November the 22nd.

I'm back within the inner core of the Column as part of a group discussing the best means of attacking the Connies' record in office. Our professor is again here to advise us, but it is we who need to come up with a strategy to defeat the buggers; and it won't be an easy thing to do. The prof's analysis may well be correct, but those of us who aren't university academics have a hard time grasping the complex sociology of his reasoning. I'm not dumb but it is quite a mental exercise to understand his argument. If I've got it correctly it runs something like this.

The Connies actually have a considerable support base. Yes it's crazy, but it happens to be so. By now many people have a vested interest in the Consensus government continuing; the system they have created ensures power and pelf from those sitting on the Council all the way down to the local Compy who supplements their meagre income with the ComCred they receive as a result of issuing on the spot fines or items 'confiscated' in random searches.

Not only have people become accustomed to living this way, they are so conditioned to it they can't imagine any alternative; in fact there are many who actually derive a perverse pleasure in seeing the lives and bodies of others bent to their will. It has become more than just a struggle to survive and prosper within the system; it is now a way of life. But how could this have happened in what was - at least in theory - one of the more liberal countries in the world?

The answer is rooted in the ante-Crises culture which predated the Federation and Council; one of economic insecurity as well as a snide jealously inflamed by the many diverse fears concocted by a sensationalist, judgemental media. This led to a people feeling so anxious and fearful they judged the quality of their own lives in regard to that they perceived others to have; whether those perceptions were accurately based on first-hand observations, or influenced by the constant hatemongering propaganda.

Over the years this bred a culture where not only was it considered socially acceptable to inform on a case of suspected wrongdoing - jumping to conclusions before knowing all the facts. It became actively encouraged with grass-in TV programmes not only providing prurient entertainment but hotlines to do so, giving those with a generalised or specific grudge an easy outlet to anonymously express their suspicions. Snitching was not only an exciting and satisfying way of enhancing your self-perceived status by doing your fellow strugglers down; it could on occasions be lucrative.

With so much of the work having already been done in advance the Council found it easy to shape the pliant clay of the populace to their design. Divide and Rule had always been a favoured means of control with the psychologically shocked, disoriented and malnourished people of the immediate post-Crises Fed being prime subjects for manipulation.

They wanted relief from the poverty; the conflict; the uncertainty. They wanted someone with a vision to lead them along a route out of this mess, and the Council offered them one. The radical communitarians in the vanguard of the Consensus movement being most in agreement with the hijacked views of the Royal Commission were used to acting assertively and taking leadership roles, so they were the first to insinuate themselves into the new power structures. As a result they were able to direct the policies of these new organisations to their way of thinking.

With increasing rapidity the state has ingratiated itself into peoples' lives as a result of the work and social services it dispenses. A thankful nation now conflates the Council as well as the organisers of those semi-voluntary services driven by the new ideology of collective self-improvement and reform into a single entity.

Given a sense of purpose again; goals to aim for; some sort of hope for the future; and a sense of self-worth, a new social movement has emerged from the state organised reconstruction efforts. Just as puppies eager to receive rewards and favour, a servile public delivered from a far worse fate are keen to do their masters' bidding.

Totalitarians of every hue have dreamed of an indivisible fusion of state and people. In the creation of the Fed their vision finally appears to have been made real and workable. There is a place for everyone, and everyone in their place; whether they like it or not; with just the right combination of carrot and stick to sustain the system. In this brave new market collectivist world we all move forward together - well, most of us - while occasionally jostling against or trampling each other in our struggle to get slightly further ahead; to be seen to be doing that little bit more in the eyes of our new overseers. With the new state having greatly increased powers and control over the distribution of the means of life, as well as the will to use that leverage against its new serfs it has been easy to lead, and occasionally prod, a bovine public on to their new pastures.

Or to sum it up bluntly: Feed someone who is hungry and they will be thankful enough to love you, as well as doing what you tell them to do.

This 'Stockholm Syndrome' in which those held hostage begin to submissively adopt the views of their captors is the underpinning of the Fed: A Consensus of Council, state, and people in a newfound unity of purpose.

