#lane and kent? you see those two making out by the coffee machine over there?

[stardustinthesky]

315 | 320

[worldofadvent]

NEO World of Advent Chapter One

Neo World of Advent

The streets of Neo Arcadia lined themselves with a chaotic cluttering, one that brought confusion to all but those who called them their home. From above, the oppressive sun shone on passerby as the murky, humid heat was complimented by the sound of bustling machine parts and the squeaking of oil. Barely three feet of the original framework of the road that stretched throughout the world's greatest and only city remained unsullied by broken cars or the current fashionable mode of transport, a sort of hoverboard called the Slider. If one were to ask where to find a certain shop or location, they need merely ask – for a price. These were the suburbs of Arcadia, close enough to the slums, yet far enough from the grand throne room and its surrounding districts to still give off a distinct sense of pandemonium.

As it stood, the current passenger racing through the streets needed no such directions, nor did the chaotic bustling of his home bother him. For Cipher, everything was in its rightful place, as it should be. Cipher knew the city to act like a well-oiled machine; this area was but one of its many cogs, grinding together in harmonious cacophony. He held together a patch of paperwork clutched tightly in his left hand. His right was too busy, preoccupied with navigating the narrow stretch of space available to passerby. It wasn't long before he came to a stop, resting his sore legs at a shop sign whose label read "Cipher Mechanics and Repair". Under it, a slogan read "We can fix anything – alive or inanimate."

As Cipher made a move to open the door, he waited. It was a thoughtful pause, one that gave consideration to the event that would, as he knew, undoubtedly unfold next.

The door flew open, and a delivery boy sailed across the clearing, dropping spare parts in his hurry to get where he was going. "Sorry Cy!" he called out. "I'll be more careful next time."

Cipher shook his head, half in exasperation, half in amusement. His Family was a rambunctious one, but most Advents were. Cipher caught himself thinking upon the word. An Advent, living child of human and machine. Were it not for the progenitors of Adventkind, Ciel Kanara [made up name] and Umera Umbria, they wouldn't exist. Cipher himself was one. Among the oldest living Advents, he was assigned the duty of raising and managing a haphazard group of Advents of equal or lower age. A Family, the bureaucrats called it, likely pleased with the euphemism. As if a child could lead other children as effectively as an adult. Nevertheless, the idea stuck, Advents like Cipher dealing with the newfound stresses of maintaining a grip on their fellow Advents.

Making his way inside his shop many simply knew as "The Workshop", Cipher took a second to reacquaint himself with the familiar surroundings. The scents and sounds of fresh oil on newly packaged cogs and wiring were welcome, as were the sparks that flew around the large cube sized space that encompassed his shop. Roughly 1,800 square feet, it was quite a large shop as compared to its surrounding businesses and other assorted stores. But the size meant business. And business meant profit. Profit meant the ability to feed his family.

Five main cubicles packaged themselves neatly in rows, with the largest, Cipher's office standing in the back next to the office sink and cupboards. Within the four cubicles, an Advent each stood or sat, depending on the time and Advent in question. Above, machine parts slid forward and down on a massive pulley system Cipher himself designed.

The Workshop was fairly disorganized, papers and spare nuts and bolts sprawled in random directions. That is to say, save for Cipher's own paradise of orderly organization. Never understanding how his fellow colleagues and members of his relatively small Family could function in such a messy environment, Cipher had long since implemented a rule of absolute orderliness in and around his private cubicle.

"Morning Shirley," Cipher greeted the closest of his Family, an Advent girl of around fifteen. She was currently embroiled in the throes of paperwork, her bored and impatient expression twitching at Cipher's greeting.

"Morning," she said. "And don't call me Shirley!"

Cipher chuckled. It was a well known fact around the office that Shirley liked to be called by her nickname, Shelley. If it were anyone but him calling her by her birth name, they would have likely received a bruise born from one of the many thick books Shelley kept nearby, ready to send airborne upon the earliest convenience.

Bradley too was working in a cubicle, too busy to return Cipher's greeting, choosing to give a curt nod instead. Currently pacifying an irate customer over the phone, Bradley returned to the task at hand. "No, Mrs. Smith. We'll have your order ready by tomorrow…"

The remaining two cubicles were empty. Kent, Cipher could see, was hard at work sampling the office coffee when he should be managing the budget. Cipher gave the black haired Advent boy a sideways glance and a small cough, taking small pleasure in Kent's surprised yelp and curse as he spilled the fresh coffee over his shirt.

"Righteo," Kent said, grinning abashedly. "On it, boss."

The last cubicle, one directly in front of Cipher and slightly to the right, belonged to Charles, his next in command. It was a surprise not to see him working on the next set of work orders. A quick glance inside Cipher's own cubicle told him that Charles was organizing some papers for him.

Cipher liked Charles. A neat freak like himself, he had shown promise the minute Cipher had accepted him into the small Family he maintained. The five of them were less than half its total population, but consisted of the entire work force, keeping the rest of it fed and sheltered. It had been a long time since Cipher had moved into the private sector in favor of higher earns at the cost of government subsidiaries. At least it allowed for more wiggle room, Cipher reminded himself.

"Hey," Cipher greeted his lieutenant. "What's up?"

"Oh not much," Charles muttered, too caught up in the work for pleasantries. "You've got to go over these," he said, handing Cipher a stack of papers with photo identities printed on their top right corners. "You won't like it, but some Advents have recently been taken from the streets in our District. They go under your jurisdiction."

Cipher groaned. It was hard enough keeping the twelve of them fed. Just how many more would he potentially expect to come under his responsibility?

