Intersections

[Socialist Commonwealth]

The spoke and the wheel

The college advisor threw him a sceptical look, his head slightly tilted forward, his spectacles resting on the foremost tip of his long nose, so that his gaze passed over their upper rim. His left eyebrow was raised in a silent gesture of disbelief, as he turned his view down again towards the document spread across his desk.

"Mr. Athanasiou," he drew out every syllable for effect, ostensibly to stress how foreign he supposed the name to be.

Christos just smiled and nodded as if he wasn't noticing any of the small but aggressive gestures of rejection the advisor threw at him.

"Political science, yes?"

Again, Christos smiled and nodded.

The advisor leaned back in his chair and folded his hands on the table in front of him.

"That's an odd choice for a Pelasgian, isn't it?"

"Come again?" Christos said dumbfounded. He had noticed the hostility behind the playfully amicable veneer of the man in front of him, but this remark still hit him out of left field.

"I must inform you that the course is heavy on the science of economic planning, critique of bourgeoise political economy and revolutionary theory. It is not exactly something that will improve your chances on the Pelasgian job market."

"I'm... not an exchange student? I was born in the Commonwealth."

"Don't you speak Pelasgian?"

"Fluently."

The advisor waved dismissively.

"Then don't tell me you're not waiting for some Pelasgian recruiter to come and offer you a big apartment in Propontis and a five figure moneyed salary once you finished studying."

"But I'm not..."

"Kid, I know your type. I can't stop you from taking up space on our universities, as much as I would like to. So at least, don't let us waste each others time. Something like medicine or engineering, that's a solid course for people like you. Gets you a job abroad and your family will pat you on the shoulder once you start sending home all those import goods people can't seem to live without nowadays."

-

For many years, the memory had stung him. The Commonwealth was his home. More than that, at that age Christos had already been a firm believer not only in what it was, but more importantly, what his country could become. A belief that had only grown in strength as the years went by. Now he stood on the podium in the center of the All-Workers Congress, thousands of eyes rested on him, the assembled mass of delegates in Europes biggest parliament. The pinnacle of democratic administration and he was at the heart of it.

If only that prick of a college advisor could see him now.

Christos took a deep breath. This wasn't the time to reminisce about his old revenge fantasy. Indulging in it had had its uses, every now and then, on the long way to where he stood now. To refocus him, to keep him going when nothing but pettiness would. When he needed the motivation of proving himself better than what someone once thought of him, That time wasn't now. He was past that. His long road, his march through the institutions, his cursus honorum, was at its end. From his small hometown on the shores of the Carentanian gulf, through college to the Valerian state congress, through assistant jobs in the Commissariate for Foreign Affairs, he had built himself up as a political animal until he had reached the capital, the global city, Svetograd to most. There he had forged political ties, held countless speeches, worked tirelessly until he had reached his goal.

"Comrades, citizens, people of the Commonwealth."

He was at the finish line.

"I am grateful for the trust placed in me. I accept the appointment as Commissar for Defense"

His journey was only just beginning.

 

[Socialist Commonwealth]

Long road home

Milan gestured lazily towards the barkeep, asking him for his third glass of whiskey. The man nodded, but made no haste in replying to the order. He knew Milan, who had become a regular over the past few weeks, as someone who never tipped. So he would get his order, eventually, but the service for the sad man lounged across the bar every other evening was by now severely reduced compared to most other patrons of the establishment.

That was alright with Milan, though he sometimes wondered if he would get a more sympathetic treatment if the men and women working here knew why he didn't give tips. Why he couldn't give tips. Why, actually, even coming here to drown his sorrows was a horrible decision, far beyond the looming threat of alcoholism.

The third glass was unceremoniously put in front of him and Milan downed it immediately. He couldn't afford it, not really. The stack of cash with which he had managed to escape from the war in Zara was steadily dwindling. Of course, he needed to get a job, but that was where his issues began, not where they ended. To get a job, he needed to be in the Rheinbund legally. If he registered as a political refugee, he risked exposing himself to whatever agents Kispest and their Tarusan masters had managed to place in this country - and he was already pretty certain that they were on his trail. It's a thought that had crossed his mind over and over and over for the last few days. There was no way to be certain, but Milan had grown increasingly confident that he needed to switch locations, again. Even if that meant burning through his funds even quicker.

He made a gesture for another drink, and again, the barkeep acknowlegded his order without any haste. That was when another man sat down on the empty chair next to Milan and dropping a blue bill on the countertop.

"Make that two," he said.

Milan froze up at the sight of the stranger. As the barkeep put down two glasses in front of them with much more haste than he had ever witnessed in this dingy little divebar, Milan tried to get a good look at the stranger. Short-cut black hair, an unremarkable face without distinguishing features, brown eyes, Milan thought, though he couldn't be sure with the gloomy lighting of the room. He was impeccably clean shaven and while he clearly had tried to make an effort to dress casual, it was a tad bit too formal for a bar like this, especially on a sunday.

Milan was fairly certain the man was carrying a gun in his jacket, too.

