusp of middle age. It’s a deeply personal crisis, one that strikes a chord with a thousand and one people all at once, but each in a different way. In a deeply personal crisis, one can’t help but isolate one’s self from all those around. It’s a futile effort. In those months, those years before that fateful day when people died in the streets, well, so many had already died in those very streets, so many die every day, some falling prey to a sexual predator, some choking on their own vomit in the midst of an overdose, still some in the wrong place at the wrong time. Besides death, the common thread that runs through their lives is privation; none have enough to be deemed worthy of life. In these, the working man will, in time, find an ally natural and indispensible.

A mounting frenzy sets in as each of them frantically works to wring every last pound from the world. Another of Valeri’s co-workers, a still-younger man named Stuart James, is soon forced out of his home, among the first in a new round of evictions aimed at clearing out the under-class. The wealthy man is compulsively exchanging the real for the imagined, trading land for money, when the bottom falls out the people who acquired the imagined finding themselves still living in luxury while the people who’d acquired the real finding themselves losing everything. There’s a great amount of shouting and screaming but in the meanwhile nothing seems to change; the few continue to grow fat and lazy from the suffering of the many. But it’s not true that nothing changes. That’s just what they want you to believe. As they grow complacent, we grow learned in the art of war, each working man pushed out of his home, every working man made to lose his livelihood gaining us a knowledge we’ll soon put to good use.

But progress looms. A woman named Lillian Wolfe, widowed on the day of the massacre, cries softly as she prays in church, she one of many to take refuge in a house of God in times like these. Though it may not be immediately obvious in the aftermath of this latest breakdown in the current order, we’ve reached an epiphany, a transformative moment marking the start of a transition from one era to the next, each step brought down on the ground in front of us, each breath drawn in and pushed out moving us inexorably closer to that historical inevitability waiting for us on the other side of the horizon, just out of view. Even as it dawns on us, though, that the future is ours, we must never regard it as predestined, predetermined, for each day that passes brings us a day closer to our victory only so long as we use each day to work tirelessly and relentlessly towards that goal. In the meanwhile, as we ease ourselves out of this latest crisis, it’s instructive to look on these early, tentative days as an awkward step, one of many on our long and difficult path through to the future.

In the years before massacre in the city’s centre provokes the rise of a revolution, an urgency begins to settle in the streets, nerves rattled and passions become roused. A third young person, a man named Dominic Hayes, is one of the many to lose their livelihoods in the immediate aftermath of the massacre. Now, like so many of his brothers and sisters Dominic In the working class tenements that’ve begun to vanish, demolished as the wealthy class sell them in a confusing array of transactions all aimed at increasing their profits, the working man has come to realize he’s been deceived for too long. These companies, impersonal, agreed-upon can hide behind a confusing network of deals only for so long; sooner or later, they all blur into a bureaucratic morass that can no longer confuse or conceal. An apartment block disappears, then another, then another, the very people who work to demolish the old and put up the new the same as those who would find themselves evicted from their own homes.

In the immediate aftermath of that massacre in the city’s streets, a series of rolling strikes cripple the means of production, leaving towers half-finished, leaving them empty concrete shells with jagged beams sticking out like broken bones. Columns of smoke rise from fires burning out of control, along the streets coursing a white hot rage so bright it seems to light up the night’s sky. This vision, this image of our shared future, I ask that you look upon that very moment and see if you can remain forever damned by a past you never wanted, by a future you’ve never deserved. Still this is all disorganized, the whole lot of them acting without thought, without objective, as history has chosen this moment to assert itself, not yet fully formed but in its embryonic stage still showing the early signs of its coming maturity.

In the months leading up to that massacre in the city’s streets, desperation had become the way of things. Stunning glass and steel monuments had come to occupy the spaces where once simple, functional, working-class apartments had stood, cracks in the pavement sprouting weeds and gathering pulverized dust. The working man becomes pitied, mocked for his values, for values like thrift, charity, generosity, selflessness and honesty. He becomes mocked by those who would value duplicity, avarice, idolatry and lies. In the midst of his hometown’s rotting away, he does not arrive at the realization but instead makes the decision that this time is different. Already lost, our future’s end is won, in defeat our victory sees itself through the darkest of nights to the dawning of a new day.

When we come to the right moment, in the lingering aftermath of that first massacre in the streets, the working man will look to his future and see for the first time hope from despair like the rising sun’s first light breaking over the horizon to mark the dawn of a new day. The instruments of oppression are ubiquitous in their presence and steadfast in their resiliency, yet still they resort to the same methods as before the current crisis; the talking heads take to the broadcasts and denounce the lawlessness and the violence in the streets, discovering, to their horror, their methods are no longer effective, the loud-mouths on the screens bellowing their lies ever louder, screaming themselves hoarse only to rouse the anger of the working man towards not himself but to the wealthy man. It’s in a moment of uncertainty that the wealthy man and his allies and his colleagues make that first, critical error, unleashing the one force that would do them in.

A small plane lands, from inside a hooded figure escorted by four armed guards walking along a narrow path reaching into an empty hangar. Perhaps he’s lucky just not be in shackles and an orange jumpsuit, as he’s a wanted figure not only by the counter-revolution but by the revolution itself. He thinks to pay attention to his surroundings; he refuses to simply put his head down in defeat and walk as fast as he can through this current challenge. His faith in the turning of history in his favour, in favour of his people is like that of a religious zealot assured in an impending apocalypse. For the working man, death awaits. For the hooded man, whose name is Elijah, simply Elijah, victory will come at a high price in blood, to be paid by the sons of daughters.

Still he is just a man, and our apocalypse will not be risen by a man but by men. As our future history belongs to they who are least, it’s inevitable that from among their ranks we should find the next generation of leaders. His is a pedigree that comes from a long line of workers, of farmers, of thieves, of prostitutes, of the very people who are so maligned in a world where evil would denounce good, where ignorance would denounce knowledge, where lies would denounce honesty and where cowardice would denounce courage. Remember him. Remember his face. Remember his words, spoken as they are with a gun to his head and with his skin battered and bruised. At the moment, he’s one of many, nameless, faceless, nothing more than another malcontent caught in the sweeps of the streets by the counter-revolution’s uniformed storm troopers.

But while he’s locked away, he’ll find others like him, he’ll form lifelong friendships born of a shared history, a shared fate. And in time, his enemies of the counter-revolution will show themselves foolish enough to release him and his comrades, and they’ll go on to form the core of a new beginning for the revolution, rallying so many disjointed and confused forces under a single banner, around a single ideal, given a new beginning their revolution seeing through to victory. But for now, he’ll take the blows of truncheons and he’ll spend sleepless nights in his airless cube of a cell, every moment spent learning, whether he realizes it or not. While he learns, the world burns, a smoldering fire in search of a spark, the driest of forests looking for a random lightning strike, a lit cigarette tossed carelessly from a passing car’s window, an appliance left on too long.

And not long after his impending release, he’ll be given that gift in the form of so many lifeless bodies strewn across the blood-soaked streets, a gift he and his brothers will put to good use. Though he signs a pledge forbidding him from any rabble rousing, he signs with a wink and a nod, both he and his former captors silently acknowledging the next time they’d meet on the battlefield of the streets where the working man lives. As soon as he walks through the front doors of the prison which could never hold him for long, he meets with the very people who would compel him to power, with the self-selected leaders among the workers, the students, the parishioners, in so meeting the whole lot of them forming the core of the way to the future.

17. A Time to Stand

Tonight, the world burns. Word spreads quickly about what’s happened. Screens flash with footage from the massacre, images of broken bodies and bloodied pavement, these images seeming to be frozen in place even as they click forward with the push of a button and the swipe of a pad. All seem in a state of shock, as if time has slowed and all are watching from a distance. “For our children,” one man, a worker, urges action. “For our children’s children,” one woman, another worker, urges action. “Not for ourselves,” urges another, an unemployed youth, “but for all those who have died and have yet to die!” At the union hall the mood is one of anger mixed with despair. After fruitless messages left for his contacts in the popular front, Murray comes to realize the truth of why his allies never showed on that fateful day. They were never meant to show. But Murray doesn’t yet realize the traitor in his ranks feeding the troopers information, and it’s his ignorance that will enable further betrayal. Meanwhile, after Stanislaw Czerkawski and the other prisoners have taken over their prison, many of the prisoners flee, some going home to be with their families while others are simply on the run from the law. But Stanislaw and the bulk of them stay, forming a provisional committee not to govern the prison but to organize a defence. They expect the police to strike back at any time, with lethal force. In the heat of the moment there’s little time for meetings, though, and the committee’s time is consumed in fortifying their positions, Stanislaw charged with building a makeshift roadblock along the prison’s access road. In the night, the police have already begun massing in the distance, armoured cars parked strategically, policemen with their guns drawn and pointed right down the way. But the way they seem to shift slightly in their stance, the way their grip on their guns seems to waver slightly makes clear their uncertainty, and it’s in this uncertainty that Stanislaw and the others come to believe they can win.

For Valeri, the massacre inspires in him a seething rage, of the kind he’s known only once before: fifteen years ago when the last generation’s failed uprising took them from him. After hurrying into the streets he emerges, exhausted and sore all over, looking for Maria somewhere around where usually she waits. In the streets she’s nowhere to be found. He fears she’s dead; but this is no time to let fear govern one’s actions. In his apartment block’s stairwell, he sees not Maria but Hannah for the first time in days, her scrubs bloodied from the day’s work. They’re both tired. “You’ve come at last,” she tries, “I would’ve thought you’d gotten yourself killed in all this.” She speaks with an almost-dismissive tone which can only just conceal her concern. “You must promise me you’ll stay out of harm’s way,” he says. But he knows it’s not that simple. At the barracks, Private Craig Thompson is made to prepare for war. After they finish accounting for all their guns, ammunition, and the other equipment, they muster on the parade grounds and ready themselves to receive their orders. When Colonel Cooke announces their impending deployment to eastern Estonia, right on the Russian border, a murmur sweeps across the mustered troops, Private Thompson among those muttering under their breaths, Thompson saying, “I can’t believe it.” But a sharp glare from the non-coms silences the men. With people dying on the streets of their own country, the men are to be deployed to defend the territory of another. Already edging towards sedition Private Thompson and the rest of the men haven’t long until it’s their time to rise.

Overnight, a calm emerges. An eerie silence settles over the streets, with those brave few outside putting their heads down as they quickly and quietly scurry along. Even the troopers step out with apprehension, looking into every shadow, glancing quickly into every side street and every alley before moving on, half their minds on their firearms, half on the safety and the security of the station waiting for them at the end of their patrols. If you stand in the right place, at the intersection of once-busy streets, you can hear the wind whistling as it rushes between buildings emptied overnight. Still, the working man finds his attention dominated by concerns closer to home. Valeri passes a few names and a few places to his unknown contact; at times he thinks himself sending information into a void. This time, the names and the places he sends make their way through a network of contacts and find the right hands. In the streets, the unemployed and the unemployable keep on hurling stones, Garrett Walker in with the rest of the rabble voicing their discontent. He returns home after days away, only to learn his daughters have spirited away into the service of the mob rampaging through those very streets, and he determines to take action. Soon the whole family flees, in taking to the streets Garrett’s daughters killed by a police lorry barging into their crowd. As their broken bodies lie on the pavement, he kneels in a pool of crimson blood and says, “I can’t believe it.” It’s a seminal moment in Garret’s life, and under the influence of a blinding rage he turns away from the path of retreat in favour of giving himself over to the dark essence. In this he irrevocably commits himself as a vessel through which the dark essence can grant itself expression, and begins as a working man his final step towards mastery of his own future.

A strike’s risky in this trouble. Though many are underway already, each has been disorganized, erratic, lacking in the discipline needed to make something out of nothing. He takes to the street and makes his way with the others to the mill, out of the chaos this new strike arising like the sudden intensification of an already-burning firestorm. With the other day labourers Valeri marches, at exactly the moment he’s in the midst of a halting, disjointed rhythm between one step and the next an explosion tears through the street, sending Valeri to the pavement. It’s the first attack, the first of many. In the din, Valeri soon picks himself up, his whole body a blurry, pulsating mass of pain. But he musters the strength to make for cover, only stopping in the relative safety of a blown-out storefront to look back on the carnage. Marching with Bibles in hand, Darren Wright and the other parishioners put down in the middle of the street not far from the place where unarmed demonstrators were shot dead. One by one, they take turns preaching the forbidden gospel to one another. Around them, the police are erratic, withdrawing when they can no longer control the situation. When Darren’s turn to preach comes, he stands at the head of the congregation, about to deliver the forbidden gospel in his own way when he sees down the road the last of the police lorries turn and drive away. “I can’t believe it.” Though the deliverance of the revolution from evil is not yet fully formed, a redemption of blood is offered to all who would take it; men like Darren don’t hesitate, in this moment of truth.

As disorder spreads and people die in the streets, he rushes home to be with his loved ones. The only way, he knows, to be sure they’re safe is to keep them safe himself. The urban landscape spreads itself below him, sprawling as far as he can see, a thick smog concealing the horizon, bleeding into the sky. As it draws nearer, the smog seems to fade into a dull haze, obscuring behind every building in a sea of translucent grey. In the working man’s home, among row after drab row of tasteless, prefabricated apartment blocks and narrow, potholed streets, there’s a respite, however fleeting, from the deafening silence of the streets. At the polytechnic, Sean Morrison and the other students have stopped rioting and taken control, their school a shambles but theirs nevertheless. The student council has asserted control, but once the police come for them there’s little any of them will be able to do to hold what they’ve seized. From the rooftop of the polytechnic’s main building Sean and the others fly the flag of the failed rising fifteen years ago, then look out across the city and view the columns of smoke rising in the distance as the fires of liberation burn. When Sean sees the police lorries withdraw, leaving the students in firm control of the polytechnic. “I can’t believe it.” In their quest to assert a revolutionary knowledge, still Sean and the other students are not yet fully awaken, but given to the fight they’re almost there.

But among endless rows of ramshackle buildings stabbing at the sky like the serrated edge of a blade, the working man waits and watches with a mounting anticipation as his world, seemingly frozen in place, in fact spirals out of control so rapidly it’s always been. At the hospital, Hannah, Whitney, and the others are inundated with casualties, the dead and dying lying alongside one another in the halls, the A&E floor painted with streaks and pools of blood both drying and dried. A man dies in front of Hannah; she turns and tends to another’s wounds, only to watch him die, too. There’s screaming and shouting and crying, mixed in with the wailing of sirens and the rattling of distant thunder. Hannah can’t take a breath; she takes a pill to keep herself alert. A woman comes in carrying the limp body of a small child. Hannah turns her away. Hannah’s turned many away. Hannah’s still to turn many away. But others have it as bad.

Still confined to quarters, the crew of the cruiser Borealis come up with their own stories of what’s happening, each slightly different from the next. Some think the crew will be deployed as marines to the streets directly, to assist the army in pacifying the unrest. Others believe the crew will be kept confined to quarters for months, even put in the brig if necessary, the officers fearing desertion. Still others believe the ship will be deployed away, to Canada or the United States on a visit, just to keep His Majesty’s Ship safe and out of the crisis. But Dmitri doesn’t think on what might happen; he plans, in the way he does. “We have to be prepared for the possibility of war,” he says, one night after lights out. He’s in his bunk, the other five in his room listening intently. “We’ve been watching as the country gets poorer and poorer. We can’t watch much longer. We shouldn’t follow the orders of the men who are killing our own people.” Another sailor pipes in, saying, “are you proposing mutiny?” Dmitri says, “no,” then pauses thoughtfully before adding, “not yet.” There’s more, but this exchange is what’s important, the first step in the crew making the transition from serving one banner to serving another.

After these early attacks, the rebel stops, having administered the slightest touch to introduce a new chaos. Across the city, the rebel plots his next move. It’s only been a short while since his release; like an addict released from treatment, his first act is to link up with the others, the small group of them forming the core of what would come to be an all-powerful force. In a small, dark basement they meet, and quickly consensus emerges from the fusion of divergent opinions. Some want to take to the streets immediately, to join the rabble with whatever arms they can muster and attack, no matter the outcome. Some want to discard armaments and embrace the peaceful struggle, sure as they are that their enemies will give in when confronted with an overwhelming show of popular strength. All are wrong. The rebel knows force must be applied with deliberate intent, methodically, precisely, at the right time and in the right place. If Valeri is to see himself through, he’ll have to wait for his time to rise. Until his time is come, he’ll have to resist the compulsive, overwhelming urge to attack, now.

But so too does the rebel know the importance of applying a constant, steady pressure from all corners, reaching into the night to draw from within its darkness a mass action, mobilizing the students and the clergymen and the trade unionists into a single mass of humanity against they who would seek to preserve the way of things. The rebel’s goal is to make the current order untenable, the current state ungovernable. And so the rebel waits, continuing to gather his strength, adding to his forces, stockpiling his armaments, disseminating his seditious knowledge to those who would seek to conspire with him against the way of things, through a convoluted network of agents and actors, of sympathizers and supporters, eventually finding its way into the receptive mind of the working man. Over time, this receptiveness will turn into sympathy, some time later into wholehearted embrace. Deftly, the rebel dances a delicate dance, astride the markers of history in the making, with only a force powerful enough to lay waste to the streets needed to make way for the future.

As the working man seeks shelter from the chaos in his own quarters, he thatches together the means to survive this crisis spiralling rapidly towards war. Many of his are arrested, but few have yet died, the chaos gripping the city, the country, the entire world seeing the storm troopers here in his hometown stretched too far and too wide to bother much with him. With the stores looted of food, supplies, things like soap and bread have disappeared in the time it’s taken the first bodies to hit the ground. So too are his cupboards bare, and he survives through this early time not by his wits but by the pooling of what little he has with his brothers and sisters among the worker, the student, and the parishioner, their meagre resources enough to provide sustenance in the meanwhile. Still the crowds vacate the streets, looking to the skies for guidance, seeking the patience that can only come from the almost-spiritual release in surrender to the forces moving around him like the fast-moving waters of a river around the rock stuck stubbornly in the middle. But not all is lost. Life, what’s left of it, goes on, and in so going adapts to the changing circumstances all find themselves immersed in, the working man like all the others finding a way to survive through this early period when no one seems concerned for his immediate welfare but him. A sudden explosion erupts from within a school in the wealthy man’s part of town, once the dust settles the death toll standing at almost two hundred adolescents and their teachers. The rebel avoids the limelight, his apparatchiks making a point to avoid taking responsibility for this attack.

Hearing a sudden bang snap across the darkness followed by the sound of concrete crumbling, he knows this is another attack by the rebel, and for a moment he entertains the notion that this time the rebel might’ve deigned to take decisive action. In the midst of a confusing, chaotic time, thunderous explosions go off here and there, randomly interrupting daily life as women and children search for cover, life interrupted as the streets in the time it’s taken those first drops of blood to hit the pavement. At the end of one shift but before the start of another, power cuts in and out randomly, sometimes out for days, sometimes for seconds, sometimes for just long enough to fit the dark in the blink of an eye. Anger spills into the streets even as those very streets remain deserted, like a post-apocalyptic wasteland with scraps of paper fluttering across the pavement in the summer’s light wind. But when the working man stands for only a moment a stream of letters scrolling across his screen, messages overpowering his screen’s settings to display the requisite stories from the talking heads, denouncing lawlessness, preaching devotion to law and order, infusing every breath, every word with a forced anger and a strained intimidation. The working man may not know this in the way you and I do, but on some instinctive level he realizes the wealthy man is improvising things too. All the world’s burning with the fires of liberation still yet in their infant state, with only the slightest wind needed to catch them and send them rising into the highest, the towering inferno. But the old order remains. It’s all a fraud. Every actor has a role to play; each must play their role to its inevitable end. This is why, the working man knows, this early period where there’s disorder in the streets and sporadic battles erupting all over town and across the country the way of things is still strong, still firmly entrenched, these first acts, these protests and these gun battles and these bombings only like the first and lightest of raindrops to build, slowly, into a typhoon-like storm. Little does the working man know that the storm troopers are already plotting their next move, scraping together a force to venture into enemy territory in the hopes of taking to the offensive, after events have so rapidly turned against them. They lash out not because they believe it will work, though they may very well believe it will work, but because they must. It’s their role to play.