"Thanks Charles. I'll handle it."

Charles nodded solemnly, walking over to his personal cubicle, where Cipher could hear the distinct sound of shuffled papers.

Six Unclaimed Advents? In my district? I don't know if we have the funds to support another mouth to feed. True, they could go to Harley… He seems nice enough, for an Umbrian. Still, to live in the slums and to have the Umbrian name tacked on to you for the rest of your life? There must be another option.

Cipher snapped his fingers together, a habit he tended to do when he had just figured some answer to a complex and difficult equation.

Joan! She has some designation in the District as well, even if by a technicality. Troublesome woman she is, she has never turned down an Advent yet. Her governmental subsidiaries should allow for it. I guess there are some advantages to working in the public sector.

Cipher poured himself a celebratory cup of coffee, adding a liberal amount of cream to it. After gingerly testing the temperature of the brew and determining it safe to drink, he gulped it down, humming softly to himself as the liquid settled pleasantly in his stomach. Moving on to a more immediate concern of his, Cipher took a look at the inventory of expected income versus what funds they had actually acquired. Frowning slightly as he realized that they were already halfway over budget, he called Kent over to manage the findings.

Fortunately, the demand for Sliders was on the rise, something The Workshop excelled at. If there was any one thing Cipher could pride his shop on doing, it was creating a damn good Slider. Cipher sighed, figuring that it would only do harm to postpone the situation concerning the Unclaimed Advents and made plans to leave.

"You're in charge, Charles!" Cipher called out as he jingled the keys to his personal Slider. "Let me know if anything comes up."

"You got it boss," Charles said, standing a little taller as he took the mantle of temporary Head of Office.

Clutching the necessary documents in one hand, Cipher unlocked his Slider, carefully maneuvering around the hustle and bustle of heavy traffic. Several delivery trucks ran the way through the narrow lanes assigned to citizens of Neo Arcadia. Because the Slider was a relatively new invention, he had less right to the roads than they, but much more flexibility.

Cipher ducked under a heavy transport bus, wind rushing in his ears as he did so. It was times like these he felt alive, where the only worry on his mind was how to move, how to fly, how to get to where he was going. What happened when he got there could wait. He was in his element now.

Grinning like a madman, Cipher whipped through a tunnel exit, making his way to the subterranean areas of the city. Neo Arcadia was a large city, the human capital of the world, but even it could not afford to sprawl out endlessly. Thus, the tunnels were constructed. Grey and wired, hosting both energy to be rewired throughout the city in accordance to the leaders of Neo Arcadia's orders, they also served as a means to get one place to another without having to deal with the tedious traffic. Hosting a large and varied kind of occupants, ranging from drug dealers and the homeless to the Advent Families assigned, it was a vast and at times confusing system. But again, Cipher was no stranger to these particular tunnels, and made his way through them with relative ease.

Ordinarily Cipher made a point to get to one destination to another as fast as possible, but whenever he made trips down here, he couldn't help but pass a Zenny or two to the odd homeless person haunting the tunnel side exits. It was unfortunate that not every human and reploid could find his or her place in their city, something Cipher wished he could change. As it stood however, Advent rights were on the fringe, with many religious groups protesting Human/Reploid unions. Even some senators made their voices loudly heard. It was all Cipher could do to ensure his Family was well protected.

After making a quick left through some of the more narrow pipelines, Cipher stopped, knowing that Joan's home, the Forge, was nearby. Sure enough, children covered in soot appeared seemingly out of nowhere, camouflaged by their dark environment.

"Mister Cipher's here!" one of the smaller children squeaked. Others ignored him. Others still hopped down to give Cipher a disapproving glare.

"What do you want?" one in particular, a soot haired girl named Jenny, asked. "You and Joan aren't dating anymore. I thought you said you wouldn't be around anymore."

"Yes," Cipher sighed irritably. "We're not dating. No, I never said I would avoid the Forge. It was a mutual breakup! And besides, our Families do business with each other. It wouldn't make sense for me to just forget where she lives."

"Hmph" Jenny offered in response. "I suppose I can let her know you stopped by."

Cipher watched Jenny saunter slower than he thought ordinary towards the front gate of the Forge, opening it slowly, giving the nearby occupants a glimpse of its insides and a wave of heat. As Cipher watched Jenny take her time, he decided it would be a good idea to find a way to entertain himself. Jenny would likely find any and every excuse to keep him waiting as long a possible.

"So what are you doing here," a human male Cipher recognized as being Joan's second in charge, Johnathan, said. He had a rough leather jacket on, goggles obscuring his forehead, reaching up into his soot covered hair. It was impossible to tell what the natural color of hair was from anyone living in the Forge.

"Business, mostly," Cipher said casually. "Between you and me, you may be getting some new siblings soon enough."

"I see." Johnathan's face was stoic, as always. "Is there anything I can do to assist you with your business with Miss Joan?"

"Miss?" Cipher snorted. "She's only a year older than I am. But yeah, there is one thing I would like to know. Why are there so many humans here? I thought Advent Families usually kept within their kind."

"It's better than living on the streets," Johnathan responded. "I was a thief on the streets before I had the misfortune of trying to pickpocket Joan. She brought us wayward souls here, to the Forge, and gave us hope and direction." He paused. "She gave us purpose again."

"I see." Cipher nodded. "That does sound like Joan alright. So how does she find people? Just how many non-Advents are there in the Forge?"

"There are approximately fifty seven humans currently employed under Miss Joan," Johnathan said. "Is there anything else you would like to know?"

"Nah," Cipher said. "I'm good."