We'll have to confront and defeat this culture in order to win the election. Given such a legacy of doe-eyed, fawning gratitude for what the Consensus has done in dragging a broken nation back - but not as far back as they would have us believe - from the brink of disaster, and an organisation which has had the best part of a decade to become such an integral feature in the fabric of most peoples' everyday lives; breaking the Connies' stranglehold on the electorate is going to be difficult.

At the end of his lecture there is a silence of contemplative thought and an awkwardness of not knowing how to respond. But a half-thought out idea of mine wrestles it's way to completion, and I speak.

"So if I understand you correctly, we're trying to defeat all that the Consensus is, and ever has been; their legacy in fact. That's a lot of a point to get across in one go, and perhaps it isn't possible to do." That prompts some startled looks. "But maybe we don't need to. Perhaps we're going at this the wrong way? If we can't attack the Connies and their record as a whole, then we can identify specific issues to target - such as that hassle I had in the CSO - and use those as touchstones of discontent. I had a lot of positive feedback from people who suffered the same problems as I did, and I believe there is a lot of unexpressed resentment at the way things are.

If we could somehow separate the Connies of the past and their legacy - put it to one side - then we can concentrate on attacking their recent record. I believe they are vulnerable on that score, and we can really hammer them in the here and now while they try to bask in their past glories. It's what people remember at the moment which will make the difference. We have to concentrate on the reality of the mess they've made of our lives now, and if we do then I think we have the basis of a winning strategy."

A light of hope and understanding shines in the faces around the table. Something has clicked and once it does the mental block we had been labouring to move out of the way vanishes, leaving our road clear. Of course it won't be that easy, but I feel as the meeting winds to its close I've been able to contribute something constructive to it.

While my stock is high I think now would be the time to broach that delicate matter to James. As the session breaks up I manage to arrange a few private moments with him in another office and as diplomatically as I can, explain my concerns.

"There's something on my mind I need to discus with you. As you may have noticed this afternoon, I'm taking my work on this campaign very seriously. As part of it I've been trying to put myself in our opponents' flacks, and consider the strategies they might use against the NRP in general, and you in particular as its leader. I think if they could dredge up any personal dirt to use against you then they wouldn't hesitate to use it; moralistic bastards that they are. So I followed that line of thought, and went trawling through the rumour mills of the dark web to see what they might find.

Whoever has been cleaning up behind you has done an impressive job; but what struck me is the extent of the sanitising. It's so large and widespread that I can't help but wonder what exactly has been erased. I know your private life is private, and none of my business, but those people in that room are devoting a  deal of their time and energy to your campaign; not to mention putting themselves at some personal risk. It would be a shame to see all that good work come to nothing because we were blindsided by a Connie ambush."

James looks temporarily taken aback but instantly regains his composure. "I appreciate your candour Richard, but I assure you, everything has been taken care of. All you saw is my legal team making sure all the false rumours and slanders were removed. We don't want to waste our time in the heat of the campaign dealing with nonsense and falsehoods so we're acting on it now. You've got a train to catch soon haven't you? I wouldn't want you to miss it."

The way he answers, and attempts to dismiss me begins to raise my hackles; but it would be extremely counterproductive for me to have an argument with him.

"Well as long as you're happy. I'm still concerned they're probably several steps ahead of us, and been anticipating your moves in advance. Let's face it; they're holding all the cards at the moment, and if I were them I'd have begun digging a long time ago. Any recent whitewashing won't have affected what they may have been able to find and archive in the past." Again a flicker of uncertainty, or is it guilt? flashes across his face. "All I'll say is that if there's something that may compromise the campaign, and you don't want to tell us, which is quite understandable; at least consider how you will respond if it does go public. You owe us that much. We're all putting in a great deal of work on your behalf, and we don't want to see it all blow up in our faces." I see annoyance flash in his eyes. "But as you say, I've got a train to catch so I'd better leave now; all I'm asking is that you consider what I say." And with that I turn and leave as calmly as possible: There's no point in riling him any further.

I think I've given him pause for thought. I hope his annoyance will pass, and he'll understand my reasoning; I'll be deep in it if he takes permanent umbrage. But my overriding thought as the lift takes me down is his lack of denial, and the tacit admission of the clean-up. I wonder what exactly is it he felt he had to bury? I'm even more curious to find out now.

November the 23rd.

I was off duty when the Battle of the Boot Sale took place; but I heard all about it.