He now threw glances towards the exits. There was the main entrance, but it led him through a crowd. Pushing through them would give plenty of time to line up a shot on him, especially if the man didn't care about any bystanders. Even if he did, it was likely there was backup waiting in front of the bar. There was another exit, an emergency exit that he could reach by going through the staff room. He had noticed it whenever the door between the main room and the staff room had swung open, revealing the obstrusive glare of the green "exit" sign above the door. Behind the bar were a couple of old, winding alleyways. He had a chance to lose any pursuer there. Milan was certain he could make it if he only had a way to buy a few seconds of time.

The whiskey in front of him. Milan tried to steady his hand as he grabbed the glass. Don't show any fear, he told himself. Don't give away your move. You have only one shot.

"Don't worry," the stranger next to him said. "I'm not Ochrana."

Milan gave him a blank stare.

"Though you're lucky we found you first. Estimates are, they are only a few days away from picking up your scent. Probably would have already found you, if we hadn't laid a false trail for these Tarusan dogs."

"What do you want from me?"

"First and foremost, we want you to survive."

The stranger put a small envelope in front of Milan. There were plane-tickets inside.

"Take them. The plane leaves tomorrow. I suggest you take it."

Milan took them out of the envelope and looked at the tickets more carefully. They were one-way. Nicopole. In the Commonwealth.

 

[Socialist Commonwealth]

Circuits

The grey-haired lady, hunched over her microscope, furrowed her brow. Her left hand was scribbling down numbers in tables without even looking up from it. She had been doing so for three hours now and would probably continue to do for another full hour, before considering a lunch break.

Her job was one considered boring, exhausting and repetetive by others in the factory, but the grey-haired lady disagreed. There was a deep beauty in the object of her study, something magically entrancing about tracing the fine lines etched into the microchips from so close up as the microscope allowed her to. Of course, it was also a very important task, particular in the here and now, with the state their production quality was in.

Another row of number was added to the table as the grey-haired lady switched the microchip under her microscope for another one. The numbers were cryptic to the unintroduced, but to the lady and her fellow co-workers in the product testing and quality control department, they were telling a sombering story. A story of failures and setbacks in the Commonwealths attempts to catch up with the world.

Set up by the previous administration, the First Svetograd Microelectronical Plant was intended to leapfrog ahead in the production of microchips, a component the Commonwealth had grow dependant on importing. The needs for a domestic production of this crucial component were strategic, economic and ideological - and on all fronts, the domestic production effort fell short.

The Commonwealth wasn't a deindustrialized backwater, far from it. It produced a number of marvels of modern engineering, it had a first class machinery manufacturing sector, produced advanced precision tools and its railroad industry was nothing to sneeze at. But when it came to microchips, their efforts had been too little too late, at least thusfar. The technological level of their production was far below global market standard and a number of crucial technological advances seemed to still elude them.

Perhaps, more crucially, the numbers of the grey-haired lady also revealed that the Commonwealths factories still didn't manage to maintain dust-free rooms. The failure rate of their microchips was abysmal, too many damaged by intrusion of dust into the manufacturing process. Which in turn kept hamstringing efforts to develope better chips - the Commonwealth couldn't even reliable produce on its current, inferior technological level.

Her numbers would soon make it into a final report. Within the halls of the Commissariate for Economic Planning, these would cause quite some consternation. The grey-haired lady, meanwhile, would keep looking through her microscope, tracing lines on silicone.

 

[Socialist Commonwealth]

The spoke and the wheel

What had started as a slight, unsteady tap-a-tap against the roof of his minibus had grown to become a torrential downpour over the last hour. The winds sweeping across the Great Lake had sped up, gently rocking the vehicle as they pushed stormclouds across the nightsky. Somewhere behind the gloomy veil cast by them, the sign of the lonely gas-station around the corner was the sole source of light breaking through the otherwise perfect darkness.

Under different circumstances, Miklas could have enjoyed it thoroughly. Somewhere, deep in the Amawiran countryside, cozying up with his girlfriend in his bus as the heavy rain raged against its windows. As it stood, however, Sara lay facing away from him, with Miklas having little trouble picturing the disapproving frown on her face. They had fought repeatedly during the trip and Miklas was willing to admit that it wasn't all her fault. Still, this time, it stung him more than any of the last days. She was blaming him and how could she do that?

It wasn't his fault.

The gas-station was out of fuel, that was just how it was. Miklas hadn't caused the crisis, it wasn't his fault the Commonwealth had been unable to import enough oil to meet its domestic demands. He had done everything he could to fix it, there was nothing more they could do than pull over, find a nice spot between the pine trees - and he had found a truly exceptional spot with amazing view across the Great Lake when it hadn't been raining - and wait until the gas-station would be able to refuel.

It hadn't been enough. Nothing had ever been enough. Everything was always his responsibility. Sara always expected him to take care of problems and whenever he couldn't, it was entirely his fault, too.

It was probably time to break up with her.

- - -

"... and that very obviously failed to achieve results, comrade."

