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.