The Coldest War (Alt-Hist Cold War RP - IC)

[Sao Nova Europa]

THE COLDEST WAR

OOC

DO NOT POST UNLESS YOU'VE BEEN ACCEPTED

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Chancellor Speer's Speech in Berlin
January 12, 1952

Chancellor Albert Speer addressed the annual Berlin Economic Forum. In his speech, the Chancellor emphasized the need to strengthen cooperation between the members European Economic Community.

"The Greater Germanic Reich stands ready to lead Europe into a new era of prosperity," the Chancellor mentioned. "National Socialism has proven resilient. We've emerged victorious in the Second Great War, we've pushed the Judeo-Bolsheviks out of Europe and we've put an end to the Recession of '46. All those successes would have been impossible without the glorious leadership of our Fuhrer, Adolf Hitler, and without the innate strength that the Aryan Race possesses."

"But, glorious as our achievements may be, we shouldn't reminiscence back to them and sit idle. No. We have even greater things to accomplish. My hope is that 1952 will be a year that will mark greater cooperation between the European races. Only together can we defend Europe from the cancers of Judaism, Liberalism and Bolshevism. We need further integration of the European Economic Community, to ensure that all of Europe benefits from high rates of economic growth and prosperity. We need greater cooperation on the realms of foreign and military policy too. We need to have one voice on the world stage!"

Analysts believe that the German Reich will be pushing for deepening economic, military and diplomatic integration of the ECC. Some members of ECC have been reluctant to do so, out of fear of further undermining their national independence. Some fearmongers even proclaim that the ECC aims to annex the nations of Europe into the Reich. Optimistic Europeanists however believe that greater integration will lead to increased economic prosperity and shall safeguard the European continent from the United States and the remnants of the now-defunct Soviet Union.

[Great Confederacy of Commonwealth States]

IG Farben HQ
Prachtalle 157, Germania
Germany

“… and while other brother-companies in the industrial sector, such as there are, Mercedes-Benz… Fokker… Messerschmitt… Have all managed to balance lower household income with lower labour costs and subsequent lower material cost, our IG Farben production process remains reliant on skilled labour, which remains…”

Maximilian Baumann, Max for friends, had not the faintest clue why every department head had to sit in on these monthly debriefs of IG CEO Hermann Schmitz. He duly understood why Heinrich Oster, head of sales, would be there. Walter Dürrfeld, head of finance, was also expected, although the slim bean-counter was closer to Schmitz than his shadow, and there was no company-related thought Dürrfeld could have that was not immediately transplanted into a memo on Schmitz’ desk. Georg von Schnitzler, head of the chemical department, and Max exchanged looks of exasperation as, for the first time in twelve that year, Dürrfeld explained why income figures were increasingly lacklustre. Hermann Schmitz, his eyes hidden behind the silver reflection in his spectacles, simply nodded, looking down at a folder in front of him.

From the large, floor-high window in Schmitz’ office, a wandering mind could overlook the whole of central Berlin; the Prachtallee stretching from Hitler’s Arch to the Volkshalle, its dome still covered in scaffolding. Even with building materials in Sweden being dug out by slave labour, the megalomaniacal building project strained believability. Behind the Volkshalle, stretching to the Nordbahnhof was the large reflection pool that Berlin would flock to on hot days. At the moment, it was frozen over, allowing for ice skating in view of the centres of power.

The Prachtallee itself, where the IG Farben headquarters was located, played host to a number of opulent company headquarters. Those who had had the foresight in 1938-39 to reserve a plot of land with Speer’s office (and thereby shoulder a large part of the construction cost of the Allee), like IG, Volkswagen and Krupp, now enjoyed the splendour of being one of the Reich’s most prestigious companies, their very facades among the Siegesstrasse inviting the protections of gauleiter and administrators all across the Reich. Even abroad, their position was recognised, simply because their headquarters was in view every time the Wehrmacht held a victory parade.

“If we want to keep revenue up with demands of the Spende, then acquiring new captive markets should be a priority. The conquests of the Endsieg have proven vast, but not limitless” Dürrfeld continued. Again, Von Schnitzler’s eyes and Max’ met across the table. The unspoken truth was that the Adolf Hitler-Spende, the German people’s token of gratitude towards the Führer, had turned into a subscription to his audiences. It had also turned into Martin Bormanns personal war chest, which had seemingly increased in unison with the Führer’s ailing health.

“I will see if I can ask Göring to pull some strings… When he gets back from his hunting estate”

A light chuckle went through the room, and the secretary in the back of the room automatically stopped typing for a moment. Jokes at the expense of the cabinet were common, but a good secretary never put them down in writing; and if they did, only in their own persona blackmail folders. This one seemed loyal enough, though, and even then Max was happy that he, as head of the company archives, had very little to add to this conversation. Instead, Max could take his time to observe the palace Speer had built Göring, which the Reichsmarshal almost never visited: his Air Ministry. The enormous structure dwarfed the former Reich chancery, which had since then been replaced in order not to be outdone by Göring. The Air Ministry held Göring’s personal lodgings, his personal offices, as well as his administrative staff and the staff of the Air Ministry itself. The building was even bigger than the opposing headquarters of the Luftwaffe, the Kriegsmarine and the Wehrmacht.

After three gruelling hours of the same updates they had received mid-December, the whole council stood up to leave, neither Georg von Schnitzler nor Maximilian having spoken a word after entering. Some papers were shuffled, the secretary typed out the last of his remarks, then combined the notes into his briefcase. The only one remaining seated was Hermann Schmitz, his head supported by his right hand, staring out towards the Sudbahnhof. His eyes were still obscured by the silver reflection in his small spectacles.

Just before Max could leave the room, Schmitz gestured for him to wait.

“Max, a word, if you will?”

Maximilian sighed and came back into the room. Usually, the CEO was looking for a particular document he couldn’t find, and rather than tasking one of his lower minions to dig it up, he asked the archive director to discover it for him. This time, however, it was something else entirely.

“My office…” Schmitz began slowly, removing his spectacles to reveal his tired and haggard face.

“… has received a written request by Amt 4 for documents pertaining to your history at our company”

Max swallowed. Amt 4 of the Reich Main Security Office was better known as the Geheime Staatspolizei, or Gestapo. Requests from them were never welcome.

“Wh… why would they want that?” Max asked in return. From one of the folders, a black one with white gothic lettering, Schmitz procured a written note in the trademark grey paper used by the RSHA.

“Apparently… You once wrote an article on the importance of labour protections, for a Bolshevik publication. Is that true?”

There was a silence while Max was trying to judge whether Schmitz was making a joke or not. Then, his mind raced, barrelling through his own personal history, seeing if somewhere, somehow, he slipped up. He couldn’t think of anything; he imagined he would have remembered writing something so stupid while under Nazi scrutiny. He shook his head.

“Can’t say I have” he answered. “Can I go?”

That last part left his mouth a little too quick, he imagined. Schmitz looked down at the folder again.

“Does the name ‘Panopticon’ mean anything to you?” Schmitz continued. Then, it clicked.

“My faculty newspaper? My god, that was ages ago” Max answered with a hint of relief in his voice.

“1931, if this document is to be believed” Schmitz said with a grim expression that did not put Max at ease. Max shook his head.

“No, you don’t understand, Hermann.” Max interjected. “Panopticon was a student newspaper. I probably wrote an article there somewhere about student jobs or something. It certainly wasn’t a Bolshevik paper. Social-democrat at best”

“Is that a distinction you want to make to Amt 4?” Schmitz answered gravely. “As far as they are concerned, you were writing Judeo-Bolshevik drivel while they were out in the streets fighting the real fight”

“That’s ridiculous” Max cried out, almost jumping out of his chair in excitement. “They might as well go after everyone who was ever a union member, or who studied economics, or…” he tried, but Schmitz shook his head and gestured for him to calm down.

“I’m sorry, friend” he said, with just a hint of real regret seeping through is cracked voice.

“Himmler is pulling all the cords he can. I believe he is trying to get one-up on Göring, get blackmail material on the biggest companies. Having you here would only be a liability”

“Only a liability? I work your fucking archive, Hermann! What am I going to do?!?”

“Do you think the Gest… You think Amt 4 cares?” Schmitz bit back, almost forgetting the taboo of the name. “It’s a risk I cannot take. And that’s final”

A silence drifted through the room like noxious smoke. Max felt his heart pumping, but his mind, racing as it was to come up with some witty remark, came up empty. Against the fear of the Gestapo, there was little he could do. In a sense, he was right; when Hitler would inevitably bite the dust, the proud Göring would be using his leverage against Speer. Himmler had to supplant that in order to achieve power parity. And the only way for IG Farben to remain ‘free’ was to cut the ballast while it could.

“I imagine my stuff is already packed” Max admitted, slowly rising from his chair.

“I’m terribly sorry” Schmitz said, but Max shook his head.

“You will be, Hermann… You will be” he added, dragging himself towards the office door.

“When the Old Man kicks the bucket, just how much do you think the Gestapo is going to care about evidence? Just as much as they care about the distinction between social democrats and communist, I think”

A layer of snow covered the Prachtallee; Max popped the collar of his coat in order to defend against the biting, icy winds. It was a short walk from there to the Sudbahnhof, past the Messerschmitt HQ and the enormous Triumphal Arch, which could have fit the French Arc de Triomphe snuggly under itself. At the monument, he waited for a moment, inspecting the 1,8 million names of German soldiers that had been etched into its marble. His name brushed by the name Ernst Baumann, and he sighed, before continuing towards the Sudbahnhof. The train to Lichterfelde was waiting for him, and Max let it carry him homewards. Out of the window he could still see the enormous dome in the distance, the Arch on the other side, both framing the dwarfed IG Farben headquarters, to which he would now never return.

“I need to leave” he whispered to himself, as he began thinking about a future that no-one else in Germany, aside from the most powerful men in Berlin, were at freedom to ponder.

The death of Hitler.


Annual Congress of the Federative Union of Defence Industry Workers
Tankograd, Chelyabinsk
The Commonwealth

Professor Mikhaylov eyes wondered through the large congress hall as he spoke to the delegated there assembled, as they had been trained to do. Speaking at length on matters of military theory and geopolitics, he had to use every trick in the book in order to keep his audience engaged. While some were dozing off and otherwise distracted, enough faces were still staring back at him intently, some even with notebooks in order to quickly scribble down their thoughts.

“No man lives forever, and certainly not mister Hitler” he said in a mocking tone, accepted by jeers and applause from the audience, as well as some audible ‘boos’. “And Germany is a country, like a company, built around the will of one man and his ‘shareholders’. When he dies, his lackeys will scramble in order to become the new CEO of the fascist corporation”

The board of the Federative Union of Defence Industry Workers, a large collaborative effort between various different defence industries, had invited professor Mikhaylov to speak on geopolitics, not for their enjoyment, but as part of the five-year strategic planning of their production. Knowing how they had to work in the next five years depended on knowing where the threats would come from, and in all the Commonwealth, professor Mikhaylov knew best. His theory on Russian unification was hailed by peers as a formative work in the field, and while many of his colleagues disagreed with him, even the staunchest opponents had to step up their game in order to compete with Mikhaylov.

“The nature of fascistic power means that Germany, built upon a crumbling foundation of slavery and economic exploitation in order to placate the politics of the owning class, is headed towards a perfect storm: an economic collapse as well as a political collapse. Germany, now the strongest power in Europe, perhaps the world, will collapse in on itself almost overnight. In its shadow stand a hundred million slaves ready to overthrow their oppressor, if we give them but the means”

The size of the meeting hall mattered very little: even on the third balcony, towering above the others in a horseshoe shape just below the enormous dome, people did not have to strain to hear him. It had been designed for acoustics by noted architect Praskoviya Aleksandrova, who had also designed the Workers’ Concert Building in Sverdlovsk. The walls were decorated with elaborate reliefs of great battles in working class history, including the battle of the Golden Spurs, the Spartacist revolt and the Battle of Kronstadt. The two balconies were held up by pillars shaped to look like large artillery muzzles, and tattered Nazi banners captured during the battle of Volgograd hung from the ceiling. The latter actually somewhat diminished the acoustics of the hall, but it had been requested by the Federative Union that they be placed there, and Aleksandrova had compensated in the rest of her design.

“However, it would be a mistake to focus on the Caucasus, Moscow and the Ukraine without considering the threat from Archangel; there too a rump state resides that lives off the slavery of the working class. While the collapse of Germany would wound them too, it would be a mistake to discount their threat. Leaving them in the back could lead to a counter-attack while our troops are engaged in Ukraine. But for the sake of morality too; we cannot take the fight into Europe without liberating this side of the Urals first. Our position then would allow is free access into the Baltics, from where it is possible to liberate our comrades in captive Finland and Sweden. My proposition, therefore, it to prepare arms and munitions for a conflict in Russia first, before considering the push towards Moscow. I thank you for your attention”

Mikhaylov gratefully accepted the applause the workers’ delegates offered to him. He knew the debate was far from over; there were those who wanted to consolidate control of Moscow first, and then use the massive proletarian population there to secure all other flanks. A domino theory, wherein if a world city like Moscow would fall to the anarcho-syndicalist cause, other major cities in the world would shudder. It made sense, of course, but required on a lot of things going right; if anything, Mikhaylov’s theory was more careful. But it was born out of hatred too; he hated the Russian collaborators, who had tasted working class freedom, more than the captive Nazis who had only known bourgeois democracy and imperial authoritarianism. Then again, how long had the worker’s liberation of Russia actually lasted?

“Thank you, professor Mikhaylov” said the chairwoman of the Federative Union, from her seated position next to the speaking pedestal.

“You posit interesting views, and the board will take it under advisement. Now, for the next order of business…”

Mikhaylov, not having any other plans that evening, listened to the rest of that evening’s program from one of the visitor seats on the first balcony. A lot of matters were discussed which he had no clue about; from precise tooling to matters of logistics, even to the tiniest minutiae of screw thread standardisation and other interoperable parts. A few votes were held, including a few additions to safety standards in the industry. Firearms now had to be subjected to reasonable forces akin to being thrown on the ground without going off, for instance, a change which Mikhaylov thought reasonable. The Congress also spoke out against the mass adoption of a pistol that could fire multiple calibres, but decided not to adopt a resolution condemning the production, since it was considered that the production of such a firearm might lead to the furthering of knowledge. The small rural weapon shop that had brought forward their design was clearly disappointed, but happy that they had not been denounced. Which was mostly for appearance, anyway, since the Federative Union had no way to actually ban the manufacture of arms, though it would have been difficult to get materials had the Congress adopted their denunciation.

Late that evening, Mikhaylov took the streetcar back to the Chelyabinsk central station, which had recently been refurbished in a socialist style. It was now more than a station; it now resembled more of a forum, with a central hall that had the trappings of a square, small shops around it, and a park in front of its entrance. Large posters hung from the three story high façade; one communist, thanking the builders of Chelyabinsk for giving the city such a lovely station three weeks ahead of schedule, and another denouncing the vile Hitlerites on the other side of the Volga: a poster where Goebbels, Göring, Himmler and Speer were all tumbling over one another, with Martin Bormann taking bets.

“The early bird gets the worm, but the second mouse gets the cheese” read the text under the poster. A bit wordy, Mikhaylov thought, but it got the point across. Entering the station so late at night, most of the shops had already closed. Only a few people could be found in the central hall; a few teenage lovers, some old people feeding the indoor pigeons, and one drunk apparently trying to chat up a lamppost. On his way to the platform that would take him back to Sverdlovsk, he came across a man in the tell-tale dress of a conductor, who was handing out pamphlets with a broad grin on his face.

“Comrade!” he exclaimed as Mikhaylov walked by. “Are you headed in the direction of Sverdlovsk?”

“As a matter of fact, I am” Mikhaylov answered, intrigued by the man’s exuberant atmosphere.