The two of them stood in comfortable silence while they waited for news about Joan's potentially seeing about Cipher's issue at hand, namely the Unclaimed Advents. It wasn't until twenty minutes later that Cipher heard Joan's voice echo throughout the tunnels surrounding the Forge.

"Yo, Johnathan! What did I say about talking to strangers?" Joan grinned, dressed in full plate armor and bright red hair that seemed impervious to the oppressive soot. "What up, Cy?" she asked, punching his arm. Hard.

"Pretty good," Cipher said, rubbing his arm tenderly. "Save for the bruise that I'll have tomorrow. How have you been, Jo?"

"The price of steel these days is killing me," she said irritably. "It's like there's some shortage of iron or something."

"I know," Cipher said, glad to be able to have an easy conversation with Joan again. "It's hurting us back at the Workshop as well."

"You have my sympathy," Joan said. "So what brings you all the way to the Forge?"

Cipher grimaced. "Can we talk in private?"

"Is this bad?" Joan sighed. "Alright. Johnathan, go stoke the fires, would you?"

Johnathan gave Joan a stiff salute, making his way to the maw of the Forge. There was a harsh grating sound as the gate opened, blasting Cipher and the apparently immune Joan with a gust of superheated air.

"How can you stand this place?" Cipher asked, fanning himself with his hands. "It's so hot!"

"Wimp." Joan rapped her metal armor proudly. "Here at the Forge we learn how to weather heat quickly."

"Whatever," Cipher sighed, the overbearing heat making him irritable. "Let's just get this done with. I have some Unclaimeds I want you to look over. Do you think you can manage a few more?"

Joan sighed. "I'll take the lot in. But they had better be prepared for a lot of hard work soon enough. Everyone earns their keep in the Forge."

"Thanks Jo," Cipher said, relieved. "I knew I could count on you."

"No problem." Joan bit her lip. "Hey, Cy."

"Yeah?"

"Do you think it could ever have worked out, you know, between us?"

Cipher's eyes softened and shook his head sadly. "We're just too incompatible."

Joan nodded, as if that was the answer she had expected to hear. "Yeah, I guess so. Come on in anyway. There's something I want to show you."

A suspicious and intrigued Cipher followed Joan into the Forge, hearing that awful gate screech open and close once again.

The Forge had not changed much from Cipber's last recollection of it. Huge and oppressively hot, it hosted dozens of Joan's Family. People of all denominations and backgrounds worked several varying stations in varying degrees of enthusiasm. As usual, Cipher noted, Joan was unaffected, even in the metallic armor she always garbed herself in. How she managed to stay cool underneath all that metal remained a mystery to him; even as they were dating she refused to tell him the secret. In its center lay a massive pyre in which people dumped large quantities of metal in, where it would pool out, now molten liquid from one of four stops on each side of the Pyre. A clanking and screeching of gears and machinery could be heard as workers pulled the stops to an open or a close in a discordant rhythm in accordance to the flow of the lava like flow. Swelteringly hot and unabashedly so, the Forge was, as Cipher knew, Joan's pride and joy. Just as he had designed the Workshop, she had the Forge, with his help so many years ago.

As Cipher and Joan made their way to Joan's office, she barked orders to slacking workers, giving motivation to those already hard at work. "Joe! Cassidy! I'd better not catch you two making out when you're on the Bellows again!"

Joan's office was in the back of the Forge, a clustered space full of overfull bins and drawers. Filing cabinets lay overstuffed, with some papers strewn across, with holes burnt through from all the heat. A solitary picture of her birth parents, who died when she was very young, was placed upon the only desk in the room.

Joan handed Cipher a mug of coffee, pulling out a paper sticking out of one of the nearby cabinets, tearing a corner in the process. "There ya go. Take a look at it. Thought it might interest you."

Cipher read it aloud.

"Welcome one and all, Advents of all ages! The Grand Serena Tournament opens This month at the Arcades Coliseum! Test your mettle against other Arcadians, Prove your mettle with contests of strength, Acquire riches! Fame and Glory are yours to be had. Applicants accepted XX/xx/XXXX."

Cipher put the paper down. "That's in a week, Joan."

Joan nodded. "I know, but think about it! We can do it, Cy. Think about it – ten million Zenny prize money! That would feed our families for years. No more worrying about budget cuts, federal funding, or if the price of milk shoots up again. We would be rich."

Cipher took the bait. "And if, against all odds, one of us makes it to the top, what then?"

Joan gave Cipher a confident look. "We split the prize money. Half-half."

"I don't know, Jo. That's a lot of time in the Dojo I'm not using to run the shop."

"Just promise me you'll think on it, will you?"

Cipher sighed, knowing how persistent Joan could be. "I'll think about it. I make no promises though."

"Thanks, Cy. You're the best."

Cipher waved the compliment by as he stood up, yawning. "Thanks for the coffee. I have to go now; it was fun catching up with you though. We should do this again sometime."

"Preferably without the pressure of Unclaimed Advents," Joan said lightly. "But yes. It was fun."

Exiting the Forge took a little time to navigate due to all the activity and people. Cipher made a small smirk at Joe and Cassidy, who were still sucking face behind a pillar. "You know she's not kidding when she said she'd put you on double Bellows shift, right?"

The two stopped just long enough to give Cipher a very long and irritable glare before continuing their scheduled make out session.

Outside the Forge, much to Cipher's irritation, his Slider was missing. Groaning at the thought of the long walk all the way back to the Workshop, the thought of borrowing one from Joan flitted across his mind, but he quickly shoved the thought away.

