Red America, Eastern Front:

Utopia Or Deuteranopia?

Commissar Alexi Vazhin turned his one-eyed gaze up at the London sky from the balcony of his well-decorated office, watching the lights dancing beneath the stars as the annual Victory Day fireworks squealed and spat flame in the sky. The yearly celebration was held by the Soviet government to prove to the proletariat that they were, in actual fact, better off than when they had been slaves to money and religion, and Vazhin always liked seeing the people lining the streets to watch the endless columns of spotless, impeccably-maintained T-90 tanks and pristinely-uniformed soldiers marching crisply towards Trafalgar Square, where their arrival would herald the start of a massive city-wide party. Every year it seemed to get louder and more expensive, and Vazhin often wondered where the local authorities found the resources to organise it – but if it made his job easier, if only for one day, then he was all for it. His uniform's black greatcoat and cap helped shield him from the evening cold, which he was also supremely grateful for; the weather in this wretched country wasn't much better than his native land, even at its warmest, and Vazhin often found himself wishing for just one Russian summer to make up for the conditions during the rest of the year. At least Russia has sunshine more than once or twice a decade, Vazhin thought dryly, before he gathered his greatcoat about him and buttoned it as close as he could, before readjusting the fit of his peaked uniform cap on the top of his close-cropped military haircut. He was well-aware that he was very visible from his balcony, so appearances were to be kept up as much as possible – when stray glances were cast in his direction, he simply smiled briefly and waved with all the grace he could muster, while inwardly hoping that the blizzard of ticker-tape that would soon engulf the city would deflect attention away from him.

With that in mind, he was somewhat relieved when he heard a hand knock briefly on the double doors of his office. "Come," he said, the thick Russian accent in his voice obscuring the English word a little, but not enough so that the person outside the door did not understand him. The door opened, and a slender female Red Army officer made her way into the room, clicking her heels together smartly as she saluted. Vazhin returned the salute crisply before he smiled broadly at his aide, the crows'-feet around his eyes creasing slightly as he did so.

"Lieutenant Maximov," Vazhin said, nodding appreciatively towards the diligent young officer who he'd brought with him from the European mainland – for personal as well as professional reasons (aside from being a superb soldier and manager of resources, Lieutenant Maximov had become extremely close to her commanding officer. Vazhin had no doubt that if any of his fellow commissars caught wind of this highly improper state of affairs, he'd be shipped off to Siberia in chains – or worse, given a posting in a country even less relevant than this one)."I trust you have good news, Wanda?"

"Absolutely, sir," Lieutenant Maximov purred, before pressing a handful of documents into his outstretched palm and then moulding herself to his body, kissing his scarred lips with an enthusiasm Vazhin had long envied, and never quite understood. Apparently being young and stupid had its advantages after all… "The rebel filth in the prison cells complied with our requests." She paused kittenishly, giving Vazhin a tempting look into the gorgeous opalescent green of her eyes. "We have word from the prisoners that there was to be a strike tonight, at the place of the Liberation Day celebrations. What do you wish to do, sir?"

Vazhin smiled wolfishly. "Ready the troops. I want today to go off without a hitch – I will not have the rebels pissing on Liberation Day just because they can." He drew his service automatic and checked the magazine was fully loaded almost out of habit. "Have my personal transport ready – I want to lead this operation myself."

"Sir?" Lieutenant Maximov began, looking understandably confused. "The soldiers can handle it perfectly well by themselves. I don't understand why –"

"That's why I'm your superior officer, Lieutenant," Vazhin snapped, a chilly edge to his tone. "You'd do well to remember that." Then his face softened, and he continued, saying "This has to happen this way – Liberation Day has not had any kind of rebel activity for years, not since we killed their last real leader. If the rebel scum wants to make this a new tradition, then it is my duty to stop them in their tracks before it gets anywhere. Do you understand?" He smiled encouragingly, a gesture which most of his other troops would have found stunningly out-of-character (a fact which he frequently liked to exploit, in order to perpetuate his stony-faced reputation). "If you like, you can come along and hold my hand."

Lieutenant Maximov smiled coyly. "What if somebody sees us?"

"Then I'll cross that bridge when I come to it," Vazhin replied, with another uncharacteristic smile. "Now, I want two squads of troops armed and ready to scramble in fifteen minutes." His single eye glittered with anticipation. "Those rebels won't know what's hit them…"

Vazhin could almost feel his teeth loosening in his jaw as his personal transport rumbled through the streets, its heavy treads almost crunching the tarmac of the roads to powder underneath its incredible weight. Across the way from him, Lieutenant Maximov was strapped into her seat, wearing some heavy combat webbing and cradling an assault rifle across her knees. She gave him a brief thumbs-up and one of those butter-wouldn't-melt smiles that had drawn him to her in the first place, although Vazhin thought they were more for her benefit than his. Lieutenant Maximov had never been the most confident field soldier, so volunteering for this mission must have taken more guts than brains.

