NOVEL NEXT Chapter 14: Ares of England
Kasia dragged herself through the commute. Only yesterday she had been here underground, crossing cricket bats with the homeless menace, preserving the innocence of children. Now she was back, shuttling along the Britannia Line and watching shifting tunnels shriek by. Soon she would be crossing words with menacing customers, preserving little beyond her meagre salary.
She found a seat in the canteen and forced rice porridge down despite her body's protests. Its pains persisted, and this morning she had developed a subtle limp. She adjusted her gait to hide it.
The bell for shift sounded. She went to her portal and logged in. It was locked, with a message on the screen. Natasha telling her to 'pop in' to the manager's office. She had even added a wink emoji.
Kasia's chest tightened. At least she had been given time to prepare an excuse, unlike with the detective. She rehearsed her defence, and as she passed Leah's desk an earlier suspicion became real. Her old coworker had left, gone upstairs for the reward of, ultimately, being better. A part of Kasia sank with defeat. Another part bathed in knowing its fears were validated.
She had bigger worries now. She took a second to compose herself and knocked on the manager's door.
"Why don't you tell me why you're here Kasia?" Ollie pointed his hands in a smug steeple. Natasha sat in the corner behind him holding a tablet in her hand like a trident. Kasia breathed in.
"Because of my sick day yesterday?"
"Had a case of red fever?"
"I just felt sick."
"Was that before or after you enabled Revolution Britannia? Or is the video going around my employees socials deepfaked?"
Kasia had one ace. It was time to play it.
"After the incident, I spoke with a police detective called Gemma Alderton and gave her the information. She has advised me not to disclose anything to anyone else, but I can forward you to her."
Silence. Natasha's nose whistled. Whatever line of attack Ollie had, Kasia saw it crumble to ash. His eyes searched above him for a response.
He found a backup and sighed smugly.
"My concern is you failed to attend your shift for illegitimate reasons. You are not sick, and you have breached company policy. Do you disagree?"
"...No Sir."
"Your detective may prevent you debating the morality of your actions, but I now have a viral employee linked to the Reds. What sort of position do you think that leaves me in?"
"I'm sorry Sir."
"Answer my actual question Kasia."
"It puts you in a difficult place?"
"In your position any of your coworkers could have been fired for this. You've stuck by the company for a long time. Out of respect for that I'm leaving this as a written warning. I will be docking your bonus this month though - I'm sure you figured that out that already. If you want a future with Riese Elektronik, you'll be on your socials tonight renouncing Revolution Britannia pretty comprehensively."
Kasia imagined the the revolution's response to her criticising them. Then she imagined what she'd do right now if she had her knife. No - the cricket bat would do. Her fingers formed a claw and twitched, itching to be made a fist.
"Any other comments up there Kasia!?" Ollie knocked his head. Natasha made a sympathetic face.
"Thank you Sir."
He turned to his phone. The meeting was over. Kasia left, closing the door to a threatening and unreadable silence.
Her first customer bellowed at her. His tumble dryer kept sending notifications, which interfered with his sound system. It had humiliated him at his house party. She offered him an apology, but he demanded a more sincere one, and hung up as she tried one out.
The shift continued in languor.
Commuting home her socials hit her with another snub. Sermon had untagged her from his videos. The brief wave of viral attention was gone; the deluge of notifications halted. She checked if Leah had engaged with it. No mention, not even a like. She had been busy gushing about her promotion, writing only in German.
That was it. Kasia unfriended her and tingled with power. Then she wrote a post criticising the revolution for Ollie.
Eva messaged late again. She was at her friends. Kasia felt grateful. She necked Eva's anxiety pills on her behalf, browsed the gossip on Penthouse: Soho, and binge-watched a flavourless Marvel series. Her senses dulled to reality until one influencer, commenting from the side panel of reacting pundits, couldn't help but make it political.
She turned the TV off and lay in bed. Time slipped away. When her mind came back, she found the tanto in her hand. She pulled it out, listened to the click and soft rasp of it unsheathing, and gently made an '8'. She imagined herself as the hero of her own story. Her powers were uncertain - irrelevant - but invisibility had to be there. Her boss was the villain, his suffering her prize. She couldn't help but indulge in it. The more details she added to the story, the more it looked like the revolution.
Support creative writers by reading their stories on Royal Road, not stolen versions.
The fantasy began to take root.
* * *
The internet went into meltdown over the weekend. Parliament was leaking - an obscene affair between MP and coerced aide, caught on camera. The act of felching trended, the public unleashed the memes. President Søreni fired the MP but blocked his arrest, triggering a media fracas. He insisted during a press conference that further scrutiny would be pointless. It was, he said, about time everyone stopped clutching at straws. The journalists froze. The President recognised his poor choice of metaphor too late. The public abandoned all other content, dog-piling 'strawgate' in a surge of online activity.
General Enver Byron let the story blow over and made his speech the next Monday, claiming the nation's attention back. Every device received the stream. Kasia's portal froze, disconnecting her call as Revolution Britannia's leader made his statement.
