A Shift in Priorities - Sequel

[rast]

There is no way out or round or through.
(H. G. Wells)

It was a quandary, thought Chinese prime minister Deng Xixian, a very muddled affair. But was there a way that wasn't shady? The highly venerated American allies were out to save the world from cannibalism. This was a noble goal, yet not necessarily one Deng could share at any price. The Children of Zhúlóng were no savages; their state was highly sophisticated; and they were a part of China, even if a grimy one.

He had tried to negotiate with them before, but had flatly been spurned. This time, he had sent Cáo Qiángmīn, the ace negotiator up in his sleeve. Yesterday, Cáo had returned. He was a Child of Zhúlóng now, he had fessed up meekly. There had been no other way to survive. It wasn't contagious, however, and he was promising not to repeat the repast. – They had agreed to keep the incidence secret. – Okay, if the Children blared it out, Cáo would have to scurry. If not, Deng was determined to keep him.

The Children, Cáo was reporting, were ready to stop their advance – and even to go back to the line Changde – Nanchang – Jinhua, if the aerial attacks on them were stopped. And they would agree to an informal armistice. – Cáo's impression was that cannibalism would be dropped sooner or later. It had been born out of utter need, but wasn't required any longer, now that the Children had conquered so much fertile land. There might occur some sudden changeover in the leadership – and the Children would revert to normal citizens.

Well, thought Deng, it wouldn't be that easy. The stigma would last. – The realm of the Children couldn't just pretend to be normal. A total disintegration was required, but without that the achievements on the ground were destroyed. Scorched earth was not an acceptable solution; China had already lost so much. – It could be arranged: rebellion, short civil war, crack-up – and the forces of the Great Qing Empire moving in swiftly, just to discover that the cannibals had all run away – and only normal people were left...

The greatest problem, however, was to sell this conception to the highly venerated American allies. They were sincerely believing that the Children were abysmally evil and had to be exterminated. The US media were reinforcing this crusade attitude. Talking them into accepting a solution à la Deng was going to require a lot of talking. W. Averell Harriman might be pliable, the chap was easy to impress, but folks in Washington, far away from China but in the grip of the US media, could be supposed to be obstinate.

The US military would oppose any soft line approach. The local commander, Admiral Arthur W. Radford, was an absolute war hawk. His claim was to win the war by bombing and gassing the cannibals into oblivion. There was no need for talking, if one just kept smashing the abominations. – Cáo said this was nonsense. The Children had adapted to the aerial attacks by dispersal and decentralisation. The bombing raids were, however, doing a lot of damage to the infrastructure, whereas the gas attacks were plainly ineffective.

But the bombing campaign was very popular in the US. There were hardly any own casualties, because the air defence of the Children was more than weak. – On the ground, the Americans were leaving conduct of affairs to their Chinese allies – and were only supplying weapons, ordnance and matériel. – Yet, even if one managed to increase US losses, that would only prod them to increase their efforts. It was a mess, and Deng was racking his brain for a viable solution.

 

[Bmao]

I think the Chinese would have to push forward a line that the 'war criminals' would have to be put to justice before a war crimes tribunal so that the US could accept. They might mention that 'these sordid individuals forced these poor victims to engage in the most savage brutality the world had ever known'; basically, find some way to sell a narrative that would appeal to the US mass media machine.

The fact remains that the Chinese still desperately need the US to provide air support, but more importantly to help provide investment capital to rebuild the country.

 

[rast]

I see that it is by no means useless to travel, if a man wants to see something new.
(Jules Verne)

Walter Ulbricht was a natural survivor, therefore he was still around when winter ended. His talents had helped to sustain the Glushkovs as well. But not all citizens of Minsk had been so lucky. Notably, the poor had suffered – and had died in disproportionate numbers. It was the ugly side of capitalism. Being an ancient socialist and communist, Ulbricht could see that clearly. The rich had paid and feasted; the middle class – like the Glushkovs – had given away everything they had in order to survive; and the poor had got the grimy shit end of the stick...