“Well, then you are in luck!” the man said in turn, handing over one of the pamphlets. It had a socialist realist picture of a train on it, with the name ‘Rosa Luxemburg’ under it. On top, the paper said ‘Maiden voyage’.

“My comrades and I have finally acquired a train for our very own, comrade, and as is tradition within the Train Workers’ Union, we would like to invite you on her maiden voyage. Food and drink will be supplied, of course, and there will be an atmosphere of merriment and contentment!”

Mikhaylov laughed and looked at his watch. It was a bit late, but he had no appointments the next day until around noon, so he would have time to recuperate in the morning. And with this man’s enthusiasm, there was little doubt it would at least be a more entertaining trip. More entertaining, that was, than the report on Finnoscandian liberation movements he was planning on reading on his way back. Thus, he nodded, and gladly took the man up on the offer.

Half an hour later, the steam engine of the train Rosa Luxemburg roared to life, and its smokestack began bellowing thick black fumes. The wheels ground against the track, and with a loud ‘hurrah’ from its semi-inebriated occupants, the locomotive pulled the carriages forward, slowly but surely, literally, picking up steam.

As the train eased itself away from the platform into the streetlight-lit night, the stars shining brightly overhead, one of the train mechanics raised a glass of vodka and began to hum a slow tune that left all the other occupants silent. Mikhaylov looked at them; they were men and women, factory workers and clerks, soldiers, in suits and working clothing. Young couples and aged spinsters, a veteran of the Great War without legs, a lonely women staring out into the inky dark of night. All were silent, but one by one they joined in the humming of the well-known song.

“Ech…e…lon… by… ech…e…lon”

“Ech…e…lon… by… ech…e…lon”

“The… road… road… is… wide”

Slowly picking up the pace as the train did, the chugging of the engines and the rattle of the carriages acting like a conductor and deciding the rhythm of the song; ever louder, ever faster.

“The commander… ordered… That is that!”

One of the factory workers, still dressed in his blue overalls and face smudged by coal, stood up, and proved that he was a tenor as well as a worker; his deep voice rang louder and purer than any of the others, and his flourished of voice made the exaltation ever-greater.

“Days and nights we will fight! Peaks with peaks crossing, and don’t wash it off with the rains! And not dry by the winds!”

“The blood of workers and peasants! And don’t wash it off with the rain, and don’t dry by the wind”

“The blood of workers and peasants! The commander ordered, that is that!”

Mikhaylov raised his glass of vodka and, in the heat of the moment, shouted in a belligerent tone:

“Comrades! Today, we free ourselves, tomorrow we free Moscow, after that Berlin, until we are all the way in New York!”

“Ura!” replied all the cabin’s occupants, downing their shots of vodka, as the rambunctious train slid into the dark, star-lit night; one more cog in the machine that would, one day, free the world.

It was hoped.

[Mozaka]

Abroad the private plane was of Francisco Franco himself and Foreign Affairs Director, Luis Salvento and Francisco's younger wife, Maria Franco-Martinez. The three exited the Jet as the engines rumbled to a silent dimming. The wispy desert circled the jet, as Franco glared upon the Moroccan Plains, a small crew of journalists, bouncing from independent ones to the mainstream, they awaited the man himself. The narrow runway and the seemingly underwhelming airport, a few buildings in the disarray of boredom, however, it was safer than entering the grand assembly of the main airport. Stepping down in a glorious fashion, with his wife dotting behind him and his sectary in particle reasons, Luis, a much more skinnier man than the overweight figure of Fransisco. Shaking the hands of those to the left, then those to the right, his sinister smile was a giveaway. Grasping those a little higher and firmer each way, the man many feared upon this fine country, it was time for his famous speeches to begin. As his wife and secretary trailed down behind them, doing similar greetings, they all entered a limousine and went off to the capital, Spanish Rabat, the city of the desert, as he called it anyway.

It was a hot day, as was any day in the colonial holdings. He was nervous, the rebellious acts of even the colonial government was worrier, not even thinking to point of the damn communists deep in the Western Saharan Desert. However, confidence was key in the speech, the security of himself would surely be enough to keep him safe? He questioned this, he questioned everything since the end of the Civil War. Would It occur again, was the former democratic sentiments of the defeated finally arise and see the end to the regime. Surely not. The car drove past, the thousands who shouted and screamed, everyone of them crying for the freedom, shouting to the injustice. His wife looked upon the angry and frustrated numbers in mass, as did his fellow minister, staring to them, helpless with his documents. Grasping them in fear, with a few cars to ahead and behind, a load gulp came to himself. Was it even safe? Franco thought so, so it surely would be. Surely?

Security was tight, as it always was, even in the safer regions of Spain, the railings of Madrid and Sevilla, masses of soldiers, police and personnel guards were needed to protect the highly unpopular fascist. Gripping his small piece of paper, dashed with notes to keep the creative mind active, the booed man, shouts coming from the crowds ahead. It was to began.

Dear, my great people of this administration, we come with news. The recent insurgents deep in the Sahara have left our armies short, and of which, our army will officially occupying this city. We see the security of our empire as important, and with you, the people, being the backbone. We thank you for keeping the peace within these in-certain times, in which we issue a 1% increase in your pay for the great work you have done. A deep, silent and rushing pause came. The shouting came again, the cries of revolution came again. Stood to a spot of anger, with an ushering gestures, he ordered several men of the army who were present, to brass the former revolting man to the stage. Grasped by his top to the t-shirt, he was tugged to a short stomped post, guarded by around thirty guards in a short circle. As the masses was of confusion, Franco was of delight. His wife looked behind, his minister was even prepared for th disgust and horrid nature what was to appear.

Grasping a machete, a simple soldiers began cutting the man's neck, the blood slowly dripping out into the open flesh saw the blood dribble at a better-to-rapid rate. A sinister and evil smile came to his face, the small cutting of his neck a horrifying sight. Pushing the crowds back, he nodded to the man who was doing this dreadful deed. A sound of a bullet ringed out, the man was dead, yet the crowd continued their shouting and screaming.

This is what you get! The cries of your revolution shall die out! The Traitors of our empire were find everyone of you and destroy you. You pitiful people! The shouts of the dictator ringed to the thousands, as he left in a spit of a Trott. Those of police ushered the protesters out, with the army bashing, hitting and assaulting those who refused. Retreating to the small and dandy housing of the city, bullets rang out, those who counted to refuse the content manic man of Franco shot dead. Quickly entering the car to head to another city, of which it should be safer, he still had a smile. His two other occupants didn't, a look of horror, disgust and hatred to even Franco. Snatching his secretaries board, he stared to the next city, moving his finger slowly down, reading his tour of the desert, only a few left and he could go back to his mansion upon the Madrid Outpost. His secretary looked to him in a nervous tone. He wasn't sure, no one was under this regime. Only those within the highest accord seeing the false success of the regime.

[Exalted Inquellian State]

Fearmongers, Horthy thought. Thats what the Reich called anyone, including(unknowingly) him, who defied them and their precious little ECC. Horthy couldn't just see through it, he could see through that and half the walls the Reich stacked up behind. The walls which covered their plan. The Reich was the one fearmongering. They tricked him, tricked the Bulgarians, they even tricked Mussolini and the Romanians. They tricked them into believing into their own superiority, against the worse enemy of the Soviets, that they were their allies, even as all of them weakened each other or were weakened by the Germans. The Germans made them believe they could accomplish great things, just for all their allies to get back less than what they lost while nationalists grew in their country. Then the germans would just play the nationlists off against each other, and repeat the cycle.

Horthy stopped. He was getting to ahead, and realized that if even his most anti-german friends heard him he would sound paranoid, insane, or both. The guilt was probably getting to him anyway. Or was it his ego bursting? He wasn't sure. It was over a decade since the first Jews he deported left Hungary. He knew they went to Ukraine, but thought they'd be returned. At least, thats what he told himself he thought. Now, he couldn't trust the now-dissolved Soviets, the germans, his government, the pretender in Spain, and now himself. He knew the Hungarians would blame him. His people were the few he trusted. Because he knew some of them felt guilty.

Horthy sat there, pondering, and signing a few papers here and there brought in by his secretary. After half an hour, he decided he needed to get something done. He needed to erase his people's guilt. He needed to make the Germans pay for turning him into a distrustful, vengeful, paranoid pseudo-puppet. He'd make them prove their Europe was a true community.

Hungarian government buys oil shares

The Hungarian government bought thousands of shares in multiple small oil companies operating within the nation, practically nationalizing many of them. Regent Horthy stated this was to ensure proper urbanization and greater job opportunities for Hungarian citizens, saying the money will be used to open up many new jobs and improve infrastructure. The oil was stated to be used to create an industry on par with Romania while ensuring all of Europe a great amount of fuel.

Anti-corruption campaign started!

The government has begun to actively investigate multiple politicians who are believed to be receiving bribes from powerful industries. The politicians seem to belong for the most part to the parties anti-semitic faction primarily lead by Béla Imrédy, though it is unknown why this is so.

Newspaper-Hungarian Nation, (Magyar Nemzet)

[South Americanastan]

JANUARY 12th, 1952
COLONY OF SOUTHERN RHODESIA
SALISBURY
WOOLWORTH'S DEPARTMENT STORE

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Sometimes things go wrong.

Sometimes things go very wrong.

But nothing will ever go as wrong as it did in Salisbury in January 12th, 1952.

Captain Samuel A. Smith knew that all too well as he lay on the ground, bleeding from a gash on the side of his torso, his BSAP badge laying by his side after becoming unpinned from his uniform. A group of paramedics searching for survivors ran up to him, surprised to find a man that close to the blast point still alive. He was lucky, alright. Luckier than the people on his patrol route, for sure.

As the paramedics loaded him up onto a stretcher and into the back of the ambulance, he ran over the course of events in his head. He would surely be questioned about this by his commander, and it was best to have his events in order, lest he get something wrong and be punished for lying to a police officer.

It had been another bright, sunny day in Salisbury, and Captain Smith had been assigned to a patrol route along Block 21. It was known for being one of the quieter patrols, tucked in the center of the city, part of the commercial district, far away from any ZANU insurgents. Most of the "criminals" on the street were shoplifters or vandalists, as opposed to the Sturmgewehr-wielding insurgents that popped up in the edges of the city.

Captain Smith had been on his patrol for 3 hours when he reached the Woolworth's Department Store, the main waypoint on his patrol route. As per BSAP protocol, he stopped in front of his waypoint and began to scan the area. People from all walks of life surrounded him, men and women, young and old, Salisbury truly was the jewel of Africa. In the crowd he spotted an unusual looking man, though Captain Smith could not figure out exactly what was off with him. The enlarged vest... the panicked demeanor... ah, yes, he was colored. Captain Smith, noticing the man striding toward Woolworth's, stopped him.

"Sir! I would like to have a word with you!"

The enlarged vest...

"Sir! Stop right this instant!"

The panicked demeanor...

"Sir! I am ordering you to stop!"

He was colored...

Shit.

Captain Smith realized that the man was a ZANU member with a bomb hidden under his vest, and unholstered his Enfield Revolver, cocking the hammer back and preparing to fire.

"SIR! STOP! I WILL SHOOT IF NEED BE!"

The man did not stop.

bang.

Captain Smith fired once, the bullet fling through the air, impacting the man's collar bone. Blood began pouring out of the wound, and the man stumbled to the ground. Captain Smith began to run towards the nearest police telephone, the booth providing a wall between him and the man, before a shout could be heard from the wounded man.

"FOR ZIMBABWE!"

Despite having his gun trained onto the man, before Captain Smith could step out of the booth to finish the man with a shot to the head, the man pressed a button connected to a wire reaching under his vest. The man's vest exploded into a fireball, the sheer concussive force knocking Captain Smith off of his feet. The explosion threw shrapnel in all directions, a piece of sharp wood impacting the Captain on the right side of his torso, leaving a gash. He was one of the lucky ones, however, as the phone booth had shielded him from the brunt of the damage. Bodies of all walks of life, men and women, young and old, surrounded him. He lay on the ground, bleeding from his wound for five minutes before the paramedics arrived.

THE SALISBURY JOURNAL
Terrorist bombing at Woolworth's Department Store kills 22, injures 54

[HISPIDA]

NATIONAL ASSEMBLY, SOFIA, BULGARIA -- JANUARY 10, 1952

"Members of the National Assembly."

The conversations that usually followed before the Prime Minister's semi-annual speech to the National Assembly stopped as Bogdan Filov approached his platform. Before speaking again he coughed into a small handkerchief, hiding the interior from the television cameras.

"Just one short decade ago, Bulgaria was the laughing stock of the Balkan world. Humiliated twice, betrayed on all sides. Now, however, we stand yet again as the strongest power in the region. It is as German chancellor Bismarck said all those years ago; Bulgaria is, indeed, the Prussia of the Balkans!" A round of applause erupted from the National Assembly as the Prime Minister coughed into his hand. "The past has been overcome. The National Catastrophes have been triumphed over. But now is no time to talk about the past; now is time to talk about the future. The future is a strange beast. One cannot look at the future and know for sure what it will contain; for how long we will prosper."

Hristo Lukov bit his nails as he listened to the Prime Minister's speech. It was a nasty habit, one he was looking to break; his nails were uneven and sharp. One cannot know the future? Madness. The future lies with Italy, with fascism; how could he not see that?

"Bulgaria's future is one that we must not ponder about, but act about. It is not set in stone, and if we do nothing, we will not have a future. We, as Bulgarians, must work for the future! We must make it our own! Our work is not yet done, but we shall finish it!" The National Assembly again erupted in applause as the Prime Minister fell into another coughing fit.

Professor Asen Kantardzhiev was also anxious, and he assumed that he was anxious for much the same reason as Lukov. It was clear to everybody in the room that Filov didn't have long left to live. Even though the Prime Minister tried to hide it, Kantardzhiev could smell it in the air like a shark could smell blood in the water. He tentatively smiled. When Filov kicked the bucket, that would be his chance.

"But my future is not Bulgaria's."

Both Kantardzhiev and Lukov's eyes widened.

"I am an old man. Just this year, I will be turning 67. I have served this great nation for 12 long years. Now, though, I wish not to serve Bulgaria any longer. I wish to go back to Stara Zagora with my wife. She wants much the same." Lukov leaned forward in his seat. Kantardzhiev did the same. "With that, I announce that by the end of this year, I shall be retiring from the post as Prime Minister of the Tsardom of Bulgaria. It was not an easy decision to come to; I fought with both myself and my family to come to it. But I believe it is the correct decision. I have served Bulgaria throughout the Second Great War. I have served Bulgaria throughout the immediate aftermath. Now, I wish to turn that duty to someone more fitting to those duties." Filov cleared his throat again. "I do not know who that man is. But there is a man strong enough to take this country by the reigns and lead it to its prosperous future.

"Thank you."

The room sat in silence as Filov walked off of the stage. Both Lukov and Kantardzhiev smiled evily.

This was their chance.

DNEVEN TRUD

PRIME MINISTER BOGDAN FILOV ANNOUNCES PLANS FOR RESIGNATION; EXPECTED TO RESIGN BY APRIL, MAY

PRELOM (SBNL)

PRIME MINISTER ANNOUNCES PLANS TO RESIGN; CALLS FOR 'A MAN STRONG ENOUGH TO TAKE THIS COUNTRY BY THE REIGNS'

PROGLED (SRNB)

FILOV RESIGNS; INDIRECTLY REFERS TO KANTARDZHIEV AS SUCCESSOR

[The Soviet Union of Mother Russia]

Provisional Commissariat for the Liberation of the Peoples of Russia
Arkhangelsk, Arkhangelsk Oblast
Ritter Drama Theater

The scene of the theater was barely visible, dimmed in darkness as the lights started to quench their strength. Then, there in the middle of the scene stod one man, wearing the military uniform of a serving lieutenant-general under the 2rd Shock Army. Standing there, he was looking towards the back of the stage, towards a raised table with various men dressed in soviet fatigues. It was a military tribunal, and there was no counsel, no defense, it was all persecution on behalf of the Soviet jurisdiction.
The men sitting in opposition to the actor started to berate him one by one. The first judge berated him for not retreating back to Moscow with his military staff when he received a chance to do so, then another judge rebuking him for asking permission to do so. Another condemned him for daring to defend Alexander Yegorov while packed away in China, then a fourth one for why he then did not give testimony for him during the year of 1937 when he could. This strange cacophony of conflicting accusations in contrast to misinformation repeated on the scene over, and over, with red lights shining beneath the chins of the speaking judges ominously before the audience. The voices of the judges started to mesh together, soon all just being one singular voice repeating "It shall be so, it shall be so" loudly. Only then, suddenly in a eruption, the voice of the accused filled with room in his outburst, speaking.