It was an uneventful walk through the Tunnels, save for the growling of Cipher's stomach scaring off the local homeless, who believed it to belong to some rabid beast reploid. Cipher wondered if anyone had ever had their rumbling stomach mistaken for a Maverick before. Ultimately, Cipher decided to stop by a café for some lunch, quelling his growing hunger.

It was a quaint, small place, but Cipher liked it. Wooden, not the normal metallic store, it had a nice, natural feel to it. In the background, a documentary about the Resistance droned. Cipher listened to its droning in the background of his mind.

"Here we are at the famous Resistance Base, once thought destroyed in a surprise assault by the infamous criminal Dr. Weil. As a note for our new listeners, there will be a complete documentary on the life - and death of the criminal mastermind responsible for the takeover of Neo Arcadia next week. For now, we will be focusing on the changes that have occurred over the last twenty years.

It all starts with the advent of Ciel's grand idea for furthering peaceful relations between reploid and humankind. Her idea, to unify the families of man and metal was to be called the "Advent" which we know today. Notable groups protested this idea, including Senator Crux of Neo Arcadian royalty. Nevertheless, the first Advents, among them, Ciel's own child were successfully incubated on the day of XX/XX/20XX.

It appeared to be a happy new beginning for the small family of Ciel, the famous Hunter Zero, and the child as plans for another child were made. Sadly, tragedy struck the day Umera Umbria, the reploid Ciel placed in charge of the incubation process, turned maverick. In an act that shocked the world, he kidnapped the baby Light and smashed many of the incubators growing new Advents. Light's whereabouts are unknown, and he is widely believed to be dead.

Fortunately, Ciel has since taken all incubations under her direct command. And with them, a healthy baby boy was born fourteen years ago today. The now famous "Child of the Resistance," Cero, lives with his parents in the Resistance Base."

Cipher let the rest of it continue without paying much attention to it as his food arrived, a plate of eggs and Sim Sausages.

On the way back to the Workshop, Cipher thought about the resistance kid, Cero. Many people said he bore a resemblance to the Resistance kid. Cipher always waved it off; celebrity look-a-likes were never his thing. Still, the unmistakable sense of loneliness crept up, until it was abruptly shattered in the crash of someone riding a Slider colliding straight into him.

"Ouch…" A girl's voice said. "Oh! I'm sorry, did I hit you… Cero?! What are you doing here?"

"The name's Cipher," Cipher said. "I just look like him is all. Do you know him?"

"Yes," the (quite attractive, in Cipher's eyes) mystery girl said bashfully, as she up righted herself. "I'm from the Resistance. My name's Sorra. I was sent here to deliver an order for military grade Sliders, you know, the ones with blasters equipped to them?"

Cipher took a quick look at her order forms. "Those are for the Workshop, my store. I guess I could show you where it is if you came all the way here for it."

Sorra's face lit up. "Oh really? Thank you! I've been looking forever for it."

The two made their way inside the office, the bell chiming as they opened the door. Bradley was working the front desk now.

"Who's the lucky girl?" he asked.

"No one," Cipher replied, used to Bradley's antics by now. "We just ran into each other. Literally."

Cipher tacked Sorra's order form to the wall, preparing her some tea as he did so. "We'll have it to you by next month," Cipher promised. "You can rely on the Workshop to do a good job on it, too."

"Thanks," Sorra said, wandering around. "So this is what an Advent Family looks like?" she asked, pointing to Cipher's smaller family of twelve. "You all look happy."

"We're not always that way," Cipher said. "But we try."

Sorra nodded. "So who manages this place? Is it you?"

"Yes," Cipher said, "But I answer to an old reploid named Tom."

"That must be a lot of hard work," Sorra said sympathetically. "Do you, well, do you know who your biological family is?"

"No," Cipher said, sipping tea from a paper cup. "Heads of Families aren't allowed to look up their family ancestry. They think it would upset the balance we have with maintaining our own Families."

"That's horrible," Sorra said, frowning. "What if they're still alive?"

Cipher shrugged. "Who knows? A lot of Advents ended up in this kind of situation after the incident with Umera. It's just the way it is."

"Still…" Sorra said. She picked up the paper Joan had given Cipher. "The Grand Serena Tournament! Are you attending? I am. I can't wait to go."

"Err," Cipher said. "Yes. I am."

"Great!" Sorra said, beaming. "Well, I'll see you there, Cipher. It was nice meeting you."

"You too," Cipher said, perhaps a little foolishly. Cipher kicked himself as soon as Sorra had left. Honestly, he thought he was more in control of his hormones by now. Oh well. Cipher thought, picking up the paper. It could be fun.

[chris-carson]

San Francisco's Years of Terror

The early morning hour, August 28, 1971: Sergeant George Kowalski, a clear faced young man, with big owl like eyes, and a firm neck, is working the midnight watch for Mission Station. He stops his cruiser at a red light, at 16th and Folsom Streets. Today marks about five weeks for him as Sergeant in the San Francisco Police Department. The day also falls in the middle of one of the most violent periods the City has ever lived through.

Ahead Kowalski sees the headlights of a speeding car coming towards him, furiously sparkling like the eyes of a hungry animal. The car switches lanes and crosses the intersection, stopping about twenty feet away from the young Kowalski- a Mission high graduate, born in Chicago. Kowalski looks over. He can see two men in the neighboring car through their open window. Then he sees something else, pointing at him like a mocking tongue. It is the barrel of a sub machine gun.

Kowalski hits the floor of his cruiser; grabs his service revolver. Thirty five years old is no time to go. But it seems to be the way for San Francisco police officers these days. He is ready. Ready for his cruiser to be turned to Swiss cheese, ready for what that may mean for his life. Just maybe he can get off a few rounds in return.