But enough, for now, of the rebel; his is a cause long in the making, and long yet still to be made. As the rebel plots and as the working man struggles through these dangerous times, the wealthy man considers his options, deploying his considerable holdings from their safe havens to furnish the storm troopers with new weapons, new shields, believing as he does that such things will save him. But the surge had crested at exactly the moment those angry young men had been shot and killed in the street before, in a crack of thunder and smoke, coming down in a crash. Many projects stall. Many new buildings fall dark and silent, with crews leaving their tools in place after the sudden end of their last shift. Cranes stand over the empty, half-finished concrete shells, cables left to dangle in the wind. It’s all so surreal. After we’ve come this far, I lead you down an empty street and point out the sights here and there, the cracks in the pavement and the weeds sprouting from between them, the faded paint and the still-smoldering fires of liberation having long since burned out. The laughter of children who have never lived here rings out, echoing off the hardened concrete, lending the streets an eerie, ghostly atmosphere made all the more eerie and ghostly by the smog and the dust of a late-summer’s heat wave surging over the city, inflaming tensions, enflaming passions, all at once the wreckage of the old crumbling in an impossible yet familiar falling-apart of all that we’ve come to know. Still, the wealthy man hoards his wealth, casting the working man and all the working man’s friends and allies into the streets. And the rebel does not intervene to defend the working man in this, his time of need.

It’s only been some weeks since dozens of innocents were cut down in a hail of rifle fire right in these very streets, and already we’ve reached the point where the wealthy man has come to feel so pressured, but not yet threatened that his will compels the storm troopers to strike. As the young men and women who form the detritus of society linger in the shadows, in open doorways and behind broken windows, a confused tension sets into the air like the burning of muscles after too long an exercise. Factories shutter, then reopen as if they’d never shuttered at all. A construction crane topples, the next day seeing a brand new crane in exactly the same place. It’s all so confusing and disorienting, how this can be happening, how the wealthy man can preserve his place in the way of things even as this wave of violence sweeps over the city and across the country, already extending, in spots here and there, around the world. At night, one night, the working man is called into work, only for the one night, sent home clutching tight in his pocket a pittance smaller than ever before. Still yet the working man looks ahead, watching the fires of liberation burn long into the night, their bright, red-and-gold flames licking into the bluish-black skies, their colour blending to turn the night a sickly, obscene, offensive shade of crimson, as though confused, disoriented as the working man. But it’s a fraud. As the skies have no thought, no will, neither does the working man, his thoughts, his feelings at the whim of they who would deem themselves his masters, whether they be on his side or not. In this, his moment of indecision, the working man is vulnerable, and in his vulnerability he is in exactly the right frame of mind to become receptive to the ideas that would be forbidden to the working man in the wealthy man’s world.

Into the street roll armoured personnel carriers, trundling slowly. The streets are devoid of life, with every shop shuttered and every patch of sidewalk bare. Along the moment’s right flank there passes the black-clad figure, striking out at all who would dare to press him to show his faith. An explosion, then some minutes later another. Shattered bodies scatter across the street. In the darkness of the night, a powerful searchlight sweeps up and down the face of a tower while the chattering of gunfire rips holes in the sky. A column of smoke rises, its blackness barely distinguishable from the night. Days pass, then pass back, looping around in a curvature that seems at once to encompass all that’s happened, compressing events vast and dissimilar into a single point that defies measurement.

Young men are led at gunpoint out into the street, then made to kneel with their hands behind their backs. These, the working man’s colleagues, his brothers in spirit are not the first casualties in a war gone wrong, and they will not be the last. Overhead, a black figure sweeps through the darkness, from within his mass loosing bolts of flame on the street, new fires bursting into existence. Despite all that’s happened, the wealthy man still sees himself as fully in control of the crisis playing itself out before him, still confident of the vast wealth he’s hoarded, still self-assured of the righteousness of his own cause. The wealthy man continues to plot his next moves, hurriedly scurrying the last of his ill-gotten wealth in whatever safe haven he can think of, through accounts held under pseudonym upon pseudonym around the world in banks no one’s ever heard of. But he makes a mistake. He always makes a mistake. Little does the wealthy man realize that his vast wealth will mean nothing when, in the future, he finds himself wearing a black hood over his head and a noose around his neck, taking his last breaths before the inevitable justice is visited upon him. In the meanwhile, his mistake isn’t his frantic efforts to store his theft somewhere it can’t be found. In fact, the exact moment he made his critical mistake can never be found, not by you or me, not by the show trials to be set up to press the wealthy man’s guilt and deliver unto him the ultimate justice.

In a flash, fires break out across London, across every city, from the base of towers smoke rising. The sound of glass breaking rings out along the pounding of feet against the pavement and the crying out of anguished voices. The rebel lies in wait, deliberately avoiding the action, watching as the enemy steps over himself to make every possible mistake. Screens across the world flash with images of troopers pointing rifles at angry mothers, unarmed, venting rage at them. Screens across the world flash with images of searchlights sweeping across buildings in the middle of the night, of loose rounds of gunfire ringing in the darkness, of sirens wailing and of passions inflaming as the consequences of a lifetime and a half of passions so suppressed erupt in an orgy of violence. It never ends. It can never end.

After unleashing a pent-up rage onto the streets, there can be no turning back. In the midst of this rapid collapse of the old order, the rebel takes care to consolidate his forces, pausing only to mount the lightest of attacks. His gunmen open fire on the troopers, only to withdraw before these troopers can respond. He takes no life, not yet, succeeding only in his as-yet limited aim. Disappearing into the city, he evades pursuit, blending in with his surroundings, in his plain clothes indistinguishable from the working man, the student, and the parishioner once he discards his weapons. Still the storm troopers fire at anything that moves, at shadows and at flickers of light glinting off scattered shards of glass in the street.

Then, a crashing sound, the ground shaking slightly as a bomb goes off somewhere down the street, hurting no one but rattling nerves. Moments later, another, somewhere across the city. It’s a staggering moment, one of many strewn across the collective consciousness like so much useless confetti. Still there are few injuries and no deaths, the rebel’s plot to strain resources and to fray nerves unfolding slowly over weeks, months. Soon, barricades go up around every public office, every port whether air or sea, across the streets in every city across Britain, around the stock exchange downtown and around the network centres where the wealthy man’s propaganda continues to stream forth with ever increasing intensity. Not protected, not yet, are the targets of value to the rebel, those targets which his enemies would never suspect and those who would never blame him for his own crimes. As the rebel preserves his forces and consolidates his gains, he prepares for a decisive attack.

18. In the Cards

It comes suddenly, in the middle of the night, an unusual time for such men to be up. “Valeri!” shouts Hannah, calling him over to her screen, “Valeri you have to see this!” The powers that be have convened an emergency session for their self-important government, but they cannot sort out the way forward. “It’s happening,” Valeri says. There’s hatred and recrimination, as there is among the workers who surround them every minute of every day, but this hatred and recrimination is different. “At last we will have our revenge,” Valeri says. “I hope you’re right,” says Hannah, “roommate.” She puts her hand over his and gives a firm but slight squeeze. But Valeri has already made in with the rebels of the popular front, in the weeks since the massacre working under the guidance of Murray and others to avenge every last drop of blood his brothers and sisters have been made to shed in the streets. Night falls.

On board the cruiser Borealis, Captain Abramovich addresses the men on a daily basis, through the ship’s loudspeakers urging the same discipline and calm every time. When Dmitri and the others first hear of the collapse in parliament, though, it’s not from the captain but from one enterprising young sailor who’d kept a screen he’d smuggled on board. “The criminals will be brought to justice,” says one sailor. “Maybe the new government will put them on trial,” says another. But Dmitri remains skeptical, saying, “they’re all a pack of jackals. It doesn’t matter who forms the next government, they’ll all keep on killing our own people in the streets.” This exchange is had in the mess hall, and most of the sailors around them agree with Dmitri. This is not a happy crew. For many years the Navy has squandered much money on expensive boondoggles, on new aircraft carriers with no aircraft, on submarines that can’t submerge for all the leaks in their hulls, on missiles guided by software with so many bugs they might as well be great rocks. Meanwhile, their pay has been cut repeatedly, leaving these men to make less than a common street whore. If news of parliament’s collapse is meant to assuage them, it fails.

By the time the sun rises on a new day, this government has fallen, leaving the state’s apparatus in place but adrift, rudderless, in search of a new authority to take the place of the old. An election’s called, thirty days from now, and much will happen in so short a time. I know what you might be thinking, but it’s not yet time for that. Instead, we look to the shadows where the working man withstands the mounting unrest, his anger at those who would seek to govern him balanced by the uncertainty obscuring his personal road through the future. “I will not wait for the time to come,” Valeri insists, speaking with neither Hannah nor Murray but his one-time lover Sydney Harrington. She’s found Valeri after a long absence, and she knows, in the intuitive way she does, that he’s caught up in this somehow. “I don’t ask you to wait,” says Sydney, “but I would ask you to come with my family and take refuge in our home in the country. It’s near a small town in the highlands. We’ll be save there, together.” But by now, Valeri has come to reject private life altogether, going so far as to turn against so natural and so fulfilling an experience as love. And he finds in his self-denial a lofty ideal which gives him something he’s never known before, a vital urge to take part in something that could change everything.

“There’s no place for me here anymore,” says Maria, the last time she and Valeri are to see one another for the current crisis. “There’s never been much of a place for you here,” Valeri says. “So you finally understand me,” says Maria. “I’m beginning to,” Valeri says, “good luck.” As the working man tries in vain to make sense of all that’s happening, still yet he’s distracted from the wealthy man’s mad rush to extract every last bit of wealth he can in the wake of this turmoil that threatens to consume all. As the working man tries, so, too, tries the wealthy man, the working man’s turn to the rebel giving rise to the wealthy man’s reactionary, each provoking the other, neither coming about but in response to one another. It means little now, the whole lot of them still in their confused, primordial state, but as you and I watch this elaborate theatre play itself out, you must know, perhaps on instinct by now, it’s all the same crazy, deranged mess repeating with a slightly different flavour each and every time.

Once you come to realize that all these actors have a role to play and so must play their role no matter what’s transpired, as I’ve long since realized, you may yet gain the ability to sense the flow of history as it reaches for its next phase. Three men gather and make for a church. “They’ll gun us down if they see us,” says one man. “We’ll keep out of sight,” says another. “We can’t miss this sermon,” says a third. Like most working men, they’ve thrown their sympathies in with the guerrillas already staging raids on police stations, government houses, and freight train yards. Like most working men, they’ve not yet brought themselves to terms with what must be done. They haven’t decided whether to vote in the coming elections, and it’s up to the guerrillas of the popular front to dissuade them. The same flag flutters from atop the same government buildings, from spires atop domes and from poles on tall buildings; in the time it takes the caretaker government to arrange for its own replacement, events will transpire here and around the world that’ll make everything we do and everything we say in the meanwhile assume a new meaning few could’ve ever seen coming.

Having come this far, we’ve already cast ourselves off the precipice and can only hope we survive the plummet. But it matters little who’s in power. In the streets, the working man and his allies the student and the parishioner form a single mob, braving the storm troopers’ guns to march on Victory Monument as once they had so often. As the decades of importing slaves from all corners of the Earth have finally caught up to the wealthy man, there’s now that mass of people, pathetic and lacking in dignity as they are, unencumbered by fear of loss and free to hurl themselves once more at the black-clad men who man the barricade up ahead. “We strike against our enemies!” declares one man. “We stand up for the dead!” screams another. “We fight for ourselves!” yells a third. These are the names and the voices of the neglected, maligned working men, and this is their time.

“All power to the people!” shouts one woman. “All power to the people!” shouts another woman. “All power to the people!” shouts a third woman. Even before the massacre these were times when radicalism had long gained an alluring appeal, memories of the failed rising of fifteen years ago inhabiting these streets like ghostly visages, there, yet not there. Confused and leaderless, the storm troopers who only a short time earlier had patrolled the streets with confidence, almost arrogance are now reduced to a dishevelled mess, some firing their arms at anything that moves, at the shadows in the night, others locking themselves in their stations, still others abandoning their uniforms altogether and melting into the crowd as the working man takes to the streets. At the polytechnic, news of the government’s collapse is met with disbelief mixed with despair. Sean Morrison and the other students in occupation emphatically reject the call for elections, agreeing to stand on principle alone. But principles cannot feed the hungry nor heal the sick, and with food supplies running low and medical care needed for some the students have no choice but to end their occupation, for now, and head home to try and make good on their own survival. Sean’s one of the last to leave, taking one last stand on the roof of the main hall. He wants one last moment with the makeshift flag they’ve flown. He says, “we’ll be back,” while looking up at the flag fluttering in the summer’s breeze, “and next time it’ll be for good.” He leaves the flag flying, leaving it as a declaration to the school’s masters of the way things have changed.

But here, now, they point their guns down the road at the steadily advancing mob, their grip quivering, wavering, finally withdrawing, surrendering the moment to that very mob. No longer can they confidently, even arrogantly enter the working man’s home and remove him, as the wealthy man’s profiteering has come to a screeching halt. In the midst of all this disorder, I’d invite you to look on the smoldering fires of liberation, after they’ve burned themselves out the charred husks of men blackened as the shadows of history come to life. “In the name of the dead!” shouts one man. “We rise in anger!” shouts another. “All power to the people!” shouts still another. This is the rallying cry against which the forces at work shall assail themselves, the moment of crisis again reaching for the skies like a tsunami cresting at exactly the moment it strikes the shore. But Valeri is not there. His is thrown in with the rebels of the popular front, in spirit if not yet in fact, and with the rebels biding their time, he waits for the inevitable opportunity to present itself. But he chomps at the bit, hardly fighting the urge to take to the streets and go out in a blaze of glory. Through a complicated and entirely ad hoc network, instructions of sorts have filtered down, changing with each set of ears they pass through until hardly resembling the original order. By the time Valeri hears what’s needed to be done, he hears not instructions issued by authority but the call of the moment resounding through the streets and the alleys here, across the country, and around the world. After their ministry in the streets, parishioners who follow the forbidden gospel yield to the police. They hear news of the government’s collapse and the impending election, and for a time it seems their efforts might’ve finally born fruit. Nevermore assured, they return to their homes, Darren Wright among they who look suspiciously on the coming day. All the wealthy men who live in opulent luxury seem to have absconded with their wealth; but for the screens filled with talking heads delivering their screeds against disorder and banditry, there’s little evidence the wealthy men remain in Britain at all. For the parishioner, the path forward has become more uncertain than ever, obscured as it is behind a rapidly-darkening cloud gathering on the horizon. Still, when he carries on with his life, Darren feels the calling of the revolution, as though it were near to him. He says to his friend Julia, the day after they’ve vacated their occupation of the streets, “I can’t help but feel the worst is yet to come.” She nods, and says, “we’ll be ready when we’re called on to receive the Holy Spirit, and we’ll survive through any troubles.” Amid the burnt-out shopfronts and upturned cars, the broken glass and the shattered dreams, there’s hope.

Lingering in the shadows, the spirit of the old way, too, conserves its strength, looking to the future for the time when the new will rise and present itself as a target. This is the way of things, and has always been. As history forms, so too does anti-history, locked as they are in a mortal struggle for the hearts and minds of the people of our time. Look, please look into the eyes of the people who’ve been killed, their faces and their voices seared into your memory as each cries out, frozen in a moment of terror before their lives are taken from them in an instant, in the time it takes for the bullet to cross that thin barrier between the heart and the soul. Don’t make the mistake of thinking this is events confined to the city in which Valeri lives; though we fixate on this city, know these events are occurring, in one way or another, around the world. In time, we shall come to see the greater stage on which we all perform our roles. For now, we are lost in the minutiae even as we ascend to the greatest stage of all. In the days following the deaths of Garrett Walker’s daughters, his life becomes a swirling vortex of pain and anger. Though he wants only to have his vengeance on those who killed his daughters, practical matters intervene. Tending to his wife and her mother, he doesn’t know circumstances will soon thrust him into even greater hardships, death waiting not for him but for nearly everything he loves.

It’s all happened so fast. It seems only yesterday that we were in the midst of a rapid, breakneck growth, in a forest of concrete and glass reaching for the skies as quickly as the working man could be made to work. Quickly, quietly, the sudden resignation of an entire government sets off a chain of events that could but change the world forever. All at once, the workers walk out, joined soon after by their natural allies, the students and the parishioners, the millions of them taking to the streets. Leaderless and paralyzed, the government can’t react fast enough, those few days of chaos prompting an eventual response so heavy handed it promises to inflame passions further and weaken the government’s own hand. Though Colonel Cooke hasn’t said when the brigade will deploy to eastern Europe to poster against the Russians, Private Craig Thompson and the others know it must be near. Despite being confined to their barracks, the whole lot of them quickly form a plan by exchanging notes and whispering under the cover of darkness. “When the order comes down,” Craig says, “we’ll seize control of this barracks and we won’t give in until they promise not to send us abroad.” He’s speaking at night with a pair of other troopers, not the first time someone has suggested it but neither the last. The two troopers nod their agreement. Sitting on the edge of his bunk, it’s almost lights out, and the sergeant will be coming around soon to shut the lights off. It’s precisely because the sergeant is about to arrive that they know this is the time, those precious few minutes a night when they can be assured there’s no one watching. Amid the carnage of the streets, the men of the brigade will be shocked and confused when the order finally comes down not to deploy to a foreign country but to the working class neighbourhoods right here in England, the one place they thought they’d never have to go.

When an unknown person rises to the podium at the capitol and announces the imposition of a new martial law, it seems even he knows the folly of the path laid out for him, just as he knows full well there’s no choice but for him to take that next step. This is the sign of our times. When all have their role to play, all must play their role, all must recite their lines, compelled as they are by the invisible forces that govern their impulses. Still, in the background, the reactionary himself waits for the government to fall. As confident as the rebel is in the certainty of his ultimate victory, so too is the reactionary, their mutual assurance setting them on a collision course. Though it may seem we’re on the cusp of a radical new beginning, it’s not so. We’re only at the start of a long and difficult journey, one which has been in the making since any of us can remember. For us to survive through these harrowing days, we must turn to men like Valeri not for leadership but as avatars for the change we must all undergo. Still in control of the prison when the announcement of martial law is heard, the inmates know what this will mean for them. Some choose this moment to abandon their positions, leaving the makeshift garrison without enough men to hold every part of the grounds. Stanislaw Czerkawski mans the barriers at the front gate with four others, clutching pipes and bottles ready to throw should the police reappear. Food and water are in ample supply, but still the committee formed to govern the prison rations both on the fear they may be surrounded at any time. “If they attack us, we should fight,” Stanislaw says at the night’s meeting in the open space of their cell block, “and if we go down fighting then at least we’ll know that we chose our own fate for once.” Gone is the mild-mannered Polish migrant who’d swept the floors for years, replaced by the roused anger of a man insulted and demeaned one too many times. But neither he nor we are close to the end of our struggles; ready to die, the inmates will be forced to live under not a regime of brutal violence but one of uncertainty and dismay.

So long as Valeri stands, he stands among brothers and sisters. In his working class apartment block, they ready themselves for the coming storm. Pooling their limited resources, they cobble together the money to buy a semi-automatic rifle and some ammunition off the street. With the couple of handguns and the one bolt-action rifle they’ve had between them, it’s a small arsenal Valeri declares enough to defend their right to live in their own homes.

19. Seeds of Deception

As disorder spreads like wildfire, the paths of the wealthy man and of the working man diverge considerably. At the helm of the armed forces are a group of men loyal to the flag, or so they seem at a moment’s glance; in truth, they are of a stock unlike any other, their allegiance owed to ideals found in no constitution, represented in no colours worn on the sleeve but those they’ve made up for themselves. Like the revolutionary, these men choose not to take immediate action, knowing as they do to wait for the perfect moment to strike. With the election weeks away, already the popular front has called for it to be boycotted; after the massacre, recruitment into the Worker’s Party and the People’s Party has skyrocketed, with other, minor parties joining the front and pledging themselves to its cause. For Valeri, his work is not yet done. Still he keeps on drawing his pittance, here and there, using it to sustain himself in some minimal way while he stores his armaments with the other tenants in his apartment block and awaits the coming strike. Stanislaw’s asleep when the army arrives, but his fellow prisoners wake him hurriedly. He makes it to the front just in time to see the army troops take up position halfway up the road. When he sees they’ve brought artillery, he’s certain they’re going to attack, but they don’t, not yet. Instead, he watches through binoculars as the army troops position their artillery at the front of their roadblock, aiming right down the road at the prison’s front gates, then stop and wait. “Why don’t they just attack and get it over with?” he asks. “They want to make us sweat it out for a while,” says another. Stanislaw and the rest of the prisoners know they can only wait for the inevitable, and so they wait. In the meanwhile, though, an unexpected help arrives.