"You common cry of curs! whose breath I hate
As reek o' the rotten fens, whose loves I prize
As the dead carcasses of unburied men
That do corrupt my air, I banish you;
And here remain with your uncertainty!
Let every feeble rumour shake your hearts!
Your enemies, with nodding of their plumes,
Fan you into despair! Have the power still
To banish your defenders; till at length
Your ignorance, which finds not till it feels,
Making not reservation of yourselves,
Still your own foes, deliver you as most
Abated captives to some nation
That won you without blows! Despising,
For you, the city, thus I turn my back:
There is a world elsewhere."

A large eruption of ensuing applause followed as the actor had made his passionate speech, row, upon row of participating audience standing up to clap. It was the highlight of Ritter Drama Theater's re-telling of William Shakespeare's Coriolanus, with the setting of the story being represented through the life of a defiant Red Army lieutenant-general, standing against the system that would condemn it's very own defenders to death, and anguish, even during defence of it, and how he was turned against the country he once served for. A fitting story considering the circumstances of the origins of The PCLR, one which the Chamber of Culture had utilized for effect. This night's performance was just one of the many efforts the Arkhangelsk government had sponsored in recent time to gain the sympathy, and legitimacy in the eyes of the Russian masses, with the concept of using soft-power being the spearhead to serve this purpose. With theatrical plays being commissioned, radio dramas describing the stories one-by-one going of the victims of the Great Purge, and the Cathedral of the Archangel memorizing the fallen souls who fell under the repression of the communist regime. There was even held a memorial parade in the late memory of Nicholas Alexandrovich Romanov, to commemorate his life, and that of White Russia under the Tsar. The parade, now known as the "White parade", would last a full week hosting the parade, ensuing speeches, and military marches in the streets of Arkhangelsk.

Beyond the nostalgia, and reminiscing of the glorious days of Imperial Russia, the Regime knew that this was the opportunity to showcase the latest advancements in cultural, as well as military performance. Unlike the neighbouring warlords that were preoccupied with fighting over the scraps of land in the far-east, this was the heartland of Russia, and if they could provide evidence in the eyes of the German administrators to the West they were better equipped to administrate the neighbouring lands, perhaps it could be possible to negotiate transfer of lands with the Reichskommissariat residing in Moscow. However that was the first to be realized at a much later date, for now the campaign for winning the hearts & minds of the Russian people had commenced, and every wrong-doing that the Soviets had done had to be shown to the people in order to liberate their minds from under the yoke of the Bolsheviks.

[Union Princes]

An Old Master's Return

32 years. That's how long he lived in this country. That's how long he operated in London. 1920 was a world away for the aging Muhammad Ali Jinnah, now 75 years old with gray hair and a wrinkled face. Even now, his mind would wander to the days of his youth as the founder of the All India Muslim League before moving to England to become a barrister. Was it worth it? Jinnah never believed in the concept of a united India. It was a ridiculous idea that Muslims and Hindus can share a country together yet, five years later, the Indian Federation still stands as strong as ever. Was he a fool to doubt the dreams of the Indian National Congress? Perhaps there was hope after all. He laughed to himself as the taxi took him to Heathrow Airport. Jinnah would definitely not find hope here.

It's all thanks to those Blackshirts. Those crooked, thuggish Blackshirts. Mosley's band of fascist boys! The decades spent in the United Kingdom protecting the rights of Muslims immigrating to England and championing for integration and equality were all washed away within months of the fascist collaborators took power in Parliament. First were the Jews, then the Africans, the South Asians, and finally the gays, queers, and other folk deemed degenerate by the new regime. All his companions and friends dead, disappeared, or fleeing just like him. The vegetarian restaurant that he frequents has long since been smashed in the Briton supremacists. His clients stopped coming since the end of WW2, mostly there to tell him the bad news. Each one was worse than the last.

As far as Jinnah knew, he may be the last Muslim in London right now. An impressive streak, surviving five years of fascist tyranny, but it was high time he returns to the lands of his fathers. The barrister has no intention of dying at the hands of some Blackshirts. King Edward wanted his throne back? He can keep it but he'll be damned if he thinks he'll rule an empire again. That must be why he felt so much at peace. Despite everything was destined to fall apart, India remained standing: tall and free. And while it may not be Pakistan, perhaps it's he should give unity a chance Jinnah thought as he boarded the plane. He looked back to gaze at London for the last time. It really has been 32 years and now it's time to go.

[American Pere Housh]

Rome, the Kingdom of Italy
Imperial Palace


King Victor Emmanual III stands in front of a window staring at the beautiful city he loves so much. His face was set in a scowl thinking about what has transpired over the past 13 years. When he heard of Mussolini's death in a car accident, Victor gave his wife a big kiss showing how happy he was. Soon after, he immediately began to assert control over the Italian military and government putting both under his direct control. While he considered an Italian patriot, he held no ill will towards any minority especially the Jews. He even helped smuggle those that the Germans hated to British held territory and to the United States. It is time for Italy take its place as one of the world's 4 major powers as the King refused to remain in Germany's shadow

Italian King announces Italy's departure from EEC

By: Gabriella Romano

In shocking turn of events, Italy's King Victor Emmanual III has announced that Italy will be leaving the EEC. This decision was a hard one to make but in the end, His Majesty believed that this course of action was best for the Italian people. The King believes that for Italy to achieve true greatness, it must do so independent of Germany. Italy considers Germany to a friend but the King warns Germany that Italy will not book no interference from the German government in our exit from EEC. Any interference will be considered an unfriendly act and cause German-Italian relations to deteriorate.

[Sao Nova Europa]

EVENTS

Emergency Meeting of EEC

Chancellor Albert Speer called an emergency meeting of the European Economic Community to convene in the aftermath of Italy's withdrawal from the organization. The Chancellor had spoken about his ambitions for greater EEC integration and a meeting was scheduled to be convened, but the Italian King's announcement sped up the process. The German Chancellor is expected to demand a reform of the EEC that will restrict the right of member states to withdraw from the organization as well as to push for increased integration. So far, though, the Chancellor has made no comments about Italy's withdrawal, nor have any members of the German government spoken about it.

The Chancellor has though expressed his public dissatisfaction with Hungary's anti-corruption drive, which seems to target politicians associated with with anti-Semite Béla Imrédy. "I would like to believe that the Hungarian government," the Chancellor said, "is genuinely punishing corrupt officials rather than targeting patriots who stood with Germany against the Judeo-Bolshevik menace. That would be detrimental to the friendship between our two nations, and detrimental to Hungary itself."

Civil War in Greece

The Hellenic State has entered state of civil war. Pro-German and Nazi-sympathizing military officers and politicians, many of them affiliated with the National Socialist National Union of Greece party, attempted a military coup in Athens against the pro-Italian, Fascist government. There is no evidence to suggest that the coup was instigated by German operatives, though some tabloids claim so. While the coup failed to topple the government in Athens, where Italian influence is strong, it succeeded in other parts of the country.

Colonel Georgios Poulos has secured Crete and has proclaimed a rival government. He has asked the Greater Germanic Reich for diplomatic recognition and military assistance. Analysts are divided as to what the Reich should do. Some argue that Germany, being the preeminent military power in Europe, should recognize the pro-German government and aid them as an act of punishment towards Italy for leaving the EEC. Others argue that Italy's naval power in the Mediterranean is strong and formal recognition should be avoided. So far, there has been no official German response.

Terrorist Attack in Milan

A bombing took place in the headquarters of the National Agricultural Bank in Milan, Italy. More than twenty people were killed and a hundred injured, many of them gravely so. A bomb was also discovered, before it could explode, in the city's central station, suggesting this was a well-coordinated terrorist attack rather than a 'lone wolf' hit. So far the Italian police has not been able to crack the case and find out who was behind the bombings. Some suggest that Italian leftists are to be blamed whereas others claim that the attack was organized by radical Italian Nazis and Fascists who believe the King has betrayed the cause of the late Il Duce Mussolini. There are even whispers that Germany is attempting to destabilize the Italian government, but with no evidence whatsoever to prove it, few are willing to claim this in public.

[Hopal]

London, The United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland
January 13, 1952

A tired Prime Minister bumbled into the drawing room as his longtime Secretary William Janey poured and laid out his tea, it was often a tradition of his to start his day like this. Since his days as Viceroy and Governor-General of India in the late 1920s he would start his day with a cup of tea and a light breakfast. Wood took a seat on a small settee behind a small wooden coffee table where his tea had been laid out for him, he took a sip looking across the room adjusting his eyes as the morning sun peered through the nearby window. There was a stack of newspapers placed beside his tray of tea, he liked to start his day knowing what the morning newspaper were saying about him and his government, he liked to be informed of the latest news before a morning briefing with his Ministers. He often read the same national newspapers, those were the ones that most of the populace were reading anyways, and today was no different, with most of his usual newspapers in that stack, but there was one newspaper that he didn't recognize, and it was the top of the stack. The Salisbury Journal.

"William, why is the Salisbury Journal in my morning stack in newspapers? I'm not the Prime Minister of South Rhodesia, am I?" Prime Minister Wood asked.

William Janey, his secretary was the one tasked with organizing his morning newspaper stack, he had been able to get copies of newspapers from around the world, and decided to put some of the more interesting stories and newspapers into the Prime Ministers stack, he quickly gave a response to why a South Rhodesian newspaper made its way into the Prime Minister's newspaper stack in London.

"There is something that you may find interesting in there, Sir." William replied and then the Prime Minister saw it, the headline of the Salisbury newspaper Terrorist bombing at Woolworth's Department Store kills 22, injures 54

"Good God!" The Prime Minister exclaimed.

"It's most likely ZANU behind this attack, they want a black controlled independent country out of South Rhodesia, they call it Zimbabwe. I hear a few BSAP officers were involved in the attack as well, a few have been injured, potentially killed, I'm not certain on that though. We may not be able to hold onto South Rhodesia much longer, Sir. Apparently there are some white politicians there that want independence as well."

"Of course it was those black socialists behind this attack. We will need to respond to this attack, and we cannot let South Rhodesia go independent, not at this point at least. Not after India, we can't look weak, we need a strong response, we need to keep the South Rhodesians on side. Has this gotten into the papers here at home?"

"Not that I am aware of, no. I assumed that you would have wanted to know this before it was out there."

"Well you assumed right William, thank you."

"There is one more thing that I thought I might point out to you, Sir." William says as switches out the newspapers the Prime Minister is reading, the one he puts out at the top of the stacks headlines Italian King announces Italy's departure from EEC.

"Oh no" The Prime Minister starts "We can't have German-Italian relations deteriorate can we, because if the Germans don't help us out in the colonies than we might have to rely on the Italians, and if the Italians are enemies with the Germans, well I can't see that ending very well for us. I never liked this European Economic Community idea, but if it's beneficial to keeping the colonies together than we may have to try every means necessary to keep Italy in that community, or at least make sure they're friendly with the Germans. The worst thing for us would be an all out war between the two of them as that would mean none of them would be able to help us. But I suppose I am getting ahead of myself, I'll speak to cabinet about this, but not today, we have enough on our plate as it stands already. But that's enough of my rambling, can you tell the others to prepare the Cabinet Room, William?" William nodded and went off.

---

The Prime Minister slapped the issue of the Salisbury Journal which he had read earlier onto the Cabinet table where Ministers took their time to read the headline.

"There was a bombing in Salisbury." The Prime Minister begun "it was by that Black Socialist Organization, ZANU. Our control over South Rhodesia is being threatened we need to do whatever we can to maintain our control over the region."

"Send in the military!" Oswald Mosley, the Fascist Party Leader and Lord Chancellor yelled before the Prime Minister had finished.

"I was not done, Mr. Mosley. Do not interrupt your Prime Minister!" The Prime Minister slammed his fist on the table and looking Mosley in the eye.

"I'm the only one keeping you Prime Minister anyway!" Mosley retorts not backing down.

"And I'm the one keeping you in cabinet!"

"I'd be Prime Minister if an election was held now and you'd be out of power, and you know that!" Mosley screamed in a fit of rage deafening the Prime Minister there for a second.

"Well you aren't the Prime Minister, so you ought listen to the person who is!"

Moseley backed down and sunk back into his seat spiteful, he was going to teach that man a lesson, he thought to himself.

"Now where was I, right South Rhodesia. I'm thinking that we work with the current South Rhodesian government, make them send an envoy here to London, or better yet send someone there to investigate the current state of things and work things out with the South Rhodesians, keep them on side and keep the Black Socialists in check."

Mosley spoke up again "We should just send in the military, make them fear us, they wouldn't dare attack us or declare independence once we're there. And we can just attack them when they do."

The Marquess of Salisbury, the Secretary of State for the Colonies retorted for the Prime Minister "Great plan, but the problem is that Greater German Reich which you adore so much crippled our military."

The Prime Minister nodded thankful for the Marquess' response "Exactly, now if we don't have anything further to discuss I would like to adjourn this meeting."

The Ministers all nodded and got up at once, causing a bit of a commotion as many of them spoke to each other and the Prime Minister slipped out of the room to send a letter to the Prime Minister of South Rhodesia. Oswald Mosley meanwhile got up and briskly walked out of the room quickly returning home, he knew that the people of Britain wanted change, and that the weak and entitled Conservatives would soon be out of power, that fascism would be coming to Britain and the world.

---

The letter from the Prime Minister to the Prime Minister of South Rhodesia:

From: The Earl of Halifax
To: Godfrey Huggins

I write to you today after having just learned of the recent bombing in Salisbury. We are very concerns about the Black Socialists in ZANU, or whatever they're called. We must not let these radicals take control of the colony, we know that you in government are all good god-fearing men, and that you have no wish to disobey his Majesty. But I do know that there are many over in the colonies who wish to overthrow the good rule of His Majesty's government, and in order to keep these men in check we must discover the root of the problem. I will be sending Sir Joseph Gurney Braithwaite to inspect your colony and to discuss ways to mitigate this threat, I do hope that you will accommodating and that you remain loyal to His Majesty's Government.

God Save the King, and May he Save Us All.

Signed,
Edward Frederick Lindley Wood
1st Earl of Halifax and the Right Honourable Prime Minister of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland

[Sao Nova Europa]

Greater Germanic Reich, Bavarian Alps



Chancellor Speer walked through the entrance hall of Berghof, Hitler's vacation home in the Obersalzberg of the Bavarian Alps. It was there where the Fuhrer spent most of his time. Ever since entrusting the Chancellorship to Speer, Hitler had reduced his public appearances, allowing Speer to become the public face of the Nazi regime. Yet, whenever an important issue came up, Speer would always come to the Berghof to consult the Fuhrer, who remained still the undisputed Master of the Reich.

The entrance hall was filled with a display of cactus plants in majolica pots. Speer made his way to the Great Hall, which was furnished with expensive Teutonic furniture, a large globe, and an expansive red marble fireplace mantel. A sprawling picture window gave a sweeping, open air view of the snow-capped mountains in Austria. Speer found Hitler looking at the mountains. Standing beside him was Reichsmarshal Göring. The Chancellor remained composed, hiding behind a smile his disdain for his political opponent.