Miklas Csere was by now the longest serving Commissar of the Commonwealth. The old man had earned himself the nickname "the pope", not just because of his old age and long service as Commissar for Economic Planning, but also because he stood above and beyond the political schisms in the union, though, admittedly, the first fact had its roots in the second. When the Socialist Renaissance people sweeped into the high offices, the All-Workers Congress saw no need to replace Miklas as well. He was a calm, reliable workhorse, a non-partisan administrator whose experience would be used efficiently for the sake of his new comrades political goals, just as he had supported the previous commissars.

"It's obvious the previous administration never fully appreciated the scope of the problem," Commissar Athanasiou interjected

Still, comments like this one, directed towards him by Commissars Kovač and Athanasiou, served to remind him that the new guard still had their reservations regarding the last representative of the old. Sometimes, Miklas entertained the thought of just resigning in the face of such aggressive criticisms. Retiring to a cozy rural home on the southern coast could be bliss, but his pride wouldn't allow him. He knew he was doing good work and he would not let others besmirch it for cheap political gains.

"Yes, the scheme, as it stood, failed to gain us any of the experienced foreign experts we would need. However, we still learned some valuable lessons in the process and I think they will serve us to adjust the program to gain much better results. I want to point out, however," Miklas turned to the Commissar for Defense, "that it was never the case that we underestimated the issue at hand. The failures of our domestic microchip manufacturing were always appreciated as a crucial problem threatening our economic independence just as much as our defense abilities."

"In fact," Miklas said, "there is only one issue the previous administration has considered to be of a more pressing and urgent strategic importance than this."

Some questioning eyebrows were raised at him. He elaborated succinctly.

"Petrol."

The faces of his comrades looked much younger than his own whenever he looked into a mirror. Beneath all his wrinkles and the grey beard, he was old enough to have been a young man during the Commonwealth oil crisis. He still vividly remembered the night he got stranded somewhere in the wilderness of Amawir. How he fought with his girlfriend back then, what was her name again? Sandra? He couldn't quite remember. What he did, remember, was that after they broke up, it still took several days for new fuel to arrive at that small gas station.

The Commonwealth was dependant on oil imports. What rising oil prices or shortages in global supply could do to his homeland, Miklas never quite forgot. He had carried that insight with him through decades of work in the Commissariate, first as lowly clerk and eventually as its head.

"I will present a renewed, comprehensive plan for obtaining high-tech electronics manufacturing capabilities soon, but until then, I believe we should adress the threat the looming war in the Gothic poses for our oil imports."

"The way I see it, we have two options," Ana Kovač had effortlessly shifted her tone as the discussion had done. She had always been an unreadable enigma, her perfect poker face never betraying any hint of emotion, making even her earlier jab at Miklas seem like a tactical move. To assess him? To remind him they might hold enough sway in Congress to replace him if deemed necessary? He couldn't tell.

"We either manage to reduce tensions in the North and do so quickly, calming the global market and helping to keep prices low, or we find a reliable source of petrol unaffected by global market fluctuations."

"I don't think we will stumble across any major oil deposits in the Commonwealth in the next days," Athanasiou joked.

However, Mira Barath, Commissar for Health, interjected. Another neutral like him, albeit one that was swept into office along with the Socialist Renaissance, instead of preceding them.

"I think there is only one place we could reliably get cheap petrol. Tarusa."

Almost immediately, disapproving murmurs erupted around the table, but Miklas spoke up before anyone could voice their dissent openly. It was a proposal, maybe a good one, maybe a bad one, but it should be discussed based on merits, he found.

"A source of petrol independent from maritime traffic has its advantages, even if that source is politically and ideologically distasteful. More importantly, however, if we manage to import petrol below market price over a prolonged period of time, we would be able to build up a strategic reserve and channel additional funds into technologies and infrastructure that reduce our dependence on fossil fuels. These are undeniable advantages of this approach and we should remember this before we make any decision either way."

"If the Tarusans are willing to sell. If they are willing to do so in significant amounts and below market price. If they don't attach dangerous strings to any deal. If such a deal doesn't face severe blowback from their geopolitical opponents. If the All-Workers Congress can be convinced of its merits. If we find something to offer the Tarusans in exchange." Ana Kovač shook her head, again, a seemingly calculated gesture. "A lot of ifs, if you ask me..."

 

[Socialist Commonwealth]

Long road home

It was both the closest and the farthest he had been to home in a long time, Milan thought. An almost poetic irony. He could see his homeland from here, though he did not know precisely where the border ran, he could estimate closely enough to know that, just beyond that greyish-blue, snow-topped mountain range on the horizon, there was his hometown. Maybe a day's march away, if he took a route through the valley with its rows of trees and small, parcelized fields, still barren and waiting for spring. Of course, if he tried that, he would probably never get to see his home again.

His way back home didn't lead through that mountain valley with its clear fast-running brook that became muddy and brown as it picked up sediment on its way down. His way back home would be paved with military exercises and political movements until, one day, he would return by revolution. One day, Pojazerna would rise up, that was inevitable. Until then, he would stay in the Commonwealth, prepare the revolution with their aid, build up a force and a political alliance that could see them see through that uprising to achieve lasting freedom for his homeland.