“You must let me know what’s the strange thing you’ve got hiding,” Graham says one night, “I’ve got nothing but trouble now. And you were always such a good tenant.” They’re in the halls, and Graham has heard much rumour and hearsay of what Valeri’s been up to. “It’s going to hear itself out, old man,” says Valeri, “you’ll not hear from me again, when the time comes.” The owners have been giving Graham trouble for all the missed rents, so many tenants in the building now out of work or unable to get to work that there’s little point in enforcing the rules. But there’s more to it than that. For now, they wait, gathering strength, forming alliances, negotiating a complex political landscape behind the scenes with all the precision of a surgeon cutting out the smallest of malignant tumours. Still the old order persists, as it will for a long time, resilient as it is. These men are not loyal to the way things were before all this began; rather, they are loyal to an idea in their head, a conception of the way things had been that they still hold to be the way things ought to be now. Led by an officer in the army named Douglas Schlager and a one-time minister in government named Nathan Williams, they will rise in time with and in opposition to the budding popular front which seeks a democratic way of life. These men, they’re content to work behind the scenes for now, but soon enough they’ll step onto the stage and make themselves known to all. Early in the morning, the brigade has left the armoury under tight security, Private Craig Thompson in the back of the last lorry towing one of their artillery pieces. He wonders why they’d need artillery against a civilian uprising; it seems a criminal affair from the start. On arriving at the prison, they take up positions along the access road, then wait for further orders. It’s an eerie thing, with the troopers manning the roadblock once vacated by the police and the skies clear but for the odd cloud tracing a lazy path across the crystal, azure expanse. It’s a moment of confusion and disillusion for all involved, with Private Thompson thinking back to the troops’ agreement to mutiny should they ever be deployed abroad. Now, deployed to English streets to oppose they who would only seek their own measure of justice, the Private and the other men are left uncertain what to do next.

“We should destroy everything,” Valeri says, “we should burn it all down. We should go into the streets, drag the wealthy from their mansions and make them watch as we set fire to everything they own. We should have done all these things many years ago. If we had done so then we would be in a better place now.” This is the discussion had in a basement somewhere in one of the working class districts, organized secretly by Arthur Bennington. Still in this early period, those sympathetic to the forbidden popular front can’t meet openly; large, disorganized protests with no specific aim or plan aren’t stopped by police despite the imposition of martial law, but smaller gatherings would be trivial to sniff out and shut down. Valeri has angered after deaths, and Arthur Bennington is recruiting people like him into the popular front. Arthur Bennington sits not at the front of the room but stands against the back wall, watching as men like Valeri vent their frustrations. But events are afoot. As the violence in the streets slowly but steadily escalates into open warfare, life for the working man has changed little. For Garrett Walker, the last of a long line of unemployed and unemployable men to lose all they’ve had, this is a time not of great uncertainty but of great certainty. In the morning he sees the opulent palaces built for the criminal wealthy class, the investors who have so long ago seized everything in this country he’d held dear. In the streets of his own hometown there’s shouting, hurling of bricks and stones, even sporadic gunfire rattling off into the night, but still nothing infuriates him as the knowledge these corrupt investors, the yet-nameless and -faceless criminals should abscond with their ill-gotten gains, escaping punishment for their crimes. After his daughters were killed, Garrett is listless and confused as anyone, but out of his listlessness and confusion there arises in the night a clarity he now knows was surely there all along. His whole world aflame, he turns to the next day and stands.

After Valeri has spoken, a few more men and women take their turn, most of them even younger than he. “Are you not ready for the coming storm?” asks Arthur Bennington, taking the chair only to deliver a closing address. There are no stenographers, no cameras, nothing to create any record of this meeting. “Are you not willing to surrender your lives in service of the cause?” asks Arthur Bennington. All have been made to agree this meeting is not happening, but have as well been committed to following the decisions it lays out. “Are you not ready to die so that your deaths may be used by our cause to advance itself?” Arthur Bennington asks. “None of you are, not yet, no matter how you many insist you are. But with time, you will be ready. Many of our brothers and sisters have given their lives, and many more are still to give. But all will be lost if not the full commitment of all working men is not given over to the cause for which we fight. Remember this fact as you return to the community and ready yourselves.” As the crisis steadily worsens, the wealthy investors who have so driven prices sky-high and plunged wages realize their time is come. In the night they concoct the latest of their schemes, then enact it the following morning. By the time news breaks on the screens of the working men across the country and around the world, the bottom has already fallen out, just as the rebel Elijah had predicted it would. As Elijah’s word has come to be proven true, the inevitable turn of events has come to mean life for the working men of the world will get worse before it gets better. In the underground church the congregants mourn the loss of their rogue priest, confident as they are in the coming of the new way of things. For Darren Wright, the eliciting of constriction means little in the here and now, the darkness of the underground church concealing everything that doesn’t matter while revealing all that does. Bibles open, the faithful studying intently in preparing for their spiritual war’s next offensive. They hear of the government’s collapse, of the impending election, but what they hear means little to them. In the darkness of their underground church they put their heads down and pray for guidance, the sounds of distant gunfire rattling against the silence of their prayer. Darren hasn’t seen his young friend Sheila, not since their street occupation had turned the tide of their spiritual war, but he harbours no worry for her. Only some months earlier Darren had his doubts. Now he has none.

As the wealthy and criminal foreign investor realizes there’s no further profit to be had in exploiting these particular people in this particular part of the world, they have absconded with their ill-gotten wealth, in the time between sundown and sunup squirrelling it all away in havens on the other side of the world. Materially, nothing has changed in the night; all the same factories, most already shuttered, operate, all the same workers still possess them same capacity for work, all the same knowledge still lies in the backs of the minds of working men here and around the world. Yet Valeri wakes, one morning, all has changed, the construction cranes which once erected the wealthy man’s apparatus now falling motionless, the prices for a loaf of bread in the grocery stores increasing fivefold, the gas stations running out of gas in the time it takes the desperate to line up and empty their pockets for fuel so expensive the signs on the side of the road don’t have the space to display the price. “What thievery is this?” asks one man. “I need to feed my family,” says another. “Why are we allowing this to happen?” asks a third. Soon, the police arrive, deploying their troops not to enforce the working man’s right to life but the wealthy man’s right to property. In the streets, there’s the rattling of gunfire and the chattering of voices. In the streets, Valeri steps over the bodies of the dead and dying, in the last of the day’s hours clutching at his shoulder, pain from a stray round having numbed to a dull soreness. After ending their occupation of the polytechnic, the students disperse, among them Sean Morrison taking refuge in a nearby apartment block built decades ago for student housing. On the roof, Sean looks through binoculars at the red flag still flying from the polytechnic’s roof, in the morning the sight enough to inspire him to have at each and every day. But then, one morning, he sees nothing, only a bare rooftop; the police have reasserted control of the area, moving in the night to occupy strategic positions in securing the country for the coming election. In meeting with Julia Hall and the other students, he declares they must resist and refuse to turn out for the election; in so refusing, he says, they withdraw their consent to be governed. It’s a lesson they’ve come to learn at some great cost.

Still the working man works, through his work finding the spiritual sustenance needed to make it through the day. Where once the wealthy man absconded with his ill-gotten wealth, now he carefully considers where to put his wealth to use against the steadily rising insurrection. Unlike the working man, the wealthy man can know no spiritual sustenance, condemned as he is to pursuit of pleasures of the flesh. In the morning after this latest clash in the streets, the rebel deploys his guerrillas, from secret bases hidden in the maze of working class apartment blocks and shantytowns striking out at the troopers. Unlike before, these attacks are carried out in force, with shots fired not only to provoke but to kill. The rebel’s guerrillas happen upon an army patrol, waiting in the alleys and on the rooftops until exactly the right moment, then pop out shooting, the crack of gunfire followed by the dropping of bodies to the pavement. This scene plays itself out here and in cities and towns across the country, so fast no one can make any sense of it all. Even the army’s troops in the street can’t deter the attacks, nor can they stop them, the guerrilla’s hit and run tactics causing the army’s infantry to shoot confusedly at shadows and noise. With each day seeming to bring a new escalation of the war in the streets, no one can imagine it getting any worse.

But the end is not yet come. The crew of the cruiser Borealis worry they’ll be caught up in the war at home. This, after he’s had the crew spend the weeks on endless drills, even rousing the men from their sleep in the middle of the night to practice loading munitions by hand again and again. Then, in one late night drill a young sailor mishandles a torpedo, slipping with the torpedo falling on him, knocking him on the back of the head and killing him instantly. Still Captain Abramovich orders more drills. It makes little sense to the men to be so drilled when the carnage in the streets ought to demand full attention. The rumours they’ll be deployed as marines to the streets gain credibility when Abramovich has a supply of small arms brought on board. Among those selected to secure the extra stores, Dmitri sees the crates of assault rifles and shotguns. No longer do the crew worry they’ll be deployed abroad; when Dmitri tells the others what he’s seen, they don’t know what to make of it. All keep worrying about their loved ones. For his part, Dmitri thinks of the young wife he’d left behind in Liverpool when he joined the Navy and was assigned to the Borealis. Inwardly he’s already committed himself to the cause of the rebel and the popular front, even if he doesn’t realize it. And when one of his crewmates suggests they’ve “We’re soon to find out,” Dmitri surmises, “one way or another.”

20. January Skies

It’s become normal for the working man to live every day under threat of eviction, but new to him is this daily threat of death. He becomes subject to the terror and the lawlessness of random outbursts, never sure that around the next corner there isn’t a bomb waiting to go off in the back of some car, or some storm trooper looking for an excuse or even just tired after too many hours spent on the street looking for something that can’t be found. After Sydney has left town, perhaps for good, Valeri can’t help but wish, despite all the differences between them, that she might live through this crisis where so many have lost their lives. “It’s an indulgence,” Valeri says, talking with Sydney on a secret phone call made from the lobby of a local gymnasium, “but it’s an indulgence I’d rather have than not.” Each know the other can’t promise to keep in touch, that every word exchanged on any call might be the last between them. In the country, there’s no war, not yet, as the urban rising has yet to reach that far. She’s safe, but Valeri hangs up knowing, in the instinctive way he does, that she won’t be safe forever. After the death of a sailor, the crew of the cruiser Borealis fall deeper into despondency. Captain Abramovich sees this when inspecting the troops daily, able to sense these things in the men even as every last one remains silent and stone-faced. Soon, non-coms are posted in the mess hall, there to squelch any dissent before it even happens. But they can’t police the little half-conversations that take place every night in the bunks, in hushed tones when they ought to be sleeping. “I won’t be the next to die,” says one of Dmitri’s bunkmates. “I’m already convinced we might not have the choice,” says Dmitri, “unless we do something about it first.” Their chance will come sooner than they think.

It’s inevitable, perhaps, for this climate of fear and unrest to produce action which should, somehow, someway set it all on fire. Three or four weeks pass between upsets, this time the same size of the first quarter results in the second, a gun laid down after deaths, too many deaths, more broken, lifeless bodies in the street, their blood draining into the sewers a copper, maroon sort of colour. It’s in this environment that election day arrives; as he’s always known these to be a fraud, Valeri has long determined not to participate, and he enthusiastically declares this intention in the basement where Arthur Bennington meets with them next. “In refusing to participate, we withdraw our consent to be governed,” Valeri declares, “and we deprive the enemy of their moral authority over us.” It’s what he’s learned, as he’s been hurling stones and throwing his voice, and as he stands he winces in pain slightly at the place where a bullet was removed from his shoulder. Arthur Bennington watches from the back, but doesn’t speak. “We oppose the enemy in all things,” says one young woman. “They’re all criminals,” says a young man. “The only good that can come from parliament is to burn it to the ground,” says another young woman. These are Valeri’s unemployed compatriots, among those most radicalized against the current order but not part of the armed struggle. In this basement, they agree, but beyond these walls there are still those among them who might be tempted to place their faith in the way of things, hoping their lives, wretched as they are, can be salvaged. It’s a fool’s endeavour, and Valeri knows this even as there’s some small part of him still holding hope otherwise. He doesn’t know it, but all can see in him the doubt; his is emblematic of the working man’s malaise, his aversion to act. This is why Arthur Bennington does not yet take them into the ranks of the popular front’s guerrillas.

Election day arrives, on a cold and rainy day in the middle of January. In these, the strongest moments of our winter’s discontent, the ashes of fires of liberation long burnt out now coat the surface of the streets like a very fine, powdered snow. In the distance, gunfire rattles off like a lit firecracker, the thud of a bomb exploding followed by more rattling, the light gunfire of the rebel’s attacks soon meeting with the heavier cracking of the trooper’s fire. But by then the rebel has withdrawn and the troopers are shooting at shadows and dust. It’s part of this latest provocation, this latest attack, the storm troopers no longer sure of what they’re doing or why they’re doing it, the moment having become lost amid their forays into the working man’s home by way of habit. On election day, this is but one of many attacks the popular front’s guerrillas stage not on police stations or army bases but on voting places, here and there going so far as to break in and set fire to boxes stuffed with ballots. The new government forms shortly thereafter, a loose coalition cobbled together from fifteen different parties granted their mandate from fewer than twenty percent of permitted voters. Hobbled by their greed and their petty concerns, this new government cannot act. “I know of nothing that can be done for you,” says Murray, “it’s impossible to find anyone work in this climate. But I think you don’t want to do work right now, not paid wage labour work that is.” Valeri’s speaking with him at the union hall, the first time he’s been back there in months. “It’s hard to say how much time has passed,” Valeri says. “You’re telling me?” asks Murray, incredulous. “But this is all a confusing time,” Valeri says, “for all of us.”

“You speak as if you know something the rest of us don’t,” says Murray. “I know nothing,” Valeri says, “except what’s wrong, when I see it.” Both know this is already beyond what happened fifteen years ago. Valeri counts himself lucky to be alive. On election day, the polytechnic’s students demonstrate against the proceedings, staging their protest too close to a polling place. Amid the carnage of the popular front’s campaign, the police stage a counterattack, moving on the students assembled with clubs in hand and guns at the ready. Sean takes a blow, tumbling to the ground, only to rise again and have at the black-clad troopers. But he doesn’t take the worst of it. There’s gunshots, no one knows who shoots first, bodies falling dead in the street. By the time Sean finds his feet, he’s staggering in a daze, the blood spilled again marring the election and dashing the government’s hopes for a fresh mandate to see Britain through this still-escalating crisis. For all the screaming and all the raising of fists in defiance, the student seizes the chance to put theory into practice, Sean among those who would seek to burn it all down. By the time it’s over, the street is littered with broken bodies, the worst yet to come.

At the hospital, Hannah has seen deaths and blood like she’d never imagined. Her hospital can’t afford basic medicines; women and children die on the waiting room’s floor. “You’re not what you think,” says Whitney, as they watch another patient die helplessly for wont of a common medicine. “You think that’s news to me?” Hannah asks. But it’s not the rebel’s fault; this is a time of crisis in which shortages abound from the wealthy man’s greed. “Don’t talk about obligations then,” says Whitney. “I’ll talk about what I please,” Hannah says. Another attack, the rebel’s gunmen opening fire on a crowded street, in a hail of lead some innocent bystanders cut down along with the few troopers who’d braved the challenge of the day. All those caught in the open flee, scrambling over one another to escape the carnage, leaving the bodies of the dead where they’ve fallen. But before even the last of the people have hit the ground running, the rebel’s gunmen themselves withdraw, fleeing the scene hardly some seconds after they’ve struck. By the time the troopers have gathered their reinforcements and ready their arms to return fire, the rebel’s attack having accomplished its aim. The parishioners of the underground church again mass, Bibles in hand, holding prayers in the street. Darren Wright stands and calls for justice, proclaiming loudly the infinite power and love of God for His people, the hopelessly poor and the irredeemable among us. This time, though, the police don’t let them be, instead advancing on the parishioners with clubs drawn. “Stand firm,” says Darren, “and never relent!” They don’t know the police have come to suspect gunmen in every crowd, even church-goers armed only with the Word of God. Blood spills and bones fracture, but the parishioner never breaks, the moment won by his resolve.

No more than a few days pass before the rebel mounts another attack, a group of gunmen taking refuge from within a church so offered to them by their sympathizer the parishioner, firing onto a crowd, striking down several bystanders while the rest flee in terror. But this time, there’s no policemen on the scene, and the rebel’s gunmen never stop to make themselves known, but for the cracking of their gunfire and the falling of bodies to the ground leaving no evidence of their presence, no record of their deeds. As with the others, by the time the troopers can muster in strength for a counter-attack, the rebel’s gunmen are gone, vanishing into the day. “But what will we do?” asks Hannah. “Just stay out of harm’s way,” Valeri says. “I can’t do that,” says Hannah. “Why can’t you?” Valeri asks. “I’m needed at the hospital,” says Hannah, “what if someone dies?” Valeri asks. “I know you’re mixed up in this,” Hannah says, “and it’s a miracle you haven’t been arrested yet.” Little does she know that Valeri has, in fact, been in jail already, broken out in the time it took one day to give way to the next. But it’s not all so simple. In the working-class slums the fires of liberation burn with every stone thrown and every burst of violence. For Garrett Walker, the loss of his two daughters to the rampaging police has meant the eruption of an intensely bright flame that can never be extinguished. Leaving his wife in the care of her mother, he travels into the streets of London and casts his lot in with the Worker’s Party, committing himself irrevocably to the political struggle. Eager for the chance for vengeance, he asks to be among the gunmen attacking the instruments of the wealthy man’s oppression. In the back of an abandoned shop repurposed by the popular front as a meeting place, he says to the party functionary, “let me make war on them directly!” But the functionary looks him up and down and flatly denies his request, instead sending him to the streets to join the ordinary workers massed in protest, to spend his spare moments studying to be among the next generation of functionaries. His journey won’t be complete for a long time, but when it is the working man will finally realize his potential.

There may be that temptation to look back on the way things were just some years ago, before even that revolution which failed not only to overthrow the way of things but which failed also to prompt in the way of things any lasting change. But whatever happens, whatever the cost of pushing through to our shared future, we must always remember there was never a time of peace, never a time of hope and change, the insidious power of the wealthy man’s order lying in its ability to reach through the pages of history to convince us it was ever something besides what it’s always been. A bang, a snap, a scream, then sirens wailing into the night, the fires casting a sickly orange and red glow onto the undersides of the clouds. The sirens aren’t the sharp, piercing shrieks of the storm troopers rushing to put down an impassioned outburst but the thick, full howls of the fireman on their way to douse another flame. They head for a spot on the street almost exactly where the working class part of town bleeds into the wealthy, as they draw nearer and nearer to their target an apprehension setting into their nerves. This isn’t the first time firemen have been called to this part of town recently, nor is it the second or the third. “I can’t believe this is happening,” says a young mother living a floor down from Valeri. “All it took is some faulty wiring,” says another tenant. But then a third tenant, Tonya Goodall, says, “I bet this is set deliberately,” before turning to Valeri and saying, “and we’re next.” Valeri only nods. At the prison, Private Craig Thompson and the rest of the troops manning the blockade look on with a muted uncertainty, the summer’s heat pooling sweat on their brows and backs. Looking down the road at the criminals opposing them, it occurs to Craig these men ought to have given in by now. “These are no ordinary criminals,” he says, the troops silently realizing the truth. After election day has come and gone, the troops remain, their orders to starve the rebellious inmates out. But Craig and the others have already begun to come up with another plan, one to replace their previous agreements to mutiny in case of deployment abroad. Forced by circumstance, they’ll get the chance to put their plan into practice sooner than they think.

And when the firemen arrive, the sight greets them of an apartment block set alight, flames pouring from its windows and doors, outside its residents gathered on the sidewalk across the street, some looking on their burning homes while others hold phones to the sides of their faces and call out to someone, anyone at all. The firemen work to put out the fire, but can’t save the building, in the morning the wreckage still smoldering even after the last flames have been fully extinguished. But Valeri is now completely unemployed, even the minimal earnings of a day labourer no longer available to him. It’s a perverse irony that as he’s lost his livelihood so have many others, the apartment blocks in the working class part of town now so filled with the unemployed and the rent-delinquent that the police can’t but evict them all. In their desperation, they have found their salvation in solidarity and in unity. In solidarity, the remaining prisoners’ commitment has only hardened. In the night, still more prisoners have defected, choosing to abandon their positions in favour of the amnesty offered by the troops staring them down. Stanislaw Czerkawski mans the prison’s defences with the rest, looking down the road. In the meanwhile, Stanislaw has heard from his wife; she’s safe, living in the basement shelter of a church repurposed to house the many who’ve lost their homes in the war spiralling out of control. For the migrant, his is a life made of being forced to endure as the other, deprived of the solidarity with the rest of the working class which he is rightfully entitled to. In rising, his is assuming his place, denied him for so long. When the troops opposing Stanislaw and the rest of the inmates move in, all will be lost. In losing all they have to lose, Stanislaw and the inmates will have a release.