Speer raised his hand in salute. "Heil Hitler!"

"Chancellor," Göring replied. "Good evening."

"Reichsmarshal, I see you returned from your hunting estate."

"My duty to the Fuhrer outweighs all other concerns of mine."

It was at that moment that Hitler turned around from the window, and gazed at his Chancellor. "We need to talk," he dryly said, forgoing the usual friendly formalities. "The traitors! Without German help, Italy would not have defeated even Greece. And now they turn their back on us?" Hitler's hands were shaking uncontrollably. Speer did not dare to ponder whether his was out of anger or due to Hitler's worsening health. "We need to do something!"

"I've already called for an emergency EEC Conference," the Chancellor replied.

"That will show them..." Göring sneered. "We need to teach them a lesson. They need to respect the Reich."

"Italy is not lost yet," Speer argued. "The King may believe that Italy is solely his, but in reality he does not have complete control over his country. Many military and civil officials are ideologically aligned with us or simply too scared of Germanic prowess to support the King's moves to distance Italy from our sphere of influence. We simply need to put pressure on Italy, subtly, and the King will be forced to backtrack under pressure from those officials."

"Tolerating such insubordination will only encourage others to defy our rule. I say we forgo any subtleties and instead launch an invasion of Italy. Within three weeks, at most, we will have captured Rome and installed a new government, one loyal to the Reich."

"We cannot expend resources wastefully. The remnants of the Soviets beyond the Urals are rebuilding, and leaving the East vulnerable could backfire. We need to focus on building up our domestic strength, to avoid a repeat of the 46' Recession and to deal with growing American power. But, most importantly, we do not need to create new enemies. Even if we win the war fast and without expending much resources, it will cause the Italians to resent us. Instead of making Italy our enemy, we need to win Italy back through diplomatic, economic and political pressure that will force their King to backtrack." Speer took a deep breath and continued. "Greece is in civil war, with Crete under our influence. Our contacts in Italy are supporting efforts by radical fascists to undermine the King's rule. And with Italy out of the EEC, we can force the other member states to agree to greater integration. The Italian will plead to let them back into the EEC."

Hitler nodded. "We will try your approach first. But if it fails to bring Italy back to the fold, then an invasion will be our only option."

[Great Confederacy of Commonwealth States]

Heroes of Kronstadt Power Plant
Council of Magnitogorsk power plant workers
Magnitogorsk
The Commonwealth

Vitaly Nikitin looked from his watch to the towering smoke stacks of the power plant, down to the wrought-iron gate barring entrance to the facility, and back to his watch. Twenty-five past five. Five minutes yet.

Vitaly’s driver was fiddling with the truck’s heating, which despite the engine idling did not provide enough heat to combat the freezing afternoon. Magnitogorsk was covered in a thick layer of January snow. Many roads were nearly impassable, and those who had to defy the wind and freezing temperatures had best only stay out for a short while, or risk losing toes or fingers to the winter air. No matter how much the driver fiddled, however, the cabin did not get any warmer.

Vitaly checked his watch again, as much to calm his nerves as his driver’s fiddling. Three minutes. On the radio, the soft tunes of American blues accompanied the orange setting sun, in stark contrast with the nervous atmosphere in the truck’s cabin. Time wasn’t moving any faster, and nothing changed at the gates of the plant. Vitaly, for the fifth time that afternoon, slid the cartridge from the handle of his pistol. It was full, and one round was already in the chamber. He slid it back in, and put it back in its waist holder. His driver now too checked his PPSH, resting between them against the back of the cabin.

“Two minutes. Get ready” Nikitin told his driver, who clenched his hands around the steering wheel and hovered his foot above the gas pedal.

“Straight through, as close to the door as you can get” he ordered.

“Just like old times” the driver said. From the dashboard he picked up his NKVD hat and put it on. Vitaly nodded. “Just like old times, comrade”

Nikitin slammed his fist against the back of the cabin, the thud of metal reverberating through the back of the truck.

“Everyone, get ready. One minute!”

The driver slammed the gas pedal down to the floor, and the engine began to roar. For a moment, the four heavy wheels slid against the icy road, but soon they found grip, and the truck pounced screeching towards the metal gate. It made forceful impact, blasting the gate down and out in the blink of an eye. The truck then started towards the main complex of the power plant, but in seconds, and with the deafening sound of twisting metal, the truck came to a halt. Nikitin cursed, while his driver tried to wrestle with the gearbox. To no avail, even with two hands he could not bring it back into first gear.

“What the fuck happened?” Nikitin shouted, but his driver just shook his head.

“Something’s fucked, I don’t know!” he responded, still blasting the gas, but instead of any movement, it just produced an acrid smell of burning metal and rubber.

“Alright, out! Out! Now! Davai!”

Vitaly kicked open the passenger door in frustration, and struck the back of the cabin with his pistol. As he jumped out onto the snow-covered road leading from the gate towards the plant, he was nearly impaled by what looked like gaping, wrought-iron teeth. The plant gate had warped around the undercarriage and destroyed the wheels, some of the sharp spikes penetrating into the engine block. The rest hung around the axel like brambles. As he took in the damage, his little company of soldiers jumped out the back, rushing towards the main building.

“She’s busted, let’s go! Davai!” he shouted, waving his pistol and running with his men. All of them were between 30 and 40 years old; all NKVD recruits from the Great Patriotic War. At least, those who had survived the Great Purge of 1943; those who had managed to hide away their uniforms and blended into the general population. Some of them had come with the army, having stolen a Red Army uniform and blended in, while others were natives. Vitaly himself was a veteran of the battle of the Caucasus, where he had served as Komisar. Finding other former NKVD agents had been a dangerous pain, since the hatred for Stalinism had lost none of its potency over the last few years. Over the course of ten years, however, they had managed to consolidate enough former members. It helped, he had noticed, that there was no centralised secret police in the Commonwealth who could effectively hunt after them. He shuddered at the thought of what other secret societies were using that clear gap in anarchist principles, and hoped they were still on time.

Sergeant Zakharov kicked through the flimsy lock of the front door, and his comrades managed to rush through the gap. A small rear guard kept positions at the entrance while Vitaly entered, happy to be inside the warm bowels of the plant. His soldiers fanned out, securing all approaches. They were in some form of garage. Happily for them, the signage of the complex was clear enough, and they simply had to follow them. A short corridor, two flights of stairs, and then a longer corridor, followed by a wooden door that separated them from the control room. Nikitin tried the handle, but the door had been locked. With a wave of his pistol, he instructed sergeant Zakharov forward, who struck right next to the lock with a meaty kick. The wood of the door creaked, but the lock showed no sign of giving in. Zakharov kicked again, and this time the wood under his heel cracked visibly, but again, the door showed no sign of giving in.

“Save your ankle, Anton” Nikitin said. With two shots from his pistol he demolished the lock, and with a third kick from the sergeant, they were through, and stormed into the control room. There, the workers of the control room had armed themselves with chairs and table leg clubs. One even carried a revolver, but the presence of seven NKVD men levelling their rifles and submachine guns flustered them.

“Weapons down, comrades” Nikitin warned, aiming his own pistol at the woman holding the revolver.

“We can do this with or without you” he added, and that seemed convincing enough. One by one, they lowered their clubs and chairs. Lastly, the woman put down the revolver, and slid it towards Nikitin. The Komisar smiled a content smile.

“Thank you very much. Now, here’s what we’re going to do…”

Radio Studio Magnitogorsk
Radio and Television Broadcasting Union
Magnitogorsk
The Commonwealth

The last notes of Jimmy Roger’s ‘That’s All Right’ softly vanished into static, the pin of the record player sliding onto the cardboard protector in the middle. Alexandr Nikolaev gently lifted the record from the spinning plate and returned it to its sleeve, afterwards pulling the suspended microphone closer.

“And that was ‘That’s All Right’ by Jimmy Rogers; our thoughts go out to our African-American brothers in the United States who suffer indignity after indignity after having helped defeat fascist Japan in their own Great Patriotic War. And our thanks to comrade Varushka Romanova, who brought back these records from her trip there”

From his studio cabinet, loaded to the brim with records of many ages and origins, he procured another sleeve.

“Whether you’re headed home from the afternoon shift or going in for a late-nighter, everyone can enjoy the jazzy tunes of Perto de você, also brought home by Varushka. Send her your thanks, and we wish you all a good evening”

Alexandr placed the record on the spinning plate and rested the needle on the outside groove, switching off his microphone and allowing ‘Close to you’ to take over, it’s saxophone sound already filling his booth. Another ten minutes of programming filled, and he had the rest of his line-up ready. He swivelled back in his chair and let out a yawn, stretching his arms as he did so. In the corner, Varushka smiled.

“You’re doing great! Thank you for showing me your studio” she said, looking around. “They can’t hear us now, can they?” she asked to be sure. Alexandr smiled and pointed at the flashing red light on his microphone.

“This means it’s not recording. A constant red light means recording. In here, no-one in the world can hear us” he said. Varushka, a woman in her late twenties, smiled back at him.

“Any plans for the rest of the evening?” she asked, a hint of mischief in her eyes. Alexandr shook his head.

“In half an hour, Iwan is going to relieve me, if he’s on time today, and then I’m free”

“Well…” Varushka answered tentatively.

“I know a good café where we can grab…”

At that moment, the lights in the studio went out, leaving it in total darkness. The studio had no windows, and as such, no natural light filtered in. Alexandr let out a small curse and dropped to his knees, trying to find the torch hidden in one of the studio cupboards. He had to rummage through a few piles of wiring, but eventually managed to find the torch and put it on.

“Power outage” Varushka stated matter-of-factly. As an electrician, she had to deal with these as often as anything. “I’m going downstairs, see if I can help”

“The emergency generators will kick in any moment now, if there’s a city-wide outage, we’re the radio station that informs…”

Before he could finish that sentence, however, the door of the studio opened with a crash. Alexandr aimed his torch to see who entered, and the beam immediately illuminated three… five… six men in army getup, the first to enter wearing a blue-rimmed officer’s cap. It took him exactly half a second to start shouting abuse at Alexandr, who nearly dropped the torch in fright.

“Get that light of my face, you fucking moron!” he yelled, almost striking it out of Alexandr’s grip with his left hand. In his right, he held a pistol, which he then levelled at the man.

“You, get behind your microphone” he ordered. Then, he noticed Varushka.

“Damn, another one. You, stand against the wall”

As she did so, the emergency generators came to life; the ceiling lights came to dim life, then flared up to their full strength. The record player began playing again; its jazzy tunes picking up where it had left off.

“Switch off that American trash and listen the fuck up” the NKVD officer shouted; making Alexandr wonder if this Komisar knew you could also speak normally.

“We hanged scum like you for decoration!” Varushka shouted back forcefully, not even flinching as the Komisar levelled his pistol at her head.

“Shut the fuck up, you BITCH! I don’t have time for this. Room secure, bring them in”

At this order four more men entered the cramped studio: a fat man in a black suit came in first, followed by two NKVD soldiers holding a fourth figure under their arms; the last one had a bag over his head, and wore a bloodied nightshirt. The man in the black suit patted the NKVD officer on the shoulder; in his mouth he held a thick cigar.

“Good job, lieutenant Antonov, I am most pleased with the results”

He took his cigar from his mouth, and pointed it at Alexandr, who saw that he had a piece of paper in his other hand.

“You’re in my chair, boy” he spoke softly, and Alexandr quickly got out of the way for him. The fat man settled down, and lowered the microphone to his mouth. After settling for a moment and folding open the piece of paper, he began a slow address, reminiscent of old Stalin speeches, although his accent was far less garbled.

“People of Magnitogorsk… The time of your liberation…” he started, before being interrupted by Alexandr.

“C… comrade…” he began, prompting the NKVD officer to raise his pistol at his chest. Before he could do anything, Alexandr blurted out: “THE MICROPHONE’S NOT ON!”, shielding himself with crossed arms. The black-suited man looked up at the red flashing light, and chuckled.

“Oh, so it is. Thank you” he answered, again in that soft, friendly tone that chilled Alexandr to the bone.

“People of Magnitogorsk… The time of your liberation has arrived. I am Secretary Baranov of the Magnitogorsk Soviet, and I speak to you to assure you that this time of forced lawlessness, the liberation and exaltation of the individual over the community, is now over”

Baranov had a quiet way of speaking, which exuded only calming energy. Even then, it was incredibly forceful, and Alexandr did not know whether it was his cadence, his style, or the fact that there were seven armed goons with him, all stashed tightly into his little booth.

“Anarchism, being the progenitor of individualism over communal solidarity, is a bourgeois ideology, closer to capitalism than it is to any Marxist theory. Not only that, it has no hope of ever defeating the hordes of fascism that have taken over our beloved homeland; the Great Patriotic War has never ended, and yet we rest here, behind the Urals, pretending all is well”

“No more, no longer. I am announcing the return of our glorious Union of Socialist Soviet Republics. Together, we shall re-establish order where none exists, and lift our state back to the vanguard of socialism, just as the Communist Party of Russia is the vanguard within the USSR itself”

“Our armed forces, superior in every way to the untrained militias which have thus far roamed like bandits through the motherland, have captured strategic positions in the city. We are in command. Those who are willing are asked to volunteer for the re-established Red Army; general Korolev, supreme commander of the Red Army, is awaiting you at the Central Stadion. Everyone else is ordered to disarm and return to their quarters, until order is entirely restored”

“After ten years of disorder, it might be difficult for the people of this city to realise that order has finally returned. We have the support of your old leadership, however, and together with the unions and soldiers’ councils we are looking towards a stable cooperation”

As Baranov switched off the microphone, the two soldiers who held the bagged man under his armpits dragged him up to the microphone, and pulled the bag off his head. Alexandr recognised him immediately as Daniil Tarasov, the People’s Deputy of the Federation of Soldier’s Councils. He was co-chairman of the body that was, during wartime, responsible for overall strategy. As much as a supreme commander as there could be. Alexandr saw Varushka shake her head and cover her face; Tarasov’s face had been beaten to a bloody pulp, and he barely managed to speak through his thick lip.

“Go… to hell…” he managed to utter, but Komisar Antonov answered him by placing the barrel of his pistol in his mouth.

“One more errant word from you, and I blow your fucking brains to Lenin” Antonov spat.

“Do… do you know other words besides ‘fuck’?” Tarasov managed to get out, chewing the words on the pistol barrel. Antonov pulled back his pistol to strike him on the head with it, but Baranov stopped him.

“Get him in the chair, we just need a few sentences out of him” Baranov said, in his soft-spoken manner. Tarasov was hoisted onto the chair, and the microphone was put in front of him. Antonov put the pistol in the back of his neck.

“Comrade… You are going to order your men to stand down. Anyone willing to fight can join the Red Army as an enlisted soldier, or an officer. Resistance is futile now, we are master and commander of the city”

Tarasov nodded, and his hand moved to switch on the microphone, but before he could, Baranov pointed at Alexandr and Varushka.

“And if you utter an errand word, it’s not you, but they who are going to meet comrade Lenin, understood?”

As he said that, one of the NKVD men pointed his PPSH at the pair. For a moment, Tarasov hesitated. Varushka could see his eyes dart from side to side, but he soon realised there was nowhere he could go. He switched on the microphone, and addressed his troops.

“Men and women of Magnitogorsk… As your commander, I am ordering you lay down your arms. Those who are willing…”

Outside Radio Studio Magnitogorsk
Radio and Television Broadcasting Union
Magnitogorsk
The Commonwealth

“… free to volunteer for the new Red Army, being formed at Central Stadium. I repeat…”

“You can hardly hear his missing teeth” Ivan joked. His hands rested now rested easily on the wheel, where he had clenched them just moments before. There was much that could have gone wrong; resistance at the house of the People’s Deputy, failure to take the power plant, not convincing Tarasov to hand over his divisions… Now, Ivan could rest. He hadn’t left the engine of the black GAZ limousine running for nothing, because it allowed him and Boris to listen in on what was going on inside. And, of course, it allowed the heater to shield them from the cold.

