"You don't expect me," he said, "to revolutionize society on this lawn?"

After strife and betrayal, Britain rose from the ashes. She was battered and bruised by the rigors of the revolution, but she had survived and came out greater for it. Enlightened by Syndicalism, linked in international brotherhood with the French and the Italians.

Where their previous alliance had been inspired by the cold political aims of imperial powers, this one was bound by nothing less than the hope for mankind's liberation. They were not attempting to feed the insatiable dragon of capitalism, constantly expanding to new markets until the need for growth grew cancerous and self-destructive.

There was something new here. Something better than old national grudges and jockeying for power. The Trade Union Congress represented the people better than some distant monarch who had won their position by nothing more than chance. It was a rational system, divorced from centuries of historical idiosyncrasies and red tape. A new start.

It was expected to be a bit rough, wasn't it? The revolution had been accomplished by violence, would need to be defended with violence, and was perpetually under threat of violence until the whole world was liberated. It wasn't easy, what they had signed up for, but it was better than a slow death. Better than the callous indignities of the old system.

They weren't exactly in Cockaigne just yet, what with the country they were actively piecing back together, but they were resolved to build something better. It was a renovation of the whole country so that it was more accommodating for everyone. Like a house rebuilt for a veteran so that it might allow him to live without his legs. It seemed a fitting metaphor because the government actually did that. Several veterans coming from Malaya's own crew benefitted from those programs. The job scheme especially….

A rising tide lifted all boats - disregarding the parasites who exploited the old system - but Ramillies was a special beneficiary of the Revolution. Her short-cut hair and interest in avant-garde fashion was an oddity in old Britain but charming in the Union. That was helped by Ramillies and the clothing unions getting along like a house on fire, plus the economic reality that the fashionable Ramillies wearing shorter skirts inspired less use of fabric on a much grander scale. That was important, considering Britain's current import situation.

She was, in some sense, the modern Syndicalist woman. That's what the propaganda would tell you, at least: she had a familiarity with some form of productive work in sewing and tailoring, and she rejected old-fashioned gender roles by smoking and drinking and even fighting. Syndicalists didn't have to square the circle in that regard. A girl could fight, and if reactionaries struggled to accept that - well, that was just another failure of their system.

(You could see how Ramillies fought in her face. Her nose was still crooked from a scuffle in the early days of the revolution… and she would occasionally expose her little 'lovebite' - a bullet scar on the left shoulder, earned when the civil war grew so serious that shooting sacred cows was on the table.)

"Malaya? Malayaaa? Care to join us in the land of the living?" Ramillies snapped her fingers in front of Malaya's face and finally managed to get through to her.

"Ah, sorry. Just thinking," Malaya excused herself.

"Well, I suppose that's what they pay you for…" she trailed off, a frown appearing on her face. "Bugger. That isn't gonna work one day, is it?"

"What do you mean?"

"You know the theory and stuff, right? Ah, Syndicalist theory."

"Yes…?" Malaya asked.

"What are our chances of no longer using money?"

"Some theorists have suggested work vouchers," Malaya said. "It's possible the TUC goes that way." They were still on the pound, technically speaking, but there were rumors of a shared Syndicalist decimal currency bouncing about.

"Hmmm," Ramillies rested her chin on her hand and did some thinking. "How long are we talking? Should I give up trying to teach money idioms to this one?" Ramillies dipped her head in the direction of Renown, who blinked.

"I don't know, but I expect we'll have money for some time yet. Dealings with other countries and such. Even then, people will understand the meaning for some time afterward."

"Right," Ramillies nodded before turning to look at Renown. She clapped her hands together once. "Surprise question: what does it mean when I say 'penny for your thoughts', Renown?"

"You wish to know what your interlocutor is thinking, but no money is forthcoming," Renown responded, Ramillies grinning with pride. "But that seems rather inefficient. Surely, you would have a higher rate of success if you did provide payment-"

"Would you pay for someone's thoughts, Renown?"

"If I was ordered to, perhaps because the thoughts are of strategic significance…"

Ramillies exhaled aggressively. "I suppose you make a fair point there. Malaya, what do your thoughts go for? Shillings?" She started patting her pockets, "I figure we shouldn't be calling them crowns anymore but I think I've got a couple still…"

"A sovereign, at least."

"There's a fine line between self-confidence and a big head, I'll have you know," Ramillies said. "But hey, I'll keep an eye out. They're not making them anymore, are they?"

"Maybe that's my plot. Hoarding bullion." Malaya joked.

Renown spoke up: "My captain informed me that one of the destroyers caught someone attempting to smuggle gold out of the country recently."

After a moment of silence, Ramillies cleared her throat. "Well, I've got no worries about Malaya leaving us." (Where could she possibly flee to? Not that she felt the urge, of course.)

"Ah, was that a joke?"

"You're learning!" Ramillies grinned, before turning to Malaya. "Speaking of character growth…"

"What?"

"I'd like you to do a little something for me during the celebration this weekend."

Malaya had a bad feeling about this… "What are you planning?"

"I'm going to make Barham the contralto I know she can be and I need your help."

Huh?

This was going to sound pretty damned stupid… but Nelson wasn't used to pouring her own drinks. In the time before the revolution, there was typically a sailor attached to her for her maintenance (and to rein her in), and if they wouldn't do it, one of the maid-themed cruisers would. While she lived a slightly cushier life just by merit of being a mighty warship, the difference she had once taken as a given was treasonous and anti-revolutionary.