It happens in the night; such things always happen in the night. In the midst of an all-night session, members of recently-formed parliamentary coalition find themselves caught in the midst of an orgy of hatred and self-recrimination when one lone member votes one way when he’s expected to vote another, sending the whole thing collapsing in on itself. Fractures form, individual members turning on one another, one petty squabble in an instant becoming a hundred, the parties breaking with each other, then each party breaking within itself. Alliances, so carefully negotiated, now collapse as a vote is held which brings this still-new government down, the vote passing not by the slimmest of margins but by an overwhelming majority. Even members of the governing coalition vote mostly in favour of bringing it down. This latest failure, this latest inability to proceed through these difficult times does not bode well for they who would seek to lead us through. In the morning, when news breaks of this latest government’s collapse, the working man and his allies the student and the parishioner disregard their duties and take to the streets again, filling the open spaces in this city and in cities across the country with their rage. The rebel, though, does nothing but watch and wait, knowing this is his time not to act. While a new caretaker assumes the reins of power, the last of the power there is to assume gradually slips away, lost the midst of a sea of rage in the streets and a world of hostile powers jockeying for control of such limited and petty things as land; the rebel, standing over a map in his hidden headquarters, can only smile as his moment draws nearer by the day.

21. Hidden Terrors

After the collapse of the old government, the old parties have fragmented into a dozen factions, each with their own competing interests, each with their own competing ideas on what how to proceed. But within each faction there are a dozen more, with each more a dozen more still, out of the chaos emerging something unlike what we’ve ever seen before. In the night, a new government comes to power, a caretaker government made up of chosen representatives from each of the old parties, so chosen by one another because of their willingness to compromise. Compromise, it’s believed, is the key to a peaceful resolution to the current crisis that’s so rapidly spiralling out of control. Announcing their grand coalition on the steps outside in front of the national assembly, the leaders of the old parties share embraces, give speeches in turn, make a good show for the screens broadcasting their day across the country and around the world. But it’s a fraud. In the night, suddenly, there’s the bursting of gunfire outside the prison, Stanislaw roused from his sleep by the stampeding of feet along the floor and by the shouting of voices surprised and scared. He reaches the front barricade, rifle clutched close to his chest, and looks confusedly down the road. But it’s not the troops who’ve opened fire. By now, this, the migrant’s fate has been sealed, cast as his lot is in with the others in the working class, but still it’ll take every agonizing step forward for him to reach out and seize his destiny. Though Stanislaw may not be able to articulate it as such, he’s come to know the truth so long expounded by the rebel’s apparatchiks: the future may be inevitable, but it is never assured.

Huddled around his screens, the working man and his allies, the student and the parishioner, and the rebel, too, all see through the fraud, knowing their struggle has not yet begun. But there are others who see themselves as delivering the nation from evil, that tight-knit group of officers loyal not to the law but to the land, not to words printed on the page or scrolled across a screen but to ideas in their hearts. These loyal officers soon secretly commit themselves to exerting their influence over this grand coalition, and in so committing themselves they change the course of our common history in their own way. Hidden from the working man’s view, these loyal officers work to put their plan into action, aware as they are of the need to look past the day and into the future with patience, the working man not yet able to see them but soon enough to feel the effects of their secret actions. It’s almost time. Manning the army’s roadblock, Private Craig Thompson hears the thunder of nearby gunfire and dives for cover. In the confusion, there’s little that can be done, little to be seen, the rebel’s gunmen attacking only for a moment, just long enough to inspire in the troopers a bitter resentment. This has become a routine, still never losing its power to draw down the strength and the interest of the finer points of mind. Spiralling out of control, the men of the artillery brigade can’t see a way forward under the banner of the King. In time, when the rockets shoot across the sky and when the darkness of the night lights up with thunderous explosions, not all will be as it seems. The order comes in, squawking over the radio, to fire. But the troops refuse. Private Thompson leads his gun crew in standing down, acting according to no plan, under the influence of nothing but the passion of the working man, one for another, he for his brother. It’s a sweltering heat, the summer’s sun beating down on their backs, as the others stand down, refusing to fire. What happens next, none of them could’ve foreseen.

The rebel’s attacks draw down. After a burst of initial offensives, Elijah orders a conservation of strength once more. It’s enough, he decrees, that their presence has been felt. After Garrett Walker has committed himself to the revolutionary path, still he must walk it, like the thirsty man must walk to water. The Worker’s Party has use for men like him, for the ragged and the haggard masses of workers cast out of work for so long. In the darkness of the night, Garrett leans on his instincts, receiving from the apparatchiks in the Worker’s Party a firearm, to be used, they’ve told him, when the time’s right. It’s a strange thing, to so hold the power of death in his hands, knowing he could mete it out at any moment, rhythmically and methodically dispensing justice. Standing in that disused shop, he comes to work, seeing the ranks of the unemployed swell as the current crisis spirals out of control into full-scale war. The concerns of the working man remain fixated on the ordinary, the mundane, the troubles in day-to-day life. His eyes ache from all the hours of sleep yet unslept, and his stomach growls from all the meals missed. But still Garrett is the working man, and his determination to see through the current crisis and avenge the deaths of his daughters and the deaths of so many men’s daughters grows stronger with each pang of hunger he feels.

Still the concerns of the working man limit his actions, in the meanwhile at least, to scrounging what meagre resources he can to ensure his own survival in these times. He works, receiving his cash in hand, still going home at the end of the day with his pittance in hand but without knowing whether he’ll be called in again the next day. His wages seem to fall every day, while the price of simple things like a loaf of bread or a piece of fruit climb. Still yet the way of things remains confident, steadfastly so, in itself, in the impermanence of its way. After the parishioners leave their underground church for the final time, it’s bulldozed in the night, the police having waited deliberately until this moment to move in. Darren Wright’s among the last to leave, and when he hears of the demolition of their church he arrives back in time to see it all brought down in a cloud of dust and debris. If this is meant by the Father Bennett as intimidation, it fails. Armed with Word of God as they are, no weapon can strike them down, no force arrayed against them can arrest their the inexorable advance towards their destiny. This is the rogue preacher’s forbidden gospel, forbidden not by force of law but by the faith of man misplaced.

A searchlight reaches up and down the façade of an apartment block in the working class district, sweeping for any gunmen who might be waiting to open fire on the troopers assembled below. Moments later, troopers barge in through the front and back doors, going from room to room, pulling anyone out into the halls who looks at them the wrong way, soon with a dozen or so piled into the back of a covered truck, handcuffed, to be driven not to a holding cell at the storm troopers’ station but somewhere else entirely, somewhere more sinister, somewhere the working man never would’ve expected but should’ve seen coming. It’s only in hindsight that these truths may yet become self-evident; in the heat of the moment such things are lost amid the rising passions and the fiery rage of the thousands of voices turning the streets into an inferno unlike any the world has seen before. After blood spilled and the bodies broken on election day, the students withdraw to their halls to lick their wounds and plan their next move. They agree to mount another demonstration the following day. Still the university remains closed, and as the crisis in Britain deepens any hope of reopening fades into the night. Sean Morrison thinks to move back to Derry, Northern Ireland, but events soon put that possibility out of reach. He looks into the streets and sees the columns of smoke rising, the fires of liberation burning through the days and into the nights, and he relents. For he is the student lacking in the guidance of the teacher, but when the way of things is faded into history the student will need no teacher. From his vantage point atop a tower, the city seems splayed out before him, over the smoothly undulating hills the urban landscape seeming so ragged and haggard like the charred remains of a forest once ablaze.

Another burst of action, in the morning not long after dawn’s first light an order coming down from the skies, in a burst of darkness the sound of thunder booming across the city. In Valeri’s apartment block, there’s not optimism at the violence spiralling out of control but a vast and discontented malaise. They’ll fight, as they’ve been fighting every day of their lives against one thing or another. As matches to kindling, all the working man’s forces must commit themselves fully to the struggle for self-determination, must assail themselves against the still-invincible forces blocking the way to the future. Valeri knows this, even if all he can articulate is a burning rage. For the men of the cruiser Borealis, this still-invincible force governs in the Captain’s edicts, leaving Dmitri and the rest of the men in obedience to the steadily worsening crisis all around.

Aboard the cruiser Borealis, Captain Abramovich announces over the loudspeakers their orders to put to sea the following day. Once underway, the Captain makes another announcement, this announcement on the suspension of pay for the men until further notice. It matters little that the suspension still provides for a small stipend, nor that all pay deferred is to be paid at a later date. Later, there’s talk; Dmitri seethes with rage over the crew being made to abandon their homes when there’re working men being slaughtered in the streets of Great Britain over nothing but the right to live in their own homes, the right to earn a decent wage. But as the crew talks, a consensus emerges, in the nightly whispers and in the cramped spaces between drills the men agreeing to a new plan. They’re edging closer with each passing day to outright rebellion, to casting their lot in with the working men dying in the streets. When the time comes, the men of the cruiser Borealis will smash their names into history so violently as to be remembered for so long as anyone’s around to remember them.

To the working man it makes little sense, to take the country to war even as it’s being torn apart from the inside. Remember this critical truth: the abundance has only disappeared because it has been made to disappear by those very people who now seek to plunge the nation into a war few want and even fewer need. As the working man puts himself through the motions of making good through this day, he finds himself needing no more energy, no greater effort than before. With so many hidden terrors in the shadows slowly edging into the light, the working man must commit himself wholeheartedly to the righteous path laid out before him. Seeing the path is inadequate; he must walk the path. While Valeri, a woman named Tonya, and the other residents of Dominion Courts form their plans for the coming surge in violence, instructed as they’ve been by their contacts in the Popular Front, all seems lost. For Valeri, the moment’s dominated by these practical concerns, making sure they’ve stored enough food and water in times of constant shortages. But there comes the little moments when Valeri considers the ravenous beast unleashed in the time it’s taken working men to rise. Though we’ve not yet reached the point of no return, already men like Valeri have come to confront the soon-to-be, the shocking turn of events which none of them can see coming but all should. It’s almost his time to rise, and as Valeri counts the meagre stockpile of food shared by residents he looks with a mounting anticipation towards the coming day.

Wherever the working man finds himself, know that his is the path of righteousness, of self-denial and of self-intuition, his character lending itself not to the way of things as they are but to the way of things as they should be. It’s not the working man but the working man’s enemies who seek to drown him in a sea of excess, in drunkenness and in lechery and in insanity, in so drowning him rendering him incapable of fighting back. But this is different, this is new, in the early part of this century the working man finally realizing the wherewithal to resist the agency under which his is subjugated.

22. Veil of Doom

The revolutionary Elijah and the popular front resists the urge to escalate the war on behalf of the working man, knowing full well his role in waiting for the anti-revolution to escalate their war on behalf of the wealthy man. Still, it’s a tempting urge, and every day that passes sees him remind himself on the necessity of the long war, on the need to preserve his own strength and in so preserving forcing the anti-revolutionary to give in to his own mounting urges and make a mistake. It’s as it’d been when a steadily mounting pressure had erupted in the form of a massacre in the streets. And as the revolutionary quietly gathers his strength and awaits the course of history to deliver him an opportunity, other events soon force his hand, events he foresaw but made no effort to forestall. “I’m not done yet,” says Valeri, still thinking to get Hannah away, “but I’ll be done soon. You can count on that.” A pause. Hannah’s on the other end of the call. She’s not been home in days, the current crisis seeing her work twenty hours a day and sleep four, all at the hospital. “You must always do what’s right,” Hannah finally says, her voice a nearly-inaudible murmur. “I always have,” Valeri says, “and I always will.” With that, he ends the call, resisting the urge to tell her he loves her. Every time they speak could be the last time they hear each other’s voices. But without the certain knowledge of death there comes the freedom of life. After ending the call, Valeri turns back to the work at hand, and looks over the pathetic arsenal he and his fellow residents have assembled. A veil of doom has descended on them, with no lifting of it in sight.

Underway, the cruiser Borealis makes through the North Sea for a destination still unknown to the crew. Cut off from the outside world, they have only terse, infrequent announcements from the Captain to inform their feelings and feed the revolutionary fervour already simmering in the hearts of ordinary sailors like Dmitri Malinin, the son of common labourers, them the children of migrants to Britain from Russia who fled their homeland in the midst of its deep depression following the breakup of the Soviet Union forty-five years ago. It’s this past he thinks on, whether lying in his bunk or manning the guns, while the Borealis proceeds towards its fate at twenty-five knots. Dmitri, like Elijah and Valeri, comes from a long line of the lowest among us, the poor, the tired, the prostituted, the addicted, the hopeless causes. It’s in this quiet before some insidious event is about to descend on them like a dark cloud; Dmitri can sense it, even if he doesn’t realize it. As the decks of the Borealis heave while she powers through the waves of the North Sea, men like Dmitri consult their past in search of a way through to the future.

Still, the counter-revolutionary forces the revolutionary’s hand. As the troopers advance in a long column of armoured vehicles into the working man’s quarters, the revolutionary Elijah watches, waiting for the right moment to strike. As the troopers stop halfway along a city block and fan out to cover the street, the revolutionary holds fast, resisting the urge to strike at the first target to present itself. As the troopers take their positions and ready themselves to fire, the moment comes when neither strike nor withdrawal will suffice. Then, an explosion, the thunderous boom cracking across the sky. A column of smoke rises. Flames colour the night a dull orange. From across the skyline, Valeri recognizes this explosion as having struck at the area around the hospital where Hannah works. “Are you ready to go out?” asks Tonya, stepping into his flat. “As ready as I’m going to be,” Valeri says. “Don’t be nervous,” says Tonya, “we’ve got nothing to lose but our lives.” In response, Valeri nods grimly, then looks out the window and onto the street below. It might seem, for a moment, he’s lost in the minutiae of his own thoughts, but still his heart brims with a confidence born from a self-assurance in the righteousness of the cause. They’ve come too far to allow the weakness of doubt into their hearts, and the spirit of the revolutionary cause surges in him, in each of them with every moment that passes, with every beat of their hearts and with every rhythmic contraction of each muscle in their bodies.

But Valeri is fully committed to the cause for which he’s already sacrificed so much, for which his parents gave their lives in the failed rising fifteen years ago. “If we can summon the courage to stand for what’s right,” he says, “then we can never fail.” He thinks only of the struggle even as his thoughts are dominated by concern for Hannah. “I don’t know if you realize what’s going on in there,” says Tonya, gesturing towards the door and by implication into the hall, “but things are getting grim.” Valeri stands and starts towards the door. “Show me,” he says. Together, they inspect the building. From the basement, floor by floor to the roof, they look through every room, accounting for the residents left, the new residents having moved in, their food, weapons, and what little they have in the way of medical supplies, a few rolls of gauze and some paracetamol. They look ragged and haggard, the last working men and women still living in the building, for the imposition of martial law has had some serious effects on daily life for the residents of Dominion Courts. Many residents have fled, others occupying their flats without registration. No one’s paid rent in months. Graham hasn’t been seen in weeks; Valeri, Tonya, and another tenant named Roger force their way into his suite, finding it empty, with no sign of where he might’ve gone. They’re left to wonder what’s become of him, a question to them forever in search of an answer.

Overnight, eviction notices bearing the seal of the police are posted to the building’s front door. A sign goes up outside in front of the building just like the sign once put up in front of the building next door. Tenants of Dominion Courts are surprised but not shocked. They’ve been expecting this for a long time. The notices gives no date. No date is needed to make the point. Still, it’s some small wonder the police have bothered even with this measure, instead of simply deploying bulldozers escorted by troopers to demolish the working man’s homes while still he lives inside. Amid the chaos of the war in the streets, it seems the new government, or at least elements within it, have decided to muster their strength in one great offensive against the working class districts, hoping to smash the revolutionary cause while it can still be so stopped. But Valeri, Tonya, Roger, and all the others don’t know this. They can’t. All they can know is the time to commit themselves irrevocably to the cause is almost at hand.

“They’re clearing us out,” says Roger. “It’s all right for them,” says Tonya. “It’s not all right for us,” says Roger. “They’re coming to evict the working class apartments,” Valeri says, “one by one. Like driving a bulldozer across a homeless camp. They just want to force us out.” Tonya and Roger nod their grim assent. But none of them can know what’s happening, why it’s happening to them, nor can they surmise the policeman’s next move. They can only sense the coming strike against them, in a visceral, almost instinctive way. Valeri notes the uncertain spirit of his working class brothers, later to report on it to the slowly-expanding alliance of parties. But no one will hold their tentativeness against them; with every step forward into the future, they’re making history. The streets encompass a triumphant spirit which remains steadfastly so in the face of withering attacks on its people, the working man and his natural allies in the struggle against dominion. The streets may yet seek deliverance from those who would take from the working man and give to themselves, for the streets themselves will always be, no matter what setbacks the working man should suffer in his struggle. Every tenant evicted, every dollar the rent raised, every working-class block levelled to make way for luxury apartments, all are a strike against the working man, and as he looks from within his cramped apartment over the street scene, home at the end of another long day at the factory, he thinks to reach out to the young woman he sees crying and offer a helping hand. Still, he knows better, having been taught better by a lifetime lived as a working man in a wealthy man’s world. A factory closes, then another, then another, soon the landscape littered with darkened shells sticking out of the ground like so many tombstones, marking the place where once industry had not only lived but thrived, the working man cast out, thoughtlessly discarded like some old piece of furniture left to rot in the rain on the side of the road.

As the final preparations are made, Valeri looks to the new tower next door. On the plot of land where once there’d been a simple, functional apartment block housing working men and their families there’s now a sleek, low-rise, glass-and-steel tower, the odd bullet-hole pockmarking the outer walls. On the façade, someone’s spray-painted ‘NO SURRENDER’ in the night. Homeless families, drug addicts, and prostitutes have taken up residence, parcelling off their own little spaces to squat in. Where Valeri might’ve once been bewildered by the sight of an expensive project sitting unused for its intended purpose, now he understands. This is something not meant to be lived in; it’s meant as a tool, a weapon of war, for the wealthy man to store his ill-gotten wealthy in the form of something real, to be sold for profit later. But it’s also a response to the working man’s agitation, the aim to engage in a massive population transfer by expelling the undesirable elements of the working class, the prostitutes, the elderly pensioners, the poor made to be addicted to illegal drugs and the common labourers deemed fit only to enrich their wealthy paymasters. Even as bullets fly and bombs explode, this weapon continues to be applied, diligently but not dispassionately. No longer used for its original purpose, now it stands gathering the hopeless among the working class, the police allowing squatters to gather in preparation for a final offensive into the working class slums. Valeri doesn’t know it, but this is, too, is deliberate; by concentrating in these properties, the most pathetic and despondent among them conveniently group themselves into fewer targets. All Valeri can know, at this point, is that when the police finally come, they’ll fight no longer for the streets but for their very homes. Over the next few days, Valeri speaks with the other tenants of Dominion Courts, mostly with Tonya and Roger, they meeting with others, the others meeting with others, a consensus having already emerged among them all: resist.

23. The Way Forward

As tends to be the way of things, something must inevitably set off a war between them, the mounting pressures inside each soon to compel them to seek an outlet, any outlet at all for their rage. A rock thrown, a rifle shot, an exchange of fire between two warships on the high seas and within weeks, only weeks the empires of the world have declared war on one another. At home, the working man finds himself beset by such troubles and overcome by such fear that he can’t but watch as this new caretaker commits itself irrevocably to some alliance of empires, all the while at home the working man still worries where his next meal will come from, where his next paycheque will come from, all this started somewhere, somehow, by the looting and plundering of the wealth of the world in this very place where once the working man had lived. News makes the screens of the millions across Britain and around the world, but for Valeri and the rest of the working class measures close to home demand attention over all others. In the night, their fortifications continue, in the way they do.

After having given up on working as a day labourer, Valeri Kovalenko returns to his dark, empty flat and looks to his screen just in time to see the squawking of the wealthy man’s apparatchik proclaiming the virtues of this fight, calling on all his countrymen to devote themselves wholly to this new struggle. But as he sits in his chair and watches, Valeri’s stomach growls, his feet ache, and his back’s pain spasms slightly, just enough to remind him on all he’s been made to surrender for the wealthy man’s benefit. To ask, now, for more is the final insult. Astride a wave of revolutionary fervour, the working men of Britain, Europe, across the world surge towards a war decades in the making, while their paymasters fumble about looking for a way to head off their own demise. And although none of them had planned the next step, in fact it’ll take place in the way that it will through pure happenstance, when the dust has settled the future will look back on our past and see it could’ve happened no other way. Though now we can’t see more than a few days ahead, when a clarity emerges and the lost years of our lives are at last reclaimed, we’ll see it all. In Valeri’s life, this has become as his final resting place, without having died his consignment to this dilapidated, falling-apart apartment block become his castle, the last redoubt of the working man, the ramparts on which he’ll make his final stand for dignity and justice. As Valeri looks out across the street, he decides it’s time to leave, venturing out into the city again in search not of supplies but company, the last company he could expect to find amid the terror and violence gripping Britain’s streets.

