THE CORPS issue 5: Comrade Bolshevik in, "Manifesting Destiny" by Ivan Ronald Schablotski

The light was blinding, but it did not hurt to look at it.

Boris Melgunov wondered at this contradiction as he pulled the Yugo Cabrio off to the side of the highway, unable to see the road ahead. He was due back at the factory within the hour, and the car he was driving was brand new, top of the line (belonging to the State of course). Still, his curiosity was getting the better of him. If he witnessed something happening, he reasoned, it was his responsibility to report it to his superiors.

Boris well knew that many of his neighbors had been relocated shortly after bringing sensitive information to the notice of Party members. Only three days earlier the Cadburys, a nice family of three in the flat across the hall from his, disappeared in the middle of the night just hours after Nigel Cadbury had reported high levels of radon in the Thames outside the Churchill Power Plant. The rumored threat of being sent off to gulag for 'knowing too much' lingered in his mind, but in the end his duty to state and social responsibility won out.

The nineteen-year old University graduate shut off the engine and stepped out of the car. Mentally noting that he felt no heat and was not inclined to squint while staring at the glow, Boris imagined this must have been testing of a new energy source by the EBU (European Bolshevik Union). How glorious it would be to be a part of this industrial and technological achievement.

It wasn't until he heard the voice did he realize that he had heard no sound at all since pulling off the road. No wind, no birds, no autos. That was the most peculiar. The Fabian Expressway was always packed with vehicles at noon, and this supply run had taken him right to the time when the parade of cars should be starting. He couldn't even remember a time when he hadn't been serenaded by the cacophony of diesel-fueled machines whizzing by at 100 kph. Now though, there was only silence.

Except for that voice.

"Boris Melgunov," the deep, throaty voice repeated, "do not be afraid. You have been chosen for a greater purpose."

Boris blinked, noticeably shaken and unable to accept that he was being chosen for a higher anything. "Comrade Melgunov! Step into the light. Now!"

That was more like it. This was obviously some party-prescribed test of his loyalty and obedience. Boris was not about to let an opportunity to better serve the State pass him by. His political knowledge extended no further than the operation of the Knox Radio Network Station on Savoy Hill, and even that was unimpressive by his co-workers' standards. But even a low level technician such as himself can be an important part of society, if he should have the natural ability and the conviction to use it; that is the basic freedom that Communism was founded upon. Besides, it could mean getting a cushy three-room flat in Edingrad, away from the polluted, congested streets of Bristol. Maybe he would even be considered for transfer to the Frank Republic!

Bolstering his courage with visions of Politburo appointment, Boris Melgunov trudged through the marshy field into the white light.

As his vision adjusted, he saw the figure of an elderly man with a long beard. He might have mistaken the stranger for a Fabian Leader was he not garbed in a long, light blue gown. Suddenly angry at having been deceived, Boris quickened his pace and raised his fists to the stranger. "You subversive old coot! Who are you, to disrupt my work for the people?"

"Boris Melgunov, I am Myrddhin Ambro… ah, but I can see this name will mean nothing to you. On your world, you may know me as Kastchey Tripetovitch."

"Kastchey the Deathless??" Boris forgets his anger, staring in disbelief yet again. "A legend, only!"

"I assure you, comrade, that I am real. In my time I gave council to Tzarovich Yarilo in the Motherland, along with other princes and kings, though they have been lost to antiquity."

"How can this be, and why would you visit me? The Monarchy of Anglin is long dead, old man."

"My life is not easily explained, and I doubt you would understand much of it. Suffice it to say that there are many worlds that rely on my protection, and I have chosen you to be my agent here on Earth. Royalty is not a prerequisite for nobility, and I can sense in you a noble spirit that desperately yearns to shine."

The self-proclaimed znackhar (magician) reached into the folds of his robes, and extracted two objects concealed within. One was a long, golden scepter, crowned with jewels and topped with a star-cut diamond. The other was a pendant, simpler in design but still made of gold, with a lion's head emblazoned upon its face. "Choose the means of your servitude. Your world has need of a champion who embodies the spirit of her people. With these, you can meet that need."

"The wand is too reminiscent of a king or ruler! The people could never be served by one so arrogant as to put himself above his equals! I shall wield the pendant as savior and servant of the European Bolshevik Union!" In truth, Boris imagined no greater glory than to demonstrate powers and abilities far beyond those of mortal men, but he could not have voiced this opinion. For all his subversive characteristics, this 'Kastchey' might still have been an agent of the State, and undue zeal may well terminate any chance to prove his worth.

