Free Class Warfare by D. M. Fraser Page A

that Order is “breaking down,” that Civilization-as-we-know-it is at an end, or close to it. That is entirely possible. It was what we were hoping for, at the outset; it was what we planned for, what we conspired to accomplish. True, we were as surprised as anybody else when it began to happen: but now we are no longer greatly surprised by anything. Events occur, and we participate in them, we do what demands to be done, we allow for contingency, even for the possibility of success. It is not as remote an eventuality, today, as it once was. Even if we fail, we succeed.
    The abduction itself was almost laughably simple. The essential factors were speed and timing, coordination, a precise calculation of the knowable variables. No bodily violence, no theatrics, no gunfire in the night. The prisoner made no attempt to resist us, or to escape; he did not once cry out. It was strangely as if he had been expecting us, waiting for us—as if he had known for a long time that, sooner or later, we would be coming for him. Whatever the reason, he was calm and co-operative. What the press subsequently referred to as our “daring midnight raid” was as straightforward as going to call on an old acquaintance, and taking him away. Some of us, perhaps, were even slightly disappointed by the ease with which we were able to achieve our objective. We had geared up for heroics, and none were necessary.
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    At present, there are five of us active in the collective; until recently, there were six, but it became expedient to eliminate the sixth. That was Alex, whom we executed. Our history has been a succession of such adjustments, revisions of the scenario, improvisations; for this, we are sometimes called “adventurists,” and disowned by other, more rigidly programmatic groups. It is a subtle accusation, and there is doubtless a degree of merit in it, but less now than formerly—although, like all human creatures, we are to some extent at the mercy of circumstances, and it would be delusional to suppose otherwise. We are not delusional: rather we strive for, and often attain, a synthesis of doctrine and praxis. The exigencies of praxis should not be underestimated. When it seemed appropriate to arm ourselves, we went out and bought guns, or stole them, and in time we taught ourselves how—and when—to use them. (It was difficult at first, to be sure; it was somewhat like being in the audience at one of those performances, much in vogue a few years ago, in which the actors come down from the stage to embrace the spectators, drawing them into the play, reciting in some counterfeit of intimacy
I love you, do you love me?
… To which the answer must always be
no
. Guilt is involved here, and a certain residual paranoia. We are children of peacetime, after all, and the arts of warfare do not always come naturally to us. I, for example, had never fired a gun before, had never even had occasion to hold one in my hand, and I was unprepared for the weight of it, for the recoil.) We find ourselves, again and again, doing things for the first time.
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    It is probably unwise to be writing this, producing evidence which, if discovered, can only incriminate us. That was the mistake Alex made, one of his mistakes: he allowed himself to become conspicuous, a “personality.” His name was widely known, and his face, his mannerisms, his style. In our work, visibility is counterproductive, individual recognition a hindrance. One cannot proceed directly from a raid to a television studio. But, at this point, I am still invisible: you have passed me a thousand times, in public places, without seeing me. And it will be easy enough to destroy these papers, if I must; I have no great attachment to them. It was harder to destroy Alex.
    This should not be construed as an official communiqué. I am writing merely on my own initiative, for my own purposes, not the least of which is to pass the time. Required as we