Red, Black, Blue and Gold: A Kropotkin Espionage Collection

Red, Black, Blue and Gold: A Kropotkin Espionage Collection is a collection of four short stories written about espionage and counter-intelligence operations in the Commune of Kropotkin, relating to multiple events during the 2560s such as the Red-Black Cultural Revolution, the Mamore Crisis, and the New Zanzibar Front.
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== A Midnight Dreary ==
On a quiet night in Kropotkin City, an secretive man lurks, awaiting the perfect moment to begin his mission."Comrade!" The door swung open as the cloaked figure strode through into the inn, out of the rain. The bartender smiled warmly, gesturing with his hands to the sparsely-populated room. "Welcome in to the Welcome Inn, if you'll pardon the pun." The man, soaked from the incessant downpour, allowed a small smile to acknowledge the innkeeper's joke, before continuing across the room to take a seat at the bar. Removing his overcoat and hat, he placed them onto the seat next to him, though not before receiving permission to do so from the middle-aged man behind the bench. 
He looked around. About a dozen tables across the room, with only two occupied. One, near the window, held two young women, chatting amicably over a bottle of Vladimir's Cervezas. One woman, the blond on the left, seemed to be telling an enthralling story, as the other lady held her gaze intently, listening in to the long-winded tale. The other seated but a single, elderly man, nursing a decanter filled with an orange-brown substance as he wrote down notes on a small piece of paper, scribbling away at an almost inhuman speed. 
He turned to the bartender, who was waiting with a hand-towel in one hand and a glass in the other. "Do you have Eora Bitters?" asked the customer. The bartender gave him a perplexed look. "Eora Bitters? Well geez, been a long time since anyone asked for that," he said. He crouched down behind the bar, rustling through boxes and cases of alcohol. 
"We're not supposed to, given it being a drink manufactured by the counter-revolutionaries," he began, raising his voice slightly to be heard from behind the thick oak bench, and the constant rain from outside. "However, a friend of mine was in the Revolutionary Brigade on New Zanzibar, and got me this when he returned." The customer shifted uneasily on his seat, although not enough to be noticed by the patron, still rifling behind the bar.
"Ta da!" he happily proclaimed, producing a sleek, yellow can with the logo of the famous NSW brewing company. Placing it on the bar, he gestured to the glass in his hand. The man on the stool shook his head, and grabbed the can. "How much?" he asked, reaching for his wallet tucked into the back of his pants. 
"Pay?" the man asked incredulously. Too late, the customer realised his mistake. Smiling slightly, he raised his hands over his head. "Sorry. Old habits die hard." The man behind the bar looked a little suspicious, but nodded nonetheless. "Are ya ordering Eora for a reason?" he asked.
"Yeah. A taste from home."
The statement dawned on the man behind the bar. "Ah, you're from the Commonwealth?" the customer nodded. 
"Born and raised in Newtown. Only they didn't take too kindly to me protesting New Zanzibar, so I fled to Thebes, and then here."
"Well, that explains the accent." chuckled the innkeeper. Raising a hand to the customer, he smiled. "I'm Karl, but all my clients call me Steffi." The customer nodded, and shook the outstretched hand. 
"Name's Max." Steffi placed his hands on the bar, leaning forward. "So, this a regular stop-in, or are you looking for work?" Max pulled out a thin, paper card from the inside pocket of his relatively-dry jacket. "Just dropping by. Got a job at a clerk's office," he responded. Handing over the business card, Steffi placed it into a box behind the counter, and pulled up a chair from behind the bar.
"Why are you here? In the inn, I mean." Max took a sip of the New South Wales lager, and placed the can back down. "Looking for my cousin," he said. "Well, not exactly my cousin, but close enough. Family friend." Steffi nodded. "How'd you get to know him then, if you lived on... what planet in the Nuisance of Wales?"
Max snorted. "Darwin." He took another sip. "He was one of the operatives in the DLF, before it got shut down in 2555. He said he lives around here. His name was Andrew, but last I heard he's changed it to Anton. Anton Dartmann?" Steffi paused, then nodded his head slowly. "Yeah, Anton's a regular. Lives just above us, works a few blocks away at the steel mill as a machinist tech. Pretty sure he's up in his flat right now, left an hour ago."
