• We have updated our Community Code of Conduct. Please read through the new rules for the forum that are an integral part of Paradox Interactive’s User Agreement.
This guy Ian has an odd habit to crash... Reminds me of someone...

Of me!!!! :rofl:
 
V
September, 1936​

The early afternoon sunshine flashed into the bedroom as the second floor window opened with a thunk to admit the cheerful twittering of a joyful songbird. Ian’s brain rebelled against the happiness of the light and sound. The brightness seemed to him a searing death ray from one of the Martian craft in War of the Worlds. He rolled instinctively away from the light and tried to say something, but only a croaking noise escaped.

“Well, and a fine morning to you to, sleepyhead.”

Ian grunted, then cleared his throat and managed to hiss, “Go…away…”

“I’ve got some tea on if you want some, you’ve missed breakfast and…” Eddy looked at his watch, “…lunch too. I’ll see if Sarah left anything out for you. Hurry up, you’ve got to get through the rest of the estate paperwork by Saturday, and I’ve got to…

Ian had stopped listening, preferring a return to sleep. Fifteen minutes later, he awoke with a yelp.

Eddy came back in carrying a tray. Predictably, he was still talking. “So you and that girl, ‘whats-her-name’, were carrying on like you were sailors on leave in Hong Kong. I swear, you really shouldn’t drink so much.”

Ian tried to sit up, but as soon as he rose a few inches, his brain attempted to burst out of his skull and do a swan dive out the open window. With a moan, Ian sank bank into the pillows.

“Man, you look green.” Eddy surmised. “Sweaty too, you been having that dream again?”

Ian could only nod, sending earthquakes of nausea through his body.

“Strangest thing, that dream…you say its always the same girl?”

Ian nodded again, this time managing to control the urge to vomit.

“You’re sure you’ve never seen her before?”

“Look, I think I’d remember meeting the most beautiful girl in the world!” Ian instantly regretted his outburst, as the resulting headache nearly blinded him. Speaking in a softer voice…”Not that it matters much, its only a dream.”

“Yeah, must be the drinking that does it to you. I’d kill to have that kind of woman in my dreams, even if I die a horrible death!” In a more serious tone, “Look, make sure you get the accounts finished from the estate. The bank gave you an extension until Saturday, but they said if you hadn’t finished the job by then, they’d start taking assets.”

“Okay, okay. Let me get dressed and I’ll get right at it.”

“Hey, do me a favor, when you’re finished, pick me up at the plant. I’ve got a meeting there tonight and Sarah has a date so I’ll need you to bring me home.”

Twenty minutes later, and feeling more stable with a cup of black spice tea wafting its aroma into the air, Ian slumped into a chair at the kitchen table and began picking through the newly arrived notices from creditors. Ever since his father’s death, the bills had continued to come in. Most were mundane, an unpaid car maintenance bill, the taxes on the estate, and the bill for last months newspaper. Some, however, were entirely unexpected. Ian snorted as he read a bill from Sir Matthew Mite, who claimed the sum of 569 pounds sixpence in the form of a ‘gambling debt.’ Ian had not known his father gambled, but soon discovered seven more notices of similar import from his father’s old India buddies. In fact, the deeper into the pile he burrowed, the more disturbing the information became. Keeping a tally soon proved too depressing and Ian merely grabbed papers and tried to prioritize them into piles related to bill type and amount.

Ian froze…this bill was the last straw. He dropped the notice from the bank about the default on the third mortgage of the family estate, dumped his tea in the sink and went looking for some small glasses. Failing that, he grunted…grabbed a large bottle of amber colored liquid and ambled over to the door. The vultures can all fight over the scraps…he thought…So much for my inheritance.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------

The setting sun cast its shadows down streets lined with factories. A convertible roadster growled its way slowly up the road. The car weaved back and forth, narrowly missing a parked delivery truck and sliding awkwardly around a corner. As the car drove past, passersby saw a young man raise a bottle to his lips, finish the remaining liquid and then throw it against a wall. Apparently satisfied with his progress, he brought the car to a stop and got out. The car, not in park, promptly rolled forward and crunched slowly into a set of garbage cans, finally coming to a rest against a wall.

Ian stared at the car blankly. Then smiled, laughed and turned away. He staggered down the alley looking for the door marked with light blue paint. He wandered up the alley twice before discovering that the 4th door up was open, and on the bottom right corner…light blue paint. From inside came the sounds of a large meeting. A radio was blaring martial music while groups of young men could be seen through a cheap cigarette haze talking passionately about their role in the march of history. Ian stood dumbly in the doorway for two minutes before aimlessly slouching into the room. He gravitated gradually to a table with cups on it, and was disappointed to find lemonade. Not to be snobbish, he took one anyway and nearly dropped it when a hand touched his shoulder.