“Now what?” Boris asked, throwing his cigarette out the window, and slumping back into his seat. He let his PPSH slide onto the floor near his feat, and rested his feet on the dashboard. Ivan raised his shoulders.

“Dunno. Probably going to the Central Stadion to pick up some troops, and then clearing the Union HQs. We will probably get our own HQ too. And then…”

“Yeah, yeah, I get it. I’ve had enough excitement for one night, I believe” Boris interjected, taking another cigarette from his package and offering one to Ivan, who shook his head.

“Baranov doesn’t like it if we smoke on the job, and he’s coming down any second now. In fact…”

The door to the studio opened, and out came four NKVD goons, who took up positions around the limousine. Five more excited, who headed towards the truck parked behind them, which would accompany them to the Central Stadium. Then followed Baranov himself, and two bodyguards; one in front, one in back. A platoon seemed a bit much to take out a single radio station, especially one unguarded, but Ivan couldn’t argue with the Secretary’s methods. Especially not now, at the moment of their greatest…

A loud bang ripped through the otherwise quiet evening, accompanied by a flash that almost blinded Ivan. Almost immediately the windows of the limousine exploded, sending shards of glass flying outwards. The bang turned into a rattle, and the flashing continued; they were under machinegun fire, though it was impossible to see where it was coming from. At the studio door, Baranov was being pulled back in. One of Baranov’s bodyguards lay sprawling on the ground, blood gushing from a wound in his chest. Another soldier lay still, haw his jaw missing. The rattling continued for almost four seconds, but then fell silent.

“Take cover! Where the hell did that come from?”

“Boris, we have to…” Ivan tried, but when he looked sideways, he saw there was no use. Boris had his throat pierced by glass shrapnel, and his glassy eyes stared into nothing. In the blink of an eye, the passenger door front and back were opened, and Baranov was violently thrown onto the back seat. Lieutenant Antonov pulled Boris’ body from the passenger seat and got in himself, dropping his pistol and picking up the PPSH.

“Go! Fucking go!” Antonov bellowed. Just as Ivan managed to put down the pedal, the machine gun started up again. Two more NKVD men went down, and Ivan felt the rounds impact the car, which had quite insightfully been bullet-proofed. The machine gun fire died down again, but this time, the evening did not return to silence. The staccato of rifle fire filled the quiet, both from the NKVD men they left behind, but also from windows in the street they were in; the residential towers were five stories tall, and from sporadic windows, muzzle flashes could be seen illuminating against the dark background, obscured by their own blackout. As the limo sped out the street, it was followed by the truck, which took a little more time to get up to speed. Looking through the back mirror, Ivan could see it was being enfiladed with rifle fire from both sides of the street, though the cabin was bullet-proofed.

“Where do we go? The Stadium?” Ivan yelled more than he asked, but Antonov was fidgeting with the radio, holding the earpiece to the side of his head.

“Shut the fuck up…” he managed to get out. “This is lieutenant Antonov from Baranov’s detail, we… What?!?”

He was silent for a moment, the gunfire receding into the background as they created more and more distance between them and the studio. No matter how quiet, however, Ivan put the pedal to the metal, careening through the city at frankly ridiculous speeds.

“Korolev’s fucking dead” Antonov yelled. “Someone just walked up to him and shot him, and his aids. Our men are being hammered there”

“We can’t go there, then” Baranov said, more calmly than could be expected under the circumstances.

“There is a safehouse just by…” Antonov tried, but Baranov cut him off with a shrill shriek.

“NO! We are still winning! Anarchists are terrorists at heart, this was to be expected. We just have to restore order, like we said”

At this point, Ivan was just taking the darkest paths he could find, staying out of the way of any major roads were they could be spotted. It took him effort to slow down enough to allow the truck to catch up, which was now right on their heels.

“Did they take Tarasov?” Baranov asked quietly. However, before he got an answer, he repeated the question, shouting.

“DID THEY TAKE TARSOV?”

“I DON’T FUCKING KNOW!” Antonov bellowed back.

“That man might be our only card out of here…” Baranov postulated, his voice trembling.

“We can think of exit strategies later. We need to go somewhere our men definitely control” Antonov said. “Here, take a left, take us to the power station”

Ivan complied, although he would very much have liked an exit strategy.

Varushka’s apartment
Magnitogorsk
The Commonwealth

“Here, take a seat. Water?”

“Thanks…” Alexandr replied. He was holding a rag against his head, which was doing wonders to stop the bleeding, but which did nothing to stop the headache. Almost immediately, Varushka magicked a cool glass of water out of nowhere, placing it in front. From the fridge, she got a few chunks of ice, which she wrapped in a towel and handed to him. As soon as he had taken it, she was gone again, running down a hallway and away from the living room.

“We… we were quite lucky” Alexandr said softly, each word ringing through his head as if it were a church bell.

“Yeah, lucky that dickhead Antonov can’t aim for shit” Varushka shouted from the back of the apartment. Her shouting, too, made his head ring, though it being her voice worked soothing too, in a way.

“Good thing the militias disobeyed Tarasov’s order” Alexandr said, pouring the cold water down his throat and onto his face, washing away some of the blood that had began to harden there. It was still dripping from his skull, but not as much as right after the ricochet.

“Yeah… Well, he called himself a ‘commander’ and their ‘superior’. If there is one way to get the militias riled up, it’s that” Varushka answered. She now came back into the living room; holding a scoped rifle, a shoulder bag and a handful of empty magazines. She dropped the shoulder bag on a table with a metallic ringing; it was filled to the brim with high calibre rounds, which she began methodically inserting onto the magazines. The speed at which she did it fascinated Alexandr, although it was too fast for his ringing head to follow.

“What are you doing?” He managed to get out. Varushka, having filled up one of the magazines, clipped it against the belt of her coat, and began filling another.

“These goons are still out there, and they have Tarasov. And they probably still occupy the power plant; if they have even two machine guns, then it will be impossible to storm without casualties. Unless…”

She clipped the magazine again and filled up a third and last one.

“Unless we can take out Baranov and Antonov first. Stalinist scum is very top-heavy, my brother taught me that. Like shooting a deer in the jugular”

“That’s very sexy” Alexandr muttered, a bit too familiarly.

“Well, yeah, see if I care” she responded. “You can stay here, make yourself at home. There’s water in the fridge and pierogi in a pan somewhere. If you’re still here when I can get back, we can see if I care then” she added, with the same mischievous smile that she had flashed in the studio.

“After you help me mount Baranov’s head on a wall”

Heroes of Kronstadt Power Plant
Council of Magnitogorsk power plant workers
Magnitogorsk
The Commonwealth

“What the hell is going on out there?” Nikitin bellowed at Antonov and Baranov as they and their men filtered into the control room. The workers who had powered down the plant had been moved to an improvised prison cell in the cafeteria.

“You said we had this in the bag, Baranov!” Nikitin continued. He didn’t care much that Baranov was technically his superior; his kingdom did not stretch beyond the confines of that particular plant, and even then, his effective rule was limited to the control room.

“We did everything according to the book” Antonov answered. He had always been Baranov’s pet; the perfect officer to make Baranov feel more powerful than he actually was. Good at throwing a gun around and saying ‘fuck’, but that was where it ended. Antonov was one of those NKVD goons who had climbed up the ranks because most good officers had been hanged or shot. If they had not served together in the Caucasus, he would have objected to him far sooner. He should have seen it coming; Antonov saying yes and amen to every ridiculous proposition Baranov had.

“We cut off the head of the enemy, secured key positions in the city, even…” Antonov tried, but Nikitin just rolled his eyes and turned towards one of the open windows to get some fresh air.

“You didn’t secure shit! Was this your plan? One radio station and a power plant? None of the union headquarters? The other members of the Federative Council?”

“We did not have the men…” Antonov tried, but Nikitin bellowed over him.

“Bullshit, we had plenty of men. Enough to round up and shoot the entire upper echelon, occupy the main union buildings, secure all major radio and television stations. You just chose to secure one radio station, a power plant for dramatic effect, and a sports stadium to serve as execution ground for general Korelev!”

“Any word from there?” Antonov tried again.

“Fucking nothing, to speak your language” Nikitin answered. “They went dark five minutes before you arrived”

A moment of silence followed. Tarasov still had a bag over his head, but he was conscious, and slowly regaining his faculties. Taking him hostage was one of the few good decisions that had been made that day, Nikitin thought.

“If you had told me the details of this plan…” Nikitin began, but this time, Baranov interjected.

“The plan was on a need-to-know basis, and…”

“And I clearly needed to know!” Nikitin spit back. He turned to Antonov. “Not hard being the premier tactician of the operation when you keep actual officers in the dark, isn’t it, Leonid?”

Antonov face turned red; he cocked the PPSH he had procured from dead Boris and aimed it squarely at Vitaly’s chest. Instead of flinching, Nikitin took a step closer, and pressed his chest against the gun’s muzzle.

“You played that trick one too many times now, Leonid” he said. With a swift hand motion, he swiped the gun from Antonov’s hands and struck him in the stomach with the butt.

“I am taking charge here. I’m keeping you two alive for as long as you don’t get in my way, understood?” he spat, without waiting for a reply. “Now, as for…” he continued, but as he did, Radio Magnitogorsk sprang back to life. Nikitin, Antonov and Baranov were all captured by the sudden onset of sound from the battery-fed radio sitting on one of the control panels.

“Comrades! The attempted coup by Stalinist forces has been foiled! The people’s response to the attempted takeover was violent and immediate. The Central Stadium has been cleared of NKVD sympathisers, and the Radio station has been retaken. Now, turn towards the Heroes of Kronstadt power plant! The revolution lives on!”

Silence fell as Baranov switched off the radio, only interspersed by the faint chuckling of Tarasov, muffled by the bag over his head. Nikitin looked around the room, and saw, for the first time that night, the faces of his men filled with fear and doubt. This was not what they had been promised. This is not what Nikitin had been promised. They had been lied to, or not even lied to; they had all been deluded.

“How… How many military age men and women are there in Magnitogorsk?” Nikitin wondered aloud. Baranov shook his head, and turned towards the window, looking into the pitch-black night.

“Twenty thousand… Give or take… Two divisions’ worth” he speculated.

“And how much do we have left?” Nikitin followed up. Baranov answered that just by turning around, and letting his eyes slide across the room. Some twenty-odd armed men.

“No matter. Antonov, take Tarasov” he ordered. Antonov put his PPSH against Tarasov’s back and forced him upright. “We can still exchange him for…”

Fast as lightning, Nikitin took his own pistol and aimed it at Baranov, prompting Antonov to aim his PPSH at Nikitin instead.

“No, generalissimo. I’m going to exchange you for safe passage for me and my men. I am not hitching my ride to you again” Vitaly said.

“Bastard!” Baranov spat. Vitaly’s men, including sergeant Zakharov, aimed their weapons at Antonov and Baranov, but had to pick other targets as Baranov’s security detail levelled their own rifles. Only Baranov’s driver managed to slip away unseen.

“How American” Vitaly chuckled. “Now, comrades, are we going to…”

A flash. A shattered window. A single loud bang roaring from outside. Vitaly and Antonov both checked their bodies to see if they had been hit, but they were both safe. They checked their men, until their eyes finally came to rest on Baranov. A small, coin-sized red hole had formed in his white shirt, at about the height of his collarbone. Blood came gushing out, staining his shirt and suit, and quickly after, the ground as well. Blood began to ooze from his mouth, and in a breathless, soundless cry, he fell towards the factory floor, face-forward into a pool of his own blood.

“Well…” Vitaly managed to get out. Then, the control room erupted.

[South Americanastan]

JANUARY 14th, 1952
COLONY OF SOUTHERN RHODESIA
SALISBURY
LEGISLATIVE ASSEMBLY BUILDING

---

Prime Minister Godfrey Huggins sat in his office in the Legislative Assembly building, looking through the Salisbury Journal and smoking a Rhodesian Cigar. The Legislative Assembly had been called out of their winter recess to respond to the Salisbury Bombing, which had riled up many Rhodesians against ZANU and FRELIMO. As he read through the sports page of the news, one of his aides knocked on the door.

"Come in."

The aid entered, with an envelope in hand.

"Sir, you have a letter from the Prime Minister of Britain."

Huggins lowers his newspaper, and looks at the aide.

"Alright, well give me it, then."

The aide walks out of the room, and Prime Minister Huggins reads the letter. As he is about to pen a response, he checks his watch, and notices it is almost time for the emergency session to commence. He leaves for the chamber, a paper containing his speech in hand.

When he arrives at the podium, the members of the Legislative Assembly are already waiting in their seats, while members of the press stand in the back, notepads in hand. Just to the side of them, a BBC cameraman focuses in on Prime Minister Huggins, broadcasting to the entirety of Rhodesia and beyond. He stands behind the podium, and begins his speech.

"There comes a time in every nation's history where they must make a key choice. The choice of freedom. Do we want to suffer under an oppressive regime? Or do we want to prosper in a free and fair Republic?"

The British loyalists in the Assembly begin to sweat, fearing the worst.

"Now, on the 14th of January, 1952 A.D, it is Rhodesia's turn to make that choice. To be free, or not to be free?"

The press members in the back furiously scribble on their notepads.

"It is a choice we have tried to put off since the 1943, when Britain surrendered to the Axis powers. However, choices can only be delayed for so long. We must make the choice that will define our land, history, and, in the future, our nation."

Panic begins to creep over the loyalist MPs.

"We cannot limit freedom to a small, elitist bloc of our society. What would our forefathers who came to this land for a chance at equality think of us? Would they be proud of our ways, or would they spit unto us?"

An equal amount of panic creeps over the separatist MPs.

"Britain has decided to send an Envoy to our great nation soon to evaluate our situation in our struggle against the communist insurgents. However, these Communist insurgents are not the only ones who hold views of African equality.

The fact of the matter is that many Africans throughout the nation long for an equal chance with their White brethren. Which brings us back to our defining question; to be free, or not to be free?

There is only one correct answer to this question in my opinion. We must be free. We must allow all men and woman to vote in our great nation, we must tear down the barriers dividing races, and create a truly free Rhodesia!"

The usual applause after these kinds of speeches is replaced by silence. The BBC broadcast zooms out to hide the MPs' expressions and plays a clip of applause over the video to make the speech look more well-received. However, the silence in the room speaks volumes.

The MPs and press members leave the room, along with the Prime Minister. The press members leave to write stories on the speech, while 17 or the 30 MPs leave for their homes in Salisbury or other. However, the 13 Rhodesian Front MPs, including Ian Smith, congregate in a meeting room in the Legislative Assembly Building, planning a vote of No Confidence against Huggins.

Huggins, meanwhile, takes the time to pen a response to Prime Minster Wood's letter, before leaving to Independence House.

FROM: PRIME MINISTER GODFREY HUGGINS
TO: THE EARL OF HALIFAX EDWARD WOOD

Thank you for notifying us in advance about the visit of your envoy. The situation is under control for now, and most Zimbabwe African National Union activity is being contained in the northeast and northwest regions. We will prepare accommodations for Sir Braithwaite and whatever party he may arrive with.

Signed,
Godfrey Huggins
Right Honorable Prime Minister of Southern Rhodesia

The Salisbury Journal
Prime Minister Huggins calls for end to voting requirements, British Envoy to arrive in Southern Rhodesia

The Rhodesian Enquirer
British Envoy to arrive in Rhodesia, but where is the aid?