But nothing happens. The would-be killers’ machine gun jams. Turns out the shell with Kowalski’s name on it is mutilated, and gums up the barrel. The car takes off. Kowalski follows. In the high speed chase, shots fire at Kowalski from a .38 caliber, bursting orange in the darkness as they pop. At 16th and Alabama, the suspect’s car collides with an innocent driver.

Kowalski and other officers arrive on the scene for a shoot-out. Kowalski fires his shot gun, blasting through the suspects’ window, lacerating their faces with glass shards. There is a struggle between one officer and an armed suspect. The officer raises his revolver and brings it down with a crack, breaking the suspect’s cheek bone.

The two men are taken in an ambulance to the Mission emergency Hospital and placed under arrest. The police officers search the smashed and shot up car, where they find a military sub-machine gun with a magazine containing 29 live rounds and a .45 caliber automatic. The officers also take a gun off one of the suspects; the .38 caliber. On the butt of the .38, they notice a stamp with the serial number and the letters, NYPD.

One of the suspects arrested that night was an Oakland kid named Anthony Bottom. He was young, only nineteen years old and quick to tell whoever would listen about his position with a radical group called the Black Liberation Army. Later, Bottom will admit to officers that on August 24, 1971, he went into the Ingleside Police Station to report a stolen bicycle. The report was a ruse. When Bottom walked out of the station, he did not leave the premises. Instead, he stood in the chilly air, observing the stations layout, making note of easy ways in, and quick ways out.

Night time, August 29, 1971: with Bottom sitting in a cell at the San Francisco City Prison, killers crawl through a hole cut in the fence between Ingleside Station and Interstate 280, loaded shotguns at their sides.

Inside Ingleside station, Sergeant John Young sits at his desk. Across from him, the office typist, busy patting the keys of her typewriter or shifting through the papers on her desk. The radio on the wall between them may murmur and blurt, reporting the day’s activity back to the station. Maybe one of them is drinking coffee; maybe the typist just lit a cigarette, or emptied the glass ashtray on the corner of her desk. What do people do before the last thing they expect to happen, happens?

Whatever they are doing, they are not ready when those who cut through the fence storm the station, poke their shotguns through the circular hole in the bullet proof glass separating office from front door and open fire. Sergeant Young is hit and killed. The typist injured.

Sergeant Young’s murder was never solved. When the killers fled, all they left behind was a dead man, and cracks looking like someone smashed an egg, and watched the yoke run down the smooth bullet proof surface of the glass there to protect him.

After the San Francisco Giants won the World Series this October, the streets were flooded with people. The celebrations took all forms. From the innocent- hugging, chanting, drinking beer with friends-, to outright destructive and violent-smashing a barricade through a Muni bus windshield, setting a Muni bus on fire.

On Haight Street, people set off fireworks and decorated telephone wires with toilet paper. The next day, when the photos began to service online, many people wondered why San Francisco residents celebrate joyous events by infusing the atmosphere with the nervous edginess of a war zone.

But for new transplants, young people who weren’t alive at the time, or older residents who may have forgotten, it is worth remembering through most of the 1970’s, San Francisco was the battle ground for something like a reign of terror, or an armed revolution, all depending on which side of the political telescope you choose to examine it through. Either way you see it though, there was an almost unimaginable amount of violence in the streets.

In 1970, four police officers were killed in the line of duty, including one Brian McDonnell, who was fatally injured by a bomb explosion at Park Station on Waller Street. As the 1970’s ticked on, violence wasn’t strictly targeted at police. From the fall of 1973, through spring ’74, more than a dozen people were murdered in a racially motivated killing spree called the “Zebra” murders.

Jump to 1976: While then Mayor Joseph Alioto, whose time in City Hall is today remembered for BART and the Transamerica Pyramid, was negotiating an agreement with the police union to end a strike, a pipe bomb explodes outside his home. Though his wife was upstairs at the time, nobody was hurt. Meanwhile, Supervisors were targeted that year too. Quentin Kopp and John Barbagelata received candy box bombs in the mail, and Diane Feinstein was sent a bomb in a flower box. None of them exploded.

It’s clear the era’s boiling frustrations spilled into the hearts and minds of many a San Franciscans, but the steadiest source of violence welled within radical groups like the Black Liberation Army and the Symbionese Liberation Army. In the name of revolution, these groups usually targeted the most immediate and accessible symbol of the status quo they could find; the San Francisco Police Department.

An explanation of how the American political left of the 1970’s slid from idealism to terrorism is complicated, but not unlike the rise of Maximelien Robespierre and the Reign of Terror after the French Revolution. In both cases, the push for a more free and equal society was eventually hijacked by impatience and the egos of a charismatic few, and morphed into a push for violence.

One way to explain it, is to say that activist groups from the mid 1960’s, such as The Student Left and the Civil Rights Movement, were fractured; The Student Left over the Vietnam war and the Civil Rights Movement over a guiding philosophy and direction; either follow Dr. Martin Luther King Jr.’s nonviolent doctrine or admit that nonviolence can only go so far before confrontation with the power structure becomes a necessity.

By the late 1960’s and early 1970’s, the country was on edge. Martin Luther King Jr. and Malcolm X had been assassinated. Jim Crow had been eliminated, yet his shadow still hung over the American South, and elsewhere examples of social and economic inequality between blacks and whites were as obvious as ever. Student demonstrations continued on college campuses with new intensity, and on May 4, 1970, the Ohio Army National Guard fired on students at Kent State, killing four and wounding nine.