It seems like such a strange notion, quaint even, that it was only some years earlier that the working man should’ve been looked to the distant skyline and seen gleaming, glass-and-steel towers reaching for the sky, higher and higher with every passing week. In truth, there’s been war, someplace, sometime, for longer than anyone can remember, and this new war is not new but rather a sudden and unexpected escalation of an old war once confined to some province of some country none of us have ever been to but which now involves us all. At the mercy of forces so much greater than ourselves, we can think only to press ahead. Walls crumble, only to crumble again days later. A third of the stars fall from the skies, only for those very stars to fall again the next night. Before the failed rising fifteen years ago, everyone had been led to believe here in Britain, but also throughout the rest of Europe, the United States and Canada we’d led peaceful lives, free from conflict, as though all had once been well. But it’s a fraud. This, this war erupting on the streets of our cities is but the logical culmination of hundreds of years of fighting, of exploitation of man by man, the way of things collapsing under the weight of so much greed. The air’s filled with the sounds of sirens wailing, of gunshots cracking, of water gushing from fractured mains and of buses trundling along, stopped only by troopers searching them for something, anything at all.

In the time it’s taken all this to transpire, an insidious evil has gathered its own strength, filling the screens of the thousands and thousands with scathing denunciations of this new, foreign enemy, who had only a short time ago been merely a rival, a short time before that a friend, an ally even. This, then, is an insidious power of the way of things, the power to rewrite our common history to convince us these were our enemies all along. In Valeri’s lifetime, he’s seen much anguish. Now, as he emerges from his sleep into a world suddenly at war, he can only look out over the street and imagine himself with another again. At his side Tonya appears, her last suspicion and the last tension having eased. Though he’s committed, she’s not, not yet, still clinging to that last bit of doubt left in her. “You must come to the hall,” he says, “there you can meet our friends, so you can make yourself useful to them later.”

“It’s not safe to go out right now,” she says. Tonya, she’s not at all like him, even as she comes from the same stock as him. She fights not on behalf of her children, but on behalf of the children she’d never had. Little does he know she’s about to disappear, to blend in with the teeming masses, to make herself one with the rebels of the Popular Front in anticipation of the final offensive. She may not survive; in fact, it’s almost assured she’ll die in the very streets where once she’d lived. But hers will, in time, be an honourable death, noble, in service of the working man’s cause. She’ll live long enough, though, to make herself useful to the working man in standing against the criminals in power, in seizing her home and forcing the criminals to try and take it back.

Though neither Tonya nor Roger have told anyone, it’s obvious to the other residents they’ve fallen in love, not from anything either has said or done but from the way they seem to avoid one another in the day and only take into each other’s rooms at night. But Valeri looks on her with a muted envy, half-wishing his love Sydney could be there with them to make their stand, whether they live or die unimportant to him in this frame of mind so long as they’re together. But he shakes the thought. “It’s imperative we all do what we can,” he says, “for our children, and our children’s children.” She says, “I would trade my life for my children’s, if I had any children to trade my life for.” Valeri nods and says, “I know what you mean.” He looks on as she gathers her things and makes to leave, then steps in front of her. Though this is that time, that short, brutish time between war’s declaration and the first battles, the city and the country beyond is already burning, from the corner of his eye Valeri spotting through the window behind Tonya a column of smoke rising from the city’s streets, casting a shadow that strikes the two of them at just the right moment to send a shiver running the length of his spine. In the morning, she goes with Valeri to the union hall and in so going she encounters her own future. There won’t be any one sight, any one word spoken or clenched fist thrust into the air that should move her to commit herself wholeheartedly and enthusiastically to the Popular Front’s struggle; there’s no way to explain what happens, if anything happens at all. This is what she was meant to do, the path she was meant to walk in service of the higher purpose assigned to her by the flow of history.

It’s all happened so fast. It’s been building for hundreds of years. If you were to tell the working man that these are the times foreseen by learned men, men more learned than him for every one of those hundreds of years, he’d scoff and push you away. As men squabble over which personality ought to take the chair of some committee in parliament, forces gather. Carefully, the rebel chooses his target, and when the timing is right he strikes. In the time before the rebel’s next strike, though, the working man has found himself caught up in the turmoil, his life spiralling out of control until he soon finds himself struggling to maintain anything like a normal, day-to-day routine. Aboard the cruiser Borealis, the Captain announces they’ve made into port at Copenhagen to take on supplies and join a multinational task force. Their sister-ship, the Australis, has already arrived some days earlier. Then he dashes hopes by declaring there’s to be no shore leave. Already Dmitri has become something of a leader among the men. Perhaps it’s inevitable there should be a leader who arises from the men, out of the little conversations that forge a consensus the men self-selecting for their own. Still, the men are allowed time on deck, during one such break Dmitri looking out across the port at a Spanish-flagged frigate, the frigate’s crew on deck looking right back. There’s a silent moment exchanged between the men of the two nations, cut off by the sudden exploding of a bomb in the streets. It’s distant enough not to be seen, but close enough to be felt like the quivering of a slight earthquake, to be heard almost like the backfiring of a lorry’s engine. Then, the intermittent rattling of gunfire, only for a moment before cutting out. If Dmitri should close his eyes and listen, he would think the Borealis still at home on the Thames.

As the fires rage and as the world he knows crumbles into dust, the working man might be forgiven for seeking at least some small measure of solace in the memories of his own making. In the union halls he meets with his brothers and sisters, but now the mood has become grim. Their numbers have thinned, some jailed, some killed, but most scattered into the wind in cobbling together at least some meagre sustenance for their families. The rebel has not yet begun to provide for him; as if to punctuate this fact, a string of explosions rip through the city, scattering debris like wooden splinters and broken bodies like broken dreams. In the union halls, the working man gathers the last of his strength, takes the stage, and puts in his best face for his brothers and sisters as he makes the case for the next wave of strikes. At the union hall where Valeri takes Tonya, they encounter not one but three angry men standing up high on the stage. “…Are you ready?” one speaker asks the crowd, receiving in response cheers and roars. Meanwhile, in Copenhagen Captain Abramovich orders the crew of the Borealis below decks, curtailing even the minimal privilege of fresh air for the men. There’s some resistance, but it’s limited mostly to the muttering of expletives when the officers’ backs are turned. Dmitri, though, remains standing on deck for a moment, gripping the rails, thinking to stand firmly in place and force the officers to drag him away. But it’s a fleeting thought, a futile notion, in the end the better part of him turning in with the rest, in the bunks that night those mutterings becoming open dissent. “I hate that Captain,” says one crewman. “We’ve lost men in these drills and still he orders more,” says another. “If we’re ordered into action, what will we do?” asks a third. “We’ll fight,” Dmitri says, to himself as much as his bunkmates, “it’s what we do.” The others nod their grim assent.

The speaker at the union hall goes on to say, “They have spent our wages on weaponry and technology to defeat armies on the battlefield, at sea, in the skies, but none of these expensive weapons can possibly defeat the rising of the working man against them!” Another round of cheers and roars. Soon Valeri is shouting, Tonya shouting too, the whole lot of them drowning their own doubts in a sea of voices all crying out for vengeance as one. Tonya seems excited in her own right, and for a time Valeri is convinced she’s come around to his way of thinking, if only he could know better. In agreeing they’ll fight, the crew of the cruiser Borealis silently acknowledge the truth of the matter, that it’s not important whether the coming battle against some foreign enemy is won or lost, whether the men aboard the Borealis live or die in the waters of the Baltic Sea. (They still haven’t been told where they’re headed, but from their course so far it’s abundantly clear to all.) Clinging to the futility of a life marked by impoverishment, indignity, and despair is the folly of the delusional. Still, as Dmitri listens through the night to the rattling of gunfire and the intermittent thud of explosions on the streets of this foreign city, he is committed to the working class struggle in ways even he can’t understand, his spirit given to the way forward offered by the rebel Elijah and the Popular Front, even if his mind is not yet made on the exact way forward. Still there’s talk of mutiny; it’ll come to that, sooner than they think.

It seems random, but when the first in a string of explosions rattles across the city it all becomes clear. The dust settles, revealing a bombed-out storefront, with debris scattered across the street like so much useless confetti. An old café, on the same block as a police station, the café known locally as a favourite place for the policemen to come when off duty. Policemen are among the dead and wounded. In an act of calculated savagery, the rebel has, unknown to all but a select few, struck a declaration that he is to be reckoned with. In the coming days, another explosion rocks the city’s streets, then another, then another, all across the country a series of explosions all strike at the same targets, all using the same methods, bombs set to demolish places highly visible, near the instruments of power, restaurants near army bases, stores near state offices, warnings phoned in without enough time to get word out to evacuate. Like an exclamation point inappropriately placed at the end of a too-long sentence, these are a sequence of attacks meant to show they are all carried out by the same people, using the same tools, but without declaring their identities, the rebel aiming to induce all to find him and make him known in ways no propaganda ever could. Still living in the sewers, in the little nooks and crannies where the light cannot reach, the rebel blends in with his surroundings as seamlessly as a rivet made flush with sheet metal, and in so blending evades detection; when the storm troopers raid his hideouts, they find only empty warehouses, tunnels, and old, disused garages, one after the other until, there must happen something, until there must be that opportunity inevitably handed down by way of divine influence, a few days after all that’d happened this influence reaching out to offer its intervention in the affairs of the human heart. It’s a fight to the finish, all will come to realize, and in fighting to the finish all will come to see theirs as a fight for the finish, an explosion, then another, then another, a string of explosions bursting across the city at precisely the right moments, creating the impression without confirming the fact all come from the same place. Still at the union hall when these explosions take place, Valeri and Tonya stand aground, looking as one. But when Valeri’s turn to speak comes, he looks this way and that, and then nods back at Tonya, inviting her to stand on the stage beside him. “…And this is why we must all stand together now and fill the streets as one! United we can never fail!” And she follows his lead, standing by his side as he whips the crowd into an ever-intensifying frenzy, speaking his piece while outside the world sets itself on fire anew.

A murmur sweeps across the crowd as news breaks of this latest attack. “Brothers and sisters!” Another speaker takes the stage, Valeri turning back with Tonya to watch from the side. “Don’t fear the acts of our friends who fight! They’re fighting for you! They will attack the rich man who controls all, and their attacks will pave the way for our future!” But the assent is far from unanimous. In Valeri’s heart, though, the sounds of explosions booming across the city inspires in him a surge of passion, and he steps forward to cheer and urge the crowd on. But Tonya doesn’t step with him, not yet. Amid acts of spontaneity the significance of this act of deliberation can’t be lost on the wealthy man’s apparatchiks. After the speech is had, Valeri and Tonya meet in the alley behind the hall with Miguel Figueroa and Rose Powell, the latter pair promising them guns to use in their stand. Meanwhile, in a lot somewhere, holding the half-finished shell of what were to be an investment for the wealthy man, troopers stage another of their raids, finding nothing, as they’re about to leave one young trooper pressed into service during these times of crisis mistakenly setting off a bomb. Only the one trooper dies, and only later, after his colleagues rush him to the nearest hospital. It may seem like a small thing, the death of a single trooper against the violence and the loss of life all around, but it’s these little acts that, over time, add up, and in so adding provoking a larger turn of events. A young woman’s death, still an act with the power to shock and outrage after all that’s happened, provoking an outpouring of anger as crowds again take to the streets, in turn provoking the shooting deaths of scores more, when the cycle of crowds and shootings and crowds and shootings reaches its apex the rebel stepping to set off another of his explosions, this one placed so perfectly at the head of the largest crowd yet, in the immediate aftermath spreading the notion it was an attack by the storm troopers themselves. Through this whole period, the rebel sends his gunmen out into the streets in ever increasing numbers, drawing on his newfound reputation as a man of the people to recruit, under the cover of darkness gunfire rattling across the city. Still yet the rebel conserves the bulk of his strength; his time is not yet come. Still yet the rebel reserves his strongest fire and fury for the fires yet to be set.

24. Call to Arms

It comes suddenly, as such things tend to, with all but a few among the working man’s ranks taken by surprise. The army, the Prime Minister declares, is to be marched into battle right away, where it will surely rout the enemy and bring quick victory to the nation and to every man, woman, and child living under the banner of heaven. For his part, the working man can’t figure out what to make of this grand pronouncement, and it only hits him hard the next day when he sees his own, fresh faced, young men being marched along the street in formation. The war has finally hit home. Russia launches an invasion of the Baltic countries where the Borealis has been heading; they don’t call it an invasion, but that’s what it is. The Baltic countries are part of a Western military alliance, and the Russians are betting none of their allies will come to their aid given all the internal turmoil going on within their rivals’ borders. The United States, given to isolationism and with a faltering industrial plant, refuses to honour its treaty; but the United Kingdom and most of the others dutifully declare war. Serbia takes advantage of the opportunity to launch an attack on Kosovo. Old rivals Greece and Turkey trade air raids in the night. In the span of a few days, the last vestiges of the old European Union are gone. Like the Americans, the Chinese government stays out of the fighting, for now content to continue quietly consolidating strength through covert means in all combatant countries, but in time their central role in this, our apocalypse rising, will become clear as a summer’s rain. Beset by internal conflict, the world’s empires seek a resolution to their own strife by using each other as an outlet. Each of these empires has their ruling interests, each is governed by a coalition of these interests as is this country in which our working man lives. For Valeri, this turn of world events strikes near to him, his mother and father having come from the Russian city of Krasnoyarsk, leaving many family and friends behind. He has aunts and uncles, grandparents, cousins still in Russia; however far this war reaches, however long it lasts, some of them might be killed in it. This, Valeri realizes as he watches the news on his screen, is reason enough to oppose the war.

On board the Borealis the news comes immediately, even before the public is made aware, and Captain Abramovich announces the declaration of war over the ship’s intercom. Dmitri’s in his bunk when the announcement comes through. “At last, the waiting is over,” he says. “I’m not ready to give up on this,” says another crewman. “Nor am I,” says Dmitri, “but soon enough we’ll find which way we’ll turn.” Later that day, the Borealis joins a task force headed up the Norwegian coast for Russian waters. Still in his bunk when the order comes down for all hands to battlestations, Dmitri scrambles with the others, arriving at forward gunnery unsure whether he would live or die that day but determined nevertheless to see his shipmates through. Before the day is out, he’ll lose some of them, still to lose many more before the real war is won.

In the back alleys, the rebel is not concerned but reassured by this turn of events, unexpected as it’s come even to him. In time, the working man and his rebel ally will come to regret the latter’s overconfidence, not because they’ll wind up on the losing side but because their lack of prescience and foresight will surely make their ultimate victory so much costlier than it’ll need to be. Not all is lost, and as it seems so unlikely for a nation so embroiled in bitter civil unrest to go to war against its rivals, but in fact it’s the perfect moment. As the rebel looks on, the wealthy man musters his influence and his strength in service of this new war, the wealthy man placing his faith and his fate entirely in the fight against nothing at all. And when the student, the parishioner, the worker, the trooper, and the migrant all learn Britain has gone to war, they react with unanimous outrage, taking to the streets not as disparate interests but as a united front, surging against the government and the wealthy men who control it like the raging waters of a powerful storm against the face of a dam. Though it may not be readily apparent, this is one dam about to spring the smallest of pinhole leaks, in turn about to collapse in a torrent. This is the last we’ll follow each of these men, each of these individuals who represent a facet of the working class movement, but their stories have yet to end. As the United Kingdom goes to war each will keep on fighting, in their own way.

Valeri’s heard the reports, seen the footage on his screen of the disorder gripping cities in other countries around the world, though none of the other powers are experiencing the open revolt here at home. What neither he nor any of the others in revolt know is this war was inevitable. It’s what major powers do to resolve internal crises and tensions brought about by decades, even centuries of corruption and exploitation. The announcement that war’s begun succeeds in calming the crisis gripping the streets, for a little while at least. But the corruption that’s been eating away at the innards of our way of life has left us weak and vulnerable, like the emaciated gazelle being stalked by ravenous lions. It’s enough for wealthy men to realize the futility of their struggle, and plan to take action anew. While they scheme, the world’s working men are made to march into the slaughter for reasons no one can understand even if there are those among the wealthy elite and their co-conspirators in government think they can.

As the nation’s armies gather and make off for war, the screens of the world watch with a curiosity unlike that of a nation facing a life-and-death struggle. The popular front is vociferous in its opposition, its apparatchiks like Miguel Figueroa and Rose Powell denouncing the mass slaughter of working men by the hand of other working men. But in these uncertain times, the outbreak of world war strikes a mood none can read in the working class apartment blocks and the shantytowns rolling along the hills. Young men are marched three abreast in a long line along the streets, many still wearing civilian clothes, while women, children, and the elderly crowd the sidewalks. No one quite knows what to make of it. In his secret headquarters Elijah considers the timing of it all, and issues orders to the swelling ranks of the popular front to cease their attacks. “Cast off the crutch,” he says, “and the body shall learn to walk anew.”

But it all comes down to the struggle of ordinary working men like Valeri and the other residents of Dominion Courts. With their limited armaments, they can’t hope to survive a resistance against a police raid they’re sure will come. In the lobby, Valeri stands with Tonya and Roger, the three of them having taken it on themselves to see all the residents through. “I won’t join the army,” Valeri says. “Nor will I,” says Tonya. “Nor I,” says Roger. “And if they come around to conscript us,” Valeri says, “we’ll fight. We were ready to fight them in spirit if not in form anyways, should they have come around to evict us. Now we’ll make a stand against them all the same.” It’s quickly agreed. But these are times more complicated than even they realize. While the rebel Elijah gathers his strength for his next move, men like Valeri plan for their own survival against odds growing longer by the hour.

“We are dangerously low on food,” says Roger, “water could cut out at any time.” And it’s true; whenever a local store receives a rare delivery of foodstuffs, it’s quickly dispensed to the crowded and starving people who make it there first clutching bundles of cash. “Don’t fear starvation,” says Tonya, “there’s plenty of food stored in warehouses in the industrial quarter. If we need to, we can raid them and take what we need.” It’s not been all that long since Valeri had worked in one of those industrial estates, and still he has friends in those places who’ve kept their employment even through these difficult times. For a time, he thinks to place a call and arrange for a secret exchange, but then realizes these very warehouses may already be under siege by desperate workers seeking very much the same thing as he. “We’ll live,” he says, “and we’ll thrive. It’s only a matter of pushing through this difficult period and learning ascetic virtues.”

They turn to other matters. Some residents in the building have already left, taking little but the clothes they had on with them. For the rest, this means their suites can be raided for supplies. “We’ve got enough arms to make a go of it now,” Tonya says. Valeri shakes his head and says, “no, we haven’t seen the sign yet.” Roger asks, “who will send this sign to us?”

“No one,” Valeri says, “we’re supposed to know it when we see it. It’ll be unmistakable, I’m told.” Tonya lights a cigarette, taking a drag off it before handing it to Roger. “That’s all well and good,” she says, “but what do we do if the police force our hand?” Roger takes a drag, then offers the cigarette to Valeri, but Valeri shakes his head and says, “then we’ll fight.” The three nod their grim assent.

After all that’s happened, it seems to Valeri that their deliverance is at hand, with it to come his personal vengeance against the apparatus that killed his parents fifteen years ago. In the midst of this, he realizes his roommate Hannah has come home, at last, the hospital having all but shut down owing to a shortage of critical supplies and equipment. “I’m not coming back for long,” she says to Valeri, “I’ve just come back to gather some things, get a night of sleep, and then say goodbye to you in the morning.”

“Where are you going?” Valeri asks. “I’m not sure,” says Hannah, “but I’ve got to go somewhere. There’s too much fighting, too much death. It’s become unbearable. I can’t eat, even if there was anything left to eat. I’ll die here, and I don’t want to die here.” She looks away. As she looks away, there’s the distant rattling of gunfire to punctuate the moment, forcing her look back towards Valeri who meets her eye for eye. This is an uncertain moment, one in which the war abroad could seem to shatter families and break apart the flimsy bonds that’ve held together our lives for so long. But it’s a fraud. As Valeri is starting to realize, these are bonds that’ve never been even as they were, fictional creations even as their grip on our lives have always been real. In Hannah, he sees his equal, his opposite, the perfect complement to his burning rage, unlike him in every way and therefore exactly the right person to stand aside him as he takes these decisive next steps into the rest of his life.