“Ian! So good of you to make it!” Eddy exclaimed. “Here, I want you to meet Alain Linque. He’s just over from France and is bringing us some news. Apparently, the government in Spain is asking for volunteers to fight against the fascists.”

“Fight? In a war?” Ian asked, still too drunk to think logically. “Why would I want to do that?”

Alain looked suspiciously at Ian. “You sure he should be here? He is not a mosleyite is he?”

Eddy blanched. “No, no…Ian is a good man. True believer all the way.”

Ian tried to hide his smirk at that comment. “Actually Alain, I’m just here to pick up Eddie. If you don’t mind, I’ll just wait here for him.”

Alain looked hard at him, and then smiled in a relaxed way. “Of course, not all of us can live the glorious life. I’d love to talk with you some more about ‘the cause’, but I’ll leave for Paris soon. It is too bad; we could have used your piloting skills.”

“C’mon Eddie, I’m getting bored in here.”

“All right, all right, let me get my coat.”

Ian waited and scuffed his feat while Eddie went back to the coat rack and said a few last words to his friends. Several of the young men looked Ian over, but wisely chose to avoid the disheveled and obviously drunk stranger.

“Where did you leave the car, Ian?”

“Out back, no…front…I think. Yes, this way.”

The boys emerged into the evening twilight and trudged down the alleyway towards the car. The heavy sound of booted footsteps stopped them. A group of men appeared at the head of the alley swinging iron pipes and cricket bats.

“Shhhtttt” Ian slurred.
 
Man, Ian is in a bad way. Not only is he handling the death of his father badly, he's about to find himself in the middle of a Communist/Fascist pissing match. While drunk. This will be painful to watch.
 
Don't die...Don't die...

VI
September, 1936

Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.


The band of thugs spread out across the alley and began marching in step towards Eddy and Ian. The dozen pairs of boots clumped together in a rigid rhythm. The sun set suddenly behind the buildings and the alley was swept into shadow.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.


“WELL, LOOK WHAT WE GOT ‘ERE!” roared a mountain of a dock worker. “TWO LOST LITTLE LAMBS! LET’S SHOW ‘EM HOW REAL MEN FIGHT!” Hearing this, the thugs broke step and jogged forward to close the range.

Eddy turned to Ian and hissed, “Back up slowly, I’ll cover your back. Whatever happens, we’ve got to stay together.”

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.


Ian tried to turn, but suddenly the world seemed to flip, and he tasted the concrete alley’s dust. Hmm…tastes like well water. . Eddie reached down to pull Ian up, and only got halfway down before the thugs charged. Eddie immediately straightened up, and crouched low over Ian. The mountainous dockworker reached Eddie first swinging his cricket bat in a vicious upward thrust; Eddie sidestepped to the left and kicked out the man’s legs. He went down sprawling and crashed down next to Ian. Two thugs approached Eddie and began warily circling him while the rest of the group sought a way to get behind the now apparently dangerous opponent.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.


Ian managed to disentangle himself from the downed dockworker with a ferocious kick, and looked back to Eddie in time to see him overwhelmed by two, no three attackers. Ian tried uselessly to rise, but his body refused to agree which direction was up. He hesitated for a split second, cursing his own helplessness, before reaching out and pulling the legs out from the nearest attacker. Suddenly devoid of support, the thug fell flat on his face and pulled down Eddie and the rest in a great, struggling heap.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.


Ian grunted in satisfaction, but his pleasure did not last long. Seconds later, the world flashed and went dark. When he came to, he heard a great roaring in his ears, and looked up to see an astonishing sight. Alain stood above him, waving a gigantic red banner and screaming “COMRADES! VICTORY!” Then Ian was plunged back into darkness.

And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.


SLAM! A car door banged, and Ian felt himself being carried and placed into the back-seat of a car. His head almost exploded with pain when he tried to open his eyes, so he resisted the urge. “Careful with his head, don’t worry about the upholstery…we’ll clean that later. Take him to the quiet place…yes…I’ll meet you there in a few hours. Take good care of him, or else!”
 
VII
October, 1936

Ian stepped off the train carriage and surveyed the bustling crowds pushing towards the Gare du Nord. So much had changed in the last three weeks. He unconsciously reached up and felt the stitches over his right eye. Alain had assured him that the wound from a fascist pipe would heal well and leave only a small scar that could be hidden behind his hair. Ian slung his haversack over his shoulder and joined the stream of people eagerly funneling toward the station building.