The farmers had become wealthy – or wealthier than before, rather. But the process wasn't repeatable. Russian society was going to collapse, if another winter of starvation occurred. Well, all societies in Northern Europe were going to collapse, if nature remained inclement for another full circle. – It was an enticing prospect for Ulbricht, the old Marxist dyed in the grain: collapse of capitalism, rule of the proletariat, of the poor and underprivileged. Okay, he was DFU now. But where was the difference?

Ulbricht had learnt Russian over the winter, although he was hardly good at languages. He could read it very well now, if it was printed, but still experienced problems reading handwritten texts and writing it himself. He could fairly understand texts spoken in radio and TV, but very often was baffled when confronted with local accents or fast talkers. Through the Russian media, he was fully aware of what had happened in Germany and the Low Countries. This was much worse than what had smitten Russia, but people over there were not rebelling against the old order...

The letters he was receiving spoke of a spirit of optimism that was rampant at home. Folks were said to be hitching up their knickers and tackling the damage. – Ulbricht was doubtful. It didn't match his experience here in Russia, where general mood was one of disaffection. – Then, another letter arrived: it was safe for him to come home, the Berlin Peace Commune was forgotten, a stale thing of the past. – Not without a certain gladness, Ulbricht boxed his stuff and said goodbye to the Glushkovs and Russia.

Travelling proved an intricate procedure. From Minsk to Bialystok, train traffic was unimpaired; and riding from Bialystok to Lyck and on to Allenstein didn't pose a great problem either. But then, troubles began. The Vistula had washed away the railway bridges at Thorn, Graudenz and Dirschau. Ferries were shuttling people from bank to bank. The ferries were small, standing time was long. It took Ulbricht three days to get across the Vistula.

The process repeated itself at the Warthe near Posen and the Oder at Frankfurt. The main challenge, however, was getting something to eat. Ulbricht had no valid ration cards, therefore he was cursed to go hungry. Only the experience gained by cajoling through the Russian winter saved him from starving. But begging and stealing took time as well.

Therefore, the journey from Minsk to Berlin took almost a fortnight. But Ulbricht learnt a lot: it was true what he had been told, the Germans were not despairing. The mood was good, despite the meagre diet; all hands were lent to reconstruction – and the local organisations seemed to work. Having witnessed people in the Peace Riots, the Rocket Riots and the Peace Commune, Ulbricht was wondering where that grumbling unrest he had sensed had gone to...

 

[rast]

Hunger and a lack of blood–corpuscles take all the manhood from a man.
(H. G. Wells)

There was no question: Britain was starving, but not all Britons were. The controllers and minders were better off than ordinary party members; and ordinary party members were getting more than the rest of the populace. London was better supplied than any other town, and several rural areas were left to subsist from the meagre resources they had on hand. Evidently, the plan to live from the sea didn't work; Britain did not attain the haul she required.

Many surrogates were fed to common folks, fillers without nutritional value. People were torpid, malnourished and always looking for extra food. The mortality rate was kept secret; the media didn't feature shortage and misery. – There had been hunger riots in Birmingham and Manchester, which had been suppressed by the armed forces. Nothing of this had found mention in the news.

The Brain had a very good appreciation of what was going on in the country. His snitch networks were delivering a rather detailed picture of the situation. Stealing from the hoards of the controller organisation, his outfit was thriving. However, capture did not suffice to supply other groups. Therefore, the London underground was constricted to remain an isolated mob. Giving to the poor wasn't possible. One could only sit and watch them starve.

Well, The Brain wasn't Robin Hood. He had no intention of saving folks in Britain from misery. As long as he got the drugs he needed for his wellbeing, he would indeed sit and watch. – Even if the SUP system was failing to supply all its subjects, it was effectively succeeding in masking that failure. Those who were suffering were doing so in isolation. – Would Canada manage to grow the wheat Britain required? That was the big question, now that winter was finally over. If not, The Brain could see interesting times lying ahead.

 

[Bmao]

Man, things are so bad in England that the people are simply physically too weak to rebel even if they wanted to. Its a full blown North Korea situation now.