The Connies had always hated boot sales. They considered them to be merely a means of quickly disposing of stolen goods and laundering undeclared income. With state community shops to which surplus produce could be sold at fixed prices; and Xchanges where household goods and clothes could be bartered or valuables pledged as collateral for short-term microcredit they considered there really was no need for these unregulated, beyond state control, slightly shady enterprises.

As with so many other things they disapproved of, the Council and their army of willing accomplices tried to make life difficult, if not impossible for the booters.

There were many and varied means of doing so. Road checks and shakedowns on the routes leading to known sale sites; ambush inspections of goods and demands for absolutely ironclad proof of ownership by Compies and local authority trading standards officers, with confiscation of any goods which couldn't be validated. Food items were scrupulously examined for suspected 'risks to health' and a blanket ban on the sale of just out of date items rigorously enforced, despite the fact the food was still perfectly good to eat.

Their attempts to strangle the boot sales with a garrotte of red tape were largely successful; forcing much of the trade which used to be done at the sales onto the dark exchanges; but there were a hard core of determined, independent people who would not be cowed into submission. They would arrive at their chosen sites in tuks, or pedalling cargo bikes, or spill, backpacks and bags overloaded with goods, from buses. Even though there were a declining few traders left, they were still too many for the local Connies who were affronted by the very existence of the sellers and their openly anti-authoritarian freewheeling attitudes. Why they even publicly displayed; nay proudly flaunted, their disgustingly obese bodies and tattoos!

These final few tough nuts would have to be cracked once and for all; their sales finally curtailed. So mid-way through the foreshortened chill summer booting season the authorities pounced.The NatPol and CityPol tend to concentrate only on issues of serious criminality, so it was the ComPol who planned and undertook the raid. The may have thought they were being clever in arranging for the local infogrid to be shut down in order to prevent news of their operation from spreading, but it was that, or the lack of their usual presence which must've alerted the booters to the fact something was up.

Rumours of a raid spread by word of mouth. Some people turned around before reaching the site, others frantically repacked their goods and were about to leave when the Compies arrived, swiftly and quietly en masse.

People can be forced to put up with a lot before their sullen resentment flashes into righteous anger; this was the moment when their rage erupted beyond containment. From hidden places an assortment of weapons suddenly appeared, while others improvised with whatever they could find. The ComPigs found themselves facing a tooled-up mob intent on resisting them and teaching them a bloody good lesson in the process, no matter what the later consequences.

The Compies were well prepared with body amour, riot shields, wands, tasers, pepper sprays and CS gas. They found they needed them all when they became embroiled in vicious close quarter combat with the booters. It should've been a rout with the Pols steamrollering any resistance but the word had got out, and reinforcements had been called in. Even the local gangs wanted a piece of the action. The result was an all-out war.

As with everything these days it was filmed, and later blurted when infogrid connection became possible. There is plenty of material to be found in the dark if you know where to look, and it is these vids which I'm editing into a documentary, and a short election blurt for the NRP.

The Compies thought they had any trouble contained within their contracting cordon, but when a mass of hastily mobilised boot sale supporters from outside turned up it was the Pols who found themselves surrounded and under attack from all sides. They weren't expecting their tuks and paddy wagons to be hijacked and driven at high speed into their ranks from their rear, mowing many of their number down, before being set on fire. They were unpleasantly surprised by the Blinders, the stun guns, the machetes, or even the occasional gun shots. Nor did they think a shotgun blast could bring down their low-level surveillance drone. Surprised at the scale of the resistance they were swamped by a human wave and given a traditional Pompey shoeing; with at least two of their number being kicked into a permanent vegetative state. After ten minutes they had to concede they were losing the battle and called in reinforcements from the CityPol.

By the time additional forces arrived it was all but over. The Compies had formed themselves into a tight defensive formation backed up against a club house wall to try to fend off their opponents, while a few bewildered prisoners were held in the middle of the group; but by them the majority of their attackers had fled realising extra police would soon be on their way. The area around the sports club car park was left a shambles of debris, blood stains, and immobile bodies; while Compy tuks still burned fiercely. More police and emergency services arrived, and some sort of order was restored.