"You know, these military rations aren't half bad." Simon, the man next to him, was his second in command. As the two were observing the mountain combat exercises of their most recently recruited formation of expatriates, he had decided to dig into one of the MRE's the Commonwealth had provided.

"It's good Goulash, but something's weird about it. I can't quite put my finger on it," Milan replied. Simon, a Csengian national, a western Magyar, was quick to reply and with certainty.

"It's the paprika. All the spice comes from paprika. No black pepper."

"I guess that makes sense as a cost-cutting measure. Why put an imported spice into your military rations if your country can just grow red peppers, no?"

Simon shook his head. "No, I've seen them do the same in restaurants. It's not just a military thing, most of the Commonwealth has cut back on black pepper in their dishes."

"So, that's what we are fighting for, huh? To banish black pepper from our homelands," Milan chuckled.

"So be it," Simon replied soberly. "Rather a free man who resorts to paprika than a slave who has peppercorns."

- - -

"Apologies, comrades. Our exercises took longer than anticipated," Milan apologized to the assembled group in the meeting room. Some frowned, some smiled forgivingly. Rosa, one of the exile labor union leaders, a bright blonde woman in her early thirties who looked ten years younger than she was and for that reason was often underestimated, patted a vacant seat next to her.

"Commander, thank you for joining us." The elderly man leading the meeting today waited for Milan to be seated, then proceeded as if no interruption had occured and without bringing Milan up to speed with the topic of the discussion. "As we have established links to a number of agents still in the country, we now have a limited capacity to organize and act in Csengia. We should carefully consider our next steps, as losing those assets could set us back considerably, but I would argue that not using them would be equivalent to already having lost them."

"The memory of the last war is still fresh in the minds of the populace," Rosa Almási began. "That the Tarusans are edging closer to yet another war with the Westerners is causing great anxiety. While I don't think I need to prove this assessment, it is backed up by available polling data on this issue. That there will be an increasing amount of activism and protest under the umbrella of a peace movement is a given. If we insert our agents into it, we can make first, tentative links to a mass base and build up valuable organizational infrastructure for the future.".

There was some hesitant agreement around the table, but no real enthusiasm yet. Milan quietly sighed, barely audible for anyone but Rosa. He had seen this before. The Committee, mostly men, mostly older than both Rosa and Milan, could not find fault with the logic, but it came from a woman that looked like she was barely out of school and those were two reasons there just had to be something wrong with the idea. Who knew if the men were even aware of it, but they were now looking for objections to be raised either way.

"This plan has potential, especially if we take the factor of repression into account. If, initially, we organize as a general peace movement, one which attacks the Thaumantics and Westernesse for escalation and demands peace for Csengia and her subjects, we can organize right under the nose of the Csengian police force. They will think that this is a movement that can be exploited to legitimize their domestic politics. Then, as the Tarusans will inevitably answer with aggression of their own, the movement will pivot, naturally, even without our organizational input, to decry the Tarusans and their lackeys in the Csengian government."

"And if they choose to respond with force to the movement at that point," the intelligence attaché of the Commonwealth said, "then this will only serve to radicalize a movement that will have drawn in thousands of ordinary and previously politically unaffiliated individuals."

 

[Socialist Commonwealth]

Circuits

Marcel couldn't sleep. This wasn't quite that unusual, seeing how he had never quite been comfortable sleeping on the overnight trains, but that wasn't the only reason. Sure, it was a bit of a waste, as one of the reasons he took the night train to Svetograd had been the hope of arriving for his meeting tomorrow well rested, yet the bigger issue was the he was really nervous. He had been wondering why exactly his superiors in the Commissariate wanted to go over the failures of his recruitment programm yet again. Why now and almost as importantly, why it couldn't just have been an e-mail.

He decided to abandon any attempts at sleep, at least for now, and began pacing down the corridor of the train. It was dimly lit and quiet, the clock well past midnight. The outside was pitch black and without the sight of the Carentanian countryside rushing past the window, the smooth ride did little to betray the awesome speed of the bullet train. Marcel had taken trains in numerous countries throughout Europe, an experience denied to most of his countrymen - travelling outside the Commonwealth was rare as a result of the incompatible economic systems. Marcel had had the luxury of seeing them all. Slow trains, fast trains, crowded trains, comfortable trains, trains for the masses and trains for a small elite. And, most annoyingly, all the different models of ticketing and fares. The experience had instilled in him a certain fondness for the railways of the Commonwealth, where you could step onto a well-maintained and fast train whenever and wherever and just go where you wanted.

The restaurant car was another of the many little things Marcel enjoyed about the train rides. They were a staple of the long-distance connections and whereas he had found the quality of the food served to be lacking in many other countries, the fare just overpriced convenience food designed to pad the budget of the trainline a little, the Commonwealth Railways had a different perspective on the purposes of their restaurant cars. Even now, in the middle of the night, Marcel would still be able to get a more than decent hot meal, freshly cooked, though this time he decided to settle for a small selection of cheeses as a midnight snack, accompanied by a glass of wine in the hopes of the alcohol eventually helping him to sleep.