 

[sloreck]

Natural disaster on top of an inefficient and corrupt command economy - this is not a good sign. If/when the families of the armed forces/security forces begin to have significant hunger issues, the excrement will hit the rotating ventilator. From earlier posts it appears that even if Canadian wheat production improves, the hold of Red Albion and the local satraps on the Canadian populace is weakening, and they are still deluding themselves. Food in excess of local needs can be smuggled across that long border with the USA sold for real money (extra food while not desperately needed will be welcome in the USA), and you may see Canadians decamping across the border to escape a fate which might be similar to the Kulaks in the USSR in the 20s - their crops confiscated for greater socialist good (in this case to go to Britain) while they are left to starve. Yes that is a stupid move, but the leaders in Britain are going to to be more concerned about doing what it takes to maintain control today, and not the problems to come in the future.

 

[rast]

We must consult our means rather than our wishes.
(George Washington)

Tom Keller Junior was searching the horizon. Nothing odd to be seen. Yeah, the Keller Farm was a lonely place. Nevertheless, they were manning the outlook from dawn to dusk. During darkness, one had to rely on the dogs. The animals were prowling freely inside the low fence the Kellers had erected around the farm. The arrangement should daunt thieves and prowlers. And it should alert the Kellers to any larger gang.

Well, one had eight shooters and the farm was fortified. Therefore, the gang had to be rather large. – Dad thought a surprise attack in full daylight – when the Kellers were scattered doing their work – was more likely. Therefore, Tom Junior had to keep a close watch. He had binoculars and a rifle – and the horn for sounding alarm. It was an important duty – but utterly boring, because nothing ever happened.

Tom Junior was performing the morning watch. At noon, his sister Claire was going to relieve him. – The outlook provided an excellent view over the land the Kellers were tilling. But it was uncomfortable; the legs were numbing, the buttocks were hurting, and there was a sharp pain in the lower back. Well, it kept you from napping, said Dad. – Weather was fair, even if on the cold side, but far better than last year's horrible mud bath.

Dad had decided that the farm should only produce what the family needed. There was no way to shuttle all seeding material for the erstwhile fields with Burro, the donkey, alone. Nor would one be able to bring the full crop to Regina. The tractor was broken, as was the pickup truck. The roads were still busted. Tilling had been done with Burro and the cows. One was raising two little bulls now, who were earmarked to become oxen. – Thus, one had reduced the tilled area. One was growing wheat for the family and corn for cattle, pigs and hens. If everything went as planned, there would even remain a surplus which one could trade.

The farms of the neighbours, the Grishenkos and the Brewers, lay deserted still. Both families were now living and working in one of the huge state farms set up near Regina. The government had repaired some roads and some rail links. But those improvements never had come near the Keller Farm. That meant school was cancelled as well. Grandma Martha was providing some lessons for the younger kids, Claire, Matthew and Edith; while Victoria and Tom Junior, the two oldest, had been declared sufficiently educated.

Tom Junior was eighteen now. And there was not a single girl – with the exception of his sisters, who were untouchable of course – in the vicinity. That was not nice at all. – Mom thought something had to happen. The family had to carry on, the next generation was due to materialise. Tom Junior could only agree here. In truth, he wasn't keen on marrying, screwing would just do for him. But he realised that under the current circumstances the one wasn't obtainable without the other.

Well, Dad had promised an expedition to Regina, once the most urgent work was done. That was the good news. – Still nothing odd to be seen, that was boring part...

 

[rast]

Trade has all the fascination of gambling without its moral guilt.
(Walter Scott)

Sabri Khalil al–Banna was fifteen years old and unhappy. – His father, Khalil al–Banna, who had died seven years ago, had been the greatest – and richest – trader of citrus fruits in the whole Emirate of Arabia. The man had had thirteen wives – resulting in seventeen sons and eight daughters. However, Sabri's mother, a lowly housemaid, had been expelled by the family after the old man's death. And Sabri thought he was treated unfair. They tolerated him, but only just so. He was the offspring of a mésalliance, a family member of lesser significance.

Business was run by his elder brothers. And they would never let him come near the inner circle. They had sent him away to Kudüs – or el–Kuds, as the Palestinians used to say – to attend the Umariya Maktab School, which was a way of saying: we don't like you and we want you to remain a stupid ass. The family was rich; they could have sent him to one of the elite schools of the country – or even abroad. But they had condemned him to study the Qur'an and other Islamic stuff, which was utterly boring – and infinitely wasteful.