The professional CityPol chased the few remaining stragglers down the streets, firing baton rounds at them and getting involved in fast-moving skirmishes; but the squall had blown itself out. The repercussions would last longer. There were many immediate arrests, with more to follow when the video from the body worn cameras was examined. Not all of the cameras which were torn from vehicles, police uniforms or taken along with the helmets were ever recovered; some left behind were too badly burned to be used: People had become wise to those means of evidence gathering.

More than a hundred people were injured to various degrees; sixteen of them seriously, five with life-threatening stab wounds and head injuries. Four Compies were so badly injured they would never be able to resume their duties, while others suffered severed fingers and deep machete cuts.

The reprisals soon followed. There's no love lost between the CityPol and the Compies but such a violation of public order could not go unpunished; even if it was prompted by the ComPigs' insensitivity. Widespread follow-up raids and shakedowns took place. All of those arrested and convicted (these days the conviction invariably follows the arrest, whatever the circumstances of the case) were sentenced to lengthy Rehabilitation terms. In addition, for weeks afterward the area was blanketed with a heavy-handed police presence just to make absolutely sure the lesson had been learned.

But the retaliation can't erase the fact that once again a community had stood up against the overbearing regulation of their lives; and even after order has been restored those jobsworths inspecting even the smallest charitable jumble sales for the slightest infractions of the law are still inhibited by their nervousness of sparking another outbreak of disorder. The local ComPigs still patrol in pairs or groups; ever fearful of being ambushed and 'spazzed' - attacked with the intent of inflicting a permanent disability.

Beneath the facade of calm the resentment still simmers. Anonymous dark blurts promise the old scores aren't forgotten; notes have been made about informers and Street Wardens; and come the time the accounts will be settled.

Of course little of this was reported at the time. Even we at IMS were served with an immediate Section 38 directive by the OMS severely curtailing how we could report the events. A week later when the courts began to pass sentence we were only allowed to mention the offences were 'anti-social activities' without giving any details of the specific charges or context of the cases. For all intents and purposes, the riot never happened; such is the Connies' dread of an example of resistance inspiring others to do likewise.

Yet the riot occurred; and the smouldering resentment remains. When the electoral process officially starts, and we're able to 'cast with fewer restrictions as part of the campaign, we hope to capitalise on these undercurrents of discontent.

I make a final check of the edit, making sure the script reads smoothly for the narrator to voice. Then I run some of the more sensitive sections of the documentary through a facial pixilation wurdle; and just to make absolutely sure the faces can't be identified I use a one-time algorithm which should render the vid useless to anyone trying to use it as evidence in any further persecutions. It's best to err on the side of caution in case anyone who darkblurted had been careless in disguising themselves. I do the same to any non-voiced over clips with a voice changing wurdle. I owe them that much at least. The shorter campaign blurt on the subject is far easier to create, and soon I have both of them ready to send via our secure link for James and the rest of the campaign group to look at.

Maybe I'm getting older, or my eyes are beginning to go; or perhaps it's both of those things plus added stress, overwork, and tiredness, but after a session like that I notice quite a diminution in my vision. If it goes on I'll have to see a doctor about it. I hope after the campaign is over my efforts are appreciated.

November the 24th.

The feedback is good. A prime-time slot will be set aside for national 'casting across the IMS network once the campaign is underway. It will be an ambush last-minute change to the scheduled programme with follow-up repeats for those who miss it. I doubt the Connies, the OMS or the Election Commission will be best pleased, but that's just too bad.

November the 25th.

Over the years we as a people have had to toughen up. We've been impoverished and half-starved; having to adapt to a life without many of the comforts we once took for granted. We've been irradiated and suffered the debilitating effects of the epidemics of biological weapons liberated in the aftermath of the Crises Wars (though fortunately the Doomsday Virus fears proved groundless.) On top of that we've had to cope with regular extremes of appalling weather. But even so I draw the line at cycling to work through squalls of sleeting rain. Instead I decide to take the bus through the late November morning gloom, only to find there's been a minor Grid-Down, as Black Dragon attacks have euphemistically become known.