"Very well; it is done." The old man held out the amulet, which felt warm to the touch when Boris reached for it. Immediately the white light dissipated, replaced by the familiar backdrop of the English countryside. The noise of autos cruising along the Fabian Expressway returned, threatening to drown out the wizard's instructions. "By donning the chain around your neck, the power of the medallion will be yours. But know that you will be watched. Other CB's have in the past proven unworthy of admittance."

"Who are these 'CB's? Am I to answer to a consortium of aliens, when my loyalty should be to the E.B.U.?" If this WAS a test, Boris Melgunov was not to be found wanting.

"Oh? Hmm, in your case, 'CB' would mean… Comrade Bolshevik; hero of the European Bolshevik Union. Go ahead, put it on."

Boris obediently did so, and was amazed to feel his whole body swell to Olympian proportions. Even his drab gray coveralls had undergone a change, transforming into a bright red, skin-tight jumpsuit with "Chto?!" he exclaimed. "Every muscle has just tripled in size! This is incredible!"

"Yes," Kastchey mumbled to himself, just before vanishing, "Incredible that a national hero should have no national identity. You were supposed to choose the rod and become Kommandeer Anglin, and fight AGAINST the communists…"

Boris Melgunov returned to his Cabrio, and casually lifted the auto over his head. With hardly any effort, he leapt into the air and remained airborne, flying high above the Anglican countryside. Navigating his way to the Radio Station, Boris suddenly became concerned that the lion-headed medallion might fall off, leaving him forty-two kilometers above sea level with no means of support (and still carrying a Yugo).

Fortunately the creator of this artifact seemed to have the same concern in mind. The gold disk had adhered itself like a magnet to his chest, fitted neatly inside a yellow circle on the costume. Boris could feel the energy flowing from it, but did not sense that removing it would harm him in any way. Continuing his supply run via the airways, Boris could not resist taking in the view.

"I can see my tenement housing from here," he observed.

*****

Two weeks later, Boris sat nervously in the anteroom outside the office of François Mitterand, Premiere of the E.B.U. As a Radio Technician, Boris had never had reason to leave the Anglican Republic. But now, here he was, inside the Louvre Center, Municipality of Paris, Frank Republic. He shivered with anticipation while looking up at paintings of David Richardo, Friedrich Engels, Leon Trotsky, and Ronald Knox; the Four Fathers of Western Communism.

An indeterminate period of time later (clocks and watches are forbidden within all government buildings) Boris Melgunov, Comrade Bolshevik, met with the most powerful man in Western Europe, Comrade Mitterand.

"Greetings, Comrade. Please, take seat," the Premiere spoke in stilted English. Being French, he was required to learn Russian, English, and Spanish growing up. It was not uncommon, however, for adults to use only Russian and their native tongue. That he would even make the effort to speak to Boris in English said volumes by itself. More than equality, it demonstrated a degree of respect usually reserved for world leaders and other men of great stature.

Boris knew that it would be considered insulting to ignore this complement, so he answered in English, although his own conversational French was quite good. "Thank you, Comrade. This is quite an honor for me." Boris was struck at once by the lavish accommodations that existed inside the Premiere's office. Not only were the walls covered in Renascence paintings and tapestries, not only was the floor covered with lush red carpeting, but the wall behind the desk was framed with TWO grandfather clocks!

François Mitterand noted that his guest was staring at the timepieces. "I know, it seems a contradiction that the proletariat are forbidden to keep time on the job while I have two clocks. You must understand that the nature of my job is much complex compared to factory work. To oversee the whole Union, I must always know what time it is, so the clock to my left is set to EBU time. To represent the Union in the World Theater, I must always know what time it is in the Soviet Union, thus the clock on my right is set for Kremlin Mean Time."

Mitterand returned to his chair behind the desk, though Melgunov remained standing, marveling at the artwork surrounding him. "But that is not why we are here. Your report caused much commotion, in Paris, Berlin, and Moskva. A strange visitor from another planet granted you powers and abilities far beyond those of mortal men. After standing up yet again, François held out his hand. "May I… hold the object?"

"Of course, Comrade! What is mine is yours." Boris removed the medallion from around his neck, and his frame shrank 4 centimeters. The costume, on the other hand, remains the same, though it resizes to fit his current form. "I had thought my clothes would return to normal, but it appears their transformation was more permanent than my own. Perhaps the fabric is similar to the Agitated Atoms discovered by the Fantastic Four's Ivan Kragoff."

"It… lost its heat as soon as you stopped touching it."

"Yes. Comrade Braddock, my foreman, performed many tests when I first showed it to him. The amulet only seems to work for me, and attempts to break a piece of metal off of it for further testing have been futile.

