THE RISE OF KALKI (Chapter One)

CHAPTER ONE

In the morning darkness, Captain Jude Madigan’s breath condensed in the cold air. He trudged with long strides up the gravel walkway leading to the Presidential Residence. As Chief Aide to President Kalki, he was expected to have all messages sorted and prioritized before the President began his day at seven o’clock. It was just his second week on the job after being awarded the position. His predecessor, Captain Stevens, had been appointed Irish Ambassador to The United States of America, one of the few countries with which Ireland still had diplomatic relations in a world torn apart by the increased meddling from international bodies such as the UN, IMF, and the World Bank.
However, The United States itself was far from innocent. Over seventy years of aggressive foreign policy—a foreign policy dictated and enacted primarily by its shadowy deep state at the behest of even shadowier special interest groups—had made it one of the most disruptive nations on earth. It had come to the point where the Federal Government appeared to operate solely as a global arms dealer and financier for wars and revolutions. Meanwhile, domestically, the nation was being torn apart by the tit for tat bombings, assassinations, and blackmail of left and right wing groups. The violence incessantly stoked, by a media which seemed to revel in the carnage, and Democrats and Republicans who only paid lip service to their respective sides, but never took any measures to calm the situation.
Captain Madigan unlocked the heavy door of the servants entrance. He preferred entering this way as it allowed him to make coffee, before heading upstairs to his first floor desk. Placing his bag on the long hardwood table, he removed his black standard issue winter coat and draped it over a chair. After he switched on the coffee percolator, he stood at the countertop, leaning forward with both hands on the dark granite. He stared out the window into the miserable darkness and allowed his thoughts to drift.
Five years had passed since the Sons of Taranis had seized control of the country. Jude Madigan had just received his promotion to the rank of Captain in the summer of that year. The Irish Army has since been disbanded or more accurately, it had been renamed and restructured. Now they were known as the Taranis Guard. Officers were given a choice, retire from their position and return to civilian life, be exiled, or join the Guard. Some chose retirement but most officers stayed, many of whom had already, secretly been members or supporters of the Sons of Taranis. The role of policing had also fallen under the authority of the Taranis Guard, the old unarmed police service, known as An Garda Síochána, had been swiftly decommissioned. As part of the restructuring of the military, conscription had also been introduced. A mandatory two years service for all men between the ages of eighteen and twenty-four. Every male citizen was expected to be a trained soldier by at least the age of twenty-eight, depending on his personal circumstances, and was required to report twice annually for two weeks of patrol duty.
A lot else had changed. The former members of parliament had been either exiled, or were working with the Sons of Taranis in diminished capacities to ensure the continued functioning of government departments, to minimize disruption while reforms were being implemented. The Catholic Church no longer had any influence in government or education. Catholics were free to practice their religion and the regime made a point of not seizing any Church property. However, already dwindling attendance and the indifference on the part of the Taranis regime, meant Churches remained largely empty. Many Priests and most of the Bishops had left the country or abandoned the Church altogether. The Sons of Taranis were mostly pagan. There were however, some nominal Christians and a few Agnostics among their rank, but by and large Indo-European paganism was the new state-favoured way of providing for the population’s spiritual needs, and their search for personal as well as collective meaning.
“Good morning, Captain Madigan. Are you going to wait for that coffee to go cold before you have some?” said a voice from the doorway.
“What? Oh, good morning, Mrs. Waters,” said the Chief Aide as he turned to greet the head of the kitchen staff. Mrs. Waters was a short, round, middle-aged woman who had been working in the kitchen for over twenty-five years.
“Right, now out! It’s already six o’clock and I don’t need you under my feet while I’m preparing the breakfast,” she said sternly, hanging her coat and putting her apron on.
Madigan grabbed his coffee, scooped up his coat, snatched his bag, and slouched to fit his lanky six feet five inch frame through the small doorway leading to the main staircase.

