Vector (Short fiction from Geof Bard)
Police in Russia are called militsiya, Милиция, which means “militia”. In 2011, they tried to change it to policija, Полиция (“police”) ,hoping to shake off the military connotation. No one bought it-- just about everyone in Russia still calls them the militsiya.
Red Square, Moscow, Russia
Thousands of militsiya blocked the way to St. Basil's Cathedral. Protesters amassed on Varvarka Street all the way to the Romanov Chambers. Most of them wore protective headgear: motorcycle helmets, construction hard hats, Army surplus meat buckets. Others took their chances, relying on thick wool and fur hats to preserve them from the police truncheons.
Those were the students and factory workers in their twenties and thirties. Back further, away from the militarized police squads, older Russian citizens assembed with an assortment of signs, banners and giant puppets. There was a giant screen set up, and Daniila Ivanova Nikolaev was speaking through a portable PA system.
"There is solid evidence that the FSB, the Secret Police, are spreading the virus at these demonstrations. Wear your masks and do not stand downwind of any government agents. Stay with your friends and be wary of people you don't know."
It was shortly before dusk, and both groups were getting edgy. A police officer stared at the protesters and pawed the ground like a horse. Both sides wanted some kind of conclusion while there was still daylight.
Speaking through a PA system, one of the militsiya issued a dispersal order.
No one dispersed.
A chant went up.
“Нет войны! No War! Нет Militsiya No Kops! No Lockdowns No Shots!
Without warning, the police fired a K-51 tear gas grenade into the crowd.
They are illegal for use in war, partly because nobody knows what’s really in them. Most of the protesters wore face masks. A slender figure wearing black clothes, welding gloves and face shield shouted "Да пошёл ты” which roughly translates as “Fuck you!" She grabbed a cannister and threw it back at the police line.
Then came the 'rubber bullets'. These are actually steel, coated with rubber. They can knock your eyeball clear out of its socket. People have died after being hit with them.
The protesters closed ranks, forming a line of shields made from scrap: plywood, garbage can lids, corrugated roofing. They formed two rows: one knelt, with their shields touching the ground; the others stood behind them. The combined effect was to form an impenetrable wall.
Thump! Thump! Thump!
The shields worked, and the line held.
Thump! Thump!
"You must disperse at once"
Thump! Thump!
They were seasoned resistance; the bullets simply ricocheted off their shields.
A group of soccer hooligans joined the police and moved toward the main line of protesters. No telling who bankrolled them, but someone paid them to mess with the people in the street, on behalf of the milyitsa. Many of them were too drunk to understand what was going on. They had chains and baseball bats. Some openly displayed swastikas.
A Molotov cocktail arced through the air, seemed to stall at the apex of its path, and then fell directly between the police and the soccer firm. They both scattered in opposite directions.
Daniila Ivanova Nikolaev started speaking through her bullhorn and was inviting the police to mutiny.
“Throw down your arms! Stop doing the dirty work of the oligarchs! Join us now!”
After a few chaotic minutes, the factions regrouped, dazed and confused.
***
On a nearby building, a sniper huddled on the roof; Nikolaev was in the cross hairs. Lieutenant Pavel Ivanov, stood behind the sniper.
“Shoot that loudmouth, what are you waiting for!”
The sniper, Corporal Ludmila Andreev, frowned.
Who the fuck does he think he’s talking to?
“Shoot her!”
Maybe I should join them. Maybe I should shoot Ivanov.
Shots rang out from the main bloc of protesters. It was a blank gun, but it caused a panic. The soccer hoodlums retreated, running down the side alleys in complete disarray.
There were more blanks fired from the protesters as the police bullets resumed. Another molotov arced towards the line of cops. Daniella Nikolaev was shouting through her bullhorn, demanding the molotovs stop.
Despite her entreaties, another round went into the police ranks. It landed next to one of the officers who had been visibly nervous. He screamed as his colleagues rolled him on the ground and sprayed him with a fire extinguisher.
The police opened fire on the crowd again. Shouts went out as one protester after another screamed in pain and collapsed. These were real bullets, and the shields were useless against them.
Nikolaev’s son Anton was present, and he had a loaded Nagant M1895 revolver. He fired all seven of his 7.62 rounds over the heads of the police. His mother shouted "Anton what the hell are you doing?"
He did not expect that there would be army personnel on the rooftops.
The last bullet went straight through Ivanov’s forehead. He collapsed instantaneously.
Corporal Andreev's jaw dropped. She gasped and held her gloved hand over her mouth.
Fuck! They are going to say that I shot him.
Mutiny was rampant in the Russian military, and there had been a series of show trials of alleged 'traitors'. She would likely be prosecuted whether or not the state actually thought she was culpable. That's how things were in the Russian military.
She looked around, desperation in her eyes.
Best to run for it. The resistance will hide me.
Another Molotov flew into the police ranks. A group of protesters wearing body armor were pushing towards the police, using a rolling dumpster as a shield. They had a shopping cart full of bottles and gas cans; several were busily filling the bottles with petrol while others were shoving rags into bottles. A group in the front would ignite the rags and sling them toward the milyetsa using a metal contraption that looked like a lacrosse stick or a bishop's crozier.
The cops took off in every direction. Who could blame them? The cocktails were raining down like hellfire. Commanders shouted orders not to retreat, but they were ignored.
One by one, most of the commanders themselves slipped away, and the crowd surrounded the few that remained.
Anton Nikolaev waved his empty revolver.
“Are you militsya, or are you Russians?”
“We are Russians.” They had their hands raised, forced smiles on their faces.
“If you are true Russians, we won’t hurt you. You can join us, or you can leave. Either way, we won’t harm you.”
Some of the rank and file police officers looked at one another and nodded affirmatively. The older ones with bars on their sleeves looked terrified and started backing away.
“Go on. Run. Get out of here." Anton Nikolaev raised his gun. "You have five seconds or I’ll shoot...one…”
The commanders ran for their lives in black business shoes which were so heavy with authority as to be useless for running. The rank-and-file officers laughed as Daniila Ivanova Nikolaev stepped forward.
“The rest of you made the right decision; welcome to our movement. We will put the oligarchs out once and for all and with your help build a new Russia.”
She hugged the militsya one by one. Some of the protesters eyed the whole matter with suspicion, but no one interfered. As the hug fest proceeded, a woman dressed in an army uniform ran toward the crowd. It was Corporal Andreev.
“I wish to join the resistance. Take my gun. I don’t want it anymore.”
She laid her sniper rifle down before the Nikolaevs.
“We don’t want it either. We understand the necessity of armed struggle, but none of us have any idea how to operate that thing. You keep it.”
Andreev raised an eyebrow. “Are you sure?”
“Yes. It must have taken you a lot of time to learn how to shoot that thing. We wouldn’t know how to take care of it.”
Corporal Andreev assented and grudgingly shouldered the rifle. She was fed up with the shooting of civilians, fellow Russians, as was almost the entire Russian army. It was only a matter of time before the oligarchs fell and a new Russia would be born. Everyone knew this from the lowliest private to the brigadier generals in the Kremlin. There was only one major obstacle: the virus.
***