"What room?" asked Max. "I want to surprise him with the visit." Steffi paused for a moment. "Three, if I remember correctly."
Max shook the can mildly, to see how much was left. With a quiet slosh from the inside of the aluminium can, Max polished off the beer and placed it on the bar. "I'll take a Dark 'N' Stormy, thanks." Steffi nodded, and grabbed a bottle of New Indonesia rum from the shelf lining the wall behind the bench. dropping a small dash into a shot glass. Steffi would then grab a can of Leninade ginger beer, and poured in a small amount to the rim of the glass, using a cheap cardboard stick to swipe off any overflow foam. 
Placing the glass in front of Max, Steffi stepped back from the counter. "I've got to go round the back to change a keg, if you don't mind. If you're gone by then, nice to meet ya and hope to see you round." Max raised the glass to Steffi. "Appreciate it, comrade. Have a nice night." Steffi graciously bowed his head before opening a latched door and entering the unseen room.
Max looked around the room, and trained his attention back to the two women at the window table. The two were embracing, as it seemed the blond woman had started to cry, with her companion comforting her. The Cervezas had been finished, with the glasses placed away from the sobbing blond woman for fear of not knocking them over. Turning to the old man, he saw that the grey-haired gentleman had fallen asleep, one hand gripped tightly on his notebook, and the other around the glass filled with the same orange-brown liquid as the decanter.
Taking a violent swig from the shot glass, he placed it down on the bar, before standing up. He looked through the window, to see the rain had subsided somewhat, with the small glimmers of the moon's bright light shining through the cloud cover. Turning towards the bar, he fished through his pockets to find a small red star, indented with the markings of a Gratitude Token. This was his last one. Twirling around the small star between his fingers, he placed it on the counter next to the empty glass. A small act of thanks to a kind and friendly man.
Taking his coat upon him once more, and placing his wide-brimmed fedora onto his head, Max would walk towards the door, nodding towards the unconscious man on the table. Opening the door, he strode through.
Max owed Steffi quite a lot. The Eora Bitters was the first New South Wales beer he'd had in months, after travelling from Mamore, to Olduvai, Thebes, and finally Kropotkin. The Dark 'N' Stormy too was excellent. But by far the biggest tip Steffi had granted Max, codename LEPIDUS, operative of the Bureau of Military Intelligence and Security, was the location of Anton Dartmann, formerly the anti-Commonwealth rebel leader Andrew Tarazov of the Darwin Liberation Front.
Making his way to the left, and making a turn once again to go up the stairs lining the wall of the Welcome Inn, he would approach the door with the simple Kroptokiner character denoting the number three. The rain suddenly picked up once again, thundering down onto his drenched overcoat. Reaching inside his pocket to remove the safety from the Evelyn Arms EA12 internally-suppressed pistol, he knocked on the door two times. 
After a short amount of time, footsteps could be heard from behind the door, growing louder as they neared Max's location. Unlocking the bolt on the inside of the door, a short, well-built man with salt-and-pepper hair opened the door for Max. 
"Can I help you?" he asked. 
Max raised the pistol to his forehead. "Yes. Yes you can."
No one would hear the shot through the pummeling rain.
== Just Another Day ==
The Red-Black Cultural Revolution rages on, and in the chaos a RISC detachment chase down a group of special interest.Footsteps marched in unison down the alley. Five men and women, clad in the dirty-grey fatigues of the Revolutionary Internal Security Council, bearing rifles and wearing the bright red and deep black banner of the United Front, walked down the narrow path, heads panning to and fro as they looked for their target. The echoing cacophony of gunfire rang through the streets: even the suburbs of Kropotkin City were not safe from the revolution. The leader of the column, with a green band around his helmet signifying his status as the detachment's leader, halted. Those behind him too followed his lead, as the commander stopped, and turned to his right, where a door lay ajar.
Motioning to the rest of the squad with a flick of his wrist, the five operatives encircled the entrance to the worn, weathered concrete building, weapons pointed towards the wooden door. One of the women fiddled with a small latch on her webbing, freeing the button and pulling out a small, rotund object. Nodding to her commander, the green-banded leader held up three fingers, then two, then one. The soldier threw the grenade through the small gap of the door, passing through with ease before ricocheting off the inside wall and onto the floor.
