Chapter 73: The Love of Dying Friends
Enver felt content in Manchester's Cathedral. It humbled him, though he was not religious. It showed him something far older than his own era, that would last far longer. It allowed him to fall solemn in a society forbidding solemnity - especially for that society's greatest man.
The back of his mind pushed him to rehearse the plan. Reasons to call it off hounded him. Much could go wrong, things he could never account for, that his revolution could not adapt to with their meagre experience. He wanted to win the war without London. Pride, civilian support, international diplomacy; none would allow it. They expected one decisive win, and so did the algorithm above them.
Only Opus Veda wanted the war to drag. The longer revolution and republic gave them, the more they would undo. A Pyrrhic victory tomorrow would beat another year of manoeuvring as resources bled.
The cathedral's doors heaved apart, pushed open by a single man.
Ferdinand waded forward. Galloway strode beside him. Enver Byron's oldest supporters; his first marshals.
Ferdinand slapped his pew.
"Brutha! Prayin' to the old man to not end up on one o' them?" he pointed to the crucifix overhead.
Byron grunted, "you'll need forgive me this vulnerable minute. I won't be getting another one for some time."
"The divisions are ready Enver," Galloway, the only man to use Byron's first name, stood easy, "the republic's already figured it out. We have hours left."
"Pah! Let them know. Take a selfie and fookin' share it…" Ferdinand rumbled, "My Varma's taken a batterin' bless 'im, but even he'd be enoogh to take that citeh."
"Still complacent Zach?" Galloway smirked at him, "Marcus Sung will be on our heels the minute we head south. As much as I respect the Gurkhas, I don't trust them to hold the north without us."
"Marcus'll join us soon enoogh," Ferdinand rubbed his beard, "Bahron, listen: we should go for Buckingham ahead o' Westminster, get the Chinese out quickleh and take their arms. No one expects it."
Byron's eyes returned to the crucifix.
"Saffiyah will expect it. And her terrorists will turn it against us."
"We can take 'em brutha!"
"He's right," said Galloway, "China's stockpiles must go to us before anyone else. An immediate surprise attack will be enough to seize what we need."
Byron gave them a familiar look - one that said he was planning something along the lines suggested, that wasn't to go beyond the three of them.
They said no more.
Church bells tolled. General Enver Byron stood; equipped his helmet, his rifle, his sabre.
He marched through the pews, his medals clattering, and a hundred thousand followers greeted him outside. His boots crunched over the petals they threw. His family stood amongst the crowd; for their safety, he forced himself to avoid them.
The revolutionary convoy formed a column. Cameras rolled. The general took his steed and galloped to the column's head. Manchester went silent. He yanked his horse around and addressed them, his voice pounding through citywide speakers.
"Our efforts, our sacrifices, take us to our greatest test. London. You are coming with me and taking it!"
The city roared. He continued.
"We are going to win this, and the world will watch, but our every mistake will count against us even in triumph. When the guns fall silent the political battle shall resume. Count your blessings I'll have to manage that one without you, my dear Mancunians!"
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The city laughed. Bryon's dignified patience with the political world had long become their own meme. He let them settle down.
"And my dear soldiers; I will be with you when we meet those republicans. We will fight them together, we will crush them together, but do not get ahead of yourselves when victory is declared. We are liberators! I have fought beside you many times and I know what you are. In battle, the greatest of soldiers. In victory, the greatest of men."
He pulled his sabre out. Sunlight flared golden upon its surface. The union flag unfurled behind him.
"Revolutionaries! March south with me!"
And the city ignited. The Red Army surged onwards to the fall of London.
* * *
Captain Varma watched from his command centre's screens in Kensington Palace. He felt the nerves in his men; in himself. Major Kinnock joined him, smoking a cigarette, his marines standing cool behind. He offered Varma a smoke and shook his hand. They would soon rejoin the war.
The guardsmen cheered, though one stood silent and still, watching the screen with grit teeth. He had seen Imany die; could only hope Kasia escaped. They would stay in his heart as long as it beat. Curtis and Zenia were by his side, soldiers with as much determination as he.
This was all they had left. This was their chance to make their country great again. The nagging feeling that it may not be enough, Sermon pushed away. To confront reality outside the revolution was, by this stage, impossible. Fear prevented it.
* * *
The day came. Revolution Britannia were closing in. Kasia and Esmé lay on their beds and faced the ceiling, waiting to go. Their chests were heavy with fear. Kasia stroked her mask's curves and textures.
Esmé blew threw her mouth.
"Why is waiting so much harder than doing…"
"Do you even know where we're going?"
"It's probably Kensington," she rolled sideways to face Kasia and tugged Kasia's sleeve to make her do likewise, "it's my least favourite thing about this life. Our opponents get time to prepare, we get a call from Surveillance saying 'here's a name, here's a face; get 'em'."
Kasia tried to recall her impression of Opus Veda before joining. Brooding zealots and creepy rituals came to mind, but so much had happened since. She felt her old life belonged to someone else. Nothing was certain anymore, everything open to challenge. Opus Veda had brought out a better side of her, yet remained a mystery.
Esmé tilted her head and whispered, "what are you thinking about Kasia?"
"I was thinking that for a side that knows so much, we get told so little."
"Do you trust us?"
"At least you..." Kasia smiled shyly. Esmé's mouth scrunched sideways.
"I am glad we met Kasia. Katarjina..." she returned to face the ceiling, "Zheemanskaah..."
"Szymańska," Kasia giggled, "and yours?"
"Lacroix. Not 'Lenoir' as you may have heard at the brothel. That was Mike taking the piss."
"Do you speak French?"
"Oui, oui..." Esmé rolled back to face her, "can you say something to me in Polish?"
"Hmm..." Kasia pulled herself closer to Esmé and looked down.
"Kto nie ma szczęścia w kartach, ten ma szczęście w miłości."
"What does it mean?"
"I'm not saying..."
"What!? tell me!" Esmé grabbed her, "why not!?"
"Because it's how I feel."
Their alarms went. The summons would come any moment. They had to be ready. Esmé swung her legs around and dragged her rucksack out. Kasia packed hers and followed.
They stopped in the living room and faced each other.
"Well," Esmé shrugged, "let's go?"
Kasia held Esmé's arm.
"If I don't make it through this, thanks for everything you've done for me. I… never thought I'd meet people like you guys, and you came after everything else went. I'd be happy to meet the end on this note."
Esmé looked into her with a gentle gaze.
"Do you remember what Chef once said about me? That I like rescuing lost women... He was right. You've been a treat to me, and I would have liked you regardless. If you had chosen not to join us, I still would have kept in touch..."
Kasia embraced her. They took in one another's touch and scent. The world raged around them and they ignored it. Ideologies of nationalism, money, morality, all fell away.
Kasia curled her head in, glided her cheek along Esmé's hair. The tip of her nose brushed Esmé's cheek and nudged it.
She kissed her, pecking Esmé's mouth several times, then her lips. It was a small kiss, one that said Kasia felt love for her, but one that understood not to take things further. Esmé mouth angled into hers and replied, suggesting it wanted more.
Their fingers intertwined. They rubbed their heads together and breathed deeply; two women trapped in a society careening towards oblivion. It would cost them their lives, and hours remained.
Their phones went. The world came back, bringing its ideologies with it.
Time was up.