François frowned. "This lion's head motif is very Anglican. I had hoped you would represent all the Bolsheviks. The Soviets have their Freedom Collective, ComIntern has Oktobriana, and China has Radioactive Man. The EBU is only Super Power not represented by a super power. Even the Imperialists have their 'Supreme Court' to impose their greed-driven wills upon less fortunate countries around the world."

"Of course I will, Comrade! Am I not called 'Comrade Bolshevik?' Just tell me how I can best serve the People!"

The Bolshevik Premiere pressed a button on his desk, and two men in black suits entered the room. "These men are intelligence experts. Mikhail Polyots and Vanya Schablotski will help you find productive uses for your new powers and keep you informed about situations that may require your attention. They will also report your activities to Politbureau for you."

Agent Polyots approached the Premiere, took the medallion from him, and returned it to Boris. "Pleased to meet you Comrade. My code name is Tchernilev. But please, call me Misha. Vanya and I have been researching your situation, and we believe that a symbol of Communism such as yourself should wear a symbol of Communism. Can you wear the medallion UNDER your uniform?"

"I never thought of that." Melgunov put the chain around his neck, dropping the talisman inside the neck. "Yes, it works fine. I can feel the power returning again. And it sticks to me as easily as it does to my clothing!"

"Excellent!" Vanya approached as well, and handed an envelope to the fledgling hero. "Misha's the history buff, and I'm the metaphysics specialist." Unlike his partner, Schablotski was actually smiling, and seemed to be enjoying himself. "Around here they call me 'Barmy Johnny.' We came up with an idea to let everyone know who you are and what you stand for."

Boris opened the envelope to find a star-shaped patch with the familiar hammer and sickle symbol of Communism. "I am to wear this? What if I am confused with the Soviets' Krimson Kommissar?"

Mikhail arranged the patch on Comrade Bolshevik's chest, and dismissed his fears. "There is no comparison. He has a hat; you do not. Besides, you are the hero for all free Communists, not merely those within our borders. Nationalism is a concept promoted by expansionists and war-mongers."

François shook Boris' hand one more time. "You will make us all proud, but you must not let lust for fame tempt you. I would much rather be identified with Russia's anonymous Krimson Kommissar than the Americans' General America! Schablotski and Polyots will return to Anglin with you, and you will live with them at the Fabian Center in Newcastle."

As the agents escort their ward out of the office, the Premiere stopped them. "One more thing. Tell no one else of your gift. Already your former co-workers are being re-educated to ensure state security is maintained. It would not do for your family and neighbors to believe that you are better than they are; it could prove demoralizing."

"I understand, Comrade Premiere. Better they should admire the ideal from afar, even when I am with them. Thank you again; I will not let you down."

With that, the three men left Paris to board a helicopter bound for Windsor… and a destiny as the greatest hero the European Bolshevik Union had ever known.

The truth about the Communist Revolution in Great Britain --

'Broadcasting the Barricades' by Father Ronald Knox

A little known broadcast by the BBC from Edinburgh on January 17th 1926 convinced many listeners that a revolution in London had resulted in the destruction of the Houses of Parliament by trench mortars and the Minister of Transport being hanged from a tramway post.

Father Knox's burlesque was transmitted at 7.40 pm. The spirit of the talk was punctuated by periodical announcements 'We will now switch over to the dance band' or other light music. The 'War of the Worlds' was broadcast at 8 pm. US Eastern Standard Time. The tension of the unfolding drama was heightened with frequent announcements such as 'We will now return you to Ramon Raquello and his orchestra' after frequent interruptions from flash bulletins. Father Knox's script told the story of a mob of the unemployed assembling in Trafalgar Square and being incited to sack the National Gallery. Having sacked the National Gallery, it surged down Whitehall, attacked government offices, destroyed wildfowl in St James's Park with empty bottles and then blew up the Houses of Parliament using trench mortars. As Big Ben had fallen to the ground, listeners were informed that in future the BBC time signals would be sent out from Edinburgh. The burlesque became a representation of reality because the talk was deliberately infected with human fallibility. A report that Mr Wutherspoon, the Minister of Transport, had been captured and hanged from a lamp-post was later corrected. He had in fact been hanged from a tramway post.

The 'War of the Worlds' broadcast reproduced the realistic fluffs of a live outside broadcast at the farm where alien spaceships had landed. Reporter Carl Phillips stumbled and asked his interviewees to speak louder into the microphone. Another astonishing similarity is that Father Knox's talk finished with the mob marching on Savoy Hill to destroy the BBC's then headquarters. War of the Worlds script writer Howard Koch took some delight in wiping out the Columbia Broadcasting Studios a few minutes before the end of the 1938 drama. The Father Knox broadcast was accompanied by stage-managed sound effects of explosions and a yelling, screaming mob. Listeners contacted newspaper offices and the BBC to ask 'what is happening in London? Was it true that Big Ben had been blown up? Had the National Gallery been sacked? and was the Government calling upon loyal citizens?'

