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Fenek Solère: Rising

Здесь есть возможность читать онлайн «Fenek Solère: Rising» весь текст электронной книги совершенно бесплатно (целиком полную версию). В некоторых случаях присутствует краткое содержание. Город: San Francisco, год выпуска: 2017, ISBN: 978-1-940933-29-0, издательство: Counter-Currents Publishing, категория: Социально-психологическая фантастика / на английском языке. Описание произведения, (предисловие) а так же отзывы посетителей доступны на портале. Библиотека «Либ Кат» — LibCat.ru создана для любителей полистать хорошую книжку и предлагает широкий выбор жанров:

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Fenek Solère Rising

Rising: краткое содержание, описание и аннотация

Предлагаем к чтению аннотацию, описание, краткое содержание или предисловие (зависит от того, что написал сам автор книги «Rising»). Если вы не нашли необходимую информацию о книге — напишите в комментариях, мы постараемся отыскать её.

Rising Dr. Tom Hunter, an English professor with nationalist sympathies, arrives in St. Petersburg to address a conference of nationalists from across the white world. Russia’s globalist masters, however, will stop at nothing to smother every spark of Russian pride and self-determination. Hunter’s theories and comfortable life in the West prove scarce preparation for a plunge into an utterly alien world in which criminals, terrorists, ideologues, religious fanatics, and self-sacrificing patriots battle ferociously for the future of a nation. Is Hunter just a dilettante and revolutionary tourist, or does he have the strength and commitment to join forces with the rising Russian nation? Based on years of experience in the underworld of the Russian far Right, Fenek Solère’s is a vivid and intoxicating novel of revolutionary ideas and world-shaking action.

Fenek Solère: другие книги автора


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‘Are you trying to impress me or my grandfather?’

‘Maybe both of you.’ While Tom was shaving Ekaterina, flicked to and fro through the TV channels:


• Traditionalist sympathisers use the Internet monitor Roskomnadzor to prevent Navalny and Leftist activists from accessing Firechat mesh-networking social media in order to foment discord and demonstrations;

• Troops loyal to the new regime are busy removing liberal agitators from rallying sites in Red Square and the Moskvoretsky Bridge in Moscow;

• General Yegor Moskvin appears on state television. Speaking from the Kremlin, he declares that martial law will be imposed from midnight, following the barricading of roads leading to immigrant communities and the sealing off of parts of urban areas where they are the demographic majority;

• The UN, EU, and World Bank insist that Russia returns to a model of democracy acceptable to the world community;

• Nationalist composer Mussorgsky’s opera Boris Godunov is played continuously on the radio;

• T-90 battle tanks and BTR-80 armoured personnel carriers block the Tretye Transportnoye Koltso and Garden Ring roads in Moscow;

• The Lefortovo tunnel is sealed and the M10 between the capital and St Petersburg is made into a strategic corridor, defended by air and ground forces;

• Unknown gunmen open fire on police and army units imposing order in Nizhny Tagil;

• The Pushkinsky District in St Petersburg is militarised, becoming a logistics centre to support brigades facing any potential EU threat via the Finnish border;

• GROM units conduct mass arrests of drug dealers, seizing stockpiles of weapons as well as quantities of heroin, cocaine, and synthetic marijuana known as ‘spice’ in Kemerov, Nalchik, Shakhy, Orsk, Balashikva, Rybinsk, and Korov.


Eventually, she came to the bathroom door, leaned on the wood frame, and looked hard at him.

‘I want to be the next Sabine or Yevgenia Khasis.’

‘In prison and hunted, you mean?’

‘The new government will release Yevgenia from the camps.’

‘But Sabine’s got a harder job in France.’

‘You know I am descended from the Sarmatian and Alans, the tribes that gave birth to the legends about the Amazons.’ She broke off as Tom looked up from the bowl.

‘And brought the myths that would eventually become King Arthur and the Holy Grail to Britain.’

‘I see you have recalled your classes about Batradz’, she laughed.

‘And the warrior women buried in the Pokrovka mounds on the Kazakh border.’

‘Then you know our girls were not allowed to wed until they had killed a man in battle.’

‘They also cut off their right breasts!’

