Steve’s shorts: Fascist Tango, Part One…
[Note from Steve: This serialized novella is dedicated to the victims of political, ethnic, and religious violence everywhere, and especially to those who have been victims of far-right white supremacist and neo-Nazi movements. We’ve seen this many times recently—in fact, just this last week in Christchurch in New Zealand and not long ago in Pittsburgh in the US.
Here most of the action takes place in the Southern Cone of South America in the near future where right-wing violence and autocratic regimes maintain a death grip on the world—that is fiction.
In the real world of the past, this was the norm in many South American countries like Argentina, where the military junta waged its “Dirty War,” and in Chile, where Pinochet’s regime tried to halt all progressive movements by slaughtering their leaders—both fascist governments came to power with the help of the CIA. While Venezuela’s current problems weren’t caused by the far right, one cannot deny that the Chavez and Maduro regimes might as well have been—the labels we use for autocratic governments are irrelevant. And, of course, Hitler’s “Final Solution” was responsible for the death of millions—an American CEO just recently used the meme “Arbeit Macht Frei”!
To all these victims, I dedicate this story, a terrifying look at what the world might become if this move to the extremes continues. This story pays homage to the grand tradition of all those great dystopian novels that I read as a kid—The Time Machine, Brave New World, Darkness at Noon, 1984, and others. It’s also a nod to William Gibson, creator of sci-fi’s cyberpunk subgenre.
A warning to parents: While there are no explicit sexual or violent scenes—at least no more than we might see in a PG-13 movie at a theater—the topics considered here are not appropriate for small children, even if they are precocious. Please use your parental judgment wisely by reading the novella first.]
Fascist Tango
Copyright 2019, Steven M. Moore
Summary
It is 2037. Jasmine Locke, a cybernetic-human who is a top agent for a centrist vigilante group, is sent to South America. Her assignment: go undercover to trace the tentacles of a new fascist worldwide organization. In Buenos Aires, she meets Juan Carlos Benavides, a retired member of her group whom she recruits to help her. Her mind-melding with the group’s AI network to manage large quantities of data, which is not uncommon at the time, leads to unforeseen consequences.
Chapter One
At a Budapest Warehouse
I’d already scanned the inside of the warehouse with my IR and radar sensors, but I still peeked around our group’s sentry into the dim interior of the warehouse. Force of habit.
The construction was late twentieth or early twenty-first century, so the place wasn’t in good shape, especially after fires in the 2031 riots had left it standing with charred walls. Still functioning, though. Seven years later, the autocratic government was still in firm control.
Our forensics people had just entered after parking their unmarked van behind the warehouse. I could still see what was left of Karl chained to an old steel chair—his blood and body parts were spread around his mangled corpse. I’d seen the chair with my radar, but not Karl with my IR—his body was already cold. Almost lost my lunch with the visual.
I’d seen tortured and dismembered bodies before. Autocrats loved to do that to anyone who went up against them. Hadn’t known the victims in the previous cases. Karl had been one of our best agents, one we hated to lose, especially in this way. We were only a few now, spread thin around the world trying to do what we could to end fascism’s stranglehold on humanity.
I stretched a bit. Was overdue for a tune-up. I’d gone through hell fighting off rejection when I received my prosthetics and new body parts after the semi had crashed into me. Guess I should call the necessary tune-ups only purgatory. The stiffness wasn’t any worse than what I used to have in an Edinburgh winter.
I turned away from the scene and walked a few steps toward the river to avoid the stench of the Danube made especially nauseating by my heightened sense of smell. What the Hungarian right-wing totalitarian government had done to the Danube even before the riots had produced an eternal stench too, but I tolerated all that better than the stench of torture and death. Even the fog made yellow from the old streetlamps as it rolled in from the river seemed refreshing but hesitant to compete against death’s stench.
After my stomach settled a bit with the fresher air, I stuck my head through the door again and transmitted to our chief CSI via her normal earworm-mike combo, “Look for anything that will give us a clue about which fascist group was responsible for this.”