For that, Vazhin supposed, he had to give her credit. He certainly hadn't wanted to be constantly looking over his shoulder when the shooting started, though, so that was all the credit she'd be getting as far as he was concerned. He was grateful for the distraction when the driver of his transport let him know that they were coming up to their intended target – maybe now he could take out some of the frustrations that had built up over the past year on the wretched little maggots who insisted on resisting the benevolence of the Soviet Union. He drew his machine pistol and steel sabre and unclipped his seat-belt before disembarking from the transport. Looking around him, he saw the building that had been marked out as a rebel headquarters about a hundred metres off to his right, and quickly beckoned one of his squad leaders over to discuss what to do. After a few moments of conversation, he sent the young man off to flank the building and perhaps try to assault it from the rear. As the young man scampered off to rejoin his own troopers, Vazhin padded towards another soldier – one who was attentively cradling a rocket launcher. He directed the trooper's gaze to a window with no glass at the front of the building. "Put a round through there," he said. "That ought to let them know we mean business, da?" The young man nodded, then moved to the front of the Soviet line and knelt down to aim his shot, before squeezing the trigger and sending the rocket howling towards the rebel HQ. It shrieked through the open window and impacted inside the ground floor, sending out long tongues of flame. Bodies also went flying like rag dolls, their ragged fatigues burning virulently.

"Now!" Vazhin shouted, charging towards the shattered building. Machine-gun rounds and small-arms fire began biting chunks out of the ground around his feet as he did so, which Vazhin was grateful for – he'd never really enjoyed one-sided fights. He reached the door of the building with only a few nicks taken out of his greatcoat and the body armour he wore underneath it, and kicked the door nearly off its hinges, hosing the interior of the building with lead before stepping inside. He hadn't got two paces before one rebel, a woman armed with two Russian Army pistols and a crazed look on her bloodied face started shooting at him from his good side. Vazhin twisted on one leg and shot her full in the face without pause, cracking her skull open like an egg and making her fall like a marionette with its strings cut.

"Russkie bastard!" howled another rebel, but this time from Vazhin's blind side. He tried turning, but he knew he wouldn't make it in time –

– and that was when he heard Lieutenant Maximov coming up behind him, her rifle firing on full automatic. The rebel – a blond man, Vazhin could see now – crumpled as bloody flowers opened on his chest, collapsing into a rancid puddle of engine oil that lingered on the concrete floor. Vazhin ignored the body as he turned to his aide. "Thank you, Lieutenant," he said with the ghost of a smile.

"My pleasure, sir," Lieutenant Maximov replied, before nodding at the doorway before them. "Shouldn't we be moving on?"

"Of course. We have a building to cleanse, don't we?" Vazhin nodded to the nearest of the other troopers to take point, and the squad stalked its way through the building's ground floor, picking off any and all resistance with very little difficulty. Apparently this group of rebels was intent on taking Liberation Day off as well, which Vazhin found rather gratifying: he had never liked working on a state holiday, after all. Then the squad which he had sent around to the rear of the building appeared in his field of vision, carrying with them a pair of struggling rebels: one male, one female. Vazhin leaned closer to the man, and said "I trust you can tell me your reasons for planning a raid today?" in a slightly condescending tone.

"I'll never talk," the rebel said defiantly. Vazhin simply laughed, drew his service automatic, and shot the woman in the stomach. She screamed in pain, and writhed as the bullet wound began bleeding profusely.

"You will talk, comrade," Vazhin said simply, "or I will shoot her again. Perhaps a kneecap this time?" He shifted his aim downwards to the middle of the woman's left leg, and began tightening his finger on the trigger.

"All right – just don't hurt her again," the man said frantically, and Vazhin thought he could see the flicker of the same kind of feelings he had for Lieutenant Maximov appear in his adversary's eyes.

A weakness to be exploited, he decided.

Vazhin watched the columns of tanks passing by his window, the crimson hammer and sickle flags flapping proudly from their flanks, and felt inwardly happy that he had made a difference today. The proletariat might only look to him for inspiring speeches, but without him, they wouldn't even have a Liberation Day at all. And that, he decided, was what made today worthwhile after all, and had made all the frustrations of the past year irrelevant.

Behind him, he could hear Lieutenant Maximov enter the office, and so he turned and saluted. She returned the gesture and said "The rebels are in a prisoner transport to the motherland. They will be in Siberia within the hour." She smiled. "I think we've done well, sir." She pressed closer to him for a kiss. "Happy Liberation Day, Alexi."

"Happy Liberation Day, Wanda." Vazhin said, and cupped Lieutenant Maximov's chin in both hands. When he broke the kiss, he said "I have some leave saved up. How would you like to go to America – purely to celebrate today's great victory, of course?"

Lieutenant Maximov smiled impishly. "I'd… love to, sir."

Vazhin grinned back at her. Today, he decided, had been a liberation in more ways than one…