As a result, activist groups fractured further, giving rise to The Black Panther Party, which then split over clashing philosophies between leaders Huey Newton and Eldridge Cleaver, with Cleaver calling for a more militaristic and guerilla approach in order to unify the black communities, ultimately founding the Black Liberation Army. Meanwhile what began as the Student Left also began to adopt a more militaristic approach as a way of showing solidarity with their black brethren. By 1972, the year after the death of San Francisco Police Sergeant John Young, The Student Left had dissolved into groups like Venceremos, led by Bruce Franklin and the Revolutionary Union led by Bob Avakion, whereas the more militant sects of the Black Panther party calcified as Eldridge Cleaver’s Black Liberation Army and The Symbionese Liberation Army, led by an escapee from Soledad Prison named Donald DeFreeze.

While the battle continued to rage on the streets of San Francisco, police officers here were able to connect the .38 caliber revolver used to fire on Sergeant Kowalski that late night in the Mission, to the body of a New York City police officer named Waverley Jones, who was killed with his partner Joseph Piagentini in Harlem, on May 21, 1971.

From there, the SFPD connected Tony Bottom to a string of terrorism and attempted terrorism throughout San Francisco. Like on February 21, 1971: members of the Black Liberation Army placed a booby trap at the front door of a vacant house at 1674 Hudson Street and called police officers to the scene, but officers avoided the trap by entering the house through the back door. Or March 30, 1971: the BLA planted dynamite on top of the Mission Police station, but a defective fuse kept the sticks from igniting. And August 25, 1971: BLA members stood on the grounds of the Horace Mann Middle School near 23rd and Mission Streets and pointed a .66 MM anti-tank gun, which looks like a cannon small enough to take on a cable car, at the Mission Police Station. Like so many other attempts by the BLA, this too failed, because BLA members didn’t know how to fire the weapon.

One attempt that did work however was the bombing of St. Brendan’s Church, on October 20, 1970. Bottom apparently told police officers that he and other members of the BLA placed a bomb in the shrubbery near the churches front entrance. On that day, a funeral was being held for Officer Harold Hamilton, who was killed in the line of duty after responding to a bank robbery at a Wells Fargo at Seventh and Clement Streets.

St. Brendan’s Church was built in 1929, in the California mission style. Its bell tower is just tall enough to tickle the fog blown in from the nearby ocean, like the outstretched arm of a child reaching to touch his mother’s necklace dangling above him. As guests filed into the church down the concrete walkway, the bomb went off, and the explosion’s blast twisted their bodies like spinning tops. Dirt and rocks leaped up into the morning’s fog. An iron guard over one of the church windows was easily splintered and broken, as if it were made of tooth picks. Nobody was killed, but several police officers were injured. After a bomb expert checked the scene the funeral continued as planned. Six badged officers of the San Francisco Police Department carried Harold Hamilton’s flag draped casket through the gray morning, passed his widow and three children, and into St. Brendan’s Church.

In 1971, a jury of four men and women found Tony Bottom and Albert Washington guilty of assault with a deadly weapon on a police officer, for their attack on Sergeant Kowalski, and they were sentenced to six years to life.

But New York City wasn’t satisfied. They wanted Bottom and Washington to stand trial for the murder of their officers, Jones and Piagentini. That wish came true. After sentencing in San Francisco, Bottom and Washington were put on a 747 at Oakland airport, and flown to New York City, where they found themselves again in court. On trial, not for assault, but murder.

And that is where this story here, the one you hold in your hands, ends. But it is not where the story of San Francisco’s unrest ends. By the end of the 1970’s, Supervisor Harvey Milk and Mayor George Moscone were killed by Supervisor Dan White. In early October of this year, San Francisco Police arrested 22 people who hijacked the one year anniversary of Occupy Wall Street at California and Battery streets for vandalizing cars and a Starbucks. Just like the armed and bastardized groups that grew from the social movements of the mid 60’s, a more aggressive sect of Occupy is the result of frustrations at the thought of progress grown stale. But no one is considering that a revolution is judged as much by how it is done, as by the change it fosters.

Like Hemingway wrote at the end of “The Gambler, The Nun, and The Radio:” “Revolution is catharsis; an ecstasy which can only be prolonged by tyranny. The opiums are for before and for after.”

[olwog]

A Postcard From York, there are some rude words in this one; actually, the words are not rude but some of the syllables may be viewed as a little extreme!

Now I have your undivided attention, off we go.

“Can you lead the York walk next week?”, It’s a text from George Preston, our sub-governor who’s been doing a sterling job keeping the boys in line whilst Governor George has been on leave. I’d been working on a walk with The Pilgrim that took in the bridges and also made reference to the flood defences; at the time of planning we had no idea how significant the latter would be.

We meet the boys off the train and make an immediate exit of the station towards the Ouse and Scarborough Bridge. As we emerge from the snicket it’s obvious that the river is well above comfort levels due to the torrential rain that had hogged the majority of the day on Wednesday. The drains and culverts of York had done what was expected on the day and there were few issues; however, the cloud burst had added to the already drenched moors and it was this that was peaking as we approached.

Scarborough Bridge is the appropriately named bridge that carries the Eastern Branch Line that connects the Main North South line running through York to Scarborough. It was built in 1845 and was the second bridge to be erected over the Ouse in York. It originally carried two tracks and a walkway that was sited between them, clearly, there was still an element of bravado where humans and the smoke and steam belching iron horses of those years could live in such close proximity. Walking between two main lines with locomotives running at 15mph and very little likelihood of them arriving on the bridge at the same time and even if they did their relative speed would be less than 30mph. It makes me shudder to think about standing in the middle of the track now with two modern machines passing me at a relative speed of 250mph! Anyway, it was rebuilt in 1875 and the footpath moved to the south side out of harms way and that’s where it remains today. It is heavily used to this day and £6m was spent on it only two years ago.