“Probably locals, Jasmine,” said the sentry. “Hard to imagine who else would know about this abandoned warehouse.”
“Locals with international connections,” I said with the CSI still in the link. “Someone told them what Karl’s goals here in Budapest were.” I touched my forehead with my index finger—nearly metal against metal because my head was well protected now. One benefit? My wig never itched! “And we’ve lost all the information Karl gathered.”
He’d been working undercover. We all did from time to time. We had to be highly motivated to put our life on the line like that. Many times in my case. My motivation was simple: fascists had killed my father. I lost him when I was six. Everybody knew I had my personal agenda, but the people in charge of our group couldn’t turn the revenge-seekers away all the time—good agents were hard to come by.
***
Marvin Cox soon joined me at the warehouse. Sans earworm and mic, he liked to pretend he was a big shot. He was an able administrator, but he’d never been in the field. Lost some respect from that, but I wouldn’t want his job.
“Came as soon as I could. Any info on Karl’s killer?”
I used my software to kill all my RF links. “Multiple killers. DNA from at least three different people.” Frowned. “I would have thought that you’d be a bit more maudlin. Karl was a great guy and one of our best agents.”
“Men aren’t as emotional as women.”
Prick, I thought. Whispered it too. Was glad that was off-air. Was also glad Marvin was on our side, though. He could be an asshole, but provided a bit of balance against the smart fascist assholes we were fighting round the globe.
“I won’t even respond to that stupid statement,” I said.
The SOB winked at me. “You just did. Suck it up. This is good experience for you. Someday you might have your turn in the torture chair. We’re not in nursery school playtime, you know.” He was an American, but none of us could live there anymore, so he had acquired a bit of a local accent—English sprinkled with paprika.
“And you know Karl was a human being, not just your slave.”
“Shit, Jasmine, we’re all in this together.”
I didn’t respond to that meaningless but true observation. Of course we were—the endangered few who thought the world’s scourge of fascism should end.
We both talked to the chief CSI agent live when she exited the warehouse.
Our group wasn’t very big. Major cities in all the right-wing countries or ones leaning that way often had small local clandestine offices. Budapest’s had four permanent employees—two CSIs, the agent who served as sentry, and Marvin, the local boss. Other agents would float from city to city, trying to do what needed to be done and sometimes getting killed while doing it. For example, I wasn’t tied to any particular office. Most of us weren’t. Yet Marvin felt he could boss me around. Karl hadn’t tolerated that. I’d miss Karl.
The CSI showed us a business card. Rodrigo Jimenez, Imports & Exports. A hologram of Rodrigo seemed to hang in midair; he was smiling at us. I didn’t like the smile. The address was in Asuncion.
“If he’s not here in Budapest, Mr. Jimenez was a contact for someone in the group here that killed Karl,” said Marvin.
“Or maybe he was someone who was directing the torture from afar,” I said.
Marvin nodded. “I’m sending you to Argentina, Jasmine. I’ll get the OK from Paris HQ.”
“FYI: Asuncion is in Paraguay.”
“FYI: Juan Carlos Benavides is in Argentina. You’ll need his help.”
“Who the hell is Juan Carlos Benavides?”
Chapter Two
In a Buenos Aires Milonga
I entered the dark milonga and spotted Juan Carlos Benavides—not among the audience, mostly couples seated at their tables sipping their drinks, and not on the small dance floor where patrons danced their sexy tangos—but in front of the band. The milongas still existed because the porteños couldn’t live without their music and dances, in spite of the junta’s curfews and other policies that tried to stop people from having fun.
Benavides was belting out the lyrics to “Por Una Cabeza” with good-natured lust. At times he would join the musicians using the bandoneon draped around his neck.
I’d heard the song ages ago in the classic movie Scent of a Woman—tangos are songs that often inspire dancing—and liked it so much that I’d found a purchase link to the old soundtrack and downloaded it, under a false identity, of course. While Juan Carlos was enthusiastic, he was a better bandoneon player than singer.