He would like to become an engineer or a scientist. But as student of a madrasah, even a prestigious one like Umariya, he was limited to being a judge, jurisconsult or some other unappealing profession. – El–Kuds was a blasted museum town, crammed with religious bits and pieces of all kinds, populated by zealots and dingbats, a fairground for pious oddballs and devout weirdoes. Initially, Sabri had made fun of the ado, but over time he simply had grown tired of it.

Yafa, his hometown, stood for modernity. There was the port, which had been modernised, the airport – and the vast rail yards, even if the main Africa–Asia–Europe line ran through Ramla rather than Yafa. The family owned many square kilometres of orange groves between Yafa and al–Majdal Asqalan in the south, the original source of their wealth. One held a large town house in Yafa, a country home in al–Majdal, a mansion on Kıbrıs, a residence in İstanbul, branch offices in Hayfa, Halep and Medine. – And he was exiled to el–Kuds...

Well, there was a benefit: because of the many Christians, brothels were not unknown in el–Kuds. Sabri was saving money for this purpose. He had been circumcised two years ago, therefore counted for an adult. And if the Christians were offering that service... Now, the family didn't endow him with a generous allowance; they paid for board and lodge, that ought to suffice. They didn't even treat him a season ticket for the Yafa – el–Kuds train, which was the oldest railway line in operation in Palestine.

All this was woeful, because business was brimming. The Europeans were paying any price for southern fruits and other articles of food. The family was raking in money. – Palestine had been transformed into a huge garden by initiative of the Turkish overlords. It did produce much more than the Emirate of Arabia could consume. Traditionally, one did sell to Egypt, Europe and even the US; but now, the COMECON was buying everything.

Sabri shrugged his shoulders. It was time to prepare for the next lesson. Islamic law was dull, but easy to remember for dunces. The Turkish overlords were allowing its application on the local level, only capital punishment was suspended. On the level of the emirate, there existed a strange concoction of Sharia and Roman law. If he had been interested in such quibble, he might have found a fulfilled life. But he didn't give a shit about it. He'd rather be an engineer and help develop the country. Curse his elder brothers, curse the family...

 

[rast]

I have sown Dragon's teeth and reaped only fleas.
(Heinrich Heine)

Hunger was nasty; it made you dizzy. Doris Zülch had thought one could get used to it, but that didn't work. It was an incubus, a twenty–four seven incubus, sucking out your marrow and devouring your vigour. It wasn't starvation. She was getting enough to survive, but never enough to be full – and never something tasty. Where had all those Sausage Maxes, Cucumber Heinrichs and Pretzel Berthas gone, who once had crowded the downtown streets?

Working with growling stomach wasn't easy. People got twitchy – or depressive – or gloomy – or morose; nobody was sane anymore. Manual labour was a torture under these circumstances, but that was exactly what she was doing. The whole staff of Dietrich Keuning, the Dortmund DFU nominee, had volunteered for reconstruction work. There was no use, Keuning had argued, in shifting paper from desk to desk, while the rail links were broken and the coal mines flooded.

But pushing wheelbarrows and hauling buckets didn't get you extra rations. The stew they fed you was waterish and fatless. They were toiling as a team directed by a reactivated Reichsbahn veteran. Eduard Knipping was approximately seventy–five years old, lame and profoundly deaf. He had been a master workman and definitely knew his craft. Evidently, they all had been slave drivers in the old days; that was how they constructed all those railway lines in no time.

Coming home after work was like being on one's last legs. Emma, her co–lodger, was also toiling in the Keuning–Knipping squad. Thus, they were creeping home together. Supper was a pathetic affair: one slice of bread, a dollop of margarine and a cup of sour milk. Afterwards, one watched television for a short while, just for catching the news. Then, one crawled into bed. Doris had answered Emma's shy courting some time ago, but these days, both of them were too exhausted for making love.

They were drudging six days a week; their day off was Tuesday. And, yes, they were making progress. The line they were repairing was nearing completion. The new bridges were already in place. They were wooden constructions, built by a private building enterprise that had one single military railway engineer sergeant for instructor. That sergeant was even worse than Eduard Knipping.

Then, a windfall occurred. Stew contained real chunks of meat! – France and Spain had started delivering foodstuffs, they were told. Next day, they were served noodles and goulash, unbelievable! Life was wonderful...