We pass under it and take in the scene. If the river had been another foot higher all of this area would be flooded and further up stream gates would have been opened to allow excess water to flood the fields and reduce the risks within the city. I know that the gates on the Foss in the middle of town were lowered last night to prevent the water of the Ouse flowing up its length and flooding the city as it did a couple of years ago. The pumps would now be busy moving water into the Ouse and all of this done without recognition and little fuss. The only time that the anti-flood measures are recognised is when they don’t work!

The river has crept out in several areas but has now peaked and we enjoy a brisk walk in glorious sunshine along the river bank track for about a kilometre until we reach Clifton Bridge. The British Army built a temporary bridge here in 1961 to deal with the additional traffic that was generated by the wedding of the Duke and Duchess of Kent in the Minster. A permanent one was built two years later in 1963. This one is of modern design not in the same ornate league as the ones in the city. It contains 4000 tons of concrete and 50 tons of steel. It’s not ugly but does look like a ’60’s bridge and does its job with simple efficiency. Today, one of its jobs is to allow us to progress to the other bank and on the way it allows me to assess the odds on us being able to utilise the riverside track on the east side of the swollen river.

The assessment is not good, there is water lapping the hedge and the riverside track is itself a stream although there is a small area of grass near the hedge that is slightly raised and this gives us the option of following the river instead of a detour into Clifton.

Pete is a snazzy dresser and has dressed for the city rather than a walk on semi-flooded soft ground and grass so there are questions asked about my parentage as we take our first tentative steps along this narrow strip! At the end of the hedge come fence the land broadens into a field with a flood bank. There’s a lady who has already passed us once riding her bike along the submerged path with her little boy in a child seat behind her. She was clearly enjoying the experience but I think he was asleep. She’s been along to a flooded element of the otherwise dry grass and advises us to go back to the flood bank and use that. It’s a short detour to get on the flood bank but the fact that we’re now 10 feet or so above the surrounding area gives us excellent views of the river and the relatively few flooded areas one of which is being well utilised by two dogs who clearly love swimming. They’re chasing whatever they can including a ball and the odd coot, we’re watching them, it’s joyful and brings a smile to all our faces.

At St Mary’s we’re in reminiscing mode and remember being able to park there without the need of a bank loan for the meter. We agreed the protocol was park, go to the ice cream van on the cobbles near the river for a 99 then into Museum Gardens to eat it and walk through to the city.

The water is over the pathway so a detour takes us into Museum Gardens via the side entrance and up on to the flood bank which has been carefully curved away from the river. This was due to an edict from the planners to find a way of building it without the need to destroy the trees that were growing near the river so there’s the reason for the curly flood bank.

On exit from the park we turn left away from Lendal Bridge as the riverside walk is completely under water and we will be able to pick it up again on our way back to the railway station. Apart from that, it gives us the option to go to Mannions for some excellent coffee and a piece of unbelievable sausage roll. Next time you’re in York I would urge you to try these spectacular pieces of bakery with a cup of tea or coffee, there’s an area out the back which is quite sheltered and catches the sun if you prefer to be outside. The tables are shared so don’t be surprised if you’re with someone else – it may mean you have to talk and make new friends.

Half an hour later we’re off again and making our way through the town via Coffee Yard and Grape Lane – Now here’s a tale that is worth a re-tell.

Grape Lane has a history; well all streets have a history but this one is a little more ‘interesting’. Most streets have a name that can be traced to either a family e.g. Churchill Court; a place e.g. Leicester Square or, the type of activity that was prevalent in that part of town e.g. Baker Street and this will be the case here…

Sooo, many lanes and roads in York have more than one name and you can see plaques that have the current name then underneath they have the words “Formally known as” and then the olde name. This particular street only has the current name and as I give you a little bit of history you’ll appreciate why.

In the early 13th century this part of town was frequented by working ladies who were responsible for exercising the men – you might call them medieval gym instructors! The Bishop was somewhat worried about his priests being distracted on their way to mass and had wooden walkways constructed that avoided the necessity to walk along this particular lane. There were, of course, some priests who spent time with the ladies purely to help them from their fallen status – yes, really! You may by now be wondering what the ‘formally known as’ name of this wonderful street and I’m coming to that (if you’ll pardon the expression).

Some words were in common usage in the 12th to 15th century and although classed as a bit vulgar they were not taboo. In fact Chaucer was not averse to the use of some of these highly illustrative words and there are numerous other instances where they can be seen in common usage.

During the 2010-2015 coalition government an official petition was raised and received by the civil servants that study these things and was rejected on the grounds that street names are not a function of national government so reinstating the names of all of the lanes, streets and avenues in London, Swindon, Newcastle and Bristol to their original Gropecunt Lane was refused and the last recorded use of such a name in 1561 will remain just that, the last recorded use.

My illustrious friends are amused by this tale and although I have lowered my voice to deliver the this life changing information I note a lady at the entrance to the coffee shop smiling and nodding before returning to her work.

As we walk to the end of Grape Lane I’m amused at the thought of who upset the guy on the way to the naming ceremony for the town of Shorpe pre Domesday. He must have been seriously peed off to add four characters to result in Scunthorpe!

We’re heading towards Parliament Street with a view to avoiding more flooding near the river and cross to the dry side via Ouse Bridge.