[Union Princes]

The Father's Parting Words

January 14th, 1952

DEAR FRIEND,
I am aware of the silence between the two of us has been long and aggravating. But I must assure you, despite the decade between my last correspondence, that you, Fuhrer Hitler, are considered no less of a friend no in 1952 than in 1940. Despite how far the world has changed, I still hold no foes nor any ill will towards any man of any race, color, or creed.

No doubt that the years since your spectacular victory has left you a very busy man, having to manage your nation and the nations of others. We have heard everything about you. Everything from the good to the bad to the ugly. I am not blind to the policies you are enacting across Europe. From the Lowlands to Poland to the West Plains of Russia, millions are crying out in pain and misery. You may find their sorrow as signs of your success but to not me, not us. I remind you that we were raised to review such acts as inhumane. This is why we cannot wish for future success in your endeavors to stamp out these people.

But as I am an aging man, I wish for a more formal meeting. Time waits for no one and I too would return to the earth which is why on January 30th, I cordially invite you to attend my 84th birthday. So we can finally speak eye to eye and clear up any poisonous clout between us. It is very important that the truth and only the truth will liberate us from our ignorance.

I am, Your sincere friend, M.K. Gandhi

Looking up his letter, the Father of India concluded that it was worthy enough to be mailed to Germania. Despite advancing in age so quickly, Gandhi was letting time wear him down so quickly. Besides, it was a quick trip to the post office and back to his house in his home village. His hometown now, that's how fast his community grew. As he grabbed his walking stick and handbag to store his letter, Gandhi took a deep breath when he exited his home and was greeted with a bright sky and busy street.

Everyone recognizes him yet they let him be. But wherever he walked, people smiled, they talked, and they soon became a small crowd that followed him to the post office. It was enduring that Indians never forget how far they've come along. The taste of freedom is sweet on the minds. To experience it in full was a feeling that no words could describe.

After paying for the stamp and the fee for delivery, Gandhi thanked the mailman at the front desk before turning around to exit the building. From the outside, his crowd of followers swelled to even greater numbers, eager to hear his wisdom once more. The pacifist opened the doors to jubilant crowds and raised his hand for a moment of silence. But the quiet was broken when a young man, a fellow Hindu, stormed up to Gandhi's face and raised a revolver.

"DEATH TO THE FEDERATION! DEATH TO THE FALSE DREAM! WE WILL NEVER LIVE WITH MUSLIMS!"

Four shots rang out followed by the screams of a panicking and tearful crowd.

By the time the local police and medic force arrived on the scene, it was too late. Mohandas Karamchand Gandhi, the Father of India, was assassinated in front of a post office. The next day, the headlines went wild.

The People's Gazette

Mahtama Gandhi Slain! Hindu Ultranationalist Claims Responsibility! Tens of Millions in Mourning!

[Mozaka]

Franco was in more of an internal pain watching his fellow advisors and ministers argue in such a childish way, only a few minutes after hearing the news of Italy's withdrawal from the EEC. Why? He questioned the motives. However, more was on his mind than of the foreign works. With his economy in the ruins and stability at an all-time low, something needed changing. Hearing his ministers debate in a such an anarchists way was not pleasing to the Dictator at all, his frustrated grin striking all within the room.

Grasping a cigar from a small box, in which he immediately light, he watched upon the childish remorse that his minister were doing, and eventually, they stopped to dead silence. Watching the smoke fill the room at such as a slow pace, he stood up from his slumber upon the chair.

We shall join the EEC. With our economy in crumbles and stability at an all-time low, joining this organisation will save the integrity of our empire. Santiago, prepare the papers to send to Germany. The weak-minded sources of the Italians and the Portuguese shall rote in hell. Ministers, prepare to send this to the National Directory and arrange a meeting to prepare what we're doing. Now, any more issues we face this fine morning?

Franco spoke with such class and excellence, as he slumped back upon his chair and grasped another cigar. There was something, of course there was. Turning his chair round very slowly, he was handed a small document. Glaring to the words, it was protests. A grunt came from him. Of course those damn catalans are protesting, they always are. He slumped into his chair to begin reading. It was a bore. Another grunt came from the fascist, of which the ministers, well most of them, had left. Another document was slipped to him, as Fransisco gripped it aggressively and assertively.

It was no protest. But, another predictable account. The demising economy, fulfilled with high production costs and expensive investment lead to many of the state-owned business to go bankrupt. Though none of them were collapsed, they couldn't afford to Pau the wages, even if they were small. Most were fired expect the most productive workers, but the economy was crumbling. Small decisions like increasing taxes for the middle-class would do little to improve the economy. The regional directors would need the extent their loyalty elsewhere, and with Franco and his small bubble's failed efforts so far, joining the EEC was the best thing to do. Wether it had drawbacks, wether the minister saw it as economically poor, Franco was the final man. As one man by the next left, he grasped his fourth and last cigar, and began to smoke it. An evil smile came by. He was pleased. Now, they would join their German brothers in economic harmony. At least that was Franco's idea.

[New New Sriker]

German Garrison Headquarters, Paris, National Republic of France
15th January, 1952

Generalleutnant Tresckow sat in his office drinking on an old glass of wine and reading the paper, as he went for another drink of his wine an exhausted looking Soldat suddenly stormed into the room and went straight to Tresckows desk.

“Generalleutnant Sir, Oberst Stauffenberg has requested me to bring these documents to you sir, I’m deeply sorry for my late arrival. The transport I was assigned to had engine problems with a few of their trucks and I-.”

Tresckow put his hand up and motioned for the Soldat to move closer to his desk, the Soldat quickly walked to the desk and sat down across from the General. Tresckow reached down to one of his drawers and pulled out another wine glass and his wine, he then filled the glass and handed it to the Soldat.

“Here boy take it, you look like you need a drink and some rest, I Don't blame you either. I also would be worn out if I had to go to Paris from Berlin, now tell me did anyone see the contents of this letter?”

Tresckow stared at the Soldat with a serious look on his face, the Soldat started to get worried and then, with a shaking hand, handed the letter to the General.

“Sir I absolutely made sure that not a soul saw the contents, if anyone had sir I would’ve killed myself out of shame. I’m sorry for causing worry sir.”

Tresckow smiled at the Soldat and gently grabbed the letter out of his hand, he then took a drink of his wine.

“Good work Soldat, for your dedication to bringing me this letter I will be sure to talk to Oberst Stauffenberg about a possible promotion. Now you may go rest in the barracks, you will rest for the night and by tomorrow you’ll be sent back to Berlin. Thank you for your service to the Reich.”

“Thank you Sir!” The Soldat said happily as he saluted to the General, he then left the room leaving the General to himself. Tresckow opened the letter and then began reading the paper.

“Dear, Generalleutnant Tresckow

The political situation of our Fatherland seems to be getting closer and closer to the peak, with the Italian’s exting the ECC tensions between us and the Italians have increased but not only is that happening but I also feel a troubling scene is going to play out in the near future.It’s because The Fuhrer has still not named a successor and thanks to this it seems like our military is already picking favorites between all of the possible candidates in this struggle, I pray to God that what I am thinking is wrong, but I feel as if our nation is reaching a point of internal conflict we have never faced before with this I wish you to do one thing my friend, keep safe. Soon enough my neutrality will no longer be accepted and I may have to choose or be forced to pick a faction. Your position of the leader of our Reich’s French garrison gives you a high position in this conflict and with this I believe you can escape the same fate as I, if any more events develop I will be sure to update you.

With best of wishes, Oberst Claus Von Stauffenberg.”

Tresckow let out an audible sigh and took a large swig of his wine, while he drank he thought “What does he mean by watch my back, who should I watch out for is the bigger question. Gestapo, SS, hell I might not be able to trust some of my own men.”

As the General pestered himself with his own questions, he looked out of his window to see the streets of Paris and began to think about what the future held for him, his men and his Fatherland.


Grand Conseil du Fascisme, Vichy, National Republic of France
16th January, 1952

In the massive chamber room of the council many conversations and debates were going on between the representatives of France’s people, from personal to political, the sound of such a large amount of conversation was ended as the most powerful man in France entered the chamber. The Chief of State Marcel Deat, the great reformer of French Fascism and the people’s champion walked to the stage in the front of the chamber and tapped his mic and then started speaking to the council

“Hello my brothers of France, I wish to thank you, the brave men who have helped me lead our great nation to a new era of prosperity, strength, and power. While I wish I could say I have good news to tell you, I must apologize for the only news I hold may cause sorrow among you my friends. Thanks to the concerns of my wife and my family about my health, it is with a heavy heart that I announce my retirement from the position of Chief of State. While this is sad news my friends do not fret for the office of Chief will not be empty for long, as I also plan on hosting the first election of the Chief of State since I took the position. The Elections will be held on February 25th through 28th, during these 3 days the proud people of France will decide my successor, and to the candidates I wish you the best of luck in your campaigns and my the best man in the eyes of France win, good day to you my brothers!”

As the Chief finished his speech, all four of the men who planned to seize the title for themselves all smiled as they knew the Battle for France had just begun.

Le Libérateur

Chief of State, Marcel Deat announces retirement and election dates.

[The National Dominion of Hungary]

People's National Restoration Government of the Soviet Union
Irkutsk - Presidium Plenary Hall

---

The room smelled of coffee, a luxury unobtainable to most in the mess of post-collapse Russia. Large portraits of lost heroes of the Revolution decorated the wall behind the speakers podium as the members of the Presidium took their seats, today was a day of action, a day of change. The first step on what would certainly be a long a arduous road. All member of the Presidium of the Soviet Union had been ordered to attend today, after weeks of borderline paralysis with the fall of the Beria Regime, the gears of the Soviet government started turning again, however slow, they were turning, and the rightful heirs of Moscow gathered to hear the words of the new General Secretary of the Soviet Union.

"All rise for the General Secretary." The Presidium Speaker said into his microphone, prompting all the men seated in the large hall to rise from their seats as General Secretary Lazar Kaganovich climbed the steps to the podium, walking with the limp he has had ever since being purged by Beria, an eternal reminder for Kaganovich of an NKVD beating gone a bit far. He stood at the podium, smoothed out his white suit and took a deep breath before speaking.

"Honored Comrades of the Presidium." Kaganovich said into the speakers. "Today is the first day on a long road back to normalcy for Russia. Today, we end the chaos, the paralysis, the fear and the confusion. Today we take our first step into a new tomorrow." The General Secretary took a breath and continued. "This new step, this new Bolshevik direction of our country must salvage the glorious work of the great men, whose likenesses we see here, in this very hall." Kaganovich said and made a gesture to the the massive portraits hanging on the wall behind him, of Lenin, Stalin, Kirov, but also of men of whom it would have been unthinkable to hang portraits of until recently such as Rykov, Kamenev and Bukharin.

"Our motherland has been ravaged, destroyed and tortured, but invaders, by internal enemies and, we must openly, honorably admit, misguided leaders. I urge you all to look to Great Comrade Stalin. A great Socialist visionary and revolutionary hero, heir of Lenin himself. Still, we must stand and admit the mistakes he made, and we made." Kaganovich took another breath, listening to the murmur in the hall, his mind wandered back, two decades, he had signed lists that sent tens of thousands to their deaths during the Dekulakization campaign. Kaganovich had been part of that, but... one acts in haste, then one has leisure time to repent. Or in Lazar's case, Gulag time after Beria purged him, his brother, Khrushchev, Molotov and many others. But it was not too late, Lazar, the Communist Party, Mother Russia, all would rise again from ashes and pain...

"Indeed, his vision did blind Great Comrade Stalin to many truths. In his fervor to pull our country forward from an underdeveloped agrarian one to an industrial superpower, countless people suffered, starved and died unnecessarily. We must not be afraid to admit this. I would say, Great Comrade Stalin was six parts good, but also four parts bad. While he was right to guard against Right Deviationism, we must be carful not to devolve into Left Deviationism as well and must admit that chief responsibility for the grave Left error of the Famines that led to so much suffering and the Purges that robbed our Party and the Red Army of many capable men is an error comprehensive in magnitude and protracted in duration and does indeed lie with Comrade Joseph Stalin. He, far from making a correct analysis of many problems, confused right and wrong and the People with the Enemy, herein lies his great tragedy. But, we cannot allow that, or the horror of the Beria tyranny kill the noble cause of Communism."

"But, with that said, we must always regard Great Comrade Stalin's accomplishments before his mistakes. And, we must make sure the perversion of his and Lenin's great ideals by malicious Left Revisionists like Lavrentiy Beria is not allowed to happen again, that will kill the Party and it's cause. These men who call themselves Communists and friends of the working masses, but who starve them, murder them and torture them for the sake of their own power and petty egos. Such, so-called men shall never have a place within the structure of our Party ever again! In order to preserve the work of the great Old Bolsheviks, we must set out the firmest of guidelines, for the state, for the party and for the people and the working masses that Communism serves. That is why today is such an important day, today marks the end of the paralysis of our government, the end of Beria's tyranny, the end of our once sclerotic bureaucracy. As outlined by the Politburo Core Leadership Committee, the following changes shall be voted into force today, regarding the amendment to the Constitution of the Soviet Union and the reformation of the government, dissolving the People's Commissariats and replacing them with the new People's Ministries."

Kaganovich looked up, reading the crowd, some were clearly worried, worried about losing positions, worried about what punishment would await them for failure, Beria's regime had turned the Party into a fighting arena. A no rules boxing ring, you want that guys job, just denounce him. "The honest political duty performance of all members of the Communist Party of the Soviet Union shall be critical for the future if we are to rebuild this country and the people's trust in our ideology. Thus, the enforcement of party discipline shall be among the greatest focal points of Neo-Bolshevism, to this end. As directed by me alongside the honorable members of the Politburo Core Leadership Committee, the Politburo of the CPSU has ratified the formation of the the Party Commissariat for Internal Supervision. Those who commit crimes against the Soviet Union and it's people, those who profiteer using their positions will be adequately dealt with, I assure you all." Kaganovich said ominously. "Let the trial of Beria and his bloodthirsty henchmen be the example, anyone who perverts the ideology of Marxism-Leninism or Joseph Stalin Thought to gain power and privilege for himself will face the direst of circumstances."

"We need to be united in building a future for Russia, that is the way we secure the future for the Party. Make no mistake, another error in the scale of Beria's tyranny or the tragically misguided idealism of Great Comrade Stalin will doom this party, and each and every one of us with it. We cannot allow this kind of domestic havoc to grip the Soviet Union ever again." Kaganovich said, waiting for the weight of the words sink into the crowd. "That is why we must build the Neo-Bolshevik future, standing on the firm pillars of Marxism-Leninism and Joseph Stalin Thought. But, in doing so, we must always have our eyes open, we must always see the truth in the fact and guide our policy decisions by their effect and pragmatism. With the state that Mother Russia is in today, we cannot afford to be anything but pragmatic, comrades."

"With the state that Mother Russia is in..." Kaganovich looked down and shook his head. "It's horrible, is there anybody in the Soviet Union who doesn't know anyone lost to the Nazi evil? To the chaos of the collapse? To bandits and the armed bands of warlords? I think there is not a single family that is unscathed. That is why we must guide this nation back to normalcy from chaos, we shall be a party of reconstruction, a party of development, a party of safety and security. The time of continuous class struggle is a thing of the past. We must secure our borders, we must develop our land into a mighty base from where we, the rightful government of the Soviet Union rebuild, and then reclaim the Motherland. But in order to do that there is much preparation that must be seen through to the end. We must end the threat of banditry, we must rebuild the land still under the control of the legitimate government. The cities and towns along the Trans-Siberian railway have swollen to two, three times their original size with people fleeing Nazism and chaos. These people must be fed, clothed, housed and then they will contribute to the resurrection and reunification of the Motherland."

"Comrade Speaker." Kaganovich said, turning to the Speaker of the Presidium. "Please present the day's agenda for the Presidium, there are important things we need to have done and the sooner the better."