With hindsight, Nelson could admit that she had, perhaps, been just a little… unkind, especially against poor Cassandra. She was already an anxious wreck without someone mouthing off at her, and honestly, they needed to support each other. Form a united front. The revolution was…

The revolution was a lot, and Nelson wasn't completely sure how to feel about the whole thing. Still, she would admit that there was some merit in unions and the negotiating power they provided, especially considering that there was no particular reason they couldn't form a shipgirl's union, was there? It would be in the spirit of the revolution, wouldn't it?

She wondered how long big talk about equality for everyone would last when a certain group of people had a disproportionate role in the defense of the country. Thinking about feudalism, there was good reason that society was directed towards the production of maintenance of skilling fighting men… when you were protected by a wooden wall, you'd certainly have to make sure that it was properly maintained.

Despite that thought and the nice French wine they got to drink, there were a lot of cons that came with the rise of Syndicalism. Creature comforts, sure, but also many of their comrades and no small amount of naval talent. She imagined the Canadians were in an equally bad spot, without the means to make whatever ships they dreamt up – without paying the Americans, she supposed – but perhaps they suffered from the same issue of politically minded idiots gaining position instead of real talents.

(Instead of throwing the word reactionary around, they probably said revolutionary.)

Somewhere in that list of cons was also the music choice. There were two extremes: old-timey songs of English rebellion, or whatever asinine avant-garde garbage was put out recently. Because everything has a political dimension, you see.

So that meant she was listening to a performance of some nearly three-century-old song written by Diggers. Who were the Diggers? Their gallant predecessors in English socialism, of course. Nonconformists during the English Civil War… she supposed that England had a tradition of low-church egalitarianism that blended with Syndicalism a lot easier than the Catholics over the channel.

Getting used to the new order of things wasn't easy, and there were certainly hurdles greater than music choice. It was just something she could let herself be mad about without worrying she'd attract some political commissar. Speaking of…

"Hell, is that Anson?" Nelson muttered, averting her eyes in the hope that her sister wouldn't notice.

Rodney took a cautious peek without turning her head. "It is. You don't want me calling her over?"

"Please, no."

She frowned but didn't cry out to Anson. Yet. "For the party's sake… we'll delay our chat until later, alright?"

"Thank you." Nelson understood that Rodney was genuinely trying to mend fences with Anson but she just didn't want some Syndicalist lecture tonight.

The song ended and for a few moments, Nelson hoped that she might be spared music for the night. There was murmuring about who was to go up next before Ramillies shouted "Go on, you two!" Before shoving Malaya and Barham to the small area cleared for performance.

There went Nelson's hopes of avoiding niche historical songs. She sipped at her drink – French import, sent as a gift from their analogs over the channel – and listened as the two went at it. Better singers than she thought, although any singing on Barham's part was more than expected.

(Ye Jacobites by Name? God, it was written by a Whig! But she supposed the message of not going out and dying like a fool for some overseas dynast was pretty applicable now.)

Rodney looked behind Nelson and grinned broadly. "Repulse!"

Repulse did not fit down on the chair as much as she landed on it with speed. "Rodney, Nelly, good to see you both. Oh, I've got a little…" She reached into a pocket and passed Nelson a note.

"Firstly, don't call me Nelly. Second, what is this?"

"A letter."

Rodney's eyes lit up. "A love letter?"

"To me?" Nelson asked, the paper bending ever so slightly in her grasp.

"That's the name on the front," Repulse said. Not denying the love letter point, huh?

"Do you have…"

"A knife? Here." Repulse pulled the thing out of nowhere so quickly Nelson might have jumped. If she didn't trust the girl with her life, that was. She wouldn't say she was completely on board with the politics, but Nelson certainly didn't lack feeling for… most of her comrades. They had survived the chaos together.

(Malaya and Barham kept up the song: "What makes heroic strife famed afar, famed afar?")

The blade slid through the envelope like it was air. "You take good care of it," Nelson said.

"Was it a gift?" Rodney asked, leaning towards Repulse with unabashed curiosity.

Repulse flushed and Nelson was spared her sister's attention for a few precious moments. "Well, he's not so sure he's staying in the navy…"

"But there's a chance, you think?"

"Yep! He's taking me on a trip inland. Cleared with the captain and everything."

("What makes heroic strife, to whet the assassin's knife, or hunt a parent's life with bloody war, bloody war…")

Nelson opened the envelope and fished out a letter. Unfolding it revealed line after line of tightly packed calligraphy. In spite of the packing, it was quite legible. Pretty, even. She supposed that was a point in the writer's favor.

The stationery wasn't what she was used to, but it was about as nice as you could get at the moment. Still rankled a bit, but…

Miss Nelson,

If you're reading this, Repulse delivered my letter. Give her my thanks. I'd like to hope it complements however many times I've thanked her already.

"He asked me to give you his thanks, Repulse," Nelson said. "And, if you wouldn't mind my asking, what's his rank?"

"Does it matter?" Rodney asked.

"Is he well respected? Does he work hard?" She supposed that something as simple as class or social status wasn't enough to shirk off a meeting, so she would need to find some other excuse…

"Oh, he'll be glad to know you're interested–"

"At what point did I even imply I might be interested?!"