We walk to the middle and The Pilgrim leaves us for a prior appointment and I go into education mode with the team:

Ouse Bridge The original Roman bridge over the Ouse was eventually replaced by a wooden bridge built by the Vikings. In 1154, it collapsed under the weight of a crowd which had gathered to greet St William of York on his return from exile. It was then replaced by a stone bridge. It has an interesting claim to fame due to the first public toilets in Yorkshire, and likely England, were opened on the bridge in 1367. Part of the bridge was swept away by floods in the winter of 1564–5. The repaired bridge of 1565 had a new central arch spanning 81ft. This bridge was dismantled between 1810 and 1818 to make way for the current Ouse Bridge, designed by Peter Atkinson the younger and completed in 1821.

The pubs below on Kings Staith will not be trading for a day or two whilst they clear out the silt but they’ve redesigned them nowadays with electric sockets up a height and the cellars all upstairs so a quick pressure wash will do the trick and the beer will be flowing again just as soon as the floodwaters abate.

We need to walk away from the river again and navigate past Cliffords Tower where the wonderful display of daffodils bears testament to the reconciliation that took place in 1996 between the Christian and the Jewish Faith.

York has not had a good reputation with Jews and in 1190 a hundred and fifty jews had barricaded themselves in the Tower and in those days it was made of wood. The mob demanded that they come out and be ‘converted’ but they refused and it was set on fire. Many of them committed suicide and the others were burned to death rather than submit to becoming Christians. In 1996 there was a service of reconciliation and the daffodils that were planted around the Tower are a special variety that have 6 prominent petals that are meant to depict the points of the Star of David. They’re very beautiful and a fitting memorial.

We walk into the Tower Gardens with a view to walking up the steps to Skeldergate Bridge but the flood waters impede this idea and we cut back towards Tower Roundabout and get onto it there.

Skeldergate Bridge Designed in a Gothic Revival style by civil engineer George Gordon Page and built between 1878 and 1881. The small arch at the east end has an opening portion, powered by machinery in the Motor House, which also served as a toll house and accommodation for the toll keeper and his family. It opened to admit tall masted ships to the quays on either side of the river between Skeldergate and Ouse Bridges. It was formally declared free of tolls on 1 April 1914. Together with the attached tollhouse, it is a Grade II listed building.

We cross the bridge and take advantage of the offset recluse areas to make a few photographs of the floods below then turn right to descend the steps to the dry but threatened river bank and traverse the arch to emerge downstream of the bridge on Terry Avenue.

It’s only a kilometre to the beautiful Rowntree Park and we walk amazed at how close the water is to the top of the bank but is still contained in its channel. Well it is on this side and we take note that it will be impossible to take the river bank route back on the other side.

Rowntree Park was established by Joseph Rowntree in memory of his employees who were lost in WW1. It’s 20 acres and many people including some people in York don’t know of its existence. Even if you are not a walker I would urge you to make the effort to walk here. It’s got a cafe come library/reading room, childrens play area, skate park and a couple of lakes.

We emerge at the Millennium Bridge. Built to a competition-winning design by Whitby Bird and Partners, opened on 10 April 2001, cost £4.2 million. It carries a cycle path and a footpath, and is not open to vehicular traffic. It is a key link in the Sustrans National Cycle Routes 65/66 and is part of the orbital route for York completed in 2011. The bridge also acts a meeting place for local people, as it has a waist height shelf spanning the whole structure which facilitates sitting and admiring the view. While riverside paths regularly flood several times a year the bridge is higher and rarely floods The bridge is illuminated by banks of lights in different colours, the colour changes every few seconds.

The bridge is near a quay that was used to supply Fulford Barracks and there are small gauge lines nearby. Just slightly upstream a rope ferry plied its trade a couple of centuries ago.

We walk the bridge and decide on easiest route to Fulford Road as the water has scuppered our chances of using the riverside track.

We’re hungry now and looking forward to Walmgate and Polish restaurant called Barbakan. Highly recommended both through the day and especially in the evening – you must book.

After an hour and half sojourn we make our way across York to Lendal Bridge.

Built in 1863, Lendal Bridge stands on the site of a former rope-ferry where the city walls break for the River Ouse. This was the ferry used by Florence Nightingale when she visited York en route to Castle Howard in 1852. The bridge connects two medieval towers: Lendal Tower on the east bank and Barker Tower on the west. It was designed by civil engineer Thomas Page, also designed London’s Westminster Bridge. It is made of cast iron, and has a single span of 175 feet (53 m). Page’s bridge was the second attempt. The first, in 1860 by William Dredge, collapsed during construction, five workmen were killed. Parts of the structure were used in the Scarborough Valley Bridge. In 1861, permission was obtained from Parliament for a new bridge to be built, and the Corporation of York requested Thomas Page to design a replacement. His Gothic Revival bridge opened in 1863. Lendal Bridge was used in Damon and Debbie, a 1987 spin-off of soap Brookside for the scenes where long-running character Damon Grant was murdered.

We arrive back at the York Railway Station after a much rerouted 10km (just over 6 miles). We’ve enjoyed it as a walk and it’s even better when you can follow the riverbank paths.

Enjoy the snaps…G…x

Acknowledgements Wikipedia, Yorkpress.com and History of York. Please feel free to google the street name. You’ll find it’s true :-)

With Cecilia Kennedy​ and Peter Hymer​

York Bridges and a Bit of Flooding A Postcard From York, there are some rude words in this one; actually, the words are not rude but some of the syllables may be viewed as a little extreme!