• • • • • • • • • • • • • •

“Good morning, Captain,” said President Kalki as he passed by Madigan’s desk at the top of the winding staircase, outside his office.
“Good morning, Ceann urra,” responded the Captain as he rose to follow Kalki into his office. “I have a message from the Japanese Ambassador. He’d like to arrange a meeting regarding the logistics of the Emperor’s state visit next year.”
Kalki looked to Madigan as he removed his grey suit jacket and rolled up his white shirt sleeves, revealing tattooed forearms. “Send Mr. Keane over to work that one out. What about the conflicts?”
“Yes, well in England, the Socialist Labour Party regime still appears to be strong in the south, but their influence north of Nottingham is negligible and growing weaker,” said Madigan.
“How many men have we got over there now?”
“Three thousand in the north and fifty-four in the south including fifteen in the SLP itself, but we haven’t heard from seven of those operatives since July.”
The United Kingdom had begun to fragment after the latest incarnation of the Labour Party took power in a snap election back in 2022. Under the guidance of Owen Parsons the party was merged with the Socialist Labour Party and adopted its name. All of the old parties disintegrated shortly afterwards, in the early- and mid-2020s. The last remnants of what had become the hard right faction within the Conservative Party merged with the United Kingdom Independence Party. This new group had by 2030 been absorbed into an organization known as the Sons of Woden, which was led by a charismatic figure by name of Walter Benson. With the assistance of the older, more loyal Army officers, who were yet to be replaced with the South Asian or Caribbean officers loyal to the SLP, they seized control of most of England, north of Nottingham. The only northern cities still under the SLP regime’s control were Manchester and Liverpool. With most of the native English people having fled north, there was not a single city, town, or village south of Nottingham with more than a twenty percent native British population, and those numbers were dwindling. The Greater London Metropolitan Area was by this time its own City State, having declared independence from the rest of the People’s Republic of England and Wales in 2031, under the banner of Islam. The seat of government, of what was once The United Kingdom, had since been moved to Birmingham.
“Ceann urra, the Scots have indicated they’d be willing to consider a military intervention in northern England if we were to lend them our support,” Madigan said.
The President laughed. “It is they who would be in the support roll. Organization is not their strongest attribute, Madigan. They insist on fooling around with their liberal democracy while England is overrun by Islamists and Communists!” Although he smiled, there was obvious contempt in the voice of the President. “I have already ordered Murphy, Powell and Alfredsson to draw up a plan of action,” he said casually, as he sat behind his desk. He looked up at Madigan, locked eyes and stared straight at the Captain. Kalki often did that, as if he were trying to read a man’s mind or peer into his soul.
“Anything else I should know, Captain?” he said, his attention shifting to the tablet screen in front of him.
“Nothing you don’t already know, Ceann urra,” said Madigan, shaking his head. “Poland and Hungary are negotiating a ceasefire with the Germans, having already reached Berlin. The Bavarians and the Austrians are holding stubbornly to their respective position of neutrality and non-interventionism. The French Caliphate is still a complete mess. The joint Spanish, Catalan, Portuguese, Italian and Greek blockade of the Mediterranean is holding well. We haven’t seen a migrant boat get through in over fourteen months,” he added.
“Thank you, Captain, is that everything?”
“Yes, Ceann urra.” Madigan nodded.
“That will be all then. Thank you.” The President smiled politely, but coldly, at his Chief Aide.

• • • • • • • • • • • • • •

Captain Madigan sat in his dark grey Audi, with both hands on the wheel. As was often the case in recent weeks, he arrived at his home barely aware of the journey there. He got out of the car and walked up the path to his front door before pausing for a moment as if contemplating something. Madigan walked back to his car and took his bag from the passenger side before returning to enter his house. Once inside, he went to his living room, switched on the light and proceeded up the stairs. He switched on the bathroom light and then the bedroom light. After quickly removing his uniform he dressed in jeans, a grey sweater and black running shoes. He walked back down the stairs, pausing again at the front door to look in the mirror.
Jude Madigan was thirty-four years of age, very tall with a long thin face and a prominent, hooked nose. He stared into the mirror and sighed, certain he had aged ten years in the last twelve months. The stress and the recent appointment as Chief Aide to the President was taking a toll on him emotionally as well as physically. Working so closely with a man like President Kalki was exhausting and at times terrifying, even for a man like Madigan. The President was known for his lack of patience with his assistants. Until Captain Stevens was appointed Chief Aide, Kalki’s assistants rarely lasted more than three months. It was for that reason that it came as such a surprise to many when Stevens was sent to the United States, after serving so close to the President for almost two years.
Madigan finally picked up his keys, looked in the mirror one more time and left his house.