A bang. A hiss.
Bright white lights flashed briefly from behind the door, and the loud boom made enough noise to startle a resting pigeon perched atop the door's overhang. The anti-flash goggles and ear-phones would protect the detachment from the stun grenade, before the closest to the door kicked it wide open and filed into the building. 
It was dimly lit, with a stairway extending up to the next floor just in front of the doorway. Two more doors would provide access to the living room and kitchen, however the team ignored those, as they had received intel stating the targets were on the second floor. Rushing up the stairs, their weapons trained towards every conceivable engagement point, they thundered up onto the second floor, fanning out into the hallway connecting three more rooms to each other. The female who had thrown the flashbang remained in the hall, gun trained towards the two rooms not targeted. 
The other four would crowd around another door, with one pulling a shotgun from its position upon his back. Cocking a shell into the chamber, he fired into the door's fragile handle, sending splinters every which way and knocking the locks out of the wooden panel. Charging in, a bullet would strike the helmet of the man with the shotgun, knocking him back and onto the floor. The next RISC member in fired several shots into the woman standing before her, holding a pistol and wearing dirty, black coveralls: were she not a counter-revolutionary spy, she could have passed for a factory or dock worker. In all likelihood, it was probably her cover. 
The woman hit the ground hard, screaming out in pain as the shots went through her arm and chest. Standing over her, the Kropotkiner put another bullet through her head, ending her pain and reducing the risk of an alive enemy combatant with a weapon at hand. Turning around, she nodded to the team, who were moving back out into the hallway. The man who had been shot was back on his feet, the Kevlar helmet deflecting the subsonic pistol round. He would have a concussion, but he would live. 
Back into the hallway. The woman standing guard would point to the door closest to the team, using two fingers to alert them to the amount of hostiles. As they mounted up onto the door, it suddenly burst open, with bullets flying through the now-open entrance. The team quickly took cover, either diving out of the way or crouching down to avoid the fire. 
Two hostiles were in the room, crouching behind an overturned table and a wall. Their shots went wide, most likely in panic. The saboteur that had opened the door had dived back behind the table, covered by his partner who was suppressing the RISC team. Turning to a member of the team, the commander gestured with his left hand, signalling with his thumb touching the end of his middle and pointer finger. The soldier nodded and repeated the gesture to ensure he understood correctly, before pulling out another rotund grenade, this one with a red band around the widest part of the oval-like object. 
Pulling the pin, the soldier would count to two silently, before flinging the grenade through the doorway and past the table, landing neatly next to the spies. A scream of shock would be head, before it was abruptly cut off by a loud explosion. Chunks of wood and concrete flew threw the open door, and even more went through the windows and out onto the street below. The shooting from inside the room stopped, as the detachment slowly crept towards the door. After a deep breath, the team leader threw himself through the entrance, only to be greeted by the sight of greusome carnage.
The shredder grenade had demolished the table, ripping it to shreds along with the chairs and couches nearby. The man behind the table had been cut to pieces, with pieces of his body lying all across the floor. The man behind the wall hadn't been much better off, his right arm destroyed below the elbow, and ball bearings and shrapnel entering his head, leaving jagged holes in his face. He wasn't moving, yet the team leader but a bullet through his head nonetheless: a cruel fate to keep a man in that state alive, even if he was a spy. 
The team leader turned back to the doorway as a knock came on the wall: it was a member of the RISC detachment, taking off her helmet and wiping the sweat off her forehead. Her rifle was hanging on her shoulder via a sling, her posture relaxed.
"Hostiles neutralised, Dagger."
"Affirmative Mace. Bag and tag the corpses, I'll let HQ know." Team Leader Dagan Jameson glanced back to the corpses. Another successful operation, another team of foreign advisors taken out. 
"That'll show the Pinks not to call for capitalist aid," said Mace. Dagan could only nod in response. It had been a long day.
== Missed Opportunities ==
The wind carried the smoke far, and carried it long, across the windswept plains to the south. Kropotkin City was a particularly breezy location, but even today the air was sharper than usual. The threshing of the breeze cut through the streets, twisting left and right around the city’s skyscrapers, as if dogfighting an invisible enemy. It seemed to be winning too, as it showed no sign of letting up. And with storm clouds on the horizon, it seemed it would only get worse from there.