 

[Thunderfire]

Then, a windfall occurred. Stew contained real chunks of meat! – France and Spain had started delivering foodstuffs, they were told. Next day, they were served noodles and goulash, unbelievable! Life was wonderful...

Hmm France has no food to spare AFAIK and Zhúlóng is a dragon ...

 

[luis3007]

Trade is going up. You want food, we want money or machines. If no killing winter comes again the Comecon is saved, if not....

 

[Bmao]

Hmm France has no food to spare AFAIK and Zhúlóng is a dragon ...

It could be a deception in that the food is actually coming from the Ottoman Empire (as hinted in the previous post) and other places where the famine hasn't hit, and that France and Spain is just a transit point.

By the way, interesting to see what Abu Nidal, the founder of Fatah, is up to. Seems like that with no Israel he's bound to live a quieter life, as there is still no real impetus for radical Islam to take root.

 

[rast]

Uneasy lies the head that wears a crown.
(William Shakespeare)

The king was dead. Lung cancer finally had defeated him. Dying had taken a long time, a painful process for George VI and for his family. It was Wednesday, May 14th, 1952, and Elizabeth Alexandra Mary Windsor was Queen Elizabeth II now. – Did it matter at all? For a long time, SUP rule had respected the monarch as formal head of state. But since Thomas Wintringham was in power, the Royal Family was feeling like prisoners. One was kept incommunicado on Sandringham Estate, far away from real life.

True, George VI had been ill. In late 1949, when Wintringham had seized power, his lung cancer had already been diagnosed – and his ability to perform his duties had been woefully reduced, not only by cancer but also by arteriosclerosis and presenile gangrene. Nevertheless, immediately after the prime minister had fled into his underground shelters, MI5 had shuttled the Royal Family to Sandringham Estate and cut all communications. Assassins, one had been told, were lurking everywhere. Protection lay in staying put on Sandringham Estate.

She would be proclaimed queen right now through the national and international media, the MI5 chief operative told Elizabeth. Upon the coronation ceremony Westminster was going to decide later. – One couldn't argue with the man, he was a vile bully. His name was Harold Scott. He was one of those middle class civil servants who had gone over to the communists. These turncoats were often worse than true followers of Karl Marx.

The young queen, married to Prince Oluf of Denmark since 1947 and mother of two children, was determined to persevere. If SUP rule should collapse – and that possibility obviously was existing – the monarchy would still be there. They wouldn't dare murder the Royal Family once their grip on power was breaking, would they?

 

[Thunderfire]

It could be a deception in that the food is actually coming from the Ottoman Empire (as hinted in the previous post) and other places where the famine hasn't hit, and that France and Spain is just a transit point.

Or the colons from post #987 are selling meat of questionable origin...

 

[rast]

For we are all killers, on land and on sea, Bonapartes and sharks included.
(Herman Melville)

HMS Brecon looked battered when she came into port. Her bow was slightly twisted and punched in. Her starboard side showed ugly grooves, deep bumps and a rupture. Those who saw her nodded knowingly and went on pursuing their business.

"Dane?" Her captain was asked, later at the bar in the officers mess. "Or a Kraut?"
"Nay, frogeater."
"Indeed?"
"Yeah, a true bastard. Was cutting nets when he came in. – Fat bugger, like a cruiser, fast as fury..."

"Golly! They puffing up?"
"Don't know, never met a snail–snapper watch dog before..." The captain turned to the orderly. "Pour me another one, lad!"
"Sorry Sir, I'm not allowed... – Ye know, the rationing..."
"Oh dear! This's an emergency." He pushed a fifty pound note towards the man. "Just fill in and don't bother me with silly rules."

"So, what happened?"
"Tried to ram me, the skunk, just cutting good ol' Brecon in two. But I wouldn't let him."
"Saw the dents..."
"Right. Had him scrape alongside. But was too fast for boarding..."

"And your prow? Did you get him?"
"Naw, fast bastard, not a chance. – Well, those scars are from the trawlers I rammed. Two Paddies and a Portugoose..."
"They still sail without guards?"
"Kind of. The Spuds don't have that many watch dogs, and the Portugeese just float too many trawlers."

