Matthew Palmer - Enemy of the Good

The other trucks came quickly, arriving from various side streets near the park and driving up the ramp to the square. Each truck had an assigned spot, and the Scythians worked fast to unload building materials from the back before tipping them up on their sides to make an impromptu wall. Even taking full advantage of all the raised brick-and-concrete flower beds, it still took eleven trucks of various shapes and sizes and three beaten-up old Chinese buses to make a rough, defensible wall that circled the Manas statue. They left one panel van upright that could be used as a gate. The van was loaded with concrete blocks and it sat heavy on its wheels. It was a start.

The buses had disgorged more than a hundred villagers, mostly women and pensioners and a few young men too sick or injured to take work overseas. As Val had instructed, most were wearing Kyrgyz traditional dress, the kind they might wear to a wedding or similar ceremony. It certainly was not what they would wear to work in the fields or the mines or the factories, and it hardly seemed the right dress code for a revolution, but Val had been specific, and the clan leaders, at least for now, had obliged.

The last truck to arrive was pulling a trailer. Tashtanbek dismounted from the passenger side resplendent in a chapan with an embroidered collar and a kalpak edged in gold. The hooded goshawk, Janibar, was perched on the oversize leather glove Tashtanbek wore on his left hand. One of the older men from Kara-Say opened the door of the trailer and led two massive horses down the ramp. Ruslan recognized the black stallion and the roan that he and Tashtanbek had ridden on their hunt. Both the truck and trailer were soon added to the walls.

Ruslan walked over to greet his grandfather. By the time he made it through the throng of new arrivals who wanted to touch his arm or exchange a few words with the great Seitek, Tashtanbek was already deep in conversation with Valentina. Like Ruslan and the others, she was dressed in traditional Kyrgyz clothes. Ruslan had never seen her like this. It was not a good look for her.

“Grandfather, thank you for coming. And I see you’ve already met Valentina. Val, you look… great…” It was unconvincing.

“She’s the reason we’re dressed like this,” Tashtanbek answered. “Are we here to fight, or are you planning a feast and a dance?”

Val laughed lightly.

“There’ll be time to eat after the revolution, I promise. But I wanted us dressed like this because of the contrast it will draw between the demonstrators and the government forces. They’ll look like stormtroopers or Cossacks assaulting innocent villagers. I want the world to see that. I want it all on film. We’re going to fight the battle in the streets, but we’re going to win the war on the BBC.”

Tashtanbek nodded but said nothing. With his free hand he reached up and patted the barrel of the ancient rifle slung across his back. The weapon was as old as he was, but Ruslan had seen him use it to kill a mountain goat at eight hundred meters, shooting uphill in the wind.

“We need to get ready,” he said.

“Don’t worry, Grandfather. We are ready.”

Ruslan stepped up on one of the concrete planters to give himself a better view. Everywhere, Scythians and villagers were using the bricks and lumber they had unloaded from the trucks to reinforce the defensive walls and fill in the gaps. As they settled in for a siege, Ruslan planned to improve the defenses further, but they had anticipated that the first attack from the Special Police would come within hours.

It came at dawn. Ruslan stood on a makeshift rampart and watched a squad of Special Police in riot gear form up, their curved plastic shields overlapping. The light was still low and their faceplates were up. Through the binoculars, they looked young and nervous. The Scythians to Ruslan’s left and right were, in contrast, calm and confident. They were well led and they believed in themselves as well as their cause. It was a powerful combination.

Nogoev hauled himself up onto the platform and surveyed the scene.

“Are you sure about this, Ruslan? My Scythians could cut them down like wheat if you gave the order.”

“I’m sure, Daniar. I don’t want to kill anyone unless we absolutely have to. Those are our brothers out there. Our goal is to rally the country to our cause. Murdering police, young men with families, is not the image we want to project. We are better than Eraliev and his thugs, and we have to live up to that.”

“Politicians,” Nogoev scoffed. But Ruslan could hear the affection buried under the complaint. The Scythians would do their duty.

The riot police marched forward in lockstep carrying long truncheons in their right hands. They were acting as police rather than soldiers. They did not yet understand that this was a war. Three Scythians threw Molotov cocktails that fell short by design. The flaming pools of gasoline were intended to disorient the police and break up their line as they advanced.

When they got closer, the villagers started throwing stones and bricks, forcing the police to raise their shields above their heads. The police tried to climb the barricades, but the Scythians and the younger villagers had the high ground and used blunted farm tools to beat them back. A few police got close enough for the Scythians to grab their shields and rip them off their arms. Ruslan watched one riot cop get caught up in the shield straps and hauled bodily over a section of the wall made of wood and loose brick. Within seconds he had been stripped of his equipment, and minutes later he had joined the growing cluster of prisoners at the base of the Manas statue.

Ruslan hefted an ax and joined the Scythians at the wall. The ax was blunted, but he still used the flat back rather than the edge to beat down on the shields and helmets as the riot police tried to clamber over the planters and the makeshift wall of trucks and buses.

It was all over in less than ten minutes. The riot police retreated, leaving three of their number behind as prisoners. They were battered and bruised, but no one had died on either side. Ruslan knew that they had been lucky in that regard. People would die on both sides before the dust had settled. All he could hope for was to keep that number as low as possible.

The Special Police gave the revolutionaries a few hours of respite as they regrouped. The Scythians and the villagers used the time to improve their defenses. One of the buses had been loaded with food and water and the women from one of the southern villages lit a fire and set large pots of mutton stew on the coals. A group of men set up two large felt-covered yurts. It’s a regular village, Ruslan thought, and he was the mayor.

Valentina walked up to him with a small video camera. She had taken footage of the attack and would use her MacBook to edit the film and post it on YouTube. She had already set up a Facebook page and a Twitter feed with the handle @Ala-TooRevolution.

“Easier than you thought?” Valentina asked.

“No. They didn’t know what to expect. I knew we’d be able to take the first punch. The next round is going to be tougher.”

“I need some footage of you for YouTube. Say something inspirational.” She laughed and then turned the camera on and held it up in Ruslan’s direction. He made a sour face.

“You have to do this, Ruslan. It’s your responsibility. You don’t belong to yourself anymore. You belong to all of us. Sorry. But that’s what you signed up for. And that’s just the way it is. You’d better get used to it.”

“I know. I’ll do it. And I’ll do the best I can.”

“Seitek, Boldu has planted its flag here in Ala-Too Square. Is there anything that you would like to say to the Kyrgyz people?”