He took his place before a gothic town hall, fists pressed upon a podium draped with battle standards. His inner circle - the famous marshals - stood easy behind him in the old royal uniform. Their helmets plumed high, but the General's towered, setting him above his paladins who themselves were unrivalled. He had discarded his medals - he would earn new ones - but an embossed gold lion snarled on his breastplate.
The bold Ares of England, the man with the power and will to save it, faced the public with stoic concern. His familiar voice had made a career of commanding armies and uniting civilians. Against the over-engineered platitudes of republican politicians, Enver Byron was an easy paragon to turn towards.
He addressed the camera and laid his intentions bare.
Fellow Brits,
Our government has made a resource of us,
and we have been persuaded anything else would be worse.
Nothing remains of us that cannot be stolen and sold away.
Oligarchs feed from us like parasites.
Ministers perfume themselves and spread their legs wide to appease them.
And we are told to just keep working.
Just keep spending.
Just keep calm and carry on!
And when you falter, when you struggle, you have to pull yourself up, every time.
If you do not, everything that happens to you,
is your fault.
Find for me when Revolution Britannia did this to you.
Many of us were military, conscripted and sent to die in pointless wars,
for foreign powers.
I bled on Israeli soil,
and when I looked to the sky, seeking my maker,
I found an influencer's camera,
looking back.
We went so you didn't have to, and we came home to nothing -
blamed and abandoned by surrendering politicians,
who even now escape justice.
And we were told to pull ourselves up,
to keep calm and carry on.
And when we couldn't, everything was our own fault.
The Republic needs the support of you and I as any state ever has. And we have handed it over.
Not a support of loyalty, or love, or joy;
but of resignation, fear, and apathy.
They know this.
They know they thrive when the British shrug.
They know that when we see no alternative we cease to question.
They fear Revolution Britannia because we will show you an alternative.
You do not have to keep pulling yourself up.
Your struggles are not your fault.
For these parasites we will be iron glove hiding an iron fist.
No more careerist politicians.
No more tax-dodging billionaires.
No more foreign invaders controlling your water, your homes, your bodies.
Criminals will be put away, sharing their cells with the corrupt police.
And the terrorists.
Those hooded cowards, bruised on their left eye.
We will give them one on their right.
And to take a leaf from their book,
we will teach them a thing about bad behaviour as we do.
Together we can invent the future.
You will have more money, happier lives, better friends.
Power and control over your life will be yours,
it will come at the expense of everyone who wronged you.
Nothing can be done without your support,
neither a republic, nor a revolution, nor even an empire.
For your support we will obey you.
We depend on you.
I will not ask you to join us, but watch us deliver our promises.
Here, in Manchester, where we give our people food instead of data, homes instead of squats, schools instead of academies.
Where nurses do not pay debts with sex work, and children do not die for postcodes,
Watch us do all this and more, and when you feel ready:
Stand with us and take Britain back!
The ruckus from Manchester's crowd had Kasia pulling her headset off. The office fell to pandemonium, staff ditching portals and spinning around for an outlet to process everything. For once, they had been given optimism for the future. The constant explanations for why things had to be hard were upturned. The people felt heard, and they would need no time to watch and wait. They were ready now.
Ollie flailed against the frenzy, pleading with workers who were too caught up to care. They demanded he unblock their phone internet access. When he refused, they began an exodus out of Sylvan Point, finding other floors doing the same. It filled Kasia with joy. She ditched her uniform and joined the jubilant crowd on the street. Social media became a firework display of opinions.
Parliament scrambled to take the stream offline. A shapeless oligarchy rushed to reassure people who mattered. An emperor stirred in Beijing. His strongholds from Portsmouth to Gibraltar called to arms; from their jaws leviathan warships lurched to sea. Scotland and Ireland flexed their strength on the borders, as independence figures in Wales rallied for a shot at joining them. The White House raised its head to the global stage despite itself, considering a chance to intervene and make America relevant again.
In Manchester General Enver Byron took his first territory. Councillors and MP's queued hand in hand to swear loyalty. Forward units took bases across England, flying their banner and playing the old anthem, flanked by adoring fans. In the capital, Captain Faizan Varma claimed the boarded up remains of Kensington Palace, ordering his soldiers to reinforce it. The nearby police could do nothing to stop them; public supporters placed themselves between red and blue and hammered the latter with bricks and broken glass. After the officers fled, the mob turned to the palace and inundated it with supplies.
A lone woman blended in amongst Manchester's ecstatic crowd, grinning like someone in the middle of a prank. The proud General basked on his podium, meters away from her.
If only he knew.
It wasn't a bad speech, but it could have done with a bit more black in it. Her heart had skipped at the mention of terrorists, but only one line? He didn't even call them by their name. She felt let down. Her own team had been denied their due attention.
Added to the list. But just the second list - the one for B-tier mistakes that got a piss-taking in return, instead of a death squad.
The Red King was her pawn, and she let him have his moment before the next scandal shook him. Any minute now, one of his opponents was going to strike. A gaggle of vagrants united by a squiggly golden line, out for vengeance in the downtrodden London estate dear Byron's soldiers had backed.