“Ian! Ian! Wait for me!”

Ian looked to his left and saw Eddie calling out from a carriage platform. Eddie was obstructed by a mother scolding a boy for getting too close to the tracks. Eddie made an impatient face, hoisted himself onto the guard-rail and lightly vaulted the bar. Landing heavily next to the boy, he winked at the startled expression on the child’s face and strode away before the mother could accost him. Ian shook his head in admonishment at the exuberant smile and the fast, jerky movements of Eddie on an adventure.

“Ah, Paris! My favorite city…Too bad we won’t be staying.” Eddie frowned. “Any sign of our fearless leader?”

Ian looked around, trying to scan the faces for the familiar form of Alain. A moment later, his failure was evident. Ian laughed. “I don’t suppose you speak much French, Eddy?”

“No, I never bothered to learn…Dad always put us up in places with English speaking staff. How about you?”

“Oui, Je parlez francais un petit. Ou est la station de taxis?”

“The taxi stand is through the station and out the front doors!” Alain interjected, thumping his hand down on Ian’s shoulder causing Ian to levitate for a split second. “When you go out of the building look for the taxis with a red rose attached to the hood. They’ll take you to the Gare D’Austerlitz and the train to Marseille. I’ve got to round up Jones and Gerrard. Think you can handle it on your own?”

Ian grinned, “Oui, mon Capitan!”

--------------------------------------------------------------------------

Two hours later, Ian stood on the station platform observing the passengers waiting for the Marseille train. Eddie was animatedly discussing the siege of Madrid with a porter, leaving Ian with the chance to observe the rest of their group. A cross-section of young men, dressed in Sunday suits with boots had arranged themselves along the platform trying to look inconspicuous. Ian was sure that only a blind man could mistake these men for mere tourists on excursion visas. Gerrard was twisting his cloth cap in his hands, as though the hat deserved to be kneaded into a beret. Jones was nervously studying his watch, as though he was experimenting with the nature of time itself. So these lost and lonely men will rescue the Spanish proletariat and be remembered as heroes in the March of History, eh? Ian smiled wryly at his thoughts. Then what kind of man does that make you? “At least it’s more exciting than staying at home…” he murmured to himself.

The train announced its intention to leave with a blast of its whistle and the first warning clouds of steam from the engine. Ian picked up his haversack and slung it over his shoulder. He took two steps towards the train, turned to look for Eddie…and froze. Two French policemen were addressing him. From their posture it was apparent that they were not making small talk. Eddie slumped and turned to go with them. Ian was about to call out when a cold voice at his elbow said:

“Monsieur, would you please come with us? We have some things to discuss…”

Ian started, and in a low voice asked, “And who might you be?”

We are with the renseignements généraux and we would appreciate if you came quietly and answered a few questions about your friends.”

With a shriek, the train began pulling out of the station, leaving Ian and Eddie behind.
 
Huzzzah! It seems the writers block has been smashed. Excellent intrigue, being question by French police intelligence is never a good thing. :eek:
 
Well, that's certainly going to ruin Ian's day. Glad to have you back, my friend.
 
Draco Rexus said:
Well, that's certainly going to ruin Ian's day. Glad to have you back, my friend.

Yep...certainly not something Ian planned to be doing! Thanks for the encouragement.

El Pip said:
Huzzzah! It seems the writers block has been smashed. Excellent intrigue, being question by French police intelligence is never a good thing.

Yep, smashed for now...I'm so glad its gone! The next update should make clear what the French want from our heroes...

Unfortunately...though I promised a weekly update...I will not be able to put the next update up until after the weekend. I had thought to put the finishing touches on it tonight, but spent the evening celebrating a coworker's promotion to another company. Now I'm at home packing for a weekend trip (so no internet)...so, I'm sorry, no update until at least Monday.

<ducks down and runs for the door, dodging shot glasses and a chicken thrown in his direction...>

TheExecuter
 
Originally Posted by TheExecuter
<ducks down and runs for the door, dodging shot glasses and a chicken thrown in his direction...>

But fails to dodge the lead weighted rubber ducky that comes from the far side of the room to crash into TheExecuter's backside. Now enjoy that weekend trip standing up, eh? :D :p
 
Draco Rexus said:
But fails to dodge the lead weighted rubber ducky that comes from the far side of the room to crash into TheExecuter's backside. Now enjoy that weekend trip standing up, eh? :D :p

Kindof hard to enjoy the weekend with the bruise on my posterior from that last projectile! :eek:

Nevertheless...I did manage to survive. Had a great time with friends and only hurt myself twice!