After scanning the audience, band, and Benavides across the EM spectrum, I found an empty table, ordered a glass of Malbec from Mendoza, and settled in to enjoy the rest of the song. Lengthened by segments featuring the orchestra, everyone could dance who wanted to do so. When both singer and band came to a galumphing stop, everyone applauded, and I raised my glass to salute Juan Carlos. He saw the gesture and approached me when the band took a break.
“Turista gringa,” he said, labeling me but not too loudly.
There were informers and spies in the audience. Thought I’d picked most of them out. Maybe they just wanted to enjoy Buenos Aires nightlife too, but I doubted it. Were they following me?
“The famous Juan Carlos Benavides,” I said in English. “Or should I say infamous?”
He sat down. “You have me at a disadvantage. First, you must tell me your name, and then you must dance with me.”
“Jasmine Locke,” I said, “and I’m not a good dancer.”
He offered a hand. “Just follow me, Jasmine. I am a good dancer.”
He was. A very sexy dancer. If he weren’t twenty years older than I was, I’d have fallen more in love with him. Of course, he might be turned off by all my hardware if he learned about it. After “A Media Luz” ended, we returned to our seats, and Juan Carlos ordered a scotch.
“You’re a good enough dancer, Jasmine,” he said, offering me a salute after he had sniffed the vapors from the amber liquor. “I can tell it’s not in your blood, though.”
“Locke is Scottish like your drink, and I’m smoky and addictive too, but I’m not good at Scottish dances either. I like men in kilts, though.”
“Why is that?”
“A true Scot doesn’t wear underwear under his kilt.”
I winked at him. Figured a little flirting could put his mind at ease. He laughed.
“So, what are you good at? And why are you looking for me? This place isn’t well-known to gringo tourists.”
I smiled. “Yet you’re here.”
“I’m not a tourist. And I was born in Medellin, Colombia, a city where the tango is at least as popular as it is in Buenos Aires. Carlos Gardel is its patron saint. You didn’t answer my questions.”
I wasn’t sure who Gardel was. I could ask the group’s AI network if I had my dongle plugged into the side of my head. Some people in the audience had theirs.
“I’ll table the first question. The answer to the second one is Project Orion.”
“Ah, the Hunter, with Almitak, Alnilam, and Mintaka forming the belt where the guns dangle, ready to be used on the bad guys. I don’t have anything to do with Project Orion anymore.”
“Even if it’s been revived?”
“Why? I was the only survivor of my unit. I spent six months in a hospital and rehab.”
He tapped his left arm. I’d already sensed it was prosthetic. Good job, although it was old technology. My prosthetics were greatly improved.
He continued his critique. “Does the group want to injure and kill more good people? Or go after old right-wing farts who are already two breaths away from dying? Or the new upstarts who think fascism is a holy religion? Time will seal the first ones’ fate and revolution will end the last ones’ existence, if Gaia manages to survive the fascists’ onslaught, that is.”
“We’re after the new flatulence,” I said. “And stopping their movements cold if we can.”
He frowned. “I’d worry more about the US and Europe because of their complete turn to the right than the South American traditional hideouts for old Nazis. Correction: neo-Nazis. All the old Nazis are dead, fortunately.”
She nodded. “I understand the sentiment. But there’s a nexus between all these groups. Fascists aren’t stupid. They can use social media and the dark web as well as or better than Arab fanatics or the radical left.”
“The radical left is depleted. And why don’t we just let them all kill each other? The far-right has no use for terrorists or the far-left. Arabs are considered inferior too. As well as Hispanics, Blacks, and Jews, who make up most of the South American population.”
“But the far-right taps into the halls of power in the extinct western democracies much more efficiently. And that gives them a technical advantage.”
Juan Carlos looked around. Funny he should now worry about spies and informers. Maybe he’s careless because he’s getting old?
“All right, I’ll hear your spiel. But not here, even though it’s noisy enough to bury our words. Let’s take a taxi ride. You just never know who’s listening. The fascists here in Argentina know me. Fortunately they think I’m harmless now, just an old man waiting to die. They probably know you as well, by the way, and probably don’t consider you a harmless tourist.”
