In Russia, outside the White House, several cells of the Fervent Sons of October cradle their guns and await the signal to strike. They have been told that guards sympathetic to their cause are standing by to give them both a distraction and an appropriate number of holes in security. Then all they have to do is overcome those guards who are not on their side, and seize the Parliament from inside.
It would be a difficult thing to hold off the Russian army, immediately thereafter, but their backers have promised to have that issue well in hand. Still, such a thing has required a massive leap of faith on the part of the Sons; they'd always hoped to avoid an armed counter-revolution, and hoped instead that people would tire of crony capitalism and crime-run democracy, and eventually desire a return to the noble, if economically humbling, Soviet state.
But when someone that powerful is willing to offer a golden ticket -- handing weapons, equipment, logistics, and the ability to quash the otherwise-inevitable military response -- one would be highly foolish not to take it.
So they sit and they wait. And as they do, they smile, which seems quite against the usual Russian stoicism, but they've been shown a new way to believe by their new friends.
"All you need is love" -- that's what their backers said. Love, faith, and superior firepower.
Though they don't know it, they're far from the only ones to put those three things into play, today. All around the world, large groups of would-be revolutionaries, religious zealots, agents of intolerance, and violent cranks are getting into position for a chance to take matters into their own hands.
In Beijing, the Righteous Fists of Tiananmen Square lurk in small knots and clusters throughout the Great Hall of the People. Their weapons have been distributed to them, and they pretend to be at their tasks, all the while waiting for a chance to use these finely constructed weapons to free their country from one-party tyranny and create a true Chinese Democracy.
(Their leader has a dream of the band Guns & Roses playing the revolutionary gala, once the shooting's stopped and the inevitable wave of trials has not yet given way to an equally-inevitable wave of executions.)
In Brussels, a group of mohawked, modern primitive anarchists have already come into Belgium's Parliament Building, masquerading as a troupe of artists, and collecting their guns on the way. They do this completely unaware of the fact that, across the city, another, even larger -- and much more internally fractious -- group is infiltrating the European Parliament, in the Espace Leopold. This conglomeration of radically nationalist, anti-unification zealots can barely stand to be in the room with one another, much less take on a mission of this size, but their friends told them it was the only way it could be done.
And so far their friends have been right about everything.
In Saudi Arabia, the Divine Wrath of the Children of God stand by in Riyadh, Jeddah, and Mecca, planning a three-pronged attack to paralyze the Kingdom. In Brazil, the National Congress in Brasilia has a strange influx of anti-deforestation ecowarriors targeting it from one side, and pro-exploitation corporate mercenaries on the other. Mexico City is crawling with armed Aztecs, Panamanian rebels seek to retake the country, and then the Canal, and Nairobi's authorities are unaware that violent aspects of their expatriate European population have a mind to take over the show.
Even Canada is under threat from homegrown dangers. A surprisingly non-noncommittal faction of xenophobic Francophones plans to take over the country for Quebec. Once in power they plan to kick out anyone who can't hold an entire conversation in proper French -- especially those noisy, self-righteous, "First Nations" layabouts. They will then put out a shingle for intelligent and industrious folks who are willing to make Neucanada the premier French-speaking country in the world.
(Once they've purged their ranks of anyone who doesn't also dream entirely in French, of course.)
All across the world, the pots are close to boiling over. And all the people whose jobs it were to make certain they didn't get too hot too quickly are incommunicado, missing in action, dead in the streets, or being well-paid to either look the other way, or aid in the revolution to come.
The water bubbles, hot and portentous. Sweaty hands grip new, ready-to-use hardware. Nervous smiles, anxious to get this over with, are met with stern eyebrows, furrowed in deadly concentration.
The sign comes closer still.
It is the day.
And soon, it will be the moment.
* * *
It takes SPYGOD a couple minutes to come up from the last jolt. When he does, the scene he's presented with is exactly what Myron intended: the lights are down in his side of the interrogation suite, and the lights are up in Myron's, so that SPYGOD doesn't need his signal-blocked SPYGOD VISION to see him standing there, next to Agent Ratface.
As Myron looks at SPYGOD, he sees the confusion there. It's taking him a moment to realize it's actually him. Better play off the disbelief, then.
"Well I'll be !@#$ed," Myron says: "He really did come back. Do we know why?"
"I tell you when I figure it out, Myron," SPYGOD says, and Ratface hits the button without getting an order. He grins to watch the COMPANY's former director jerk and twitch like a fish on a line, but once his finger is off the button, Myron gently takes it away from him.