But Valeri takes her hand in his. “I can’t predict the future,” he says, “but I can tell you I won’t let go of anything. When the police come around here next time there’s no guarantee of what will happen. I’m glad you’re leaving, you need to get yourself out of harm’s way.” Even as he says it, Valeri doesn’t believe it, chiding himself inwardly for encouraging such selfishness in even as his good friend and roommate. Though he wishes there was something he could say to keep her in his life, he knows the fight has frightened her too much for her to stay at his side. Theirs are concerns of a new manner, the hardening of the steel in their nerves contrasting sharply against the gnawing of their guilt against their innards. It’s a terrible, terrible time to be alive, aligned with the forces of evil who strike back against the forces of good. In the end, announces her leave, in the coming weeks to move to be with an old family friend in the Canadian city of Winnipeg. Though Valeri doesn’t know when, or if, they’ll see each other again, he looks on her fleeing the war zone of the streets for the safety of the Scottish highlands as but the end of one chapter in their lives, not the end of their own story. They’ll see each other again. Even if she dies, or he dies, they’ll see each other again in the next world. Their salvation is had not by deeds but by faith.

No matter, he decides, as he turns to Roger and says, “we’ll go without her.” Roger nods. “Gather whatever weapons you can find,” Valeri says, “and when Tonya comes back, we’ll have enough to make a stand.”

“And if she doesn’t come back?” Roger asks. “Then we’ll fight with what we have,” Valeri says. Roger nods. “We should secure the doors and finish boarding up the windows now,” Valeri says. “Agreed,” Roger says, and turns to head down the hall and see to it. But as Valeri himself turns back to his work, there’s the sound of a thunderous explosion and the sudden rattling and rumbling of the floor, the walls, the ceiling. It’s over in an instant. A bomb somewhere nearby, set off by one of the rebel’s remaining cells in the city. Through the night there’s the intermittent sound of gunfire, punctuated by the dull thud of distant blasts. Half a world removed from the fighting on the front lines, Valeri and the rest of the residents at Dominion Courts prepare to join in on the war in the streets, a war over little more than the right to live in their own homes. But even they are aware their struggle has taken on a new character in these recent months, with the residents here preparing for the next showdown while still crowds of demonstrators vent their anger at the slaughter around the world.

Defiant, the working man raises his fist in anger. Dedicated, he marches in the street with the other working men and with the allies of the working man, the student, the parishioner, the soldier, and the migrant the lot of them shouting slogans until their voices are hoarse; still then they shout. At street level, the sound of their shouts dominate the scene and overpowering all others, yet high above the street in the glass and steel skyscrapers that house boardrooms and bright, expansive corner offices the sound of so much rage has softened until barely audible over the subdued thrum of an air conditioner and the swinging of doors open and shut. In the navy, the cruiser Borealis is one of the ships docked in harbour when first the word comes around that war’s been declared. On board, Dmitri is working when a fellow sailor bursts in to tell him. Sometime later that day, Captain Abramovich announces over the ship’s speakers their orders to put to sea immediately and join up with the rest of the fleet for a decisive first strike at the enemy. In the mess hall when the order comes down for all crew to their stations, Dmitri declares, “now we have the privilege of fighting to make sure our people can keep on dying in our own streets.” There’s a chorus of agreement from the others, met with a sharp glare but nothing more from the officer on deck. A year ago Dmitri might’ve been put in the brig for such a remark; things have changed.

“I don’t even know why we’re going to war,” Dmitri later says, manning the gun after a drill’s ended, “so the enemy’s country has attacked a government we’ve got a treaty with. So what? We die because one group of wealthy men need to grow their power over another group of wealthy men. It’s all a crime.” As they steam towards battle, the same sentiment is echoed by crewmen in compartments from bow to stern, the crew almost ready to throw their lot in with the working men dying in the streets. While the working man vents his rage at the world having left him by, the wealthy man plots the next scheme to enrich himself. It seems almost a parody, a caricature of the life the wealthy man leads, yet still it’s not even close to the truth. In this hardened discourse, filled as it is with impassioned pleas and inflamed tensions, the wealthy man still seeks to wring every last pound he can from the working man, chewing up and spitting out so many carcasses until the time comes to reach his next goal. To men like Valeri, these times see him tired and sore, but ready to fight as ever.

25. Hope and Fear

Early news arrives from the front, the nation’s armies having faced off in a faraway land against its declared enemies. A much smaller force humiliates us, routing our troops on the battlefield, scattering our men and massacring them. As news filters back, the wealthy man’s apparatchiks selectively omit certain details and exaggerate others, putting the best possible spin on this humiliation, stopping just short of outright fabrication. But it’s all in vain. The working man and his natural allies the student and the parishioner can’t be convinced by these lies, so many years of being subjected to it having desensitized them to the power of the apparatchik’s so carefully chosen words. And there’s one thing the apparatchiks can’t conceal, can’t omit, the deaths of so many young men, the families of each receiving the news no family should ever receive. Amid crying and shouting and the raising of fists and the scattering of voices into the wind like so many grains of dust, the rebel watches, planning his next move carefully, so carefully, choosing his target like a surgeon about to make an incision with no margin for error. Limping home, the Borealis is part of a retreat disorganized and haggard. Caught in an ambush by a Russian fleet, they fought a confused action in a thick, night-time fog and suffered several direct hits. Once docked, the crew goes ashore, and later that night Dmitri holds a meeting of dedicated crewmen who agree they won’t put out to sea again. “If the order comes down, we must occupy our own vessel,” he says, “and we’ll refuse our orders. Others will see us, and they’ll join in. With no fleet the government will have to declare a truce.” Nods go around the room. It’s decided. There’s no vote taken, but there needs to be no vote.

It’s all come so suddenly, or so it seems, the months, the years having led up to these difficult, impossibly difficult times. As the ghosts of our history’s past linger in the streets, the moment comes when the rebel’s gunmen mount their next attack, their first since the war had begun. But this attack is different, this attack is unique, striking not some random scene in the street nor some of the patrolling storm troopers, instead the rebel focusing his arms on a recruiting office for the army somewhere deep in the city’s centre. A few rounds crack through the air, a crude bomb is thrown into a window, but none of this matters much when held against the grand scheme of things. As the rebel gathers his strength, his is committed only to the minimum needed to keep pressure on his enemies, on the storm troopers who serve the interests of the wealthy man. Never seeking much for himself, the rebel is content, for now, to dwell in his squalor, living underground, using the sewers as roads for his bands of gunmen who leap out of manholes to fire their volleys before disappearing again beneath the streets that produced them. But the Borealis was too badly damaged in action, and isn’t to be ordered out to sea for a while. In the morning, the crew pack the pier and watch as her sister ship, the Australis, puts out to sea, missing her aft gun and steaming under half-power. Parts had been scavenged from the Australis to make the Borealis fully operational, but the Borealis had been so badly damaged there was little of value to be returned. Dmitri watches along with the rest of the crew as the Australis disappears over the horizon, and he says, “we may never see them again.” Though he’s never been one to believe in superstition, Dmitri can’t help but imagine the shiver running down his spine as proof his brothers and sisters at arms will soon meet their end.

The working man is lost, still yet committed as he is to the cause of taking on the way of things. But we must never allow ourselves to be seduced by the notion that the way of things was peaceful before all this started; this is the insidious temptation offered by they who would dream themselves our masters. Even back in those times when there were no gun battles breaking out in the streets, no hit and run attacks by the rebel’s gunmen, no storm trooper’s massacres of the young and the innocent. For, you see, our way of life is one of force, with the wealthy man and his servants in the apparatus of the state relying always on the threat of force to have their way. And so, too, will the working man of the future rely on this threat to have at his way, to safeguard the future he will have built for himself and to lay down the path through to a stage of historical development even more advanced than what he will have built for himself. And Dmitri’s intuition should soon prove right. But in the meanwhile, at home events soon come to a head. Captain Abramovich has gotten wind, somehow, someway, of the planned mutiny, and he’s acted to head it off. “All you better think twice about it,” says the Captain, “if you all don’t muster for duty in the morning then I’ll put you all in the stockade. And you’ll be hanged after you’re court-martialed.” But threats have long since lost their power. “There’s not enough room in the stockade for all of us,” Dmitri says at the next meeting of co-conspirators, “and unless we want to wind up dying for the sake of some rich man’s wealth, I prefer the hangman’s noose to the enemy’s guns.” All are in agreement. The mutiny will go ahead as planned, but with one key difference.

Amid the carnage, news breaks of the current government’s troubles, of backroom dealing and of petty squabbling the likes of which the working man has become used to by now. But after another defeat on the battlefield and another round of attacks by the rebel’s gunmen, the remaining recruitment centres grow desolate, the invalids and the retired soldiers manning them spending their days alternating between fearing for their lives and fighting off sheer boredom. It’s a far cry from where we’ve been, where we’ve come from, the scene around the city and across the country the way of things, the glass and steel towers that once so threatened the essence of the working man’s way of life. It’s under these circumstances that the announcement comes of compulsory service, with the first of the young men to be inducted within days. In the morning, the time comes for the crew to muster outside the barracks at the base. But Dmitri and the others are already on board the Borealis. “No more the enemy can kill us,” he says, “than can we be provoked into killing them.” News comes of the next battle, in which the Australis has been lost. She took a missile right to the forward magazine, not far from the very spot on the Borealis where Dmitri serves. In this same battle, one of the Royal Navy’s mightiest class of ships, a massive aircraft carrier with unreliable, near-useless stealth fighters sinks, too, a single enemy missile striking at exactly the right spot. When he reads the report on his screen, that same shiver runs the length of his spine, the knowledge he’d have died had the Borealis received that hit instead in his mind confirming every instinct he has to rebellion.

Events have come to a head. Whatever the wealthy man and his apparatchiks in government might’ve expected, this announcement produces only a renewed burst of rage on the streets. The working man and his natural allies the student and the parishioner defy the state of emergency and fill the streets once again, at the centre of their mass the Victory Monument jutting into the sky like a pillar of salt cast from a mould of steel. As punishment for their failure to turn for muster, Dmitri and the others have been confined to quarters, the stockade on base already filled beyond capacity. In the afterwards, the rebellious fervour among the crew of the Borealis has nearly reached its inevitable climax. Still Dmitri thinks of his friends on the Australis, sunk by a Russian hunter-killer submarine. There are no survivors. Lying in his cot, he says to himself, “they die for no purpose but a sacrifice to the criminals in parliament.” While confined to quarters, Dmitri and the others can hear the cries of the people in the streets through the distance like the surging of a mighty river through the rapid’s jagged rocks. To Dmitri, this is the call of the wild. And he bitterly resents being locked in his quarters while so many are fighting and dying not only on the faraway battlefields in a foreign land but on the streets of this very city.

In the night, parliament falls, the coalition government cobbled together from a dozen different parties giving way to a new coalition government cobbled together from a different assortment of parties. At times like these, no one really knows who’s in power. But news of this sudden and new formation of government does not resonate far, the working man and his natural allies the student and the parishioner still in the streets. There’s violence; of course there’s violence. The troopers attack with their batons, their water cannon, and their pepper spray, while the crowds respond with hurled bricks and raised fists. Gunfire cracks through the air. Bodies fall. Blood stains pavement. This is an orgy of violence without end, which must never end, a grand act of theatre under which all must carry out their prescribed roles to their logical and inevitable ends, no matter the futility. It becomes as one could’ve predicted, a storm of chaos unravelling by the day, as each new sequence of events brings with it a new burden placed on the way of things, soon the day coming when there’ll be one burden too many and it’ll all come crashing down. In the street, in the halls in his little apartment block, Valeri meets Tonya, asking her, “are you leaving?” She replies, “never.”

“Good.” He’s about to go on, when she pre-empts him by saying, “I’m not going anywhere.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” he replies, “with people like you on our side, how can we fail?” She smiles.

“Have you spoken to your friend?” Valeri asks. “I have,” Tonya replies, “and we’ll get what we need.” A few days later, Tonya knocks on his door and presents him with a package, inside a semi-automatic rifle and a few hundred rounds of ammunition. “Just one?” Valeri asks. “It’s all I could get,” Tonya replies. And Valeri believes her. He takes the rifle in his hands, holds it as one would and looks down the sights, envisioning his soon-to-be target. With the couple of revolvers and the old, bolt-action rifle they’ve been able to scrounge from among the remaining residents, this is the arsenal they’ll have to defend themselves from the coming attack. They’ll be hopelessly outgunned, but Valeri knows in his heart it’s not the firepower they can muster but the mere act of raising arms in defense of the right to live in their own homes that matters. Although the rebel has been carrying out his attacks for months, theirs will be, with others, the first rising of the ordinary worker. It’s a tantalizing thought, one which makes Valeri’s mouth water even as it makes his stomach turn. In the night, there’s regular blackouts, the power switched off, they say, to make the city less vulnerable to enemy air raids and to enemy ships and submarines that might be lurking just offshore.

As if life on the street in the working man’s part of town could become any more distant, any more of a struggle, from day to day the rest of that mass of people live, now, under the harshest of circumstances, the vaguest yet most insidious of threats, the suggestion that bombs might fall at any moment on his head without warning seeming at the same time absurd and frightening. As the glass and steel towers of yesterday have become little more than monuments to the disorder and to the chronic shortages plaguing every part of the country, permeating all aspects of our society, resources commandeered and supplies redirected; immediately, it’s as though the whole country has been placed under a blockade, with not a single shot fired by any enemy against our homes or our people nor with a single bomb dropped from any of the aircraft that can be seen to fly past at so high an altitude they’re all but invisible to the naked eye. None of us can know what’s going on, and they who would have you convinced they can see where this is all headed are liars, plain and simple. It’s a hard thing to do, admit when you’re wrong, so hard that there are many who will die in the coming months, years rather than put themselves through the arduous effort such an admission requires. Pride, it seems, will be the wealthy man’s downfall, not his avarice or his wrath.

The rebel has all but called off his armed campaign, laying low for a while, gathering his strength, letting loose only the occasional attack on recruiting stations, on power plants, on bridges and on railway stations. Britain’s army, toothless from decades of expensive blunders and cuts, struggles to control the urban areas. The wealthy man and his apparatchiks in the current government, whoever might be pulling the strings, they choose to interpret the apparent subsiding of the rebel’s campaign as proof that their decision to take the country to war was the right one, even as their armies are humiliated on the battlefield and as civil discontent rises with each passing day. It’s all an act, it’s always been little more than an act, but when you are fighting this kind of war an act is all that matters, all that one needs to be concerned about. The wealthy man’s apparatchiks take to the screens of the working man and proclaim an end to what they call the terrorism and the lawlessness that’ve come to plague this city and this country, even as the working man and his allies the student and the parishioner keep on filling the streets like water fills the mightiest of rivers. It’s all a deeply confusing time, for you and for me, and in this time it becomes so entirely unlike any of us to imagine something more than what we have.

In his weaker moments, the wealthy man can only look on these times and imagine something entirely different had transpired. But as we linger on these moments, these moments in time when the hopelessness of our common path seems self-evident, know that there are those who would seek to change the course of our history and in so changing make possible through great suffering and great anguish a tomorrow better for us all.

26. Face of the Enemy

At last, it comes. Troopers approach the front of the building, the two at the front of the formation carrying a battering ram. From a fourth-floor window, Valeri watches, waiting for the troopers to come closer, closer, still closer, when they’re a half-metre from the front door tightening his grip on his rifle and drawing in one last breath. There’s the crack of gunfire as his first round fells one of the lead troops, the others scattering for cover instantly, the rest of Valeri’s opening volley punching holes in the concrete. There’s more gunfire, there’s shouting and screaming and the wailing of sirens, the storm troopers falling back, then withdrawing altogether, in the time this brief exchange of gunfire has taken the fires of liberation burning brighter than ever before, here and around the city. The troopers scatter, drawing gunfire from Valeri’s people manning third-floor windows, but scramble for cover in time. Valeri’s people don’t know what they’re doing, even if they’re convinced they do; these are not trained soldiers, not even enthusiasts, workers only learning to use firearms for the first time. Valeri leans out of the window slightly, looking to take another shot, a bullet to the wall scaring him into falling back into his apartment. More rounds burst around him, then stop. He picks himself up and pins himself against the wall, edging forward, listening to the sound of erratic gunfire, on reaching the window seeing no troopers where once they’d been. It’s over, for now. Valeri turns his gun into the sky and fires one, two, three more rounds, using the last of his ammunition as exclamation points on the day’s events. But it’s not over yet, it’s never over. As night falls, this same sequence of events plays itself out a hundred times across the country, coordinated not by some master plan but by the dark essence that’s already begun to run its course in the common pulse shared by working men here and everywhere there’s work to be done. Then, it happens.

Another exchange of fire, quickly after the first attack. In the street, a loose formation of armoured cars making their way past when someone opens fire on them. Valeri returns to his position, gun at the ready. This is the promise of the uprising fifteen years ago finally realized, Valeri thinks. This is what his mother and father died for, along with the mothers and fathers and brothers and sisters of many others just like him. A thunderous explosion booms through the air, sending a plume of smoke rising from the street. Valeri stops. He can’t tell what’s happening. There’s a rumbling felt under his feet, next the walls shaking slightly for a half-moment or two. A wall of smoke obscures the sun’s light. A wave of heat fills the air. For a moment Valeri thinks he’s dead. For a moment he thinks this must be his time. But the smoke clears. Valeri stands up and looks out the window, the street empty, without any troopers in sight. There’s an abandoned truck, shot through with fire, windows shattered. A body lies motionless. Shell casings are everywhere. A quick survey of the building reveals bullet holes, broken glass, parts of walls fractured along beams, and two of the defending workers dead. But Valeri keeps his gun in hand, though it’s empty brandishing it as if it were loaded. From across the city the sound of gunfire rattles intermittently into the night, at sunset rising columns of smoke blending with the after-industrial haze that lies permanently over the city. It’s over, for now. In the confusion of the night, there’s no one moment when it’s clear they’re no longer under threat, and for the rest of the night there’s more shooting, more troopers coming by here and there, the whole city, the whole country in a state of confusion.

It may seem Valeri’s instincts have become honed to the sensitivities of this fight, but it’s not so simple. In fact, his instructions were to take this moment to rise, as part of a wider offensive about to take place here in this city and across the country. We have reached this stage, when not all is as it seems, when our enemies in state have grown overconfident and have come to foresee in their own actions victory where there, in fact, lies only the inevitability of defeat. When the night is upon us, men like Valeri can sleep but can never rest. As night comes, the dark essence chooses this moment to complete its descent into our world, reaching out to the working man in his moment of weakness to inhabit him with the ultimate strength. For when there’s no clear way forward, there can be only one choice for the working man: resist.

In the night, Valeri feels the tightening of his muscles and an electric sensation running the length of his spine at precisely the moment this dark essence has come to him. But still he lives in a world hostile to his way of life and to his quest for liberation, in this moment of weakness the dark essence choosing the most pathetic among us to serve as a vessel with which to grant itself form. There’s more gunfire, rattling off through the night as troopers stage attacks on holed-up workers who’ve taken over factories, warehouses, yards, and apartment blocks across the country, some attacks failing to dislodge the workers, others succeeding with deaths on both sides. But, this is by design. As the working man rises to no clear end, around the city and across the country the rebel lies in wait, about to spring his own trap. Taking stock of their situation, Valeri meets with Roger and Tonya on the roof, Roger there to say, “I’ll be damned if we lived through that,” Tonya nodding before saying, “but what’s next?” Valeri’s first thought is to admit he doesn’t know, but he pushes doubt from his mind and says, “we wait for help. If they attack again, then we’ll fight them again. So long as we fight for our homes and our families, we can never lose.” This may not have been where any of us thought it’d take us, but it’s where we were, all along, destined to be.

As the last of the rebel’s known strongholds in the area are ferreted out and destroyed by the reactionary’s troopers, all seems lost for the way of the future. Continuing his speech to the world, the wealthy man lays out his case for reconciliation with the working man, promising change even as all who listen know it a false promise. Even the wealthy man knows it a false promise. Still he is compelled to promise change, just as an apple falling from the tree is compelled to drop to the ground by the immutable laws of nature, the wealthy man rendered impotent in his own words, the rebel lying in wait, licking his lips as the appointed time draws nearer by the second.