***
In the taxi, we spoke Chinese. We’d both had dangerous tours in Beijing, about fifteen years apart. With his bit of Native American blood, Juan Carlos could pass for Chinese. I’d just pretended to be a tourist, although my main task there had been to recruit counterintelligence agents.
The taxi driver spoke neither English nor Chinese. Probably wondered why we were speaking Mandarin, but that was his problem. Argentina under the new junta might as well be part of the PRC, where both the P and R were now a complete joke. Thought they might get to Mars first, though, if they and other fascists didn’t destroy the Earth first.
“So the plan is to revive and expand Project Orion? Sounds like some wild anti-fa politico somewhere in the group has a bug up his ass. And why involve me? I’m an old man, like I said, and I’m retired.”
“You had some success in the old project.”
“Plenty. But remember that six-month hospital stay. I don’t want to repeat it.” He winked at me. “Another one like that could affect my tango dancing and bandoneon playing, assuming I didn’t die.”
“Did you become involved with our group in Medellin?”
“As a young gofer. Pablo Escobar lived in the same neighborhood. My parents feared him and his minions; they also hated his guts. As fascist as they come. His wife was the smart one. She invested in artwork. Was living off it after he left for hell to sell drugs to the Devil. What difference does any of that make?”
This guy is too talkative! Maybe alone too long? “Just confirming that you have spent a lot of time working for the group. That means you’re a survivor, but I guess you deserved to retire.”
“Thank you for acknowledging that.”
The taxi was traveling along the Avenida Nueve de Julio but soon turned off into a side street. The instructions to the driver had been to show the tourists a bit of the city. The driver had been happy to oblige, thinking of the big fare and tip.
Juan Carlos had paused to consider what next to say. I could see that in his facial expressions. My added software had enhanced that innate ability most agents have.
“I’ll admit I’m curious enough to want some more information about what Project Orion means for the group now. I don’t think I can offer much help, though.”
“We need someone to lead the South American effort. Paraguay, Uruguay, Argentina, Peru, and Chile.”
“The Southern Cone, where in the twentieth century the CIA wanted to make the world safe for fascism. Stroessner, the Argentine Junta’s Dirty War, Pinochet—all those diablos who were their willing accomplices, including many priests in the Catholic Church.”
“I assume you don’t want South America to return to those good old days?”
“But it did. Not much one old fool can do about it. But, like I said, the US and Europe are more worrisome because of their technical prowess. Arab and Asian countries are fans of fascism too. Maybe everyone wants to be a fascist. Fascists here, fascists there, oink, oink, if you catch the Animal Farm reference. Seems that way. Fascists here, fascists there, fascists everywhere spreading pigs’ mierda all over the masses.”
“The group wants to stop fascism in its tracks. Always has.”
“Do tell. A noble goal, but an impossible one, as fascism’s successes in the last decades have shown. Human beings are tribal, and fascism appeals to their paranoid fears where others who aren’t understood become enemies. The us-against-them syndrome.”
“And what would happen if we can eliminate the diablos who take advantage of those fears?”
“You’d be going against human nature, like I said.” Juan Carlos indicated to the taxi driver he should turn left at an intersection. “If you can’t give me more information about the new Orion, I’m no longer interested.”
“How about if we go discuss the project at one of the group’s safe houses?”
“That’s possible, I suppose.” He looked at his watch. “Two-forty a.m. I’ll take you back to your hotel. We’ll meet there for breakfast tomorrow, say nine, and go to your damned safe house. No commitment on my part. Just curiosity for now. I’ll be watching out for a trap, by the way.”
“You’re paranoid.”
“In our business, you have to be.”
Chapter Three
Charleston, South Carolina
Craig Samuelson waved the secret report. “Have you read this?”
“Don’t make a big deal about it, sir,” said Jerry Lawton. “We took care of them, didn’t we? Every time we do, they’ll be less motivated.”
Craig stood, turned his back on Jerry, and savored the view from his office window. He had the best one in the FSA capital. The Free States of America hadn’t quite reinstated slavery. Hard to do that when non-whites were fleeing for their lives. Those fleeing also included whites who didn’t agree with his policies. In the big picture, he preferred fewer people. Smaller numbers were easier to control.
