September 20th, 1952
John Walker sat in a room the colour of dried blood, looking out a tinted window on a square that some had named Red Square. He sat by a fire, its crackling logs casting sparks which illuminated his ruddy face, giving him a red sheen. In such poses he had been nicknamed by some the Red Devil. In his liver-spotted hands he cradled a nearly-empty bottle of Red Label Whiskey. This was the source of his other nickname.
He took another deep swig from the bottle, feeling its burning liquid run down his ageing throat, giving him a few brief moments of the feeling of being alive, before once again the weight of the cold and pain of his aches crept up on him again, souring his mood. He snarled, and threw the bottle away, where it clattered on the floor next to several others. He looked down at the heavy ledger laid out in front of him on his lap, stained with whiskey drops and smearing the neat, crisp ink. It was the Financial Records for the last quarter, the only true and accurate account of production, market exchanges and all other matters financial within Havenshire. It was his duty as Premier to read through them, and determine wether the producers should be rewarded, chastised, the targets revised, or whatever. He was the Supreme power in the People's Republic, and though in law this power derived ultimately from the people and the Central Congress, in truth he knew it derived from the Unions, the Co-operatives, and the People's Army. The Army he had helped forge in the Civil War, which in the twelve years since he had continued to improve and discpline, and create a truly effective fighting force.
He smiled to himself, briefly, forgetting the figures and the drudgery of communist accounting, as he pictured a square filled with neatly arrayed blocks of men. The dark forest green of the People's Army Infantry. The khaki of the People's Army Tankers. The sage green of the Artillery. The sky-blue of the Airmen. The deep black of the People's Navy. The white of the Medical Corps. The light blues and browns of the Reservists and the Supply Corps. All represented, block after block marching in mechanical precision before him, his balcony, his view. They would salute and shout as one, a deafening roar, "WALKER, HAVENSHIRE, SOCIALISM!" As if all three words were intrinsically one. He had pinned medals to chests, and seen the light of zeal and deep abiding love in the eyes of men. He had also seen the cold, neutral stares of those suppressing intense loathing and hatred for him. That really made him smile.
He fumbled around for another bottle of Whiskey, and, not finding one, he became angry. "Boy!" He yelled. "Bring me more! How can a Premier work under these conditions? Fuck and Damnit!" he swore, grumbling. He looked again at the page. Fucking maths. How does it work?
He remembered now, long ago, sitting in a stark classroom, a teacher sneering at him, throwing chalk at him. "If you can't do your maths, boy, how can you ever be anything?" He had been caned more than once before he finally realised how he could best show the teachers, show them all. Every night of every day for years he had forced himself, by candlelight or otherwise, to look at the numbers as they swam and danced before his eyes, and force a sense to them. Pyschiatrists these days might, if they dared, suggest Walker had been Dyslexic or Dyscalcic. But whatever the truth, he had mastered the numbers, the algebra, the trigonometry. He had been the one chosen by his Union, at the age of only twenty-five, to go to University in Darrow, and there meet the extraordinary Robert Clynes.
A young boy in a crisp uniform rushed in with a crate of new whiskey bottles. "As you commanded, sir! Fresh from our stocks." Walker merely grumbled. "Piss off."
Walker turned the page, doing the sums in his head and on his fingers. He'd get through it all, even if he had to finish another crate.
John Walker sat in a room the colour of dried blood, looking out a tinted window on a square that some had named Red Square. He sat by a fire, its crackling logs casting sparks which illuminated his ruddy face, giving him a red sheen. In such poses he had been nicknamed by some the Red Devil. In his liver-spotted hands he cradled a nearly-empty bottle of Red Label Whiskey. This was the source of his other nickname.
He took another deep swig from the bottle, feeling its burning liquid run down his ageing throat, giving him a few brief moments of the feeling of being alive, before once again the weight of the cold and pain of his aches crept up on him again, souring his mood. He snarled, and threw the bottle away, where it clattered on the floor next to several others. He looked down at the heavy ledger laid out in front of him on his lap, stained with whiskey drops and smearing the neat, crisp ink. It was the Financial Records for the last quarter, the only true and accurate account of production, market exchanges and all other matters financial within Havenshire. It was his duty as Premier to read through them, and determine wether the producers should be rewarded, chastised, the targets revised, or whatever. He was the Supreme power in the People's Republic, and though in law this power derived ultimately from the people and the Central Congress, in truth he knew it derived from the Unions, the Co-operatives, and the People's Army. The Army he had helped forge in the Civil War, which in the twelve years since he had continued to improve and discpline, and create a truly effective fighting force.
He smiled to himself, briefly, forgetting the figures and the drudgery of communist accounting, as he pictured a square filled with neatly arrayed blocks of men. The dark forest green of the People's Army Infantry. The khaki of the People's Army Tankers. The sage green of the Artillery. The sky-blue of the Airmen. The deep black of the People's Navy. The white of the Medical Corps. The light blues and browns of the Reservists and the Supply Corps. All represented, block after block marching in mechanical precision before him, his balcony, his view. They would salute and shout as one, a deafening roar, "WALKER, HAVENSHIRE, SOCIALISM!" As if all three words were intrinsically one. He had pinned medals to chests, and seen the light of zeal and deep abiding love in the eyes of men. He had also seen the cold, neutral stares of those suppressing intense loathing and hatred for him. That really made him smile.
He fumbled around for another bottle of Whiskey, and, not finding one, he became angry. "Boy!" He yelled. "Bring me more! How can a Premier work under these conditions? Fuck and Damnit!" he swore, grumbling. He looked again at the page. Fucking maths. How does it work?
He remembered now, long ago, sitting in a stark classroom, a teacher sneering at him, throwing chalk at him. "If you can't do your maths, boy, how can you ever be anything?" He had been caned more than once before he finally realised how he could best show the teachers, show them all. Every night of every day for years he had forced himself, by candlelight or otherwise, to look at the numbers as they swam and danced before his eyes, and force a sense to them. Pyschiatrists these days might, if they dared, suggest Walker had been Dyslexic or Dyscalcic. But whatever the truth, he had mastered the numbers, the algebra, the trigonometry. He had been the one chosen by his Union, at the age of only twenty-five, to go to University in Darrow, and there meet the extraordinary Robert Clynes.
A young boy in a crisp uniform rushed in with a crate of new whiskey bottles. "As you commanded, sir! Fresh from our stocks." Walker merely grumbled. "Piss off."
Walker turned the page, doing the sums in his head and on his fingers. He'd get through it all, even if he had to finish another crate.