There was still a few hours before he would reach Svetograd and when reporting about all his travels across Europe on behalf of the Commonwealth, Marcel had a feeling that a comparison of national railways wasn't exactly what the Commissariate would want to hear.

- - -

"I am not quite sure what the purpose of another attempt would be," Marcel was dumbfounded and maybe a little irritate. His superior in the Commissariate for Economic Planning had called him all the way to Svetograd just to tell him they wanted to try, once again, to find and hire foreign technical experts for the microelectronics industry. It also didn't help that Marcel hadn't been able to sleep on the train after all.

"If you would refer to my reports again, I have given a very thorough analysis of why our efforts in this regard failed. The kind of technical expert we would require is a member of a well compensated elite in capitalist economies, a member of a workers aristocracy, who would, for the most parts, lower his standards of living by moving to an egalitarian economy such as the Commonwealth has." The phrasing was superfluous, there was no such as, there was only the Commonwealth after all. "None of these conditions have changed. Simply trying yet again will not achieve different results."

"That is all very well, comrade Mlakar and we share your insights. That is why we aim to adjust our approach. We have brought in the People's Directorate for Strategic Services to help us adjust the targets of a recruitment campaign. The directorate will help us identify such individuals who have the necessary technical expertise, but who may have strong secondary motives for why moving to the Commonwealth may be an attractive option after all."

"That's... ominous," Marcel said. It really was. Bringing in agents of the intelligence service? Secondary motives? He wasn't quite sure what to make of it.

"Maybe not quite as much as you think," his superior waved his hand dismissively, having noted an apprehensive look on Marcels face. "We are talking about individuals who may have accrued crippling financial debts, who may have legal troubles, who may seek to evade conscription - themselves or of their family members. Any number of reasons why moving to the Commonwealth may be attractive after all, even if they can not gain a higher income here than any random gardener or factory-hand or streetsweeper."

 

[Socialist Commonwealth]

The spoke and the wheel

For a second, Ana admired the light reflecting from the small glass filled with strikingly yellow lemon liquor. The moon was full and hung low above the Bay of Carentania, just across the promenade and accentuated by streetlights. It was one of these small moments of unexpected beauty to be found in ordinary things and that was something her mind usually was too busy to appreciate. This hadn't been her first drink of the evening, however, and thus she was able to allow herself to be distracted just one moment longer, before having her attention brought back to present company.

"Cheers, Ana." Her fiancé raised his glass and Ana replied with a gentle smile before returning the gesture. Life had been generous to her, lately. She was engaged to the most gentle, handsome and intelligent man she had had the fortune of meeting throughout her busy life. Just a week ago, she had received her promotion, putting her just below the Commissar for Foreign Affairs in the diplomatic corps of the Commonwealth. It was only a matter of time before she would take that final step upwards, too, with her campaign to become a delegate to the All-Workers Congress picking up steam. And despite all that, she had also found the time to visit her sisters wedding down in Zadolje, where she was now shooting the local specialty drink with her future husband to the backdrop of the romantic Coral Coast.

"Something on your mind, dear?"

Of course, there was. Despite all the blessings she had received, Ana had difficulties relaxing, even now. And of course, he could see right through her.

"I promised not to talk politics tonight. Don't worry."

"Yes, you promised, but I can also see that you will not be able to really enjoy tonight if you don't. Come on, tell me, then we will go sit down with your sister and you can give her your undivided attention."

Ana let out a deep sigh. The massacre of Communists in Kispest was, of course, on everyones minds, at least within the political circles of the Commonwealth. Pannonia was a neighbour. This had implications and the current government was doing nothing at all about it. Of course, that was what all her comrades in the Socialist Renaissance talked about, too. This wasn't, what had been bothering her.

"I'm afraid we are focusing at the wrong direction," Ana said. "By we I mean the Renaissance. It's all Kispest and Pannonia, how we should have come to their aid, how we should bring them into the Commonwealth and what boons that would entail - and what problems will arise if we let them fail."

"They're not wrong, aren't they?"

"No, not entirely at least. It's just that Pojazerna, Csengia, Zara... they wouldn't fix our biggest problem. We need access to oil."

"So, there it is. The first signs of factionalism within your group." He wasn't entirely wrong but he smiled his gentle smile and Ana didn't feel provoked in the slightest by the quip. "Where do you propose we get it?"

"I think we should strive to gain access to the Gothic. Focus on Lethonia and the broader Hansa. It's a gamble, but it's well known that there are large, untapped reserves in the Gothic, outside of the national waters of its bordering states. With the right amount of bravado and leverage, we could gain a stable supply there."

- - -

"My own faction bothers me, sometimes."

There was a generous level of honesty between Ana Kovač and Christos Athanasiou. The two Commissars were political allies and rivals at the same time. Allies, because they both were members of the Socialist Renaissance, leaders even, and had helped each other obtain their positions and Commissar. Rivals, because, despite being united under the umbrella of the expansionist policies of the Renaissance group, they disagreed on where this expansion should be directed against.