As if he knows what’s to come, the wealthy man finds himself roused by an ever-mounting passion, screaming himself hoarse, his lies burying upon lies, he becoming an absurd caricature of himself. Meanwhile, the residents of Dominion Courts look to Valeri for their next move. Valeri, Tonya, and Roger agree to tell the others to keep watch and send runners out for supplies, but until the rebel reaches into the city to relieve them, they must posture themselves as though the next attack could come at any moment. Valeri doesn’t know what to expect but he puts on a brave face for the others, only letting it down when alone on the roof standing watch for the next attack never to come. The dark essence from above lives in Valeri, now, as it lives in men like him around the world who’ve irrevocably pledged themselves to the task of their own liberation.

Already teetering on the edge of collapse, the way of things needs only the gentlest nudge to send it plunging into the abyss. Naturally, the rebel intends not to give the slightest nudge but the hammer blow. Tonight, as the wealthy man declares to the world that the revolution was well and truly finished, his ally, the reactionary, knows better. As the wealthy man finishes his speech to the world, already the first shots mark this new and dramatic escalation of the revolutionary war, bullets tearing through the wealthy man’s lies as though they’re tissue paper, shredding the last, best hope the way of things have and clearing the way forward to a new beginning.

II

27. At the Threshold

At dawn’s first light, it begins. Gunfire rattles through the air and columns of smoke rise into the sky. As the first confused reports filter onto screens across the country and around the world, it seems, to some, this is but another of the episodic outbursts we’ve all grown used to, but these first confused reports are wrong. As the day wears on, the attacks only intensify, the number of the rebel’s gunmen in the streets only multiplies. They strike at police stations, at public halls, at government offices and at docks and airports, all at once. By the time the day’s out, most of the rebel’s gunmen have been killed, taken prisoner, or beaten back, but that matters little to the rebel himself, as he watches on the screens breathless new reports of the carnage and the chaos the sly grin on his face only growing wider with each passing moment on this decisive day. Still on the ground, Valeri greets the arrival of the rebel’s offensive by flying the red flag from one corner of the roof using a hockey stick as a makeshift pole. With the rest of the residents in the building, they’re tired and they’re hungry but the promise of liberation keeps them all going strong.

Meanwhile, on board the cruiser Borealis, Dmitri and the others have been released from their quarters, allowed to return to duty on account of the severe shortage of manpower crippling the navy. But still they can’t put to sea on account of yet-unrepaired battle damage. “Our moment is at hand,” says Dmitri to the crewmen with him in the ship’s forward compartment, “and we must not miss it.” Having established contacts with the rebels in the popular front, Dmitri and the others on board must now seize the moment. Breaking free, they reach the cruiser’s armoury and arm themselves with rifles, then leave a pair of their own to guard the armoury while Dmitri leads the rest to the bridge. On arrival, they find Captain Abramovich and the other officers gathered, unarmed. It seems they were expecting exactly this when ordered to release the crew from confinement. “Do what you’ve come here to do,” says the Captain, looking Dmitri right in the eye. “I haven’t come to kill you,” Dmitri says. “Oh?” the Captain asks. “No,” Dmitri says, “I’ve only come to see to it that the crew of this cruiser are fighting for our own people for once.” He orders the Captain and the other officers taken into custody, and soon the whole lot of them are being led at gunpoint down to the ship’s brig. But on the way past, the Captain shoots Dmitri a mean look, filled with venom and bile, the glare of a man impotent with rage.

As this day dawns, Valeri hears the rattling of gunfire, the residents manning their apartments defences as though they could fight off a determined attack. Without ammunition for their few guns, they couldn’t withstand another attack, were the police not consumed in the rebel’s offensive. Valeri’s acutely aware the police could come again at any time, and if they should try the residents of Dominion Courts would make for easy prey. But still it escapes him the ease with which they fought off the first attack was owing to the working man’s own determination to survive, not anything conscious in their planning. The working man knows, fully knows that his is a struggle not only against the truncheon of the trooper’s physical oppression, but as well against the vast continuum of ideas meted out upon him, ideas posed as natural, healthy, yet which are designed by their very nature to instil in him a division against himself. Struggling, always struggling, the working man pledges to ignore the growling of his stomach and the fatigue behind his eyes, so sure he is of the honesty and the nobility of his cause that he’s willing to put himself through an untold suffering to see it through. As the day drags on and the rebel’s attacks don’t peter out but escalate, the air fills with the endless chattering of gunfire and the thumping of exploding bombs blending into a terrible cacophony of hell building until there’s nothing but death sounding out.

But the working man’s part of town is mostly spared by this dramatic new escalation of violence, with only a misplaced round here and there to mark the day. No longer is his concern that of paying the rent or forcing himself through another day, instead he, now, concerning himself with standing guard at the door while his neighbours look on. The landlord has stopped coming around to collect rents; some say he’s learned not to bother and all but abandoned this place, while others say he’s dead, killed unknowingly by someone settling a score in these chaotic times. It’s a frightening turn of events, one which prompts the working man, sometimes, to look back and in so looking consider the possibility that he may have been wrong, that the future these people thought they’d been fighting for all along was scarcely better than whatever hellish nightmare the old way was to have offered them. But this is a foolish thought, and the working man pushes it from his mind, denouncing these self-doubts as mere echoes of the lies he’d once been so fed. After seizing the Borealis, Dmitri and his colleagues secure all compartments and then muster on the bridge. They signal to the rebels their success by taking down the naval jack and flying in its place the flag of the popular front, a simple yet elegant design of crimson and gold. “Now we prepare for battle,” says Dmitri. He turns to his fellow crew and says, “the simple part is over.” Critically short on food, fuel, ammunition, and all the other supplies that fighting men and women need to fight, the crew of the Borealis have only strength of will to see them through.

For the police hadn’t expected resistance when they’d moved in to evict the residents of Dominion Courts, making the brief exchange of gunfire enough to shock them into retreat. Still, in the larger struggle it looks like the residents have won a dashing victory, and in the larger struggle how it looks is more important than how it is. On that night, the working man guards the door, looking through it and projecting himself into the world outside, joining the rebel in spirit if not in form in this latest, decisive assault on the way of things, that the way of things might yet become something incomparable to what the world has seen. In truth, Dmitri and the others on board the Borealis know theirs is a struggle that can only lead them to a place of pain and suffering. Once secure, the Borealis casts off, then makes down river a few hundred metres before dropping her anchor and training her main guns to maximum elevation. Without knowing what can come, Dmitri has teams assembled to go ashore and secure supplies, but it’s a futile effort as the men don’t get far before they’re set upon by a mob of confused and frightened people. Without options, Dmitri orders the crew of the Borealis to loot a nearby storehouse for food, then commandeer a civilian tug and seize its fuel from the desperate crew. The crew of the Borealis haven’t made any new friends among the local population, not amid the rebel’s offensive against the entire city and across the country, but they’ve secured their own survival. For the rebel Elijah and the Popular Front this new and dramatic escalation of the war in the streets is but a calculated gamble, an expenditure of so much strength in service of an offensive to push the enemy over the edge.

Not all is as it seems. In this city, where Valeri lives, the streets are filled with near-total anarchy, violence, and bloodshed, as are the streets of many other cities across the country. But there are those cities, whole provinces even, where an almost-calm still prevails. The working class here in Britain and across the whole of Europe is not yet united under the banner of their own liberation, as the consensus has not been forged. As columns of smoke rise throughout London to mark the spots where the rebel has staged his attacks, discarded shell casings and broken bodies litter the pavement. A clarity emerges from behind the thick, grey haze. In the time it takes one moment to blend with another, the last vestiges of peace begin to fall apart in the face of a sequence of events none could’ve predicted but all should’ve seen coming. After all that’s happened, it was inevitable that the governor should lose his ability to so govern, in the face of withering attacks from all sides the decisive moment in his fall coming not in the halls of the capitol but in that narrow space between one moment and the next, in an instant, late at night, a single bullet fired or a single fist raised finally depleting the last of his will to power. But where one’s will depletes, another’s strengthens, in short order the spiralling of events out of control playing right into the hands of he who would set the world on fire.

An explosion, another explosion, this one preceded by a warning phoned-in scarcely a half-hour in advance. As the working man stops to look on his screens at the carnage in the streets, he devotes the thoughts lingering in the back of his mind not to the lives lost nor to the bodies mangled on that afternoon but to the bare cupboards waiting for him when he’s to go home at the end of the day. As another of the day’s explosions booms across the sky, this one much closer, close enough to sound like the trembling of an earthquake, the working man looks up from his screen and promises that this, this will be the moment he last worries about such things as the growling of his own stomach. It’s not that he won’t ever tend to his own needs again; rather, it’s his newfound willingness to push through this momentary discomfort and on to the new beginning promised him by the future history has so earnestly promised him.

An explosion, another explosion, tearing across the city, snapping the working man out of his self-imposed reverie, forcing his attention on the here and now. He knows not what to make of this escalating campaign of terror and lawlessness; he knows only that the rebel reassures him, in a curious, backwards, roundabout sort of way, that it’s all part of some master plan, that it will lead inevitably to the changing of the guard and through to a new, better tomorrow. Amid the cacophony, an unbearable lightness settles into the working man’s nerves, freeing him, if only for this one night, from the burden of caring for himself, of caring for what happens to his person, aware as he is, now, of the greater whole to which he belongs. In the night, through the night, the restrained passions of so many of the working man’s brothers and sisters ignite, chasing themselves round and round in an endless orgy of self-delusion and self-sacrifice. All through this interlude when the working man realizes himself, events unfold which will soon enough give the working man his leadership, and in so giving place him firmly in control of his own destiny. At night, in the night the working man lies in bed and stares at his apartment’s ceiling, imagining patterns in the cracked drywall and visualizing colourful lights swirling around the darkened room. We’re almost there. It’s almost time. In the night that follows all that’s lead up to this point, the working man takes around his little apartment, boxing up books, clothes, a pair of shoes, before he leaves taking one last look around the mess he lives in, right now, and decides--realizes his lot belonged thrown in with rising tides of history all along. But it’s never that simple. It can never be that simple.

Then, in the night, it comes. A new government proclaims itself in power, having liquidated parliament, arrested all MPs, placed the King in detention, and taken command of the armed forces under its new banner, calling itself the Provisional Government. Neither republic nor monarchy, the Provisional Government is led by a mysterious coalition of unknowns who proclaim an end to the violence in the streets and promise a people’s government. Gone, they say, are the days of degradation and greed of the old regime, to come a new era of peace and prosperity for all. They invite the rebel Elijah and his Popular Front to join them, but Elijah refuses. Though Elijah and the Popular Front have achieved their long-sought goal of fostering the overthrow of the capitalist state, they see only a new betrayal rising in the Provisional Government’s determination to continue the war against the nation’s foreign enemies and to preserve the wealthy man’s dominion. In Scotland and Northern Ireland, the people are sceptical, even more than the working class of London and all other cities in England. Nothing’s changed. The rebel Elijah sees nothing less than total liberation for the working man as his goal, and these unknowns are the kind of spineless cowards who will come to be manipulated by an evil into advancing not liberation but oppression. For now, we watch, and wait for the rebel Elijah to make his next move.

28. Betrayal

As news spreads of the British people’s betrayal, so too spreads anger and fear. So early in the morning, a small crowd forms outside the now-closed parliament buildings, the crowd swelling as the sun slowly brightens the sky. Soon, the square fills with rage, with the working man and his natural allies the student and the parishioner massing in action against this latest outrage, the accumulation of so many outrages and so many indignities overpowering the feeble orders marshalled against them to cease. Then, gunshots crack across the cold winter’s morning, by some stroke of fate the course of our history changing, again, forever. Not yet out of options, not yet with his back against the wall, the working man assails himself against the decrepit remains of the state, the crowds stepping over the bodies of their own to advance on the troopers ahead. As Valeri mans the ramparts at Dominion Courts, in the distance there’s the sound of thunder rolling over the horizon, channelling through the city’s streets between tall buildings like a burst dam unleashing water along a canyon cutting a path deep into the earth. Defying the law, working men like Valeri form their own ad hoc governing councils, declaring their own autonomy even as they secretly harbour fealty to the rebel Elijah and the Popular Front. As they were before, Valeri’s cupboards are still bare, his windows are still broken, and halls still smell of cigarettes, only now mixed with the acrid and sour stench of spent gunpowder and the thick, oaky stink of fires only just burnt out. Soon, but for the colours of the flags flying from parliament Valeri can see no evidence of a change in power. It’s all a confusing mess, but soon enough the working man will form from among this confusing mess his future. He needs only to reach out and seize what’s rightfully his with both hands.

Aboard the cruiser Borealis the word arrives of the Provisional Government’s determination to carry on the war abroad. Immediately, Dmitri declares, “we can’t follow this banner either,” receiving a chorus of agreement among the rest of the bridge. Around this time, the crew receives word from a Coast Guard station on the Suffolk coast offering safe haven, the station’s new commander elected from among the men and determined to oppose the Provisional Government, too. It’s a gamble, but with no other options Dmitri orders the crew to weigh anchor and make down the Thames for the North Sea. “It’s a great risk,” says Dmitri, “but if we stay here for long then we’ll starve.” The rest of the men on the bridge nod their quiet but determined assent. Dmitri orders the banner of the Provisional Government flown, hoping to deceive anyone who might try to stop them. When night falls, the Borealis makes up the river, slowly, quietly, limping along, every turn of her screws bringing the first vessel in the Popular Front’s unofficial navy closer to her own liberation.

Still in the midst of jeopardy, the working man has grown to be fully confident in himself, in the fists of rage he raises, in the defiance of the order. After all that’s happened, and with all that’s yet to happen, the working man’s enemies seem teetering on the edge of their final collapse. But not all is as it seems. Even in these heady times, the love which once bound us together now can only be found in pieces, shredded like so much useless paper, the fires of liberation fuelled by the rage of the ten thousand fists in the air. That night, as news spreads of this current government’s collapse, there’s no readily apparent path to the thatching together of a new one. Every bridge has been burned, every alliance has been torn asunder, every last possible piece of goodwill has been cast into the same fiery cataclysm that now threatens to consume us all. But it’s not all for nought. For Valeri, this in-between time is a time of uncertainty; his contacts in the Popular Front have spared him precious little information since their offensive. He worries they’re dead. It seems only yesterday Valeri was a troubled but determined young man living in a world of grinding poverty, hopelessness, and violence meted out by unthinking, uncaring businessmen and their apparatchiks. Now, their passions aroused, men like Valeri can stand invulnerable as guardians of the future.

In the night, it comes quickly, unexpectedly, like a blade between the ribs. In the morning, nothing is left but the smoldering ruins of where once there’d stood a national pride, an emblematic sleight of hand never once successful in its intended purpose but kept up anyways. In the night, halfway around the world our army has suffered a devastating defeat, leaving many mothers without their sons and daughters without their fathers. As news spreads of this, the army’s latest humiliation at the hands of its vastly inferior enemy, so, too, does an anger, an anger new, unlike the anger already festering in every factory, every mill, every university and every pew, even as it all seems so eerily familiar to those with the time and the inclination to remember. “Parliament has been overthrown!” shouts Tonya from across the room. At Dominion Courts they’ve taken refuge in a third-floor flat, repurposed as a makeshift headquarters. “I can’t believe it,” says Roger. “I can,” says Valeri, confidently. It seems their moment of victory is at hand. But once the residents of Dominion Courts realize this new regime is to change nothing for them, their celebration turns, first to despondency, then to grim determination to carry on the struggle, no matter the cost.

The new government’s determination to carry on with the war effort becomes less credible, less tenable with each of these defeats. When Valeri takes to the streets, he does so with a muted despondency, worrying he’ll never see Sydney again but nevertheless proud to have known she who would grow to pledge her life in service of their struggle. Whether she is lost is become of no consequence to life on the streets, her place in the masses immediately taken by some other pathetic soul. But love is not so easily sacrificed, even in the name of a noble cause like the working man’s struggle which Valeri has come to devote himself to. In love, Valeri meets with Hannah, one last time before she’s to disappear from his life, from their shared life, forever. In the street outside what’s left of his apartment they come together and embrace. “I admire your courage,” she says, “to join the fight as you are.”

“It’s not courage,” he says, his voice low, his jaw straight in a grim look that betrays his uncertainty, “I’m fighting because there’s no other way to go about this. We can fight and take our chances, or die lying on our backs. I choose to fight.”

“That’s what I admire about you,” Hannah says. “Don’t admire me,” he says, “I’m only a man, and this is what men do. We are all bound by the same duty.”

Hannah sighs and looks away, then says, “I don’t understand you when you talk like that.” Valeri says, “I didn’t expect you would.” But Valeri realizes this is not his. He doesn’t have that conversation in the street, she doesn’t ever explain her true motives for fleeing the country for the relative safety of an old family friend’s in western Canada. This is merely his imaginings, the way he might’ve preferred it to be, the mind powerful enough to create its own fiction yet vulnerable enough to need to use its powerful to reassure itself. But as the world collapses all around us, it seems only a matter of time before the end comes. In those heady days when once it seemed the promise of the uprising fifteen years ago had at last been realized, Valeri was ecstatic. But now, as he sees on his screens the talking heads pledging us all to carry on the war against our foreign enemies, his heart hardens again. As our defeats mount, the lists of the dead and dying that used to be released to the public are released no longer, the screens instead filled with bombastic paeans to victories past, present, and future. At exactly the right moment, timed to occur at the precise time when one such paean reaches its triumphant peak, a bang, a flash, and a plume of smoke rising into the air mark another of the rebel’s attacks, while Valeri watches from his place on the picket lines, in the midst of the greatest coordinated act our world has ever seen. But Valeri can only look away and wonder, truly wonder what has come to be. Then, a bang, a crack, Valeri looking down the street in time to see a tank’s cannon spitting fire in his direction, blood spilling in the street as Valeri and the other picketers scramble for cover, finding none, in the time it takes one thousandth of a second to flash to the next a surge of adrenaline coursing through his veins and propelling him to superhuman strength. It’s all come to this.

But Valeri is never alone. “At last, at last, we have our vengeance!” shouts a voice, squawking over the radio. “At last, at last, we fulfill our destiny!” the voice shouts. That night, the world burns brighter and hotter than ever before. Reaching out, Valeri finds himself marching along a path, a narrow, winding path, his brothers and sisters at his side, the voices of the thousands carrying as they all stride into their future, together. But then, we all have our roles to play, and play them we must even as the futility of our efforts becomes clear to all but the most deluded among us. The wealthy man, once so much wealthier than he is now, must continue to muster all his remaining strength against the forces arrayed against him, forces which, once so arrayed, are become all but unstoppable. It’s a small thing, a simple truth, meaning so little when held up against the vast continuum of our shared history, our history which once seemed so impersonal but which now seems to know us so well it’s frightening. But we’re not afraid. We can’t be. Fear has come to be an excess, an indulgence we can no longer afford. Along the way through to our common future, we must discard our fear and embrace the horror of all that’s come to pass; it’s only in rejecting our own narrow, personal self-interest that we can come to earn the future we’ve so long deserved.

After the night has passed and the new day has dawned, Valeri takes stock of what’s left. Among the remaining residents in the buildings under his stewardship, there’s enough canned food to keep them all alive for a few days, perhaps a week or so, if rationed carefully. The electricity’s still off. The water still runs, more or less, but the foul smell means no one will drink it; Valeri orders coffee filters used, assuring the others they’ll make the water drinkable. They’re out of coffee, anyways. Until the provisional government can restore service, they know they’ll have to survive with what they have. But when Valeri meets with Roger and Tonya in the lobby, theirs is a conversation short and to the point. “We can’t survive much longer,” Roger says. “And the others are going to figure it out pretty quickly,” Tonya says. “That doesn’t matter,” Valeri says, first looking Roger, then Tonya in the eyes with a steely glare of determination, “we tell the others whatever they need to hear. So long as they continue to believe there’s hope, there is.” Tonya and Roger nod. For now, it’s all they can do. This is not what Valeri would’ve wanted, but if it’s the way to the future then he pledges to embrace it with open arms, no matter the hardships it’ll bring. And so we look to the future no longer with fear but with a mounting anticipation. Even among the still falling-apart ruins of the old way, there’s hope.

Novel among our heroes is the determination not to be deified by the passage of so much time, the rebel and the working man alike knowing theirs is struggle born out of greatness and is not yet won. As the government teeters on the brink of its inevitable collapse, its apparatchiks offer the working man and his natural allies the student and the parishioner a concession; they offer to outlaw foreigners from owning homes and promising a basket of measures to prevent wealthy foreigners from absconding with their ill-gotten capital beyond the country’s borders once the war has ended. But it’s too late for reconciliation. At the church repurposed as an ad-hoc headquarters, Valeri receives this news on his screen but then promptly discards it. The fires of liberation, once lit, can’t be extinguished by half-measures. But as this provisional government forms, the working man fulminates, Valeri already pledging himself that this is not the end of his struggle.