Update coming up momentarily...

Thanks everyone for reading!
TheExecuter
 
VIII
October, 1936
Paris, France

For the third time, Ian got up from the chair and began to pace. The room in which he was confined was exactly seven paces wide by five paces long. The room’s only occupants were Ian, a table and two chairs. The furniture had been bolted to the floor. Ian began pacing the width of the room again. To distract himself from the anxiety building in the back of his brain he concentrated on examining every minute detail of the room. He noted with alacrity the rust afflicting the furniture bolts and the way the cigarette haze in the room caught the sunset’s rays through the window set high in the wall. He estimated that the ceiling was about 12 feet high and that the walls had once been painted a nice reassuring green in what was probably the architect’s idea of an absurd joke. As he turned, Ian’s mind mulled over his predicament. He had no idea what the French authorities could want from him. The policemen who had brought him here had not spoken a word since accosting him on the station platform. All his repeated questions brought were the occasional grunt. Questions swirled in his brain. What was to become of him? Why had they picked up Eddy and himself? What was Eddy doing now? Why had they not…

At this moment, the door to the room opened and a middle aged man entered. He took no notice of Ian and slumped into a chair and began rummaging through a satchel and pulling out documents. “Monsieur Clark.”

“Yes?” Ian asked, still standing by the far wall.

“Sit down, Monsieur.”

“Oh, yes, yes.” Ian said while hastily sitting down.

The inspector sighed and returned to rummaging through his satchel. The sound of rustling papers crackled their way through the otherwise silent chamber. Eventually satisfied, the man dumped the contents of the satchel on the table and spread them out.

“Your name is Ian Clark?” He asked, picking up Ian’s passport.

“Yes.”

“Your address is in Liverpool. Is that correct?” The voice, a deep baritone, conveyed no emotion.

“Yes.” Ian began to feel a sense of unease settle in his stomach.

Apparently satisfied, he put down the passport and picked up another document. “What is the purpose of your visit to France?”

“I’m on vacation.” Just a little lie won’t hurt.

The inspector peered over his spectacles at Ian. “Is that so…” Another shuffle of the papers on the desk. “Are you traveling alone monsieur?”

Ian started. “Yes.”

“You were detained while attempting to board the train to Marseille. Is that your final destination?”

Ian was becoming confused by the variety of questions. “Yes, of course that was my final destination. I was going to relax on the beaches. Thus it is most inconvenient to be detained here in Paris.” What could he want to know?

At this outburst, the inspector merely pursed his lips and returned to his perusal of the documents. Finally he spoke again. “That is most interesting. You see, we have listed on the train manifest another passenger from Liverpool.” He lifted a manilla paper. “His address is identical to yours. Do you know this man?” He shoved Eddie’s passport photo across the table.

“Yes.” Oops.

“Do you live at the same address?”

“Yes.”

The inspector settled back into his chair. “Monsieur Clark I cannot believe you. Do you expect me to believe that you would take a vacation to Marseille on the very same day as your friend, ride the very same ferry and train, and not travel with him?”

Ian blushed, but said nothing. Apparently the man in front of him was no fool.

“Let’s begin again shall we?”

Ian nodded, grimacing.

“Were you traveling alone, monsieur Clark?”

“No.”

“Who were your companions on the journey?” The inspector looked up with an expectant expression.

“I traveled from Liverpool with Eddy.” Ian resolutely explained.

“You were with no one else?” The inspector’s voice sounded incredulous.

“No, there was no one else.” Ian hoped he sounded sincere.

“You have not seen this man?” The policeman pushed across a photo. The photo looked to be taken in bad lighting, but the features of Alain were unmistakable.

Ian dallied over the photo for a few seconds before answering, “No, I’ve never seen this man before.” Ian fervently hoped his manners would not betray the new lie.

“You are quite sure? He has the same itinerary as you, perhaps on the train or ferry?”

Ian firmly shook his head. “Perhaps in passing, but certainly not that I can recall. I wish I could be more helpful.”

A slight smile graced the lips of the inspector at that.

“Look, sir,” Ian thought being polite might be useful. “I’m not sure what is going on. Have I done something wrong to be detained in such a way? If so, is there some fee or fine that I can pay that will smooth things over?”

The inspector leaned over the table as though he were ready to strangle Ian right then and there. His eyes flashed fire as he vociferously announced. “Do not insult me by your pathetic attempt at bribery!” Recovering from his outburst, he sat down again. “Were we after your skin we would have detained you on the orders of the three banks in England currently pursuing you with regard to your father’s estate!”

