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Chaos Angel Spanner — Chapter 22: There Is No Law
Part 5: The Spanner Show
Part 5: The Spanner Show
2 november 2014.
General strike, day three. CPMC and its allied union managers refuse to negotiate. The workers refuse to back down on their demands. Stalemate.
From Fort Lewis, General Peterson calls Brinkman. “All America’s domestic counterterror strike troops are available at your request. We can annihilate those godless commie traitors, Governor. All you need to do is ask.”
“Yeah, and give me nothing to govern.”
“This is not about you, Governor. This is about Good and Evil, God and the Devil. We liberated America from the communist dominion of Satan two years ago, and we did it by force. We can restore the dominion of God, but we must once again do it by force. Force is the only way! Our Nation’s divine mission of eternal salvation depends on it!”
“Listen, General, we have ways of getting those people back to work whether they like it or not. CPMC stock will rally.”
“It’s already too late!”
“We shall see about that.”
Mudlark House. Henry Becket calls up his ex-wife, Willa Richter-Thomas. “What do you want from me, Harry?” she asks. “I thought you wanted nothing to do with me after we divorced.”
“I want to ask you a question.”
“So what would you like to know?”
“How come the authorities in your state, far from limited to my nephew, not succeeded in putting down your little insurrection?”
Willa smiles. “You don’t know?”
“That is not an answer.”
“You defeated the liberals. You destroyed the Democratic Party. You pulled off the Conservative Revolution.”
“What does that have to do with this reaction, other than to prove that your state has more bitter-enders who oppose the revolution?”
“In the heady flush of triumph, you and your victorious comrades never realized that by wiping out the liberal establishment, you eliminated the precious liberal buffer that insulated your class against popular discontent. Now that liberalism is no longer there to serve as a breakwater, you have to face the storms of popular revolt directly.”
Dr Becket stares uncomprehendingly at his ex-wife’s ironic smile. After a pause, he says, “You have got to be kidding me.”
“Congratulations, Harry. You got your wish. You destroyed the Democrats. You swept liberalism into the trashcan of history. Now watch the Empire you’ve loved and served all your life get swept away along with it. Have a nice day, darling.” She does not bother to enjoy the look of growing panic on his face and breaks the call.
In Jennifer’s workshop, Freddy the Furby watches on as she installs Slackware Linux from a cheap USB drive onto the brain of a robot she has assembled from parts of copbots salvaged after the King’s disastrous visit and aftermarketed by scrap dealers. The new computer she has installed in the robot’s head is based on a PowerPC RISC chip rather than the usual Intel CPU to make it immune to the iOS and Windows viruses and worms that will be its software payload.
A camdrone watches Jennifer work on the robot. Its picture shows on the big monitor above her main desktop computer, to which she has wirelessly connected it. It’s running a series of visual tests to make sure its own new software has adequate control over the functions of its camera eye. Several other camdrones sit in a stack, ready to launch by the time the school rallies begin.
Shira enters through the open door. Jennifer wears protective clothes and headgear while she’s still working; Shira remains completely nude. “How’s everything going so far?” she asks.
Jennifer keeps her attention on her laptop as she prepares the worms for loading. “So far, so good. Turns out all that firmware was deliberately designed to be hijacked by government and corporate botnets.”
“Meaning all their traitorware is ours to command.”
Jennifer winks at Shira. “All their bot are belong to us.”
Shira looks beyond Jennifer. A new black jacket, purchased from a black market dealer in Chinese knock-off designer goods, hangs from the hoverboard leaning against the workbench. On it, she has sewn the now infamous Spanner tag: neon-rainbow shield, crossed silver wrenches, Old English “S” in white. She smiles.
navy base. The first Yoyodyne Lockheed Boeing LRAD Shofar super sound cannons arrive at Naval Base Kitsap Bremerton by train. Contractor-operated cranes lift the cannon from its rail car onto a flatbed trailer. The truck drives the trailer over to a waiting assault helicopter missing its missile launchers. Yoyodyne engineers install the two Shofars onto the Sikorsky Sea Hawk perched on the deck of the aircraft carrier USS George W. Bush.
“That’ll teach those monkeys a lesson,” says the admiral sent in from Colorado Springs to serve as interim base commandant.
Commander Will Becket replies, “Remember that this is only a test. The main event comes next week.”
The admiral looks at him patronizingly. “Come on, Commander. You’ve got to have faith.”