“Well, shit,” said Lepidus. “Damocles, when is that target showing up? Our window of engagement is closing – and it’s closing pretty fuckin’ fast.”
The grey-haired man sitting in the corner, attention focused upon a large spotting scope aimed just above Lepidus’ shoulder, grunted. “I don’t know, Lep,” he responded: Even if they weren't their real names, they refused to use the full codename - Dam said he didn't want to 'sound like a pretentious scholar from Monash'.
“I was told she’d be around in the next twenty minutes, chauffeured around by some Redblacks with bad attitudes.”
“Well we won’t have twenty minutes to take the hit. We’ve got ten, and even then that’s pushing it.” Lepidus brushed his brown hair to the side, maintaining his sight picture all the while. This wasn’t how the day was supposed to go. The blokes at the Bureau of Meteorology had screwed up in their forecast – again.
It wasn’t the first target elimination Lepidus had done before. It wasn’t even the tenth. It also wasn’t the first one he’d done on Kropotkin – months of low-level activity, reconnaissance, and the occasional staged ‘accident’ had morphed his voice into the husky, harsh Kropotkiner accent many knew so well. Gone were the days of his distinctive Darwinian drawl, his happy-go-lucky attitude, and even his love of cricket. He understood the rules of dravball far better than he would ever have wished, he spoke with the traditional, drawn-out vowels that every Kropotkiner knew well – he even supported a team in the KDL.
“Fuckin’ Steelers,” he muttered under his breath.
“What was that?” asked Damocles. Lepidus just shook his head.
“Nothing. Just wool-gathering.”
The old man nodded. “Just don’t get too distracted. We need to be focused, just in case the target makes an appearance.”
Lepidus shifted ever-so slightly in his chair, keeping his rifle’s stock close to his shoulder and the scope at eye level. Through the magnification, he could make out the crumbling bricks of the Liberation Point, the shell craters in the roads that only just appeared in the days prior. Checkpoints at the corners of every main intersection were staffed with stone-faced militiamen, readily outfitted in adhoc body armour – on some of the chestpieces, bloodstains and the remnants of hastily-scratched off pink paint informed Lepidus that the Redblacks manning these blockades had seen at least a little combat.
Despite the craters, though, and despite the checkpoints manned by the militia, it seemed that the civilians in the area were completely ignorant to the situation at hand. Families walked down the street with shopping bags in hand, children played in the shell craters, and even several cafes had reopened – although not very many took the risk of sitting outside, for whatever that was worth. It was as if the people living in Liberation Point didn’t realise there was currently a civil war on. Although given the speed at which the Redblacks had pushed the Pinks out of the district, it wasn’t surprising.
A vehicle turned out of a sidestreet and onto the main road Lepidus had been watching. Moving his scope to follow the staff car, his intrigued attitude quickly returned to frustration, as it wasn’t the target. A captain of some sort rode in the back, escorted by three soldiers, all clearly from the RISC. Their bright red, deep black sash tied around their arms, and the blue and green bands on their helmets displayed them as such.
Lepidus was not going to mess with them. The captain may be a high priority target – hell, he may be in charge of Redblack forces in Liberation Point – but messing with RISC would simply guarantee Lepidus and Damocles a swift and very painful death. Of course, getting his target could run the risk of involving RISC – but Lepidus knew there was no love lost between Kropotkin’s elite special security agency, and their staunchest opponent, Julia Akron.
The staff car halted in front of one of the open cafes. The RISC detachment exited the car quickly, hands on thigh holsters and heads on a swivel. The balaclavas that hid their face conveyed no emotion, the sunglasses they wore hiding any hint of worry in their eyes. The captain exited the vehicle, back straight and uniform proud, almost as if he was daring someone to shoot at him.
Naturally, someone obliged him.
BAM!
A supersonic projectile smashed through the breeze, cracking the RISC officer’s head open with one shot. The bullet went straight through, hitting the soldier directly behind him, splitting his head, before continuing down the street, halting its trail of destruction embedded into the wall of a café – right next to the head of an elderly man sipping on a glass of wine.