All of Ian’s fears rose up within his stomach at the mention of the financial mess he had left behind. His face must have betrayed his horror at returning to England for the inspector chuckled.

“But don’t worry, we have no intention of informing the British authorities of your whereabouts. We’re not lackeys to those shop-keepers! In any event, right now we just need information on the whereabouts of the murderer I showed you.”

Ian’s eyes widened at the first intimation of what Alain was wanted for.

“Oh yes, the man we are looking for was involved in a series of riots in Bordeaux last year. He is suspected of being involved in the death of a dockworker and an assault on an off duty policeman. We have reason to believe he has been involved in several incidents across Europe. He has previously worked under the name Rubashov, but he is probably using an alias now.”

“I swear to you, I’ve never seen the man!” Ian exclaimed. And when I do see him again, we’ll have things to discuss!

“Hmm…” The office appeared deep in thought. “I have nothing to charge you with, however, I think you know more than you are willing to tell.” Appearing to make up his mind, he scooped up Ian’s passport and papers and dumped them back into his satchel.

“I think it would be best if you did not leave the country. Enjoy your vacation in Marseille, but report to the local prefect of police there. We will have more questions for you. You are free to go…for now.”

Ian stifled the chill creeping up his spine and meekly asked what would become of his papers.

“They will be returned to you in good time,” was the cryptic reply.

Ian hurried to collect his belongings and exit the station. He did not want to give the authorities time to change their minds and allow himself to be detained indefinitley.

As soon as Ian had gone another officer poked his head into the room. The inspector, lost in thought, almost didn’t hear him arrive.

“Oh, Alphonse…that young man just here. Follow him. If he makes contact with Rubashov…arrest them both!”
 
For the Clarks life just gets worse and worse doesn't it? Which is always more interesting than a life of smooth sailing. ;)
 
I just got caught up. Well done.

The dreamscape in his fathers hospital room was quite chilling. You have done an excellant job of chronicaling Ian's fall, the alcohol, the debt of the estate, the run to france, and finally the run in with french authorities. I am sure all this will lead to their eventuall entry into the SCW. Keep up the great work.
 
Ah, poor Ian, in over his head and nearly clueless about how bad a thing that actually can be. Excellent! (Gee, that sounds like I almost want Ian to get himself into trouble, doesn't it? :p )
 
El Pip said:
For the Clarks life just gets worse and worse doesn't it? Which is always more interesting than a life of smooth sailing. ;)

Yep...smooth sailing is so boring!

rcduggan said:
great writing!

Welcome! Glad you've enjoyed the tale so far. Please feel free to ask questions, correct the authors grammer, or make snide remarks about the characters or your fellow readers. The snack bar is open, for a nominal fee you can purchase overpriced soda, mostly cold popcorn, and fresh orangutang...

grayghost said:
I just got caught up. Well done.

The dreamscape in his fathers hospital room was quite chilling. You have done an excellant job of chronicaling Ian's fall, the alcohol, the debt of the estate, the run to france, and finally the run in with french authorities. I am sure all this will lead to their eventuall entry into the SCW. Keep up the great work.

Hey! Thanks for the praise. I spent a lot of time on that dream trying to make it 'feel' right. It being my first dreamscape I wasn't quite sure I had the hang of it...now that you liked it, I feel all warm and fuzzy inside! :D

As to the direction, you have guessed where are heroes are headed. In case you think I'm spoiling anything...this will be confirmed in the following update due momentarily. And if any of our lurkers hadn't suspected this at all...dude, pay attention!

Draco Rexus said:
Ah, poor Ian, in over his head and nearly clueless about how bad a thing that actually can be. Excellent! (Gee, that sounds like I almost want Ian to get himself into trouble, doesn't it? )

Yeah, poor Ian...hopefully someday he learns to not be clueless. One can only wonder what events will transpire to get him over the hump though.

And yes, you are allowed to root for our heroes to get into trouble...without it, I'd have to look elsewhere for drama. Hmm...nope, its not under the bed, or in the closet...where did I put that drama?

--------------------------------------------------------------------------

To everybody,
Thanks for bearing with me during the last week of abstention from a promised update. I was trying to coax some dialogue out of Alain and he wasn't budging. (This is the first time one of my characters has decided to do something different than I planned...and I always thought you veteran authors had an overactive imagination when you talked about your characters 'surprising' you...) I hope that his contribution to the story is far better than what I was originally planning.

Enjoy this mornings update!