"Well I'll be !@#$ed," Myron says: "He really did come back. Do we know why?"
"I tell you when I figure it out, Myron," SPYGOD says, and Ratface hits the button without getting an order. He grins to watch the COMPANY's former director jerk and twitch like a fish on a line, but once his finger is off the button, Myron gently takes it away from him.
"I think that'll be all, Agent Norvegicus," he says: "I'll handle him from here."
"You know, sir, the good cop, bad cop thing only works if the bad cop's in the room," the Agent says, quite visibly unhappy to have had his toy taken away.
"What's your grade here, Agent?" Myron barks, looming over him.
Ratface jumps to attention: "Junior Agent, sir-"
"And did you actually get to that rank by going through our full recruitment program, including Hell Month?"
"No, sir. I was transferred in from ATF-"
"Explosives, Alcohol, Tobacco, and Firearms, huh? So I take it you did not take enhanced interrogations classes from Dr. Pain?"
"No, sir. I did not. Who's Dr. Pain?"
Myron looks at him and sighs: "Leave this room, go find a senior Agent, and tell him to direct you to Dr. Pain. Tell him you transferred in laterally and need some catchup work. He'll help you."
"Yes, sir," Ratface says, walking out a little too slowly for Myron's liking. And something about the look he gives him as he leaves the suite leaves him wondering if he hasn't already decided to ask someone else if the prison warden's really the right person to be handling this job.
"Good going, you dumb !@#$," Myron says to himself as he goes to lock the door: "Just had to give yourself another !@#$ing complication, didn't you? All we needed was another deadline."
He fishes around for a small disc in his pocket, and, looking at SPYGOD, presses it. It's a blind communicator: he clicks it once to send a signal, and when the people on the other side are ready to go, they'll click him back. Then it's just a matter of making sure everyone's where they're supposed to be, when they're supposed to be. But until that moment comes, he has to stall for time.
He looks at SPYGOD again, and then looks at the buzzer. He thinks about how they first met, what seems another lifetime ago.
He smiles.
SPYGOD rises at long last, and looks at the window. All he sees is Myron standing there, buzzer in hand.
"You know, I got to hand it to Dr. Yesterday," Myron says: "I was a little dubious when he said he had something that would !@#$ you up. But I guess this little baby works after all. That and the dampeners. How does it feel to be normal folks, (REDACTED)?
Is that anger on his face? Or just confusion? "You don't get to use that name, Myron."
"(REDACTED)," Myron says, acting like a bratty child who's been told not to say !@#$ in front of grandma, and zapping him again for good measure: "(REDACTED), (REDACTED), (REDACTED)."
SPYGOD wakes up a little quicker this time, obviously annoyed, but not caring to try getting back onto his feet: "What are you, two years old?"
"What are you, stupid?" Myron asks, looking down at him like a bug he found on his shoe: "Or did you think we were? Why did you come back here, anyway? You took everything of value when you ran for it, afterwards. Is there another cache of !@#$, somewhere down there?"
"I got caches all over this !@#$ place, son," he says, deciding to get to his feet, moving like the old man he actually is: "I got ways and means. If I needed to get in here and get something, you wouldn't have seen me come or go. You should know that by now."
Just then, the clicker goes off in Myron's pocket. That gives him about five minutes. He does the math in his head and decides to pull this a little longer.
"Why are you here, SPYGOD?" he demands: "And no bull!@#$. You lie to me, I press this thing and it stays pressed. I don't care if it kills you. At this point, it'd be a kindness you don't deserve."
"I'll answer, but let me ask you something, first?"
"Don't !@#$ push your luck, (REDACTED)-"
"What year is this?"
Myron's about to speak, but the pocket clicker goes off again. That means he doesn't have nearly as much time as he thought. What the !@#$ is going on?
"Well? What year is this?" SPYGOD demands: "Cause something obviously went !@#$ wrong in the future, and I need to know how long I have until it happens-"
Myron zaps him for a full thirty seconds. As he does, he calls for assistance removing the prisoner to the maximum security level. This is going to be closer than he'd like, but he can work with it.
As for what happens then, well... he'll just have to take it as it comes, won't he?
(SPYGOD is listening to New Dawn Fades (Joy Division) and having a Baltika)
He looks at SPYGOD again, and then looks at the buzzer. He thinks about how they first met, what seems another lifetime ago.
He smiles.