Captain Krypton!
Black Knight & Squire!
Meggan!
Prince Namor, the Aqua-Man!

... THE EXCALIBUR FRIENDS!

in ... "The Master Menace of Mastermind, Part Two!" by Michael Norwitz

"The dolphins told me there was some unusual activity off the coast near Cork Harbour." Aboard the Invisible Plane, Prince Namor and Meggan discussed their findings. "It fits the description Captain Krypton gave us of Mastermind's technology."

"Holy Hidden HQ, Namor!" The Squire joined them in their discussion. "Am I glad I decided to come with you and Meggan rather than going along with Black Knight this time! It looks like we're right by where the action is!"

"I'm taking us down now." Meggan activated the controls which convert the plane to its submarine form. "Namor, Squire, keep an eye out for anything suspicious."

Silently, the craft parted the waters and submerges, its lights scanning the oceanic depths.

"Great Gar!" exclaimed Namor. "There, do you see it?"

"By Liannon's Loom, that must be it!" Meggan slowed the vehicle to a stop, outside a massive set of steel doors carved into the ocean floor, engraved with a great letter M.

"Holy Ego-trip!"

"You said it, Squire," the Aqua-Man nodded. "Mastermind, like any criminal genius, could never resist advertising his felonious deeds. Meggan, can your ship get us in there?"

The woman nodded in turn. "I don't think it should be a problem," she said, and angled the amazing aircraft closer. As she manipulated the controls, metal arms unsheathed from the front of the plane, grasping the fortress door. With a mighty heave, they unlocked it, and the plane shuttled through the airlock.

The heroes followed an underwater passageway, finally surfacing in a great cavern. Meggan opened the door to the Plane, and they disembarked. "Holy High-Tech," Squire observed, as they found themselves within an unbelievably complex computer network, the components of Mastermind's apparatus almost growing, crystal-like, from the subterranean walls. Suddenly, a rainbow-colored blast of light intruded on the Excalibur Friends' contemplations.

"Jumping Catfish!" Namor shouted, "What was that?"

A man stepped out of the shadows. He appeared to be in his sixties, and was wearing a cheap suit. His hands were resting in the pockets of his jacket. "Just one of my amazing powers. You can call me ... the Surpriser!"

"The Surpriser?" Meggan blinked, "Why do you bear such an unusual name, sir?"

"Many years ago I was a master criminal," the Surpriser scowled. "I could generate different forms of energy from each of my twenty fingers. Nobody could tell which power ... which surprise ... would come next! That all ended they day I encountered the demon archeress, the Black Widow Spider. She saw fit to remove my powers ... permanently. I'm told I was one of the only villains who managed to survive an encounter with her, so I ought to count myself lucky she merely amputated my hands. I bummed around Skid Row for decades, before Mastermind contacted me. In return for my help, he offered me new hands," and the man removed them from his pockets, revealing glittering, artificial glass hands, encasing circuitry of unbelievably complexity. "And I intend to make the trade worth his while!"

And so, the battle began ... the three heroes engaged in a desperate series of reactions to the always surprising powers of the Surpriser.

"Holy Frost-Blasts!"

"Great Pickled Penguins!"

"By Sul's Eternal Fires!"

"Holy Hypno Rays!"

"Suffering Shad!"

"By the War-Goddess Morrigan of Many Names!"

"Flyin' Flounder!"

"Holy Dissolvo Beams!"

"By Great Queen Rhiannon's Magic Birds!"

"Cackling Catfish!"

"Holy Heat-Beams!"

"Hopping Herring!"

"By Arianrhod's Silver Wheel!"

"Galloping Guppies!"

"Holy Laser Blasts!"

"By Brangwaine of the Northern Sea!"

"Slithering Eels!"

"Holy Magnetic Attraction and Repulsion!"

"Aaaaaaagh! Stop it stop it! I can't stand it any more! Shut up shut up!" The Surpriser fell to his knees, clutching his ears in despair. "Please, I'll surrender! I swear it! Take the hands back!"

Meggan looked down at the conquered villain compassionately. "Perhaps we can find a way to merely remove the powers from your new hands. I haven't heard of this Black Widow Spider you mention, but I promise you the Excalibur Friends are not so cruel."

Namor smiled to himself, and approached. "Chuckling Clams, Meggan! Are you sure that's a good idea?"

The Surpriser whimpered.