"Did we lose any of ours?"
"Naw, not this time. But four got their nets cut. 'T was that frogeater, before he attacked me..."
"I wonder when the shooting will start."
"Won't happen. Nobody needs a friggin' war over herring. Once the guns are smokin' everybody will get less fish..."

"But we're not getting enough!"
"Tell you, once we start shooting, the aliens will gang up – and finish us..."
"So, what stops them from doing it right now?"
"They are not united. Everybody cuts everybody's nets. And ramming is okay. That's the game. – But once someone starts shooting, all will turn against him."

"But the Comecons do work together..."
"They assign fishing areas and catch times for the major fleets. Where you meet frogeaters, you won't find Huns, Dutch and Danes that same day. That's about all. And the smaller countries just do what they want anyway."
"And our people are starving..."

"I guess everybody is..."

 

[Kitiem3000]

Dark times.

 

[Archangel]

Keep it up, rast!

 

[rast]

All things truly wicked start from innocence.
(Ernest Hemingway)

The bombing raid had occurred last week. Lu'an had been severely hit. The bridges over River Pihe and Pihe Canal were still standing, the rail link was working, but everything else was pretty much in shambles. The house Ziu Jìngmĭn had been living in had burnt down to the ground; her few possessions were lost. However, the early warning system had saved most citizens. If the Children had only some rare operational fighter aircraft and far too few antiaircraft guns, they had – for a change – perfected early warning. There were no air raid shelters. It was: run, run, run; truly survival of the fittest.

But it did work. Because of the petty resistance, the Americans used to be rather pinpoint in their attacks. Usually, one had fifteen minutes between the air–raid siren and the first bombs. That sufficed for covering three to four kilometres. – As it happened, almost all Children were in an age that allowed sporty sprints. Jìngmĭn was glad that things were as they were. The idea of having to reprocess a hecatomb of victims was repulsing. – Reconstruction had already begun; the factories had first priority. Cartridges and shells were needed in the south. Jìngmĭn was responsible for setting up the sanitation for a new cluster of three large tent camps for workers and other citizens.

The camps were located in forests, hopefully invisible for the enemy. The factories couldn't be moved. But the veterans of the Far East War were right: the worst damage always happened to the living quarters, which usually went up in flames. Factory buildings got marred, but in most cases could be repaired rather swiftly – at least to a level that allowed resumption of work. There were many false alarms, because one never knew which target the Americans were heading for when they intruded. These downtimes were affecting production much more than the actual damage done.

Jìngmĭn had swapped her fine business suit for fatigues, as had done almost everybody else. Only the mayor was still seen wearing coat and tie. Installing sanitation was important. One had to be the first party at work. Drainage had to be in place, before the tents and shanties were set up. Huge camps quickly turned into bogs if rainwater wasn't drained. – Toilets and showers were less of a problem. One used simple latrines without flushing and gravity–fed washtubs and showers. This was more a problem of portering than of construction. Basic mathematics were simple; Jìngmĭn had mastered them quickly. But she was still amazed about the huge size of the drainage ditches they had to build.

She was now living in a tent as well. Some paddy straw served as mattress and a woollen blanket for bedcover. That was about all luxury she had, toiling from dawn to dusk. At least nurture was adequate. – Although she had been educated by Americans, Jìngmĭn found that she had come to hate them. Why must they meddle? Why were they trying to bomb the Children back into Stone Age? China wasn't their country. And the Children were no vile savages, even if cannibalism was reprehensible. The country had already suffered tremendously from the follies of some few mad scientists and stupid politicians. Was it really necessary to destroy what little was left?

She wasn't the violent type, nor a born leader of men. But she was intelligent and educated. And she was fluent in English. Perhaps her talents were wasted directing the digging of sewage lines? – To her surprise, the intelligence service immediately accepted her shy application. After a couple of eventful days, she was finally sitting at a desk and listening to records of American combat communications. She didn't know why it should be important to identify individual pilots and commanders, but her superiors were trusting her to succeed. And yes, it could be done – if one combined all information available. Praise the US media and the operatives working in enemy country!

 

[luis3007]

As always America is seeding hatred against themselves and courting terrorism aimed at home. Good job hero

 

[1SaBy]

They have an intelligence service?