"Thank you for your great words, General Secretary." The speaker of the Presidium said as Kaganovich walked down from the podium and sat down among the Presidium delegates. It was time for the rubber-stamp body that was the Presidium to do it's job.

---

1952 Amendment to the Constitution of the Soviet Union.
Passed by the Presidium of the Soviet Union.

Description: Enshrined into the first article of the Constitution of the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics shall be the Three Pillars upon which the state shall commit itself as it strives for political stability and economic development while enshrining the position of the CPSU.

1: The principle of upholding the People's Dictatorship of the Proletariat with the Communist Party as it's steward and vanguard.
2: The principle of upholding the leadership of the Communist Party of the Soviet Union - CPSU
3: The principle of upholding Marxism–Leninism, Joseph Stalin Thought and Neo-Bolshevism.

Further revisions.
1: Change the official name of the country from the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics to the Soviet Union, symbolizing a new era of unity and togetherness.
2: The principal right to secede as outlined by the 1936 Constitution of the USSR shall be suspended as the Soviet Union shall henceforth be a Unitary State, not a Federal State.
3: Remove any and all Class-Struggle rhetoric.

---

Act of Establishing of the NKVD Border Protection Corps.
Passed by the Presidium of the Soviet Union.

Description: The cross-border incursions by bandits from northern Siberia must be ended once and for all! Armed bands of saboteurs were crossing the northern line of control on an almost daily basis and the weak NKVD Police forces in the area have proven themselves unable cope with the problem. In the reports in the raids it is often stated that the police waits for the army, while the army waits for the police. To prevent any such problems in the future, it has been decided by the Politburo Core Leadership Committee that a special militarized border police force shall need to be created for the defense of the border. This force is to be known as the Border Protection Corps and it shall be a component force of the NKVD, serving under the Ministry of State Security. The NKVD Border Protection Corps shall be trained to combine the tactics of the army, police forces and border guards. Their mission is to guard the borders actively, not only by patrolling and intercepting illegal crossings but also to conduct through reconnaissance, ambushing bandit gangs, undertaking provocation operations against bandit strongholds and intelligence gathering. In order to maintain the high morale and skills, the soldiers allowed into the BPC shall be carefully examined. All shall have had to have gathered experience in the regular units of the Red Army before being allowed into the NKVD-BPC.

The initial forces of the NKVD-BPC shall consist of - 32 battalions of infantry / 20 squadrons of cavalry / 20 motorcycle squadrons, making up a total of 30 400 men. The NKVD-BPC shall be quartered in fortified barracks facilities and fortified police stations while maintaining strongholds and outposts manned by companies detached from the central batallions. Funding for their construction shall be provided during the establishment of the force alongside the funding for it equipment and armament. These units shall be centered on the main physical obstacles that anchor the line of control in the north and protect the heartland of the land controlled by the rightful Soviet government. These obstacles are namely the rivers Ket, Bolshoi Pit, Angara and Lena.

The main fortified barracks shall be constructed in the following riverside towns.
* Kolpashevo / Beliy Yar / Stepanovka / Katayga / Aydara / Antsiferovo / Pit-Gorodok / Lesosibirsk / Ordzhonikidze / Boguchany / Kodinsk / Ust-Ilminsk / Zheleznogorsk-Ilimsky / Ust-Kut / Zayarnovo / Kirensk / Vitim

---

Proposal - Instituting the Party Commissariat for Internal Supervision.
Proposed by the Politburo Core Leadership Committee:- General Secretary Lazar Kaganovich / Premier Vyascheslav Molotov / People's Commissar of Industry Mikhail Kaganovich / Commander of the NKVD Nikita Khrushchev
Passed by the Politburo of the Communist Party of the Soviet Union.

Description: The practical working style of the ruling party is a matter of life and death for the CPSU, and thus resolutely punishing wrongdoing and effectively preventing corruption is a major political task that our Party must excel at! The honest political working performance of CPSU members in official public positions is an important guarantee for adhering to Marxism-Leninism, Joseph Stalin Thought and thoroughly implementing Neo-Bolshevism fully adhering to the CPSU's principles and policies. It is imperative that members of the Communist Party of the Soviet Union embrace the lofty ideal of Communism and hold firm conviction in Neo-Bolshevism, always maintaining their integrity in matters of official conduct and carry forward the CPSU's fine style of work while maintaining close ties with the masses Communism serves.

To promote the honest political duty performance of CPSU members we must tackle the problem of maleficence, corruption and graft in a comprehensive way, adopting both punitive and preventive measures and focusing on prevention. A key factor in this will be strengthening internal supervision by instituting the Party Commissariat for Internal Supervision. This internal body will be tasked with enforcing internal rules and regulations as set by the CPSU Party Constitution and combating corruption and malfeasance in the Party.

The Commissariat for Internal Supervision's Office of Inspection and Supervision will be divided into ten Supervision Divisions, four shall investigate cases at the vice-ministerial level and above while six investigate officials at the level of Oblast governors, vice-governors, chairs and vice-chairs of local OBKOM's, city and town mayors and deputies and rural commune chairmen.

The Commissariat for Internal Supervision's Office of Discipline shall educate Party members on their duties and rights, preserve party discipline, uphold party decisions, see that party members exercise their duties in accordance with the CPSU Party Constitution.

The Commissariat for Internal Supervision is an internal division within the CPSU and is thusly not a law enforcement agency but it will be working closely with relevant law enforcement agencies to start formal investigations, make arrests or mete out punishments where that is required. When a Supervision Team gathers evidence of wrongdoing or corruption, the information is passed on to the Commissariat's Central Leading Group which will then call upon Law Enforcement personnel to be dispatched and aid in the investigation and, if needed, make formal arrests if the wrongdoing is so great that an official reprimand, loss of position or expulsion from the Party are insufficient punishment.

---

[The Soviet Union of Mother Russia]

Provisional Commissariat for the Liberation of the Peoples of Russia
Southwestern District - Ust-Sysolsk
Syktyvkarskiy zoopark

It was a quiet day in the city of Syktyvkar, the regional capital of Komi. It had been now a entire month that had gone by uninterrupted by the distant echoes of gunshots, and artilleries firing off in the southern frontlines of Vizinga. Many lives had paid the price to make it so, lives that was listed meticulously in the obituary of the Правительственный Вѣстникъ newspaper. Every week, entire pages filled to the brim with the details of men that had fallen in action to various encounters with Bolshevik revolutionaries, bandit incursions, and skirmishes that led to barrages of rockets that fell like spears all across the front. No matter how many years that went by, never was it more easier to gulp down at the morning table, it was always someone who knew someone amongst the casualties, and always ever never easy to stand by another funeral procession through the streets of the city. But life had to carry on, every citizen knew that the men at the border depended on this illusion of serenity at home, somewhere they could always look forward to returning as they spent months deployed away in the trenches, and checkpoints dotting along the south towards Kirov oblast. But every now, and then, the border could be pushed a few more yards, to another village, and in this recent conquest, Kuratovo. Now, all they could do was simply skipping over the last pages of the issued papers, and it was as if there never was a war to begin it, and many resorted to live in this blissful ignorance of the terrors happening just a hundred kilometers down south. And so the city of Syktyvkar became a oyster in the southern region of the reaches of the PCLR, recently having participated with their own parade week as held in the capital of the PCLR. The white, blue and red flag still swaying in the wind of the streets from every lamppost as far as the eye could see. It was unimaginable to even consider that back in 1948 this had been the battleground against the Soviet warlord Nikolai Averin, with shells splattering the roads like raindrops, and the downtown boulevard with every window shattered. It took many years before the city looked as it did today, and many German industrialists having their hand involved in the reconstruction efforts. Of course, it too came with a price with many factories now under the ownership of IBM, Deutsche Bank and BMW, however it would be a price that many felt confrontable paying to a return to normality that many could not enjoy in the Russia of today.

The event of today which had put another pin in accumulating list of achievements, had been the reopening of the Syktyvkarskiy zoopark, a venue situated just to the Sysola river. It was a medium-sized park 20 acres of land housing a assortment of both domestic, and exotic animals from abroad. To accompany the reopening was the acquirement of a couple of manchurian tigers imported from the far reaches of Siberia which one only could ponder how they were transported all the way to the western reaches. Nevertheless it was a eye-catching sight for many of the various guests of the todays opening with guests even from Arkhangelsk travelling down to participate in the viewing. One of these guests was a councilman from The Ministry of Foreign Affairs, Nikolai Vyshinsky, taking the chance to visit the zoo whilst undergoing a business arrangement with a representative from the Mauser corporation from Germany. Having spent some time doing preparation on investigating the visiting business rep, he had found the German had been on a couple of hunting trips organized by Göring in his vast Carinhall, figuring the display of the various predators could put a few bonus points in his favor as they met for a chat. As they found a bench opposite of the cage holding the pair of ferocious tigers, they sat down as they felt their eyes gaze upon the striped carnivores.

"Absolutely stunning, I never knew that you had such facilities to house these magnificent creatures in these parts, one could almost mistake this for being in the Zoologischer Garten back in the Reich, I must give my applause on behalf of this achievement you have made here" The German spoke, watching the tigers sauntering within their enclosure, treading casually around as onlookers watched with amazement from around the sealed viewing platform surrounding the cage.

"I shall make sure to convey your words to the local staff employed, but I too share your enthusiasm. But I must admit myself that I cannot recall the last time I have ever been to a zoo such as this, even before the defeat of the Stalin government in 40's, however unlike the barbaric Bolshevik hordes that wanders beyond the gates of civilization, this administration knows better then to subject it's people to the cultural molasses that was once held as a standard before. Alas, this brings my attention to the pressing matters at hand.." Nikolai gestured to a dossier he withdrew from his attache case, a yellow manila envelope containing paperwork by the looks of it.

"As you may know, the latest news from the Berlin Economic Forum stipulated the desire of the Reich looking to expand their commerce with their European counterparts, pushing for more integration when it comes to both industrial and military armaments manufacturing. While this was on paper intended to be aimed at, how to put it, more recognized territories, we feel that it would be of mutual benefit to expand it with a clause to include the participation of the Provisional Commissariat of Russia. While it may be true that the Reichskommissariat to the west in Moscow is already a matter of fact, eventually there will be to status quo, including the territorial makeup of the Eurasian subcontinent, that being once the last Bolshevik has been vanquished. It would in this instance be of benefit to already lay the foundation to enable this integration within the EEC if thus we may be able to participate in the economic alliance, and thereby allowing for more formal trade to be enabled"

The German looked over the offered documentation, take the sheets out of the yellow envelope to look it over. He paused, seemingly contemplating before he made his reply " As much as I would entertain this notion, knowing that regulations regarding "labor force" is less strict in these parts, it would require the Reich even would recognize this state as the successor government to the previous one, a decision not yet made as far as I know. Not to say it is not possible, however it would be a, how to put it, different zeitgeist from the currently held position when it comes to the Slavic people at large. I am sure I do not need to remind you of the current Nuremberg stipulations when it comes to the racial make-up, but.."

Nikolai interjected, pointing his finger to one of the sections of the papers held in the hands of the German " But that is known, and the burdensome work that will be undertaken to change the public notion of what once was Russia is something that the government in Arkhangelsk is of full comprehension with, we know the principles of quid pro quo. What is offered in exchange to initiate this change of policy is the majority ownership of the Vorkuta natural gas network, with logistics undertaken on the Reich's behalf to construct a pipeline to Rostock, and the land of Novaya Zemlya being offered to house a airbase for the benefit of the Luftwaffe. From that distance they could fly from Vladivostock without filling a tank, perhaps beneficial in the future endeavors once we regain control of the mines east of the Urals. All you really need to do is make sure the right people in Moscow sees this, and I can have a penal battalion of 1000 men strong transported before the end of the night to your facilities in Jaroslavl to contribute to your labor force."

He smirked, turning his eyes over to Nikolai as he gestured taking the papers underneath his arm with a nod "Well with such terms it would be a fools bargain to deny these conditions, however I cannot guarantee my connections in the administrative office by Moscow will be agree to every clause. It may take some more, grease, to put the engines into action, but I doubt they will reject such a proposition with those traitors Italians gaining the scorn of the Reich these days. But enough about that, I will send you a telegram once I have word from my associates of the decision made. Until then, keep my seat reserved, I have to come back sometime with my colleagues once I told them about his place, absolutely wunderbar with the tigers" he said with glee, standing as he made his farewells.

[The V O I D]

The Seoul Capitol Building, Seoul
The Democratic People's Republic of Korea
January 15th, 1952

Kim Il-Sung walked from his office, heading towards the main legislative conference area. The Supreme Leader's Office was the former office of the Governor-General assigned by Imperial Japan, as the Seoul Capitol was once the General-Government Building when Korea was under Japanese sovereignty. Despite its representation of Japanese imperialism, Kim personally felt that the WPK had done a good job of renovating and redesigning the interior and exterior of the building to reflect the free and independent nature of modern Korea - even if the nation was young yet. There was another reason he kept the Seoul Capitol as it was, however: it was likely one of, if not still the, largest government buildings in East Asia.


It could serve as a way to house the executive, the legislature, and judiciary all in one location; and Seoul was rather secure, especially as the KPA had mobilized to continue building defensive measures in case of Chinese aggression or renewed Japanese imperialism, if the Americans proved they could not keep them on a proper leash. Entering the hall, everyone stood and saluted the Supreme Leader as he walked to the head of the room.


“Good evening, my fellow workers and revolutionaries of this great new and free nation,” the Supreme Leader spoke, his voice carrying along with the assistance of a microphone, “today is a great day. The Democratic People's Republic of Korea celebrates yet another year of independence and freedom from the yolk of Capitalists and the likes of the Kuomintang dogs in China. Yet, it is with a heavy heart I must inform you: the threat of the Kuomintang should not be ignored; for our allies, our friends and brothers and sisters in arms, of the Taiwanese Autonomous Protectorate that we have taken under our shield, have informed me that the Republic of China will not stand for their independence for very long. And, indeed, the Republic of China's counterrevolutionary tendencies cannot be overstated.”


The Supreme Leader paused as a low, disapproving rumble flooded throughout the room. Kim held the grim look on his face for but a moment.


“But do not give up hope; for as long as I am your Leader, I will defend this nation and this Revolution with every single breath in my chest! To do this, I propose a plan to accelerate the reconstruction and redevelopment of our borders and the increase of defenses for Taiwan - through the strengthening of ties to the West, particularly the United States. I know that this decision may surprise many of you, for is not the West the bastion of capitalism, of everything the Revolution stands against? And is the United States not their shining beacon, their true leader? This may be true, but the threat of the Kuomintang aligning themselves with that great fascistic monstrous beast in Europe is an existential one, and I sincerely doubt the Kuomintang look kindly upon any Korean man or woman, for have we not taken our Chinese brothers and sisters in after the Kuomintang ruthlessly drove them from their homeland for the crime of fighting for our Revolution? If they were to align themselves with that great beast, I doubt that our northern border will for long stay peaceful. So, if we must choose between standing alone and standing alongside capitalists and counterrevolutionaries, I say we stand with capitalists - but only insofar as they do not act against the interests of the Revolution and the People. You may now vote on this decision, and I ask you to strongly consider your vote as you do so.”


The Supreme Leader stopped speaking, and then sat in his chair. But he already knew the WPK would likely vote unanimously on this issue; for he was Kim Il-Sung, the glorious Leader of Korea who had helped the Revolution succeed and flourish. He only hoped he was making the right decision.

[Exalted Inquellian State]

"Oh come on!" the Regent said, likely far to loudly. He hoped the Italians breaking off would make the Germans focus less on him and his investigation on Imrédy. Sadly, Mr. Triangle brows had better memory than Horthy thought. He pinched his nose, then looked forward. There needed to be a way out of this, to somehow dig out Imrédy. His mind was old, but Horthy searched it. Any scant piece of possible information. Calling for gassing of Jews, wanting to split from Germany, calling a guy pretty, doing something hypocriti-

It hit him. Imredy liked the British for a while, and was 1/8th jewish. Those two combined would end his political career fully. Horthy called for his secretary.