We've been promised again and again the former DPRK's final weapon was on the point of being contained or defeated for good; yet still it pounces from out of nowhere to inflict yet more inconvenience upon us. This time it appears to have targeted transport, with buses and taxis reporting problems with their ticket card systems thanks to the Dragon infiltrating via the real-time links between vehicles and their control centres. What it will do from there is anyone's guess. It may harvest account details so the unfortunate cardholders find themselves bankrupted or sudden temporary billionaires: It's always best to pay in cash if you can to avoid those sorts of risks. Or the Dragon may fool the tracking systems into thinking a vehicle is off its route.

At least PortsBus are used to this by now. This attack seems to have been going on long enough for them to  post extra staff on their buses with card readers and ticket machines which are independent of the grid and so isolated from this particular attack. The transactions can be reconcilled with their integrated system once this particular dragon hatchling has been slain, or more likely decided to vanish of its own accord as quickly as it arrived.

There's a national task force dedicated to countering Dragon attacks, and they have plenty of work to do. The Dragon is notoriously difficult to counter or kill due to its constantly evolving nature. It attacks with sophistication in many different ways;varying its tactics and degrees of severity; seemingly able to nonchalantly brush aside the levels of cybersecurity put in place to stop it. Some experts believe it may have swapped digital DNA with the venerable Sword of Jihad virus; while others class it as a sentient form of malignant artificial intelligence; warning it has become so deeply entrenched within the nodes of the infogrid it may never be possible to erase it.

There's a growing fear those gloomy experts may be right. Some of the most pessimistic caution attacking the Dragon too aggressively would risk it retaliating by permanently shutting down the entire interconnected structures on which modern life depends, with all the apocalyptic disruption that pushing society suddenly back into the pre-digital age would entail.

So it seems we'll have to live with North Korea's legacy for the time being. But it is an ill wind that blows no good. Many people dreaded the future which was predicted before the Crises: One ever more automated and integrated, where technology was advancing faster than people could adapt or understand it: A world in which people were being rendered increasingly redundant. It seemed at the time that everything would soon disappear up its own backside in a singularity of incomprehension. Thanks to the effects of the Dragon, at least for the moment there is an increasing need for human minders to continually monitor automated systems for the first signs of an attack; though sometimes the attacks aren't so easy to notice.

The Dragon has learned subtlety. It will make undectably tiny updates to automatic programmes; altering dimensions or thread pitches in a way that won't become apparent until hundreds of thousands, perhaps millions, of useless components have been manufactured. Sometimes it will lurk invisibly in operating systems changing just one line of code at a time; but that one line can make all the difference.
We've learned to be more resilient in the face of it. We've had to relearn to do by hand or brain those processes we used to unthinkingly trust to computers; just in case... Though it may have ruined our productivity, and absorb an estimated four percent of our annual GDP to combat it, the money isn't wasted we're told; as it is recirculated back and around the economy. So says Hazel Dunn, one of the more la-la Connie leaders; the same dinny bint who publicly rejoices how the Albans appear to suffer as much as we do from the brainchild of their former mentor.

There have been plenty of cost-benefit analyses done about the Second Korean War, most of them concluding in retrospect it was a really bad idea. You don't say... It's a shame no one was able to point that out to Mad Dog Farrell before he went off his rocker. They also say in relative terms of damage done the North actually won in the long run. I'm sure the dead of Pyongyang, Chongjing, Hamhung and Kaesong; those slowly dying in the 'treatment centres'  from the effects of radiation poisoning, or the wretched people in one of the relatively unpolluted 'Resettlement Areas' will draw scant comfort from the fact.

The bus reaches the city centre, and it's obvious the attack has spread further than the bus network. There are CityPols on manual traffic duty instead of the traffic llights; with many street lights and buildings darkened. Reaching my stop I hunch down further within my poncho and walk to Media House without getting too badly pelted raw. After a quick cup of hot tea I'm eager to find out how bad this attack has been: Fortunately it doesn't seem to have been too widespread if you can believe the official reports.

Speculation about what the Dragon will do next is officially discouraged. It's understandable, given how unpredictable it is. No-one knows if it is hiding, licking its wounds from the latest battle against the Global Counter-Dragon Task Force, or just lying low before doing something spectacular. The unspoken fear is that one day it will attack a nuclear power station and bypass the failsafes. Many believe the only reason it hasn't as yet is because it understands its continuing existence depends on electricity; but if it felt itself in mortal danger then who knows what it might do? I wonder if it isn't a question of when rather than if it happens.