• • • • • • • • • • • • • •

“Who is it?” shouted the person on the other side of the metal door.
“The Snake!” shouted the man waiting outside. He was growing impatient having knocked five times already.
The door opened, a short stocky bald-headed man in his forties stood inside, blocking his entry. He squinted at The Snake, looking him up and down suspiciously.
“Badger, you do this every fucking time, is it really necessary?” snapped The Snake.
The man stepped aside. “Sure you can’t be too careful, Snake. Can’t be too careful at all,” he said.
The Snake stepped into the small warehouse, squinting as his eyes adjusted to the bright lights. He walked past rows of chairs, most of which were taken, and sat in his usual spot in the front row. The turnout was good that night, maybe forty or fifty people were present. The Snake looked to his right, he caught the eye of a young man of rather genderless appearance and nodded. The Weasel nodded back as he adjusted his beanie, awkwardly. Next to The Snake was an empty seat, which was usually occupied by The Boar. He looked around but she appeared not to be present.
The Snake sat silently for a further ten minutes, ignoring the conversations and the chatter around him. He could not shake the feeling of apprehension that the The Boar’s absence caused him. He checked his phone repeatedly, refreshing his messages every few seconds. Nothing. Looking up to the makeshift stage constructed of old wooden palettes, he noticed something new. Someone had drawn a symbol on the podium with pink chalk. It was a circle with a raised fist at its centre. He was familiar with the feminist symbol, everyone was.
Just then the door at the left hand side of the stage opened. From the small room strode The Rat, a short, thin, spectacled man with closely shorn, salt and pepper hair, and patchily stubbled, but soft-featured face. The Rat was the leader of the resistance movement. He was the one individual everyone in the movement looked to for direction. The former University College Dublin professor had gone underground the very day the Sons of Taranis had seized control of Ireland. To his right and a step behind, was The Boar. The Snake’s heart rate rose and he exhaled a sharp sigh of relief. There she was, as stunningly beautiful as always, tall and athletic with long, dark, shiny hair. The Boar was by far the most intelligent of The Resistance inner circle. She was often on the receiving end of The Rat’s ire for her passionate, and at times, overzealous desire to lash out violently at what she called the white male fascist patriarchy.
The Resistance, as it was known, had come into being in the months after the Sons of Taranis had taken over. In the beginning, the movement was made up of just The Rat and a few of his students. Over the course of the next two years, it had grown to a nationwide, underground movement, sworn to bring the Kalki regime down. The majority of its members however, were not fully aware of the tactics employed by The Rat in his fight against the regime. To most, it was a peaceful movement, to others it was the radical revolutionary movement they had always fantasized about being part of. The Resistance operated in total secrecy, no member was permitted to divulge any personal information, not even their name, to avoid being doxed.
The Rat cleared his throat gently with his fist raised to his mouth as the chatter quietened to a murmur, and then to silence. “Comrades,” he began, “do I have your individual and collective consent to begin speaking?”
“You have my consent,” came the collective response.
“I would like to ask all white people present to move to the back rows and make space for all people of colour toward the front.” He paused a moment. Nobody moved. A person of colour had not been seen at a Resistance meeting for over a year, rendering the policy of progressive stacking irrelevant. But The Rat insisted on following protocol when commencing all meetings. “Furthermore,” he continued, “I acknowledge my privilege as a CIS-gendered white male. I apologize on behalf of all white people, for the injustices and harm they have caused all people of colour across this globe, past and present. As a man, I apologize to all women present, and to those not present, for all the oppression and discrimination they have suffered at the hands of men.” He paused as those gathered snapped their fingers and nodded in agreement. “I also apologize in advance, should any of my words tonight cause harm, that is not my intention. If there is any perceived violence in my speech, intentional or not, I am deeply sorry and I will endeavour to rectify that in the future.” He waited, as the congregation replied in unison.
“I thank you for checking your privilege, but I reserve my right to reject your apologies, should your words cause me harm,” they droned.