His father had been one of the leaders of the separatist movement. The United States of America hadn’t been united for a long time, even when fools were pretending it was. The bifurcation into the FSA and ADR, or American Democratic Republic, was still ongoing. Learning about a hit squad that wanted to kill him hadn’t been good news.
He turned to Jerry. “Were they from the ADR?”
Jerry smiled. “We just took them out, sir. We didn’t have time to say hi and discuss current affairs in the world over tea.”
Craig nodded. “I’m just asking your opinion.”
“The ADR has a lot of infighting. And they’re as strict as we are about following rules. I’d be surprised if they could organize such an operation, or would even want to do so. We’re convenient enemies for each other.”
Craig ignored the editorializing. “Then who organized the hit squad?”
“There are rumors that there’s a worldwide group that goes after fascist leaders.”
“We’re not fascists! We only want to be left alone. We don’t need all these brown and black impurities in our gene pool. We don’t need queers or other criminals either. The whole world feels the same way. It’s us against them, Jerry.”
“Yes, sir. You’re right, sir. Would you like me to see if we can organize something beyond the FSA borders to go after these people? That would take additional funding.”
“No. We don’t want to have anything to do with the rest of the world. Do you understand that?”
“Yes, sir. But we might not be able to prevent future plots against you otherwise.”
Craig sank into his plush chair and sighed. “I suppose you’re right. Do something on the sly. Top secret. I need to carry on the old man’s work, and I can’t do that if I’m dead.”
***
After Jerry left, Craig had a few shots of bourbon to calm down. He’d clawed his way to the top. After his father passed, the FSA had been in turmoil. Their beloved leader had ruled with an iron hand, but the vultures didn’t waste time picking at his bones. The senior Samuelson had his ostentatious state funeral, and then all hell broke loose, with everyone vying for power. Like a phoenix rising from the ashes, Criag had taken over, claiming it was God’s will. After putting opposition leaders in jail or killing them, his rule had become even more tyrannical than his father’s.
His state had been one of the reddest in the old United States, and his father had been a fire-and-brimstone preacher who had wanted to make the FSA into a theocracy that ignored that Devil’s minion in Rome and all his wicked disciples, and tortured and murdered anyone from other religions, especially Jews and Muslims. Papa Samuelson hadn’t made a complete sweep of the riffraff, and his son realized that the economy needed workers of all kinds. People fleeing to the ADR had exacerbated the labor shortage, so he let up a bit on the persecution. Things were settling down a bit now, although his popularity hadn’t improved.
And now this! He jabbed a pen into a blank pad, spilling some whiskey. He wondered if any FSA people had been helping the wannabe assassins. He’d have to amp up the fear a bit. Choose some obnoxious journalists and accuse them of plotting against him, for example? No, the journalists were in his pocket for the most part—the obnoxious ones had either fled or were dead. As long as those remaining in the FSA followed the rules about reporting on his government, they escaped his wrath. Besides, I want to keep that hit squad under wraps. He didn’t want to give anyone ideas, after all.
But there were many ways to amp up fear. He’d order the legislature to increase taxes and then make an example of those who protested against God’s will. He reached for the phone to call the Speaker of the House, a toady who approved anything the FSA leader wanted.
I’m not doing anything more than other leaders around the world, damn them to hell!
***
Comments are always welcome.
Last man alive? What about last woman alive? Penny Castro, LA County Sheriff’s Deputy and forensic diver, finds she isn’t alone, though—there are a few others who survive the contagion and want to kill her. And the remnants of a US government could be the greatest danger for her and the family she’s adopted. The post-apocalyptic thriller The Last Humans will be released by Black Opal Books in both ebook and print versions on March 30 and available at the publisher’s website, online retailers like Amazon and Smashwords and the latter’s affiliated retailers (iBooks, B&N, Kobo, etc), and bookstores (if they don’t have it, ask for it!). You can pre-order on both Amazon and Smashwords.
Around the world and to the stars! In libris libertas!