TheExecuter
 
IX
Paris, France
October 1936

Ian stumbled into the fading sunlight. In his haste to leave the scene of his uncomfortable interview, he turned into the avenue that most quickly promised to leave the sight of the police building. His steps were hurried and unsteady. Questions filled his mind. Who exactly were his companions? Was Alain capable of murder? If so, why had the French been so quick to set him at liberty? At that question, Ian was suddenly aware of a sense of impending danger. What could have possessed him to follow down this rabbit hole? His mind immediately sought a means of escape. His first vain attempts at this problem were soon dashed by the realization that without his papers, an attempt to leave the country would only result in further interactions with the authorities; something Ian now wished to avoid. Soon after that line of thought was defeated, another germ of an idea sprouted. If the French had let himself go, he wondered if Eddy had also been released. If so, then together an idea might be found. Eddy had always been a resourceful boy, surely some evasion tactic could be devised.

Comforted by this half-formed idea, Ian suddenly realized that he did not recognize his surroundings. In his deep thought, he had wandered away from any landmarks he recognized. This shock was quickly followed by a second. He realized that he did not know where Eddy might be. Even if he had been released, they had no plans to stay in the city, and no common ground which might be automatically sought. A wave of despair swept over Ian. It was entirely possible that Eddy had left immediately for Marseille in an attempt to catch up with Alain and company. Checking his watch, Ian groaned with the realization that the Paris – Marseille train had left 20 minutes before. All hope of a speedy resolution now gone, Ian came to the realization that he was standing on the corner of two unknown, empty streets. Now, which way should I go? I wonder if it really matters, he thought.

After standing at the crossroad for a minute or two, Ian mentally flipped a coin, and turned right. Immediately he heard as it were a voice behind him say:

This is the way, walk you in it, when you turn to the right hand, and when you turn to the left.

Startled, Ian turned around but saw no-one. Did I really hear something? Slightly shaken, Ian proceeded down the avenue. Unfortunately it seemed, the road soon ended two blocks later at a cross street, forcing Ian to again decide on a direction. After mentally tossing another coin, Ian turned to the left. Immediately he head the same voice behind him say:

This is the way, walk you in it.

Again, Ian turned furiously about…and saw no one. “Who SAID that?!” he yelped. A few passersby looked with amusement or pity on him, but no one answered the shout. Shamed by his outburst, Ian hurried down the street in an attempt to leave the voice behind. He soon entered an area populated with bars and seedy hotels. He studiously avoided the ‘come hither’ looks of the prostitutes gathered at every street corner and concentrated on walking at a brisk purposeful pace. As a large truck rumbled past, he almost missed the shout from the hotel ahead to his right.

“…an!”

Ian stopped, his brain puzzling to figure out if his name had been called.

“Ian! Up Here!” the voice of Eddy called.

To Ian’s astonishment, Eddy was frantically waving from the third story window above a bar across the street. Satisfied at having gotten Ian’s attention, Eddy ducked out of sight, and Ian thought he saw the form of Alain peering into the street from the window as well. Ian crossed the street and entered the alleyway entrance of the building. Stepping over a man passed out at the bottom of the stairs, we bounded up to the third floor and began counting doorways. This exercise was soon rendered superfluous as Eddy popped his head out of a door and beckoned quietly for Ian to enter.

As soon as the door was closed, Ian exclaimed “I thought you guys had gone on to Marseille by now! What kept you in town?”

Alain smiled thinly. “Why we couldn’t let our friend rot in jail now, could we? We were just now setting up our plan to break you out. Now that you’re here, we can proceed to Spain.”

Ian sputtered, “But how will we get there now? The police are after us, they have our papers, and you are a wanted man!”

Alain laughed. “The authorities are not omnipresent, Ian. Just follow me, I have a few tricks up my sleeve!”

At that moment, a loud knocking came from the door. “OPEN UP! THIS IS THE POLICE!” Ian paled and looked frantically for another exit, a fire escape, or anywhere to hide. The door splintered on its hinges, and a lone officer entered the room with his gun drawn.

Alain looked up calmly and said, “So good of you to join us, Alphonse.”
 
My, my, what have we here, poor Ian about to have a heart attack? Me thinks so! :D
 
X
Paris, France
October, 1936

At that moment, a loud knocking came from the door. “OPEN UP! THIS IS THE POLICE!” Ian paled and looked frantically for another exit, a fire escape, or anywhere to hide. The door splintered on its hinges, and a lone officer entered the room with his gun drawn.

Alain looked up calmly and said, “So good of you to join us, Alphonse.”

Alphonse peered over his handgun into the room with wild eyes that softened upon recognizing Alain. “Oh, sorry Rubashov.” Eddie’s eyes widened. “I thought I ought to put on a show if you weren’t here.”

