My comrades consider the issue of the consciousness of the labor aristocracy to be one primarily of the superstructure of the imperial core, in which the totalizing weight of ideology is imposed upon the collective psyche of the labor aristocracy, and that, therefore, the solution is to ‘un-brainwash’ them. With respect to my comrades, this is an idealist error. The labor aristocracy continues in the way that it does because, as a whole, they share the class interests of the imperial apparatus. They do not reap the benefits of the imperial bourgeoisie — the contradiction between the imperial bourgeoisie and the labor aristocracy is a real, material friction — however, they are afforded a provisional access to the spoils of extractionism, offered a bigger slice of the pie than they would otherwise be offered if they were part of the imperialized proletariat. It is only when the base becomes significantly and materially threatened in the core, and when Capital, in crisis, begins to contract and withhold these spoils, that the contradictions between the imperial bourgeoisie and the labor aristocracy begin to become acute and primary. The primary contradiction is between the empire and the periphery. To create the conditions necessary for the labor aristocracy to become politically conscious, it is first necessary to destabilize the base of the metropole. This analysis is of critical importance — it guides military strategy and decides the correct path towards internationalist proletarian liberation. Let the lights fail in the metropole; let contradiction be the teacher of the people.
Ka Silangan, CPPRA member and officer of the PLAA, 2117
Mess Hall, UCFS Rumsfeld, low-earth orbit, UCF 04/02/454, 2140 hours
The revels of victory are exuberant and explosive. Raucous celebration can be heard reverberating from the mess hall through the long hallways of the Rumsfeld. Flechette watches with measured tenderness. Trinity looks happy, and is integrating well with the rest of the squadron. Pride for her emerging Killboy swells her chest. But something about the mission gnaws at her psyche, a dull ache like a pain in her joints.
“Hey. Wanna get outta here?”
“Huh?” Flechette wakes from her reveries, activating like the lights flicking on in the cockpit of the VENUS.
“Do you want to get out of here, Sir?” Trinity adds coyly.
“Oh! Right. Yeah, it’s getting late.”
“Yeah. And you’ve got mission debrief tomorrow, and a report to High Command due.”
“Ah, fuck.”
“Oh, I’ve heard legends about your infamous hatred of paperwork. Is it true you made your cross do all your reports?”
The mention of Tang sends a twinge through Flechette’s body, but she quickly recomposes herself, smiling at the gentle ribbing.
“Oh, don’t worry about that. I’ve got it down. You don’t need to worry about attending to the bureaucracy, Principality Hopeland.”
“Mhm. Well, that’s good. Make sure to tell them how many I got. Give ‘em real numbers.” Trinity grins.
Back in their quarters, Flechette and Trinity debrief by lamplight.
“You were incredible out there. They used to call me ‘the whirlwind of death,’ but I think you’ve earned that title far more as of today.”
“Mmm. That’s sweet of you, Sir.” Trinity giggles. “But I only got as far as I did on the back of your incredible leadership.”
“Uh huh.”
“I’m serious! Your firm command is what facilitates everything out there. One good soldier in a fractured army is worthless. One good soldier in a perfectly synchronized orchestra, though… Nobody remembers the first-chair violinist when the rest of the symphony falls flat. The conductor leads the show.”
Flechette turns her head, looking directly at Trinity. So small. Such a concentration of contradictions. Deadly, directional, whistling past to find a home in your heart. Like a flechette.
“Is that how you really feel, soldier?”
“Absolutely, Sir.”
A moment of silence breathes on the back of their necks, warm and tantalizing.
“…You know. I felt really lonely, for a long time.” Trinity is lying on her back, talking towards the ceiling, avoiding eye contact.
“Yeah?” Flechette finds herself captured by Trinity’s uncharacteristic vulnerability. Weakness.
“Yeah I… I didn’t know. If there was anyone like me out there. I… Well, I dunno. You suspect. You always suspect, right? But who can you ask? Who can you talk to about this? Nobody. Only someone like you would understand. Someone the same.”
“The same…” Flechette fingers the drive in her pocket absentmindedly.
“I just… I’m really, really glad I get to fight with you. I’m glad I met you. Thank you, 2nd Power Flechette Jaydamn.” The verbal curtsy makes Flechette laugh, the payload finding its mark perfectly.
“Of course, 4th Principality Trinity Hopeland.”
“I hope we get to keep doing this forever. Forever and ever and ever…”
Flechette watches as Trinity drifts to sleep mid-sentence. Like this, she looks so delicate.
She remembers how clean a tiny scalpel can cut.
Flechette thumbs the drive while Trinity sleeps soundly. She knows how hard it can be to get a good night’s sleep after an Op. She’s just glad Trin is getting some rest. And still, questions swirl in her mind, settling like heavy metal precipitate in her gut.
Flechette plugs the drive into her datapad. Silently sifts through the files, avoiding the hidden diary directory. Not right now.
Instead, she navigates to Tang’s library. Scrolls through the list, finds one mostly at random, opens the file.
The Wretched of the Earth…
She settles into her bunk, curling up comfortably. Innards guarded. Starts reading.
Hours pass, the sun lighting up the sliver of the Earth visible through the room’s windowscreen. Flechette has found herself completely captured by this book. Encircled by it. As she devours the text, a glimmer of something begins to spark inside of her — catching flame in the charred battlefield of her psyche. Not like ordnance, but like a hearth.