She bent forward. ‘Not all the stories are true.’

‘Thank God.’

‘You know I am a believer in the beregini, the Slavic protector goddesses.’

‘Not necessarily a good Orthodox girl, then?’

Nyet! Below, old traditions remain.’

Tom smiled as Ekaterina walked over to the window, sliding her hand up and down the lined drapes. ‘We believe the sacred feminine cocoons our lives, being conceived in the womb and returning to Mother Earth, after we die. It is a simple cycle, much less complex than the Holy Trinity of Father, Son, and Holy Ghost.’

‘A nice idea!’ His voice sounded unconvinced.

‘Are you being ironic?’

‘No’, he replied with more than a hint of guilt.

‘You should be careful not to offend our deities. Mokosh, the goddess of destiny, may be a lovely young woman who spins the thread of life, but she is also dangerous. Sometimes we Slavs call her Srecha.’ Then she began to recite:

Where Alatyr, ‘father of stones’, is;
On that stone Altyr
On her throne
Sits the maiden king.
Mistress of needlework,
She passes her golden thread
Through [the eye of] a steel needle
And sews up bloody wounds

Tom sat in silent awe for a moment, braced by the heartfelt veracity of her words. Ekaterina’s hair cascaded over her shoulders, her pointing breasts staring down at him. She had the shapely hips and slender legs of her horseback ancestors. He could easily imagine her thundering across the windswept steppes, loosing arrows at Mongol raiders, riding her steed hard into the ripped, red heart of a stormy sunset.

They opened some wine. Ekaterina kicked off her shoes and unzipped her jeans. ‘I think I’m getting drunk’, she said, fingers loosening his tie. He saw she wore the mask of a Veely water sprite dancing and singing in the mountain springs. Tom pushed her back onto the bed, thumbs slipping under her briefs and sliding thin cotton down over her knees.


• Celtic Cross flags begin appearing on prominent buildings and national monuments across Russia;

• Mass rallies are held in Perm’s Gorkovo Park and along Lenina and Komsomolsky Prospekt. ‘We demand our city stays Russian’ echoes across the Kama River;

• Slavic Force and Russian Action militants seize the Kremlin government building of Nizhny Novgorod and arrest the Supreme Regional Officer;

• Army Brigades rally volunteers in city and town squares, distributing food and munitions, as well as providing basic arms training;

• Right and Left gangs clash across the country;

• The military imposes local curfews to prevent looting and disorder.


The wind came biting off the Baltic. Frost-hard teeth raked flesh. Tom cut a thin, black figure on the bleak expanse of the Dvortsovvy Most as Arkady approached, wearing a long greatcoat, his bulky body acting as a windbreaker.

Privet!’ he declared as he came close. ‘You are tired, no?’

Nyet’, the Professor replied.

‘You look like you burn candle at both ends!’

Tom shrugged. ‘I am still celebrating our success!’

‘Or maybe you can’t handle our girls?’ Arkady laughed.

‘I told you to leave her out of this!’

‘You don’t tell me, shit!’

‘But burning the apartment?’

‘You were warned!’

‘But that is ridiculous. A speech…’

Arkady cut him off. ‘Is incendiary!’

‘It makes no sense…’ Arkady’s fist hit him square on the nose. Tom saw a spark of light in the back of his brain and felt hot blood spurt down his shirt. He attempted to stay on his feet, but a second swinging blow to the temple sent him staggering back against the bridge railings. He stared at the ground, trying to focus, stammering his words until Arkady took him firmly by the arm and flagged down the car he had used to chase Tom and Ekaterina down Nevsky Prospekt.

‘Get in!’ Arkady shouted, pushing Tom onto the backseat. ‘It is too cold to stand outside debating’, he said, slamming the door, signalling Bogdan to move on. All the familiar streets rushed by the windows. Arkady handed Tom a handkerchief. ‘Clean yourself!’ he ordered, ‘I don’t want you to bleed all over the upholstery.’

‘The girl’s got nothing to do with this…’

‘She’s one of you!’

‘No!’

‘Don’t lie!’

‘I’m not.’ Tom spat a loose tooth.

‘We know she attends street speeches by fascists.’

‘She’s just an impressionable student.’

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