“Shit!” exclaimed Lepidus. He turned to Damocles, who was already disassembling the spotting scope in the room.
“Was that one of our teams? Marathon or Plataea?” asked Lepidus. Damocles shook his head, as his hands expertly folded the scope’s bipod in two and placed it into a black backpack.
“No. We’re the only group in the district. Closest is Delium, somewhere near Old Bonaparte Avenue,” he looked at Lepidus’ sniper. “You may want to start putting that away,” he said.
Another shot rang out, underscoring Damocles’ sentence. This time, though, the shot was answered, with automatic rifle fire echoing through the streets – almost drowning out the screams and cries of the civilians in the area. “We missed the target due to the bloody Pinks,” Lepidus said. “Maybe she’ll round the corner as we leave.” He looked out the window to the street, which had now been engulfed in a full firefight.
Damocles disagreed. Firmly. “We stay here, we’re at risk of getting caught up in the chaos. We need to get out of here – Now.”
Lepidus looked from Damocles, and back to the street, where he could make out crouching figures gripping weapons of all sorts – and the corpses of those who hadn’t had time enough to get to cover. With one last glance to the firefight, he sighed, and began to pack up his rifle.
It took him less than thirty seconds to disassemble the weapon, expertly packing it away into a carrying case. He slotted the case into a backpack identical to the one Damocles now wore, zipping up the pocket and slotting it onto his shoulder. He gave his leg a reassuring pat, ensuring his concealed pistol was still attached, before nodding to the elder man. The two opened the door leading out of the small closet, into a short hallway. Rushing past the other doors on the floor, they made their way to the staircase at the end, beginning the long way down – ten stories up, it was one of the highest buildings in Liberation Point.
Halfway down, an explosion rocked their ears, carried their way by the wind’s current. The two paused, as they waited to see if it would be followed up by another. It was. Lepidus paused, thinking of the cause. Just as it came to him, Damocles interrupted the silence.
“The Pinks have a mortar set up. They don’t care who they hit, as long as it hits something. Civilians or Redblacks.” Lepidus shook his head.
“Remind me again why we’re here to help them, in that case?” he responded, a hint of snideness in his voice. Damocles glanced at him, one eyebrow raised.
“Because the Pinks don’t hate us as much as the Redblacks,” he answered evenly. “They also both do it – doesn’t make it ok, but it is what it is.”
Lepidus let out a small, pained chuckle. “You’ve been on this planet too long, Dam.” Damocles smiled at that.
“Too fucking right I have,” he said. “Maybe if I get off this rock I won’t be so jaded. Doubt it, though.”
With that, the two continued their descent down the stairs, as the skirmish that began on the main road expanded. The explosions continued to rain down, as the smallarms fire only picked up in intensity – and it seemed to be coming closer. Lepidus hope that the ever-increasing noise only meant that the wind had changed direction, to push the noise closer to them – but he doubted it. He patted his thigh holster yet again, this time instinctively, ready to fight his way out of the building, even though he’d much prefer if he didn’t.
They reached the bottom floor, as the firefight had transformed into a full-blown skirmish. The explosions carried on, this time with a higher intensity – a distinct boom occurred just outside, as Lepidus looked out a passing window to see smoke and flame billowing from a parked car – and he smelt the distinctive scent of charred flesh. He turned away, trying not to vomit, as he and Damocles continued forward, down a corridor and to the front door. The two foreigners crouched down behind the frame, as rifle fire cracked just outside, coming from the next block over.
“The Pinks are trying to retake the entire suburb after their early defeat,” commented Damocles. Lepidus only nodded, as the older man continued. “If we stay here, we’ll likely be hit by a stray bullet or mortar round. We need to make for the safehouse at Steffi’s farm – it’s a long ways off, but if we get there we’ll be safe.”
“Agreed,” said Lepidus. “I say we make for the tube station at Reznov Street, and walk through the commuter tunnel to Alexander Park. We should be out of range of the mortars, if the battle stays put – a big if, though.”
Damocles affirmed Lepidus’ judgement with a simple nod, and placed his hand on the door.
“Ready?” he asked.
