If they want it so much, let them bow and scrape to the restored royals, let them slave for the Canadian capitalists, and scrub floors for the lords returned to their manors. Just because the people of Britain have failed him, does not mean Totalism has failed. Still, better than being strung up by some monarchist kangaroo court, the Chairman supposes. If he wants to die with his pistol in his hand, the colonial lackeys will be happy to indulge him. The last he heard, Niclas y Glais was planning some romantic last-stand somewhere in the highlands, the old fool.
Joyce is already captured, intercepted in his escape attempt. He should have purged the weaknesses of his colleagues. As soon as the troops of the bastard King came ashore, the reactionaries crawled out of their holes and hiding places. Should have been harsher wielding the righteous sword. He should have pressed the people harder. There are many to blame, and history will have its reckoning, but really, he blames himself. It will be a long undersea voyage, cramped and tense, until they reach the ship waiting in the unmonitored vastness of the mid-Atlantic to take them to Syndicalist Brazil.īritain is lost. His wife sobs as the Brazilians tell her she can only take aboard so many of the crates of jewels and furs she carts along with them. A muffled detonation in the distance startles the night birds over the water. The People’s Navy lies at the bottom of the North Sea, and the Royalist planes prowl the skies with impunity. Nine months since the enemy came aground on the Welsh beaches, seven since the fall of London.
The People’s Army has bled away under the relentless Royalist advance. To the west, the sky lights up with silent flashes, explosions and the glow of fire marking the doomed defence of Inverness. Of course, there is no Union of Britain left to speak of, but still he wears his title as a mantle against the cold night. The Chairman of the Union of Britain, Oswald Mosley, kicks at the pebble beach. Any second, and a Royalist plane could appear over the craggy hills and spot their silhouette, raining down the bombs and bullets monarchist Canada produces with such relentless efficiency. The foreign crew babble in whispers, cigarette tips glowing in the dark. The moon is a high white disk, dusting the quiet waves of the Cromarty Firth with silver as they slap against the small submarine tied up in the shallows.
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