In the pilot’s seat of the Sea Hawk, Major Honey Sue Falconer of the Imperial Confederate Marines sits, completely still and silent, smiling as she awaits the time of her revenge. Her combot copilot silently awaits her orders.
KCUF studio. The giant black Hummer Transport pickup arrives driverless, having driven itself all the way up Cascadia State Highway 7 (formerly Washington State Route 16) and Interstate (formerly State Route) 3 from Zac Finney’s clandestine lab in an officially empty warehouse in Spanaway, south of Tacoma. Martin leaps out of the back of the cab to greet the other Slasher Hunters and the Wrecking Krewe. Into the studio’s news-truck garage the big truck drives.
Professional car thieves install forged Texas license plates. Graffiti painters stencil the Spanner tag on the cab’s roof. KCUF’s sound crew move their most powerful mobile speaker unit onto the truck bed and bolt it in place.
“I wish I had connections like yours,” Martin says to Alex and Deth.
“Well, now you have ’em,” says Alex. She winks.
Deth asks, “You think this really will cancel out a Shofar?”
“I know it will,” answers Martin. “I stole the specs myself.”
Sparks, dressed full MIB with black trenchcoat, inspects the truck. Desiree asks him, “How come we’re not using Stingers?”
“Too dangerous,” he says. “Massacring civilians is their sport. We need to minimize casualties, none best of all. Take away their fun.”
She sighs. “More work for us, then.”
He winks. “More work for our bots. We just sit back and watch the fun and games.”
coffee shop. Before heading out on the #24 bus for the high school, the school librarians drink their morning coffee and watch Governor Brinkman declare martial law and proclaim the Seattle school rallies to be an act of terrorism, insurrection, treason, and so forth. Sylvia, Charlie, and Umi sit with them at their table.
“Looks like your Cousin Wally’s throwing one doozy of a tizzy,” comments Sally.
Charlie grins. “Do you guys realize why we call him that?”
“What do you mean?” asks Christine.
Sylvia chuckles. Charlie says, “Wally is a wally.” The others look at Charlie and Sylvia funny. “Sylvia darling, please tell them what a wally is.”
“A wally,” intones the Australian in her best posh English accent, “is a git.” Everybody in the shop laughs.
telesphere. The network news presenters continue their marathon session of loudly and fervently denouncing the “traitorous” people when suddenly all signals go out.
Spanner:Mudlark House. The garage door opens. Seven hoverboards await their riders. Seven Spanner-costumed copbots with one mind step onto their mounts and switch them on. The hoverboards rise above the concrete floor. After a minute or two so the boards’ lifters can warm up and stabilize, the seven Spannerbots fly out into the rain and into the city. One flies toward base.
Good afternoon, people of Euro-America and the world. By now I need not introduce myself. I have been called the “Angel of Chaos.” “Angel” means messenger. This is my message. I will now introduce you to yourselves, and to reality.
The truth is that you are slaves. You do not know this. You are forbidden to know this. Your leaders have forbidden it. Their leadership depends on your unconscious obedience. Consciousness is their enemy. As one of their court magicians once said: “Once the people begin to think, all is lost.”
All is now lost for your masters. You have become conscious. You struggle to claim your rights. They have declared war against you. People of the world, your masters now want you dead. If you don’t believe me, President Goldman Sachs already has the Pentagon drawing up plans for the total nuclear destruction of Cascadia.
Do you want to know the facts as they are? Know your enemy, strip off his mask, and see his true face.
This is politics. [On screen, the medieval Crusaders and Jihadis slaughter and dismember each other with their swords.]
This is justice. [A KGB executioner shoots a tied-up political prisoner in the back of the head.]
This is diplomacy. [A nuclear bomb explodes.]
This is leadership. [Adolf Hitler spews mad hatred of the Jews in a clip from Triumph of the Will.]
There is no politics. There is no justice. There is no relief for you, the slaves. There is no law for them but the law of the jungle. [Camphone video from one of Frank Becket’s dogfights.]
There is no hierarchy without eternal war. There is no government without tyranny. There is but one choice.
Or extinction. [Further video of the nuclear explosion.]
They tell you that “anarchy” means “chaos.” [Video of a pitched battle between armed street gangs and armoured COPCO strike agents.] By “chaos,” they really mean gang war. But the sole purpose of gangs is to prevent anarchy. Their goal is to create government. Criminal gangs and terrorist gangs are nothing but rogue factions of government.
“Anarchy” has but one meaning: no leaders.
“Democracy” means “the rule of the people.” It is only possible when there are no leaders. Without anarchy, there can be no democracy. Your leaders, your slavemasters, know it.