Alain / Rubashov smiled. “Don’t bother trying to jump out of the window, Ian. Alphonse is my man in the Paris prefect. He is on our side.”

Ian obediently swung back into the room and closed the window. “I was just checking to see if he had double-crossed us” Ian sheepishly replied.

Alain scowled at Ian and shook his head. Turning back to Alphonse, who had put the gun away; “Have you got everything?”

“Of course! It’s in the car.” Alphonse gestured in the direction of the street. “A week’s supply of rations, and those extra items you asked for. If we leave within the hour we can still catch our express. We’ll have to dump the car though.”

“The express?!” Ian nearly shouted, storming across the room. “You’re not seriously suggesting that we just board another train? The gendarmes would pick us up in no time! I will not be going back to their hands so…”

“EASY, EASY Ian!” Eddie responded. “I’m sure we have a more sophisticated plan than that. Am I right?”

Alain smiled wryly. “Sophisticated…sure…I’ve got just what we need…”

--------------------------------------------------------------------------

The darkness was near absolute. Ian could just see the Alain’s form a foot ahead of him in the gloom of the train yard. Alain and Alphonse whispered in low tones, apparently attempting to decide on a direction. Apparently satisfied, the two men led off to the left and headed down the tracks between two lines of freight cars. They came to a break. Alphonse indicated to cross the tracks and then started across. Ian was about to walk across when the whole yard was bathed in light. Alain reached out and grabbed Ian, pulling him back into the darkness of the shadow behind the carriage. The moon shone briefly through a break in the clouds before vanishing again, leaving behind the comforting darkness. Ian breathed again, and shuffled forward into the empty space. Several seconds later, he had caught up to Alphonse, and they continued their lonely trek through the yard. At long last, Alphonse jumped up into the interior of a freight car and extended his arm to Ian. Soon, the four travelers were safely ensconced behind the closed door. An hour later, the train left Paris heading south.

Soon, the rocking of the boxcar and the late hour had dropped Eddy and Alphonse off to sleep. Ian stared blankly at the wall for a while, thinking over the events of the day. How different this trip looks now. He shifted his upper torso in two or three spasms, failing to achieve a comfortable position. Sighing, he looked over toward the door. Alain sat there his head leaning against the door. He was looking through a hole at the French countryside. !@#$ it, I’ll ask him.

“Do you ever sleep?” Ian asked, crab-walking over towards the door.

"Heh…it is always wise to have someone alert, on guard as it were.” Alain snorted, turning his face away back to Ian. “You should get some sleep, you’ll need it.”

Ian shook his head. “I can’t sleep, not until I find out about you and Marseille.”

“Marseille…” Alain looked deep in thought. “So you want to know about Marseille…”

Ian waited for what seemed like a minute. Finally, he could stand the silence no longer. “Is it true? Did you murder a man?”

Alain smiled. “What do you think?”

Ian thought for a moment. “It’s possible. I don’t believe it though. What possible use could the killing of an innocent man have in the struggle of the masses?”

Alain leaned forward. “You would be wise to leave the masses out of it. You understand nothing about them.” He leaned back now, into what could be called a teaching posture. “We members of the Party understand them as no one has ever understood them before. We have penetrated into their depths and worked in the amorphous raw material of history itself…”

Without noticing it, he had taken a cigarette out of a case. Ian bent forward and lit it for him. Alain nodded his thanks. “We are called the Party of the Plebs. What do others know of its history? Passing ripples, little eddies, and breaking waves. They wonder at the changing forms of the surface and can not explain them. But we have descended into the depths, into the formless, anonymous masses, which at all times constitute the substance of history; and we are the first to discover her laws of motion. We discovered the laws of inertia, the slow changing of her molecular structure, and her sudden eruptions. That is the greatness of our doctrine. The Jacobins were moralists; we are empirics. We dug in the primeval mud of history and there we found her laws. We know more than all that men have known about mankind; that is why our revolution succeeds. And you talk about the value of an innocent man?”

Ian sat back with his legs stretched out, listening. “Go on. I am curious to know what you are driving at.”

Alain was smoking with relish. “As you notice, I am talking my way into something of a confession,” he said and looked up smilingly at the hole in the door. “Well, telling you will make no difference. Everything there is buried, the traitor and his influence. He wished to kill the movement; we destroyed him. Do you really think the masses will understand any other measures?”

Ian looked down, puzzled. “But I don’t believe that death was the only solution. You could have merely expelled him from the movement.”