* * *
At the very bottom of the world, in the Ice Palace, Dr. Yesterday sits in his office with his feet up, watching video feeds and sipping coffee from a large mug that declares IT'S NOT MAGIC, IT'S SCIENCE! It's been a very busy morning, but now that he's done with most of what he needed to do, today, he can relax -- if only for a moment or two.
Out of his other three cohorts, his has been the easiest job thus far. All he's had to do is maintain the illusion that The Chamber is locked and dormant, as well as plan for this day. But now that it's here, he had a lot of catching up to do.
The first thing was to isolate the entire base from the outside world, so that no one north of here would know there was anything wrong at all. This required a cunning computer program to manage communications between here and various bases that had reason to be talking to them. It also necessitated using some of ABWEHR's old cloaking and defensive arrays, which, antiquated as they were, would still suit for at least a day or so.
All the time they needed, really.
The second thing was to make sure that no one interfered with what had to happen next. That required a little more physicality, but, fortunately, Dr. Yesterday had a number of ready helpers for that part of things.
He's watching them now as he sips at his coffee. His dwarves are moving throughout the Ice Palace, quietly killing every Blue Helmet they can get their tiny hands on in increasingly creative and nasty ways. So far, no one has any idea that a silent holocaust is going on, and he thinks he understands why SPYGOD really didn't like those UN fools poking their noses into his business.
But then, what did he know?
He had no idea that the real Dr. Yesterday was trying to warn him about strange goings-on here, at the South Pole. He had no idea what was going on with Mr. USA, and his mysterious phone calls.
And as for Geri...
That reminds him. He toggles over a switch on the board and places a call to Washington D.C. There's a few rings, and then an answering machine kicks in.
"Good day," the voice says: "If you're hearing this, then the answer is yes. And, yes, it was quick. I appreciate a man who appreciates efficiency over sadism. I will expect the money to be transferred soon, as per our agreement. It was a pleasure doing business with you. Goodbye."
Dr. Yesterday smiles and terminates the phone call. That's Fritz and Helmut done, then.
He sips the coffee and watches one of his dwarves hack a soldier's head off with a large piece of sheet metal. The blood sprays across the camera and renders it useless.
He laughs at the sight, happy and content in his little corner of the revolution.
* * *
SPYGOD rises at long last, and looks at the window. All he sees is Myron standing there, buzzer in hand.
"You know, I got to hand it to Dr. Yesterday," Myron says: "I was a little dubious when he said he had something that would !@#$ you up. But I guess this little baby works after all. That and the dampeners. How does it feel to be normal folks, (REDACTED)?
Is that anger on his face? Or just confusion? "You don't get to use that name, Myron."
"(REDACTED)," Myron says, acting like a bratty child who's been told not to say !@#$ in front of grandma, and zapping him again for good measure: "(REDACTED), (REDACTED), (REDACTED)."
SPYGOD wakes up a little quicker this time, obviously annoyed, but not caring to try getting back onto his feet: "What are you, two years old?"
"What are you, stupid?" Myron asks, looking down at him like a bug he found on his shoe: "Or did you think we were? Why did you come back here, anyway? You took everything of value when you ran for it, afterwards. Is there another cache of !@#$, somewhere down there?"
"I got caches all over this !@#$ place, son," he says, deciding to get to his feet, moving like the old man he actually is: "I got ways and means. If I needed to get in here and get something, you wouldn't have seen me come or go. You should know that by now."
Just then, the clicker goes off in Myron's pocket. That gives him about five minutes. He does the math in his head and decides to pull this a little longer.
"Why are you here, SPYGOD?" he demands: "And no bull!@#$. You lie to me, I press this thing and it stays pressed. I don't care if it kills you. At this point, it'd be a kindness you don't deserve."
"I'll answer, but let me ask you something, first?"
"Don't !@#$ push your luck, (REDACTED)-"
"What year is this?"
Myron's about to speak, but the pocket clicker goes off again. That means he doesn't have nearly as much time as he thought. What the !@#$ is going on?
"Well? What year is this?" SPYGOD demands: "Cause something obviously went !@#$ wrong in the future, and I need to know how long I have until it happens-"
Myron zaps him for a full thirty seconds. As he does, he calls for assistance removing the prisoner to the maximum security level. This is going to be closer than he'd like, but he can work with it.
As for what happens then, well... he'll just have to take it as it comes, won't he?
(SPYGOD is listening to New Dawn Fades (Joy Division) and having a Baltika)
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