29. Behind the Scenes

In the night, it’s always in the night, the Popular Front’s attacks subside, his guerrillas remaining in place dotted around the city. They occupy parcels of land, in places no bigger than a street corner, in other places whole neighbourhoods under their control. They’ve seized spots of territory, here and there, and in anticipation of the enemy’s counterattack they dig in, turning apartment blocks into ramparts, storefronts into bunkers, roofs into lookouts. The rebels have given Valeri and the other residents of Dominion Courts a few rifles, some ammunition, but no food or water; there’s none to be given. As Valeri watches through binoculars from the rooftops, looking out for any sign of troopers, he looks upon a street with two armoured cars parked blocking the road, the troopers using them as makeshift fortifications. “They’re sealing us in,” he says, “they’re going to starve us out.” As if to accentuate this moment of realization, his stomach growls. He takes a drink of water from his bottle, forcing it down despite the bitter taste. (There’s a ruptured pipe somewhere, but he doesn’t know that.) Overhead, an air force bomber flies low enough to make its point but still high enough to pass cleanly over the tallest buildings. At this critical moment, all seems to teeter on the edge of collapse, with hunger in the streets and with the bodies of the dead still lying wherever they’d fallen. Still the sound of gunfire rattles out through the night, leaving Valeri, Tonya, Roger, and the other remaining residents of Dominion Courts to look ahead to an uncertain future, one governed not by the whims of the wealthy man’s greed but by forces of nature unleashed in this, the beginning of our history’s end. No more are they slaves in their own homes; now comes the hard part, the part where they must overcome the divisions within. But in an office overlooking the floor of a still-operating warehouse across the city, there takes place on this very day a meeting taking place between a very wealthy businessman and a mid-level officer in the army, a meeting that’ll have grave repercussions for us all.

Looking out over the floor, the owner of the warehouse stands at a panel of windows and watches the day’s work. Every day fewer workers show up, what’s left the skeleton crew needed to keep operations running. The owner, a man named Nathan Williams, has chosen this day to meet with Douglas Schlager, a colonel in the army recently returned from the front after being wounded. As Williams sips on a glass of single-malt scotch, Schlager stands aside. “You should indulge in the finer things in life,” Williams says, “war can be a rather thirsty endeavour, I find.” He offers Schlager a drink. “No thank you,” Schlager says. “So be it,” Williams says, then turns back to the floor, then says, “how many brigades can you call on to support us?”

“Six,” Schlager says. “Only six?” Williams asks. “The rest will follow once we eliminate High Command,” Schlager says. “I suppose that’ll have to do,” Williams says, before turning back to look out over the warehouse’s floor. He doesn’t sip on his drink, but tilts the glass around a little to hear the clinking of the ice cubes. At this particular warehouse, only one of many Williams owns, the product shipped is ammunition, bullets for small arms used by the army. Factories elsewhere produce the ammunition, then ship it here where it’s sorted and forwarded to the army’s own supply chain. War can be profitable business, but with so few workers still reporting for work it’s becoming harder and harder every day for men like Williams to fill their quotas and make good on their deliveries. But this is by design. As the workers from one shift make way for those of the next, the warehouse floor quiets, leaving Williams and Schlager to stand in a momentarily awkward silence, this budding alliance between wealth and power now almost ready to coalesce around these men. These men have a knowledge that comes from an open secret; though Britain is consumed by war, at home and on the continent, they see the neutral Chinese, on the other side of the world, as the real enemy. They’re at least half right.

“I assure you,” Schlager says, “six is more than enough for us to carry out the plan.”

“I hope so,” Williams says. “If you’ve never served then you can’t know what even one man is capable of,” Schlager says, an edge in his voice. “I see what men are capable of all the time,” Williams says, turning back and looking Schlager right in the eye, “I see the screens filled with news from the front of our army’s latest humiliation. I see troops on the street who’ve become afraid to confront a small number of untrained and poorly armed malcontents. It was not always this way.”

“Our troops may be humiliated but it’s not their fault,” Schlager says. Williams raises an eyebrow and says, “is it yours?” A moment passes, then Williams turns back to the floor. He raises his glass of scotch to take another sip, and looks out at the workers from the next shift making their way in. But Williams does not own only the warehouses across the country that feed munitions to the army; he owns the factories that produce those very munitions. And he sells to all sides, through his own complex network of intermediaries and subsidiaries held at arms’ length selling even to the armies of the countries his is at war with. He didn’t start this war; men like him don’t start wars through conspiracies whether elaborate or simple. In fact, Williams personally would prefer this war to end. War is only profitable for men like him if this country merely watches from the sidelines while he quietly ships his armaments to all countries involved in the fighting. With an embargo in place and with much of the country a shambles, Williams can only watch as his once-bustling factories, warehouses, and rail yards languish in a state of near-total disuse. Although Williams is already a man of some importance, he’s about to become a man so much more. But he is only a man, and history is not made by men. It’s not who Williams is or what he’s about to do that’s important. If not him, then someone else would be there to take the steps he’s in the midst of taking.

“You politicians are all alike,” Schlager says. “Oh?” Williams asks, eyeing the colonel’s reflection in the office’s window. “You all love to talk about yourselves,” Schlager says, “you all think you have all the answers.”

“Doug, I would think we’d have known each other better than that by now,” Williams said, giving the workers one last look before turning and walking past Schlager to sit in his chair behind his desk. “This isn’t about me,” Williams says, “nor is it about you. Once we take control of the provisional government, we’ll restore order, and we’ll marshal the nation’s strength against our enemies. Is this not what you want?” Schlager doesn’t answer right away, instead standing firm. Then, he asks, “And then you will have your profits higher than ever?” Williams chuckles, for even he, on some level, knows there can never be altruism in his heart. Although they’ve known each other for years, theirs has never been a relationship quite amicable. Nevertheless, they need each other, now, for theirs is a conspiracy born out of the greed, whether greed for power or greed for prestige. Williams is not only the chief executive of the nation’s largest supplier of munitions to the army, but a former Armaments Minister in government. And Schlager was his attaché in the army, the man to whom he submitted his requests for briefings with the generals, production estimates, and, perhaps most important of all, bills for his goods and services. Then Williams left politics to head this armaments conglomerate while Schlager requested and promptly received a return to duty in a command position. A few years later this war began. Williams saw his conglomerates worldwide operations disrupted by this war while years of oversupplying the army meant no more business to be had in this country. Schlager lived through his troops humiliated on the battlefield by lesser enemies while politicians at home bickered over seats in parliament and cabinet posts, only to be returned home after an enemy air raid put shrapnel in his leg. Still nobody remembers the specific chain of events that set off this war, nor those that set off the disorder in the streets, but it’s never been important what specific events led us all into this crisis. If not these, then others, the pressures of so many decades, centuries of worship at the altar of greed having inevitably set us along the path to this ruin. This fact remains true even as we follow this thread in our descent into madness. But even as these men are but pawns of history, as we all are, this fact does not diminish their responsibility for the crimes they are to commit in their quest to advance their own vision of what’s to come. As our history advances, the fight to advance necessarily provokes the rising of the fight to regress, the act of fusing the two into a single experience the next step in reaching out to our future’s end. But it’s not over yet. The cruiser Borealis has made it almost out to sea, just past the docks at Tilbury, and still Dmitri looks through the darkness of the early-morning light with a mounting anticipation. Suddenly, there’s action. “To the cruiser Borealis,” squawks the radio, “this is the army. I order you to stop and heave to. I have vessels underway and I intend to board you. This is your only warning.” Dmitri snaps into action. “Fly the banner! All ahead full! Raise the main batteries! Open fire!”

From the warehouse’s little office, the past can’t be seen for all the future’s troubles looming in the distance like a mountain towering over a highway reaching straight out to the horizon. From this little office, men like Williams and Schlager plot to unseat the new provisional government and institute a regime of terror against the workers and the rebels in the streets of the nation’s cities, but while they so plot they can’t but keep their mouths from watering at the prospect of satiating their deepest, darkest desires. Theirs is a lust for power and prestige unleashed by the working man’s quest for justice and dignity, an evil’s rising necessarily provoked by the emergence of the virtues of decency and modesty in the physical act of the working man’s rising. But now is the time of our history’s future, when the rising of evil must be confronted by the rising of good. But not everyone sees things this way. It’s not only a few persons who come from the wealthy class or from the army’s privileged officer corps who will conspire to oppose the working man’s war of liberation or who will take to the cause of fighting against it, of trying to beat back they who would seek to free themselves from this current regime of injustice and indignity. There are others under the sway of these forces of evil. We’ve spent the bulk of this account of the revolution focusing on the actions of a few residents fighting for the right to live in their own homes, but in truth there’s a vast array of forces fighting for one thing or another, the common thread uniting them all the inexorable advance of our history towards is end. The decks of the Borealis heave as her engines struggle up to full power. Searchlights blind the bridge crew. “Shoot them!” Dmitri orders. Gunfire thunders out. The enemy responds in kind. The cruiser shudders and shakes as rounds fall in the water all around her, while her own guns shoot back, nobody seeming to aim at anything, the whole action immediately degenerating into a confused mess. “Evasive manoeuvres!” Dmitri shouts at the helm, the crewman turning hard to port, then hard to starboard, the Borealis tracking a zigzag path down around the last bend in the river Thames. But then she takes a hit, a round crashing aft, knocking out one engine, the cruiser lurching, shuddering to a crawl. It seems she’s done for.

From this little office, the marshalling of forces against the provisional government should not be taken as a suggestion that compromise the provisional government was meant to embody should have succeeded had it only been given a chance. In any war between the forces of good and the forces of evil, any compromise between the two is a moral and intellectual fraud. Given its inherently fraudulent character, the provisional government was destined to fail, corrupt as it was from its inception. Whether Williams the wealthy man or Schlager the officer understand the character of the provisional government is irrelevant, as is their conception of their own actions and motivations as noble is irrelevant, as our history shall show men like them to be acting in service of the interests of oppression and in so acting reducing themselves to the level of objects to be manipulated according to the whims of the forces against which we fight. As we stand still on the precipice, ready to cast ourselves into the abyss, I urge you to keep in mind the propaganda disseminated by they who would seek to preserve the way of things in the face of an overwhelming campaign for justice. They convince others, even many working people that the rebel’s cause is meant to oppress them, that the cause of justice and dignity is, in fact, the cause of injustice and indignity, that the rebel and his supporters the worker, the student, and the parishioner are marshalled in service of oppression and not liberation. Aboard the Borealis, the ship struggles forward. “We’re hit!” shouts a crewman, a second round striking forward. “Keep the engines ahead full!” orders Dmitri. “Helm’s sluggish,” says the helmsman. “Keep her straight and steady,” says Dmitri, “we just need to make around the next turn in the river.” He turns to the gunner and says, “keep firing, fire as fast as you can. Don’t aim, just keep shooting.” More fire crashes around the ship, erupting columns of water over her bow. All it’ll take is one more square to break the cruiser’s back. It seems all is lost. Then, deliverance.

From this little office, it may seem to the conspirators plotting to overcome the rising tides of history as though they can plot out a course through to safe waters, but this is a fraud. As their plot is still in its infancy, they are as governed by the currents as is the working man fighting against them. If these men had not met to hatch a plan, then someone else would’ve, and if no one would’ve been there to hatch that plan and take the actions these men are about to take then someone or something else would’ve stepped in and forced an attempt to counter the revolutionary fervour gripping the streets. As the working man rises, so too does the wealthy man engage in a counter-rising, the experience of these two forces clashing in a fight to the death a necessary and inevitable precondition for our collective advancement through to the next stage in our history’s future. Still in this tentative early time when neither the forces of good nor evil have assumed their ultimate form, we see this conspiracy form away from the still-growing influence of the dark essence in the streets, in the hearts of working men everywhere, whether they realize it or not. The dark essence is dark not because in its darkness there lies the blackened character of evil; rather, because it is made to live in the dark, in the little crevasses where shadows lie. After all the wealthy man’s propaganda had begun to fail him and after the thin visage of prosperity he’d built had begun to fade, the dark essence slowly emerged from its hiding place in the shadows and exposed itself to the light. While the dark essence has found men like Valeri to use as a vessel with which to grant itself expression, still it occupies a place neither spiritual nor physical, even as it has come to embody both of these mutually exclusive sides at the same time. On the Thames, explosions erupt ashore, followed by the heavy rattling of machine gun fire. The batteries targeting Borealis fall silent, suddenly. With the Borealis having lost fire control, her guns spit out fire at random, until falling silent themselves, not out of ammunition but jammed. “What’s happening?” asks one crewman. “Steady,” Dmitri orders, “keep watch. Best speed ahead.” But inwardly Dmitri realizes they are all but lost, and he’s determined to go down fighting. He’ll live to fight another day, though, as forces have aligned to deliver him and his men from evil.

“Attention cruiser Borealis,” squawks the radio. This voice’s different from the last. “This is Private Craig Thompson. We have pledged our men to follow the banner of the Popular Front and we have silenced the batteries targeting you. Proceed on your course. We’ll cover you.” At once, Dmitri radios back, acknowledging the signal, then orders the helm to proceed on course. Slowly, the Borealis limps out to sea, making good for the Coast Guard station on the Suffolk coast. Safe, for now, Dmitri takes a breath, knowing full well the real fight is yet to begin. But enough, for now, of all this talk of a dark essence, of rising and of counter-rising. In our immediate future, the task of individuals simply to survive the night, each night. With all that’s happened, we must never lose sight of the fact that there’s still more to happen in our history’s future. After all the bombings, the gun battles, the riots and the massacres, it may seem the state of affairs could hardly get any worse. It may be a bit of a letdown to rely on a cliché such as this, but so long as there’s hope we can never fail. In the heart of every working man who’s given himself over to the struggle for a better future there’s hope, and so long as this hope remains unconquered by the forces arrayed against it then the cause of the working man shall remain triumphant even in the face of certain defeat. Men like Williams and Schlager can plot and scheme all they want, it will never change the inevitability of our final victory. All that remains to be seen is how much pain and suffering the enemies of our final victory will put us through before we destroy them, before we smash them so utterly that it will someday be as though they had never been. Still there’s more blood to be spilled, here in the streets and across the world in battlefields hot and cold, dry and wet, high and low. But when we are victorious at last, it will be as if there’d never been any blood spilled at all.

30. The End of the Beginning

As gunfire rattles intermittently in the early morning after, Valeri stands watch, looking out over the city as if to follow the sound of the rattling gunfire to its source. But it comes from all directions. Troopers manning roadblocks fire back, aiming at nothing in particular, seeming to fire just to hear the sound of their own gunshots cracking across the morning. Even as Valeri had been fully aware of what’s been going on all his life, it seems as though he’s woken up and suddenly found himself immersed in an alien world. Still in its early stages after all that’s happened, our revolution is not yet won, our revolution gaining strength even as its enemies are in ascendancy. In time, our revolution shall be won. But our revolution will not be won by our arms but by our aims; so long as we set our aims as no less than total victory we can never fail. We, the working men, fight for a democratic way of life, while our enemies, the wealthy men, fight for an anti-democratic way of life. It is inadequate simply to state this truth. We must assert it, vigorously and unapologetically. We must believe it, with all the passion and sincerity of a pastor ready to die for his faith. And we must brook no compromise with the forces arrayed against us, the forces who would assert and believe in the righteousness of their own cause. Theirs is lies, and ours is truths. In our campaign for a democratic way of life, we must become convinced on the moral superiority of our cause. So long as we come to steadfastly and honestly believe, we can never lose.

It’s summer, again. Explosions can be heard in the area around the polytechnic where the students have returned to seize their campus once more. Church bells ring erratically across the city as parishioners signal to one another. Troopers stop and quickly search random passers-by. Whole neighbourhoods lose electrical power. Since all this began, the wealthy man’s frantic campaign to wring every last has been stopped, leaving hollow concrete shells where once the wealthy man had sought to erect glass and steel monuments to his own greed. And Valeri had nearly become one of them, with the rest of the residents at Dominion Courts to have become little more than one of many footnotes in the historical narrative to be written by the wealthy man. But now our time is come. Every bullet fired, every bomb set off, every day worked and every foot brought down in front of us and every muscle smoothly contracted and expanded like the hydraulics of our machines all bring us closer to our goal. But this remains true only so long as we commit ourselves to nothing less than a final victory. Men like Valeri realize this now, after all that’s happened, all their lives having led to this moment. Men like Valeri have reached this point in their lives after much struggle and much hardship, but realize this formative experience could never have been without much hardship and much struggle. It’s the way of thing; it has always been and shall always be. If we are to realize our final victory we must not only acknowledge this truth but embrace it.

Later, Valeri turns to his screen along with the millions of others across the country and around the world. In a liberated zone in a city halfway across the country the rebel leader Elijah has taken to a pulpit overlooking a public square to denounce the provisional government led by the criminals who have conspired to carry on the international war and to call for its overthrow. Behind him there’s a red banner with gold letters reading ‘NO SURRENDER.’ A crowd watches, cheering him on, every pause in his speech filled with the shouting of revolutionary slogans. “For as long as they’ve fought the rising tides of history, every day they have sought to extend their way has only ensured that the final rising should take the form of a cataclysm still more violent,” the rebel says, “and the more they have fought us, the greater the devastation our final victory will bear us witness. Let our history show the criminal act should not be considered the act of rising against the repression of poverty, depression, and exploitation but that of the institution of poverty, depression, and exploitation in the first place. We, they who fight injustice are the heroes; let they who perpetuate injustice be seen as the villains. Out of the many we form an indivisible whole, in service of a democratic ideal that should transcend the boundaries so long imposed on us by an alien class. In consenting to continuing the slaughter of working men by working men on the world’s battlefields, and in consenting to the continued reign of the wealthy over the worker the provisional government has vacated its right to govern us. And so it must be destroyed. The criminal-illegal regime in the Westminster must be overthrown and in its place a democratic regime established so that the working man may yet cast off the shackles of the wealthy man’s oppression and come to control his own destiny.”

As he listens, Valeri feels an electric sensation running the length of his spine, chills standing every hair on his body and raising goosebumps on every patch of exposed skin. This isn’t a man speaking to a crowd. This is a prophet speaking to his disciples, to a world yet filled with unbelievers almost ready to receive the gospel even if few have yet to realize it. This man’s name has long been whispered in the shadows and screamed from the rooftops whenever the working man has called out in anguish. His real name is unimportant, for he’s known only as Elijah. This is the rebel released from prison, in so achieving his release reaching for his destiny. “As it is written, the first shall be made last and the last shall be made first. In rising we give a voice to the voiceless, defence to the defenceless, spirit to the dispirited and power to the disempowered. From the slums of Britain to the shantytowns of Mexico, from the decrepit factories of the Russian hinterland to the scorched oilfields of Arabia, from even the sweatshops of India to the plantations of Rwanda, let the working man combine his disparate factions into an indivisible whole, and let the fires of liberation consume the world. All shall be called to account for their sins by this dark essence, in whatever form it chooses to assume. But our struggle is not yet won. Our struggle may never be won. Our enemies are strong, and they shall continue to divide us against ourselves for so long as there remains air in their lungs and blood in their veins. The tide of an unwinnable war may yet turn against us. Already we have won the full-throated support of many once-dissident factions. Already we have seized our homes, our factories, our mills, our universities and our churches. Out of the many, we form an indivisible whole. Against the few we summon our strength. Across the nations let the working man be free. Across the nations let these words mark the way to the future.”

“Workers of the world, unite!”

The End

A Note from the Author

‘Apocalypse Rising’ is the first in a trilogy of novels. Parts II and III are expected to be released over the course of the next eighteen months.

You can follow J.T. on Twitter, where his handle is @jtmarshauthor for the latest news.

You can also visit his personal website at http://jtmarshauthor.com/

Copyright

Copyright 2018 J.T. Marsh

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Content

J.T. Marsh
APOCALYPSE RISING
A Novel

I

1. Before the Fall

2. In Union

3. A Divergent Verse

4. Ensemble

5. Adrift and Powerless

6. A Dangerous Element

7. An Eye For an Eye

8. An Icy Heat

9. An Intemperate Nature

10. Days of Rage

11. No More a Chance

12. Alter Ego

13. Nor the Traveller to the Path

14. In the Trenches

15. Apocalypse Rising

16. The Die is Cast

17. A Time to Stand

18. In the Cards

19. Seeds of Deception

20. January Skies

21. Hidden Terrors

22. Veil of Doom

23. The Way Forward

24. Call to Arms

25. Hope and Fear

26. Face of the Enemy

II

27. At the Threshold

28. Betrayal

29. Behind the Scenes

30. The End of the Beginning

A Note from the Author

Copyright