“So comrades, good turnout tonight, thank you all for coming,” The Rat said. “I have some bad news to begin with. Last night, I received word that our largest south-coast cell has been dismantled. All members are now on their way to a camp out west.”
“Nooooooooo,” came the united, robotic, and emotionless cries from the crowd before stopping abruptly.
“Despair not, comrades, we are still strong! We are still here and we are still united! It is of utmost importance that we do not lose hope. We must continue about our daily lives. Gather as much information as you can. When you sit in a café or a bar, listen carefully to the conversations around you. You never know when you might hear a white supremacist sharing important information, that may be useful to our movement, with a fellow Nazi.” The audience snapped their fingers again, nodding their heads in agreement. “Out of respect for our captured comrades, I will call this meeting to a close early for this week. Thank you for your attendance and for allowing me to use this space in which I could address you,” he said. “Now, please join me in our closing chant.”
The entire room then bowed their heads, and raising their right fists in the air, they chanted quietly.
“It is our duty to fight for freedom. It is our duty to win. We must love and support one another. We have nothing to lose but our chains.” With that the warehouse fell silent, people began to rise from their chairs as the silence turned to a murmur, and then to a chattering din.
The resistance leader looked down at the front row. Nodding his head at The Snake, The Weasel, and The Boar, he indicated they should accompany him. He turned toward the room behind the stage and waited by the door for the others to follow.
The Rat closed the door to the small room once all were inside. What was once the office of a small storage
warehouse, was now the headquarters of The Resistance. The room was lit only by a desk lamp atop a mass-produced and self-assembled side table, shoved into the farthest corner. The walls were adorned with posters of Resistance heroes and heroines like Malcolm X, Che Guevara, Valerie Solanas and Margaret Sanger. Apart from the small table and four
old crates serving as makeshift seats, the room was otherwise unfurnished.
“Weasel, are you still inside the regime’s comms servers?” asked The Rat, turning to face his comrades.
“I am, but as usual, they only use it to receive incoming communications from some foreign governments,” the Weasel replied.
“Any useful information?”
“No, well, the Japanese Emperor is apparently visiting some time next Spring.” He shrugged.
“Not important, keep listening in anyway, you may go now,” said The Rat.
The Weasel looked around questioningly before standing to leave. He hesitated as he opened the door, looking back to his comrades he said, “See you next week, I’ll let you know if I hear anything important.”
“Yes, yes, stay safe,” muttered The Rat impatiently without turning his head to look at him. The Weasel looked again at the others. They all avoided eye contact, so he left, closing the door behind him.
The Rat looked over his shoulder at the now closed door. “These freaks really irritate me, so needy, so insecure. Pathetic!” he hissed through gritted teeth. Looking up at The Boar and The Snake he said, “Down to business. Snake, good news and bad news. The bad news is our plans to assassinate our hitlerian President at the solstice parade next month, have been scrapped.”
“I thought as much when you mentioned the southern cell had been captured,” said The Snake.
“Yes, no southern cell, no explosives. No explosives, no suicide vests,” added The Boar.
The Snake had always been skeptical of the plan. “Who was going to do it anyway?” he inquired, unable to imagine who would be willing to go that far.
“A couple of trans zealots from the group, it doesn’t matter now,” said The Rat dismissively. “It probably wouldn’t have worked anyway considering the failed attempt at the Samhain festival,” he continued, “but the good news is, we’re moving ahead with Plan B.”
“Yes?” said The Snake inquisitively, looking from The Rat to The Boar.
“To put it bluntly, Snake, you are going to kill Kalki yourself,” offered The Boar.
The Snake grew visibly uncomfortable. “What? How?” he asked, swallowing hard.
“We have someone inside the Presidential Residence. She’s going to smuggle a weapon in for you. Once we have more concrete details—”
“Don’t worry Snake,” The Boar interrupted, as she placed one hand on his thigh. “We believe in you. This is why we chose you for this task,” she said, smiling kindly as she looked him straight in the eye.
The Snake smiled back and lowered his head. The Rat stared at him for a moment before looking questioningly to The Boar with a raised eyebrow.

IF YOU ENJOYED READING THIS AND WANT TO READ MORE, PLEASE UPVOTE AND CONSIDER BUYING THE BOOK (LINK BELOW). I WILL BE POSTING CHAPTERS ONE AND TWO SOON.

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