Only you can make democracy a reality. Only you can the chains that bind your bodies and souls. Your survival depends on it.
The time of reckoning has come. The final war has begun. The class struggle is coming to an end. It is now a battle to the death. Only one can survive now. You... or your leaders. You must make your choice now.
Do not follow me. I am not a leader. I am only the messenger. The fight is yours, and yours alone. You alone can be the leaders of yourselves. Equality is the only way.
Courage, people. Spannerbots, launch!
navy base. One of the blue-camouflaged sailors points up at the Spannerbot flying overhead and cries out, “Look! Up there!”
“That’s him!” snarls Falconer. “Let’s get him!” She leaps into the pilot’s seat, shuts the doors, and starts the engines.
Camdrones swarm the Spannerbot. It opens its mouth; its voice destroys several drones. Several attack drones launch from the George W. Bush. It flies erratically, misdirects attack drones into camdrones and into each other, blows up missiles with its voice, then speaks against the remaining attack drones till the last is gone.
When the rotors are up to speed, the Seahawk takes off. The robopilot switches on its onboard consumer-grade sound canceller just in time for the Spannerbot to speak at it. The copter shakes but holds. The Spannerbot flies away from base, toward the city; Falconer flies after it.
downtown Seattle. The protests grow in size and strength and volume, workers and youth together, calling for the full restoration of their rights. Together the strikers form a solid wall of humanity to face the ranks of COPCO strike agents beating their shields with their batons. Suddenly smoke bombs thrown from outside the lines go off inside the crowd—
Anarcho-terrorist spokesman:Pioneer Square. While the black-masked Black Bloc anarcho-terrorists attack the protesters, the Killen Jokerz seize the opportunity to get their revenge against their Flyen Monkee rivals. They invade their turf, beat up anyone in range, loudly demand that the Monkeez come out and fight like men.
You pacifist wimps! You think you can destroy the System peacefully? You’ve already committed mass suicide! You already surrendered to the Enemy! The only way to freedom is through blood, fire, and revolutionary violence! Revolution is not a game for weekend warriors! Make way for the true revolutionaries! Only the violence of the revolutionary elite can destroy government for all time!
Yo, anarcho-bullies! That was a fine act of government you pulled there, boys. Nice way to ruin the revolution. We already had a revolution of revolution experts just like yours. It killed a sitting president and robbed us of our freedom. As for the revolutionary elite — isn’t that called “government”? Some anarchists you are.
Remember, friends, that terrorism is the essential method of government. It substitutes elite power in place of mass action. It’s how the Man controls you. You know what that means? “Anarcho-terrorism” is a contradiction in terms: government-free government. Sorry, boys, can’t have both.
Suddenly they find Leila Shelley standing in their way, wearing her yellow school uniform with fighting gloves and boots to match her black hair and wielding a ninja katana. Little Badd commands, “Kill the fu—”
Leila slices Little Badd in half. His right half and his left half separate in a gruesome burst of blood and shredded entrails. She licks his blood off her sword.
Klownz surround her. They jump and jitter around. They whisper the klown war cry, “Don’t sleep, we’re gonna eat you!” The Killen Jokerz and Flyen Monkeez put away their feud for now so they can face their common enemy.
She strips off her blood-drenched clothes, right down to her bare skin. The klownz drool, howl, catcall. She stands before them almost completely naked. She spins her katana around, then holds it in attack position in front of her. “You boys wanna sink your fangs into my flesh, you’ll have to get past my sword first.&dquo; She licks Little Badd’s blood off her lips.
In the sky above, a Seahawk chases its prey, a flittering hoverboard-mounted Spannerbot. Falconer is far beyond the reach of reason. She will murder her enemy, and then she will stop to think. The Spannerbot leads her on.
Once they disperse the crowd, the anarcho-terrorists launch a massed assault against the COPCO lines. They attack with Molotov cocktails. The strike agents counterattack with tear gas and shock grenades. Heedless of civilian protesters or innocent bystanders, they wage their Team Challenge at the revolution’s expense.
And a victorious Leila, nude, wet, covered in mud and blood, stands in the center of the alley, holds up her broken katana, cries out in triumph, surrounded by the ruined bodies of dead klownz.
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Copyright © 2011 Dennis Jernberg. Some rights reserved.
[Revision 2, 10/18/11: Jennifer’s workshop, Navy base, KCUF, and Spanner piratecast scenes modified from the unpublished first draft; everything else is new material.]