"You can always defect to us Pannonians," Christos grinned. Their rivalry was out, in the open. Ana Kovač was a famously hard to read woman, but on this much, the Defense Commissar was clear. There were no secret agendas between them. At least towards each other, they had always been honest about their political goals. It had been a necessity for their alliance and grown to become something of a friendship even in their ultimately incompatible goals for the immediate future of the Commonwealth.

Ana ignored the comment. "The weak position shown by the Hansa in the last war and the renewed likelihood of a Tarusan invasion has weakened my position. There's several members of the Commissariate now, good, loyal Renaissance members by the way, who feel our goal of a port on the Gothic will soon be out of reach. That the Tarusan will take Lethonia and that's it."

"Well, they are at least 50% right, aren't they?" Christos was too quick to not notice the implication that, if he agreed with this notion completely, his own plans for Csengia would have to be considered untenable as well. Yes, he would have loved to get another quip against Ana, but if Tarusan occupation meant the end of their game, the game in the west had already been lost by the previous administration. That wasn't how it worked, of course. "Though I am not sure why you are bothered. Just point out that Tarusan occupation makes it easier for the Commonwealth to exert influence, not harder. We can gain sway over resistance groups faster than we could ever get in the current political situation."

"I did consider that, but that's not the actual issue here. It's what they have proposed instead."

"And what would that be?"

"To seize Hajr once Hansa falls to the Tarusans."

Christos snorted. "Okay, I can see the appeal. Plenty of oil and gas, enough to supply our economy for a while with cheap energy. Long enough to end our dependency on fossil fuels, at least."

"Only one small problem."

"Several, actually. How to take it, how to hold it down, how to prevent the Pelasgians from shutting down the Propontine Strait and strangling our fuel imports that way in retaliation to such an aggressive move. We don't have the assets. We don't even have a fleet capable of effectively operating over such distances."

"So make sure to keep me around," Ana said drily, though Christos could sense her peculiar humor in the words. "Those who could end up replacing me might make some fairly far-fetched demands of your Commissariate."

 

[Socialist Commonwealth]

Long road home

"I'm not here to side with this government or that. The only side I am on is peace."

The crowd in front of him wasn't massive, two hundred people maybe, but it was still a crowd and he had never spoken in front of one before. His voice trembled, at the word 'peace' it audibly broke, but the applause was genuine. The others had urged him, 16 year old boy that he was, to be one of the speakers because they saw a talent in him for speeches. Performing them still needed some experience, but his words were good and what better opportunity to practice?

They were just one of many protests, all over the country. One of the smallest, for sure, at some small remote town in south-western Pojazerna. He knew there was a national network of activists who had organized the call to protest and he had met one of them at a meeting, though he could barely recall his face and didn't remember his name. He had been one of those who urged him to be a speaker and the boy had felt flattered.

Suggestions followed, gently nudging his speech in a certain direction. No one had told him what to say, not exactly, but the information that the activists coordination meeting in Kispest had emphasized certain phrases, that they had agreed to make certain statements at the bigger protests in the major cities, that it was to be a peaceful protests that wouldn't antagonize the authorities, discussions that it would be unwise to openly attack the Tarusans for their role in the ongoing crises but that one could still oppose them by not taking a side at all... all this had shaped his speech without him even fully realizing it.

Ostensibly, this was a protest against the intervention by the Federation of Westernesse, against an impending invasion of East-Jystveg, against war in the Gothic Sea. Just barely on the subtextual level, this was a protest about Csengia, about the scars of war still plaguing Pannonia, about the threat of being pulled into yet another devastating war if the West and the East clashed in the Gothic.

"I grew up in a country torn by war. Like all of you, I know what I am talking about. Let us stand together to prevent this horror from engulfing more of Europe."

 

[Socialist Commonwealth]

Circuits

The steel creaked and croaked as the massive ship began slipping from its drydock and moving towards the harbor of Rijeka. For a moment, it would seem as if the newest warship of the Commonwealth was to tip and roll over as it hit the water, an embarassing desaster for its biggest and oldest shipyard as much as it would have been for its navy, but the danger was mere illusion. Everything was within order, both from decades of experience and from meticulous calculation. The ship rocked back and soon stood upright in the harbor. Polite clapping from the assembled crowd followed.

"She's a beauty, isn't she? Just like her sister."

The foreman of the construction crew gave Commissar Csere a proud nod. The Torchbearer was the second ship of its class, following the Emancipator. Both were modern frigates that would bolster the coastal protection duties of the Commonwealth's naval forces.

"So, how much of it is actually domestic?"

It was Commissar Athanasiou who cut in with a snide rhetorical question. He already knew the answer and Commissar Csere knew what his comment was aimed at, but the poor foreman did not. In a mixture of confusion and irritation, he replied.

"We built it entirely here in Rijeka. The steel is Tarjáni, the engines were built in Vodice, its guns here in Rijeka and the missiles are from Vranov. It's domestic."

"What about the computers?"

"Those are the smallest part of a ship," the foreman waved dismissively.

"They are the ones who count the most for a modern fregate, I would say." He began waving over one of the admirals who was present for the ceremony, but Commissar Csere interrupted him.