Alain grunted. “The Bishop of Verden once said, ‘When the existence of the Church is threatened, she is released from the commandments of morality. With unity as the end, the use of every means is sanctified, even cunning, treachery, violence, simony, prison, death. For all order is for the sake of the community, and the individual must be sacrificed to the common good.’ So you see, we could not just play politics, we had to make history. That is the whole difference between your morality and ours.

Ian leant back against the wall. “I’m sorry, but the difference is not quite clear to me. Perhaps you’ll be kind enough to explain.”

“Certainly,” said Alain. “A mathematician once said that algebra was the science for lazy people – one does not work out x, but operates with it as if one knew it. In our case, x stands for the anonymous masses, the people. Politics means operating with this x without worrying about its actual nature. Making history is to recognize x for what it stands for in the equation.”

“Pretty,” said Ian. “But unfortunately rather abstract. To return to more tangible things; you mean that ‘we’ – namely, the Party – represent the interests of the Revolution, of the masses or, if you like, the progress of humanity.”

“This time you have grasped it,” said Alain smiling. Ian did not answer his smile.

Alain continued. “The ultimate truth is penultimately always a falsehood. He who will be proved right in the end appears to be wrong and harmful before it.”

Ian was about to interject, but Alain preempted him. “But who will be proved right? It will only be known later. Meanwhile he is bound to act on credit and to sell his soul to the devil, in the hope of history’s absolution.”

“So that is why you emphasise Machiavellian morality…” Ian mused.

Alain nodded. “So we should: since then, nothing really important has been said about the rules of political ethics. We are the first to replace the nineteenth century’s liberal ethics of ‘fair play’ by the revolutionary ethics of the twentieth century. In that also we are right: a revolution conducted according to the rules of cricket is an absurdity. Politics can be relatively fair in the breathing spaces of history; at its critical turning points there is no other rule possible than the old one, that the end justifies the means.”

Alain was fully warmed up now, his eyes flashing in the moonlight. “Yet for the moment we are thinking and acting on credit. As we have thrown overboard all conventions and rules of cricket-morality, our sole guiding principle is that of consequent logic. We are under the terrible compulsion to follow our thought down to its final consequence and to act in accordance to it.”

“Then you are sailing without ballast and therefore each touch on the helm is a matter of life and death!” Ian exclaimed.

“You are correct,” Alain responded. “And if we are in the right, history will absolve us, and the execution of ‘innocent men’ will be a mere bagatelle. It is that alone that matters who is objectively in the right. The cricket-moralists are agitated by quite another problem: whether the ‘innocent man’ was subjectively in good faith when he attempted to betray the Party. If he was not, according to their ethics he should be shot, even if it should subsequently be shown that betraying the revolution would have been better after all. If he was in good faith, then he should be acquitted and allowed to continue making propaganda, even if the Revolution should be ruined by it…”

Ian cocked his head, his mind fighting drowsiness to follow the logic.

Alain continued picking up speed. “That is, of course, complete nonsense. For us the question of subjective good faith is of no interest. He who is in the wrong must pay; he who is in the right will be absolved. That is the law of historical credit; it is our law. History has taught us that often lies serve her better than the truth; for man is sluggish and has to be led through the desert for forty years before each step in his development. And he has to be driven through the desert with threats and promises, by imaginary terrors and imaginary consolations, so that he should not sit down prematurely to rest and divert himself by worshipping golden calves.”

Ian looked up in wonderment at this mixture of analogies. However, he did not stop Alain’s train of logic.

“We have learnt history more thoroughly than the others. We differ from all others in our logical consistency. We know that virtue does not matter to history, and that crimes remain unpunished; but that every error had its consequences and venges itself upon the seventh generation. Therefore we concentrate all our efforts on preventing error and destroying the very seeds of it. Never in history has so much power over the future of humanity been concentrated in so few hands as in our case. Each wrong idea we follow is a crime committed against future generations. Therefore we have to punish wrong ideas as others punish crimes: with death. We are held for madmen because we follow every thought down to its final consequence and act accordingly. We are compared to the inquisition because, like them, we constantly feel in ourselves the whole weight of responsibility for the super-individual life to come.”

Alain paused, breathing heavily. He turned his face back to the hole in the door. Slowly and quietly Alain began again. “I am one of those. I think and act as I have to; I have killed people whom I was fond of, and given power to those I did not like. History has put me where I stand; I have exhausted the credit which she has accorded me; if I was right I have nothing to repent of; if wrong, I will pay.”

Alain looked back at Ian. “You’d better get to sleep now, I’ve said enough for tonight.”

From the distance came the long haunting sound of the train whistle.