Lepidus nodded. Bracing himself, Damocles turned the knob, and flung the door to the street open – to be greeted by four men and women, clad in grey combat armour, black balaclavas and the distinctive, turtle-shaped combat helmets of a RISC detachment.
Guns up, the four soldiers rushed into the building, rifles aimed at the two men. Lepidus raised his hands high, kneeling on the floor, facing towards his partner. Damocles, for his part, did the same. Three of the soldiers stood behind Lepidus and Damocles, whilst the fourth, obviously the leader due to the green band on his headgear, stared at the two men.
“Are you Pinks?” he queried. Damocles shook his head vigorously, whilst Lepidus looked up into the man’s eyes – his grey bags and furrowed eyebrows betrayed his fatigue.
“No, we’re not filthy democrats,” answered Lepidus. “Pretty sure if there were, they’d be upstairs. We only just heard the gunfire a couple minutes ago, on Liebknecht Road – is it an attack?” Lepidus looked up towards the team leader, attempting to portray his face as one of confusion – and it clearly worked. The man visibly relaxed, his shoulders dropping slightly, before nodding.
“Alright, get lost. They’re pushing towards this building, and we’re gonna stop them from going further,” he turned to one of the women in the team, her arms cradling a combat shotgun. “Mace, let HQ know we’re getting civilians out of the AO.”
“Will do, Dagger,” she responded, pulling a handheld radio from his webbing. Dagger turned to Lepidus and Damocles, and gestured with his rifle to go. Lepidus nodded his thanks, and helping Damocles up, the two crouched low, and moved out of the building.
They two didn’t say a word until they reached Reznov Street, as they walked down the stairs into the underground station. Lepidus turned to Damocles as they walked, allowing himself a half-smile.
“That was fucking close.”
Damocles smiled back his response. “Damn right it was, Max.”
== Loose Change ==
In the aftermath of the Red-Black Cultural Revolution, the Kropotkiner government struggles to reaffirm its control, as the agents of Thebes begin to assert themselves even more within the planet's fragile society."I told you once, and I'll tell you again, rail's shut down on orders of the Transport Union. Five workers dead in two derailments? Of course they'll pause service to fix the issue!" 
The teller at the station was in no mood to negotiate, with the gates to the subway firmly locked against outside use. The small group of people crowding around his box were obviously disappointed, but resigned themselves to their fate. Axios sighed, stuffing his hands into his jacket's oversized pockets. Looking around the open area, he saw the remnants of the revolution that still remained on the walls. Slogans graffitied by the Pinks to encourage rejection of the Free Systems Pact, matched by the red and black paints used by United Front paramilitaries in an attempt to disguise the dissenting opinion. Posters and pictures ripped from the wall, destroyed rubbish bins used to start fires now blackened embers upon the floor, and the remnants of a glass pane that had once protected the station's tellers from outside violence. 
"Well, thanks anyway," said Axios. Turning around, he would begin to walk through the station's empty hall, arriving at the steps to the streets above in only a scant few seconds. The mood was disquieting. He had arrived on Kropotkin two years ago, as one of the clerks working at the Theban Embassy. Then, Kropotkin City had been bustling, with a vibrant night life and seemingly-endless crowds of people moving to and fro. Now, a month after the Revolution, it was dead. The infinite number of people had been reduced to mere hundreds, walking with their heads down and minds ignorant. The weather seemed to match the mood, with dark grey clouds washing over the city with their eerie mundane sadness.
Despite this blanket mood somewhat affecting Axios too, as it pained him to see a city he admired reduced to such melancholy, this situation would assist him in his goal. He wasn't just a clerk at the Theban embassy, no. He was an agent of the Theban intelligence Service, field code Ravenwood, with a very strict set of operational orders to carry out during his tenure on Kropotkin. They had changed dramatically, in the aftermath of the Cultural Revolution. Originally, he was to watch for any division between the Reds and Blacks - whilst he had found division, it wasn't what the TIS expected. During and after the chaos, now, his goal had been re-evaluated to a much more involved perspective - blackmail and bomb-making. 
Of course, none of this was meant to be threatening to the new, centralised Kropotkin government, but rather acting against the interests of this government - unless said interests interfered, or directly opposed, the goals and missions of a certain regional power that Kropotkin happened to be closely allied to. In part, that's what he was there to do today.