"You've made your point. Leave the poor man be. Foreign computer parts or not, he deserves to be proud of the work his team did. The Torchbearer will prove to be an excellent ship, just as her sister has already garnered the praise of her crew. That we can't produce the necessary electronics at home is an issue for us political and economic planners, not the fault of the shipyard."

"I didn't want to be rude or disparage your work," Athanasiou remarked, "I'm just afraid we are underestimating the strategic implications here. The most important aspect of modern naval combat is the ability to detect and track targets. Precise radars, powerful targeting calculators and electronic countermeasures. None of which is possible without state of the art electronics. We've become good at adapting whatever we can get on the global market, but it shouldn't be a surprise that foreign countries are unwilling to sell us their best pieces. Nor should we underestimate the vulnerabilities using foreign components introduces to our systems."

He looked at the foreman and put a hand on his shoulder in a reassuring gesture. "I am bringing this up not because I don't have utmost faith in your work, but because I feel we have failed you. Decades of misplanning have left you without the quality of components to enable you to fully utilize your capabilities." Athanasiou then looked back at Csere. "This doesn't just concern hardware. Do you know what the radar tracking on this ship will utilize? A slightly adapted version of a civilian software for airport flight security. We need to do better than that."

It wasn't just about the Navy, Christos thought to himself. Even though it fell into his Commissariates responsibility, naval buildup and modernization wasn't much of a priority. He wouldn't need it in the foreseeable future. However, if his plans for Csengia went off the course for just a little, there might be the need for military intervention at some point and the idea that the army's air defense and aviation utilized similarily underwhelming software as had been misappropriated for the Torchbearer, it frightened him a little.

"I've got the hint," Csere sighed.

 

[Socialist Commonwealth]

The spoke and the wheel

"Maybe I'd get it if I were Catholic."

Christos shrugged, but the Ebrian girl just laughed. He hadn't even known about the festival when he came through the town on his trip. They had met in the hostel and when Christos had mentioned he was just drifting through Europe for a bit after concluding his military service, she had insisted he go downtown and take a look at the celebrations. She had a cute laugh, what was her name again?

"Is nothing to understand," she smiled. "Just tradition. Just fun!"

The fourth of the men building a human tower had reached his position and that had been the cue for a child, the smallest and lightest of the group obviously, to climb to the top of the performers. With trained precision she stepped on shoulders and hips, grabbed the tightly wrapped traditional clothes and heaved onwards ever onwards to the top. Once there, she threw kisses to the crowd, which cheered and clapped. Christos found himself clapping as well.

Maybe the cute girl was right. Maybe understanding this folk tradition of a small Ebrian backwater town wasn't what was important. Maybe enjoying it was the only thing that counted.

"Does anyone ever fall?"

Christos wanted to bite his own tongue. Way to spoil the mood, right? But the girl replied, cheerful as ever.

"Sometimes. Is not achievement if you can't fail, si? Haha, don't worry, mancomunidado. Hasn't been hurt someone in long time."

- - -

"We will need to make some room in the budget. With the Ebria crisis, the Internationale will require substantially more funding."

There was some grumbling in the room, but Christos hadn't been in this good a mood for quite a while. He was aware of how it made him look, being this joyful about the collapse of a nation that threatened to engulf millions in violence. That was statistics, abstraction. The good feeling, however? That was the feeling of being proven right. His faction, his political vision of focusing westwards on Csengia had just gotten the potential prospect of a powerful continuous axis stretching from the Tarusan border to the Thaumantic Sea. There was a realistic chance for Ebria to fall to revolution and if Ebria fell, Csengia would become untenable for the Tarusans.

"Let us look at the situation calmly," Commissar Kovác demanded. "We shouldn't pour our limited ressources into an endeavour unless we are certain of the outcome. Right now, it seems to me the Tarusans hold all the trump cards in Ebria, not us."

"We should discuss the situation, yes," Christos nodded enthusiastically, "but in regards to the question of funding, I am not the one asking you. There will be a bill in the All-Workers Congress and I don't see any way it isn't going to pass. I am just informing you, so we can factor this into our plan for the next steps."

Everyone answers to the councils. The intricacies of serving on an imperative mandate. The funding for Ebrias unions was beyond discussion.

"Now," Ana continued making her point as if she hadn't been interrupted. "The intelligence briefing suggests the Tarusans sponsored the military coup attempt. From their bases in Csengia they can supply the coupists with near unlimited materiel, the Meridian Union is unlikely to put up effective resistance and our Ebrian comrades seem to have been caught off guard by the developments. I don't see much of an opportunity for us here. Best outcome, Tarusa gets bogged down in a lengthy campaign against partisans."

"My impression is that the Tarusans jumped the gun. The political situation had been slowly but steadily shifting in favor of the communists while the current governments neutrality vis-a-vis Tarusan ambitions remained doubtful. In attempting this power grab, they have manouvered the conservative faction into a weaker position. This is a historic opportunity and we should seize it. Ebria isn't Zara. We are talking about a communist mass base and a geostrategic position that gives a realistic chance at victory. The way I see it, we need to ensure that three conditions are met.

First, we need to avoid an embargo. Intercepting shipments off the coast of Ebria is impractical for any interventionist force, given the length of Ebrias coastlines, but if the Pelasgians chose to close the strait of Propontis to us, we would face serious issues. So I suggest playing nice with them for the time being.

Second, the Ebrian communists need to build up an armed force, for which they need not just equipment and advisors, but primarily time. We should strongly suggest to our comrades to stall for time, to give ostensible support to the government against the coup for now and use this position to build up a force to deal with any eventual path this conflict may take.

Third, we need to build and maintain a credible threat towards Tarusa to keep their involvement on the level of plausible deniability. An open intervention of Tarusan forces stationed in Csengia could likely force a quick decision in the civil war currently developing in Ebria. The only way to avoid that is if the Tzardom fears such an intervention will provoke a Commonwealth invasion of Csengia and a lengthy conflict along our shared border."

Ana sighed and shook her head. "This is a risky gamble. A very risky gamble."

"Unfortunately, we all know that doing nothing just means having lost already."

 

[Socialist Commonwealth]

Long road home

Text spread anonymously on social media and as leaflets after the ban on peace protests:

"Why does the government ban protests for peace?

Are they preparing for war?

Throughout the country, Tarusan soldiers are waiting for their masters marching orders. If Csengia, Pojazerna and Zara are used as springboard for their next military adventure, what will happen to our homes? Their enemies will not look at us and think "they've suffered enough." The horrors of war will visit us once again. Bombs will once again rain on our cities.

How can we prevent this?

By being prepared!

The day Tarusans go to war from their bases in this country, we have to shut down this country. Protest the war. Strike against the war. Sabotage the war. On day 0 of a war being waged from here, we ask you to join us in bringing everything to a complete standstill.

And let this threat be known to the people in charge. That they can't use this country to wage war again, because that day it will stop moving altogether!"

 

[Socialist Commonwealth]

The spoke and the wheel

Looking at his aunt Maria, Christos had a hard time believing she was still alive. Sure, her chest was moving up and down with the force of heavy breaths, but the mechanical wheezing that accompanied each of these movements made it clear that not even those were her own anymore. There was buzzing and beeping all around her, fluids and gases moving through tubes in and out of her body, but Maria lay silent, motionless and without reaction to her environment.

The irony was that this had been called an improvement by the doctors.

"We have succesfully stopped the seizures by inducing a coma," they had explained. "Now we need to slowly wake her up again and hope they don't return," they had explained. "Please be aware that we are only treating a sympton," they had explained. Maria would not survive this. She was beyond healing now. All they could do was to try and stop the seizures, treat the pain, give her medications that made dying just a little easier on her.

Her hospital room was heavy with emotions, almost palpable and thick in the air around Christos. Sadness, of course, but also anger. Anger at Maria, who had known of her cancer for years - and ignored it. Whom the doctors had told back when it had been first discovered that, luckily, it hadn't spread, that chances were good that, if they operated now, she would be cured.

Maria never went back to the hospital. "I'm scared," she had admitted when her family pressed her. They had talked and talked and talked, trying to convince her to go under the knife, if not for her sake, then for that of her loved ones. She never did. She only returned to the hospital, when it was no longer her choice. When her first seizure had come and it had come violently, just wouldn't stop. The paramedics gave her drugs, but her body shrugged those off and kept convulsing. Status epilepticus, the cold clinical language of her diagnosis did nothing to portray the sheer terror the sight had struck into members of her family.

The tumor had spread to her brain, several big lesions had popped up on the CT-scan the neurologist treating her had ordered. One of them, on the left temporal lobe, had caused a sizeable bleeding. It had been an entirely avoidable tragedy. Maria would suffer and die, because she had been afraid to act.

- - -

"Have we found potential assets for the mission?"

Christos glanced at the man standing next to him. If the meeting place the intelligence officer had chosen was meant to be a joke, it was good one. The Comissar had trouble discerning whether the man had humour, though, and maybe it was sheer practicality that he was now standing in front of a pissoir in a lonely toilet, long after most clerks in the Commissariate had left home. He had to admit, it was inconspicuous, it was normal for them to visit this room. A good place for a conspiratorial meeting.

"There are a number of men that we might be able to push into the right direction. Mentally unstable, ideologically motivated and with a relation to some of our deep cover assets in the radical Catholic scene. However, I must ask you once again, are you sure you want to go through with this?"

"I hope we don't have to, truthfully. Things in Ebria have moved fast, the Queen seems to be irrelevant by now and the Republicans committed to not returning to the status quo either."

"If uncovered, this could mean more than the end of your political career."

"It's risk I am willing to take. I have to take. This concerns more than just Ebria. If she can turn back the clock and use her positive public image to postpone change in Ebria once again, then the next coup is only a matter of time, even if the butcher of Villareal and his loyal lapdog Alfonso are defeated."

"We are still talking about assassinating the head of state of a foreign country. The repercussions could be severe. Not to mention the moral implications."

"It's the life of one woman. If we don't act, there will be even more war in the future. I want you to prepare the mission, keep track of her, keep your assets ready. If Queen Maria steps back on Ebrian soil, we need her to die."