"Yes sir?" The tall, dark-haired man asked as he came in. "You're German, right, Francis?" "Well, yes, but I speak French, was born in Switzerland, and also know S-" Francis replied. "Ah, good. I need you to "accidentally" find a letter dated to February 13th, 1939, or so, about Bela Imredy." "...Why, regent?" "A smear campaign. After that, leak it to the press." Then, another figure entered the room. "And if the Germans fully figure out your stunt?". Horthy realized it was his Prime Minister, the similarly named Miklós Kállay. "If they do anything against us, it will make them seem like hypocrites. Regarding the whole 'support the British' thing, just remind everyone of that, Imrédy wasn't the quitest on it, but emphasize his flip. Of course, reming them slowly-the election is still far away."

With that, the game was set. later that day, Francis dusted Horthy's cabinet, found the old letter, and leaked it to the press by mail. Follwoing his leave home, Horthy wrote Speer a letter on how the investigation was completely fair and that Imrédy likely wasn't connected to any corrupt activities. The next morning, Horthy woke up, with what felt like the first smile on his face in weeks, then read the newspaper.

Bela Imrédy revealed to be Jewish?!

The reason for Béla Imrédy's resignation in 1939 has apparently been revealed-he was Jewish all along. The source is an anonymous secretary of Horthy's, who has found the evidence on the Regents desk, then sent it via mail addressed as "Horthy's secretary". Béla Imrédy has called this a horrid smear campaign, and said he wasn't 20% Jewish, like what his law banned. Another announcement that many Hungarians learned was his hard flip towards the Reich. While this wasn't a secret, many Unity Party members emphasized it when interviewed. This, and the corruption investigations, hurt his career, and most of his former wing denounced the former Prime Minister. Many successors are lining up, though they may not be as charismatic.

Horthy heard a knock on the door as he finished. With that, he stepped outside after quickly dressing up. A reporter asked him why he didn't reveal this, with Horthy stating that he believed Imrédy was as capable of a Hungarian as any other, and that he didn't believe that it presented a threat. The other question was which secretary cleared his office, to which Horthy replied he let them pick who did it themselves. Damnit, the world would be better off if this job didn't involve so much lying, Horthy thought, especially to yourself.

[Mifan]

Tokyo, Japan
Prime Minister's Office

The world really does wait for no man. The year has only begun and so many things seem to be happening. Yoshida put down the newspaper that had been delivered to him that morning. From Italy wishing to leave EEC to Ghandi being killed, it seemed that even if a world war had ended, there were still issues that plagued the world. However, those were other nations problems; their leaders could deal with them. He was the Prime Minister of Japan; a diplomat before and during the war. He still hated that the military dragged the nation into a war with the United States, despite all of his efforts to convince them otherwise. A small smile formed on his face. He was more than happy that Japan had no true military; he was more than happy to let the United States take on the burden of protecting the island, a belief that not many share with him. Many politicians agree with him on wanting to rebuild, wanting to focus on economic affairs, but many still saw the US occupation as a stain on Japan.

He sighed and stood up. Our nation has too many issues that plagues it. Tojo and his friends are lucky that they don't have to deal with the aftermath. He walked over to one of his nearby cabinets and opened it, grabbing one of the sake bottles. "A little too early for drinking," he muttered to nobody but himself. That didn't stop him from pouring his drink and taking it back to his desk. He sat down and sipped, thinking more about what would need to be done. The Diet will be interesting. How many members are secretly loyal to the Emperor more than Japan itself? He took another sip. The cult around the Emperor was a double edged sword. His influence, his words, have garnered much support for the various reforms implemented within Japan, but what if he decided to go against the government? If he voiced his opposition to a law, would his supporters fight tooth and nail to make sure such a law never passes? Just the thought of it gave him an headache, as he began to rub his temples. I should ask Hori to meet with me soon.

Yoshida turned his head to look out the window; a light snow was coming down. It really is the start of a brand new year. He chuckled to himself. I hope it doesn't snow too much, I know the children would love it, but too much snow is still annoying.

Tokyo, Japan
National Safety Force HQ

"Senior Superintendent Hayashi," Hayashi looked up from the papers on his desk, just to come face to face with his Assistant Senior Superintendent. The man was saluting him, which he promptly returned with no delay, before looking back down at his papers. "Deployments?" Hayashi nodded his head.

"25,000 men in four defined regions. Should be more than enough to handle any situation." He paused for a brief moment. "I would love to have more men, but I doubt the Americans would take too kindly to that." Shots rang outside as different NSF units practiced firing their rifles.

"Would it be that much of an issue? Even if we had half a million men, they'd still only be armed with small arms." Hayashi stared blankly at the man, wanting him to catch on to the obvious stupidity of his statement. He sighed once he realized he wasn't going to catch on.

"Even if we don't have tanks, that's still half a million men with weapons. We're not allowed to have an army; the fact that the Americans even allowed for us to form a paramilitary force, is nothing short of a miracle. Granted," he shrugged, "we aren't really under much threat. No nation would dare touch us. As much as I hate to admit it, being occupied does have a benefit."

"Until the US gets into a war. You think those traitors in Europe would care if we aren't officially in the war? They'd still bomb us if they have the chance, just due to the fact that there are American soldiers here." Hayashi couldn't argue with that. Japan was protected by the US, but if a war did break out, there's no way any sane military would leave the island nation alone.

"I'll concede to that argument, but sadly that isn't up to us. Until the Prime Minister and the Diet are able to get the US to leave, we have to abide by them. I really don't feel like getting a migraine by going through all the bureaucracy and red tape in order to get permission to expand our numbers. I'd rather just keep things as they are. If the need arises, I'll send a request." The two men continued their discussion, going over where specific units should be, equipment, and many other topics suited for their organization. Their discussion lasted for a few hours before both men concluded that enough discussion was had for one day.

Tokyo, Japan
Imperial Residence

Hirohito walked through the massive garden of his residence, guards surrounding the area, making sure nothing comes close to their beloved Emperor. Usually such walks would bring peace of mind to him, but this one wouldn't. Like the many years before, he'd have to go to the Diet and call it together, signaling the start of a new year for the government. It wasn't something he liked doing, but it was now his job to do so.

In his eyes, his situation hadn't changed much. Before the war, the military had already usurped most power away from him, and now, it was the Americans who officially usurped his political power after rewriting his beloved nation's constitution. Nothing had changed, and he was fine with that, for he had become used to having little political power, officially. However, what he wouldn't accept, what he would never forgive, was the Americans trying to force him into renouncing his godhood, trying to get him to say publicly that he was a regular man, not a decedent of the gods. His pride and honor wouldn't allow for such a thing to occur, but it didn't matter much.

The new constitution separated the church and the state. People were now allowed to believe what they wanted, but the cult around him still existed. He knew that his words carried weight, that people still worshipped him and his family. Even if future generations might worship him less and less, there will always be fanatics, those who'd do anything to carry out his will. He knew his cult would never die, and it was that cult that still gave him power.

Hirohito looked up as snow began to fall and wrapped his coat around him tightly. The politicians had to be worried about him; they knew he could cause them headaches if he so pleased. He's supposed to be apolitical, not taking sides, not pushing for his own agenda, but that was never really the case. His influence helped see the transition of the nation go smoothly, it helped various reforms become enacted. He knew his words and influence must be wielded carefully, for despite his importance, he was only one man, opinion of him and his family could change if he made any miscalculations. He may not be running the nation like his great ancestor, Meiji, but he could still have a say in things.

He smiled and motioned for the guards to escort him back to the palace as the snow continued to fall.

[Zedeshia]

Socialist Federation of Iran
Free Republic of Fars - Off the Coast of Bandar Abbas

---

The sky above the waters of the Persian Gulf was shrouded in a thick veil of grey, a layer of clouds dimming the light of the scorching sun above as only its brightest rays pierced through and fell upon the soft waves. However, this did not make the temperature onboard the massive contraption of iron and steel that was the Sh'elh Azada any more bearable. The air around the grand battleship, one of the largest among the vessels of the Revolutionary Iranian Navy, was thick with heat and humidity from the deepest bowels where supplies and ammunition were contained to the quarters that carried Iranian communication equipment, hot not just from the climate but also from the bodies of countless men and women moving about, keeping the ship on it's expected course. With the hum of machinery, the echoing footsteps of sailors and marines on metal, and the shouting of orders to and from to the untrained eye the situation might have seemed like near chaos had it not been for three men who stood calmly near the front of the top deck, gazing out at the sea. The first of these men was placed the nearest to the helm of the ship and stared out at the passing coastline, an exhausted aura much like the dull clouds above seeming to cling to his simple suit of Western make and his arms neatly folded behind his back. To his right stood a shorter, stouter man of similar dress while to his left was a man wearing the uniform of the Revolutionary Navy, various military medals and decorations displayed on his chest. The men caught the glances of those on the top deck of the ship from behind, some of curiosity, some of awe, and others of hatred and envy. It was only natural, whether the workers of the Sh'elh Azada knew of the fact or not the three were Iran's first among equals.

Noureddin Alamouti, member of the Grand Council of Iranian Commissars, watched on in concern as he saw the state of the Chairman of the Council in front of him. Comrade Chairman Iraj Eskandari was a man that Noureddin had known before the rise of the Socialist Federation as a fellow member of the crucial group of fifty-five of Tudeh, and during all of his time knowing him Noureddin was certain that Eskandari was not a man who faltered easily. However it was clear to him that the head of the Iranian nation was unmistakably tired, appearing much older than ever, but when or where this began in the latest year the man would never truly know. Even a simple inspection of the state of the Navy and it's workers was taxing to the man. But if this was truly a problem to Eskandari he did not easily reveal the fact to others, as he spoke with the high admiral of the Revolutionary Navy, Admiral Bayandor, with apparent satisfaction, not once showing an ounce of his exhaustion directly to the naval officials selected by both by the government of the Grand Council and that of Fars.

"What I have seen of the military vessels of our Federation has greatly impressed me, Comrade Admiral. The efforts of the Iranian workers have truly birthed the greatest of results."

Upon hearing this Bayandor curtly nodded in agreement. Like many men of the Revolutionary Armed Forces of Iran the Admiral was a proud man, standing tall and confident as he spoke with the Iranian Commissars, his uniform a peculiar mixture of adapted Soviet, Western, and former Imperial fashions. He was not one to waste the vital time of the men of the Council, much to the relief of Noureddin.

"I am honored to be able to receive such praise, Comrade Chairman, but this is not yet the end of our inspection. There is one last thing I wish to share with you and Comrade Alamouti, if you will allow it."

Chairman Eskandari pondered this for a time before finally responding in a slightly more dry tone.

"...Of course."

The admiral simply nodded his head once more and shouted a few commands to those behind him before growing quiet.

The Sh'elh Azada continued its path along the coastline towards Bandar Abbas, the sounds of the ocean and the goings of the ship's occupants filling a sudden silence that overtook the three men, lasting for what felt to Noureddin an eternity. Just as the quiet began to become stifling, the landscape of the city entered into vision just before the horizon, causing the commissar to breathe in relief and Eskandari to once more go into attention. The harbor of the city was one of the greatest in Southern Iran, bar those found west in the republics of Khuzestan and Basra, and among it's inner waters were the vast majority of the Revolutionary Navy; the city had become a major naval base during the liberation of Iraq from the exploitative clutches of the British and the Iraqi monarchy Noureddin recalled. But what caught the man's attention was not the many warships of various models and eras nor the clutters of fishing boats from which distant notes of The Coming Star and The Internationale could be heard, but rather something else entirely. Along the shore of Bandar Abbas lay four great masses of beams and sheets of iron, surrounded by equipment and workers of all sorts, the flags of the Socialist Federation, the Free Republic of Fars, and the Revolutionary Navy flew unwaveringly nearby. Though most of the materials lied carefully stored underneath great tarps and small warehouses, protected from salt water and sand, both Noureddin and Eskandari could maker out the skeletons of ships, the largest of which rivaled the size of the Sh'elh Azada, if not proving to be even larger in size.

Turning to the Admiral questionably, the Chairman glanced at Bayandor who, breaking the silence quickly responded.

"Those are the latest warships currently being constructed for military use, comrades. Originally, they were being constructed by the government of Fars following new models designed by an engineering union located in the Republic. However as the construction of naval vessels is typically reserved to the Revolutionary Navy I took liberties to reorganize the efforts away from the Red Guard of Fars. These models are some of the most promising the Iranian people have seen in many years."

Bayandor paused for a moment before continuing, directing his hand towards the bay.

"Two of these vessels are planned to be heavy battleships, the Starh 'Ebas and Khwrshad Anqlab while one other will be designated as a light destroyer, the Athadartbat."

"And the largest of the four?" Eskandari implored.

"...its name has not yet been decided, but it is expected to be one of the greatest destroyers our Iran has ever seen, Comrade Chairman."

Upon hearing those words Eskandari once more turned his attention to the distant shapes of the Iranian people labouring in the heat, slowly placing together the great ships piece by piece. Noureddin watched as for the briefest of moments energy entered Eskandari's eyes. The Chairman straightened upwards, standing with renewed vigor as if he were suddenly filled with life. But this disappeared as quickly as it came, leaving only fatigue and sheer determination. Chairman Eskandari turned his back from Bandar Abbas and slowly left the front deck, eventually being accompanied by a pair of personal guards who silently joined him.

"We are expecting much of the Revolutionary Iranian Navy, Comrade Admiral Bayandor. Negotiate with the people's commissariats and naval unions and begin production of similar designs as soon as humanly possible, for the sake of the Revolution."

---

Eskandari and Noureddin entered the clustered train cabin as with a thunderous roar the vehicle lurched forward, soon picking up speed. With a silent wave the two guards, clutching their rifles close to their sides, went and stood at either side of the compartment's inner doorway. It was only when the thick wooden door fully shut closed with a heavy thud that Eskandari collapsed onto one of the seats, his face resting in his palms.

"Comrade Chairman- '' Noureddin cried in surprise only to be silenced by the outstretched hand of Eskandari, motioning him to calm himself. The Chairman of the Council sighed deeply before speaking in a much more tired tone than when he had been surveying the Revolutionary Navy only hours earlier.

"Alamouti, you have acted as my right hand in the Grand Council for four years and have personally known me for more than three times that amount. There is no need for any more formalities between the two of us here." Eskandari remarked, glancing upwards.

Noureddin hesitated for a moment, struggling with himself over the thought before at last giving in to Eskandari's demand. Caught off guard by the unexpected shift in behavior he cleared his throat and turned his attention elsewhere.

"Very well then."

The Commissar swiftly searched through the compartment before returning with a thick set of papers and two hot mugs filled with tea imported from the Indian Federation. Unlike the rough exterior worn by harsh weather and cold among the mountains that the train slowly making its way to the capital regularly suffered, the interior was quite comfortable, lined with warm leather and supplied with all types of luxuries that often were a rare sight due to short supply. Handing the papers and tea to his friend Noureddin sat across from Eskandari. At last he asked his comrade the question that had been lingering on his mind.

"..are you faring well?"

Eskandari raised his head from the papers which he had been sorting through before bursting out into laughter. It was a dry laugh, devoid of any humour and when the Chairman recollected himself he simply smiled sadly.

"I am alive, comrade, though not much else. Who would have ever guessed that keeping our Socialist Federation together would not be the most difficult when the doomed Shah's forces marched out from Tehran or when the British fought to reclaim the throne of an incompetent capitalist despot and his regent but rather when war and strife had at last ceased?" the man questioned more to himself than to his ally. Noureddin gasped and rose from his seat; he would have never expected such words from the Chairman of the Grand Council.

"Surely you are not being serious?!" He exclaimed only to be met with a more exhausted laughter.

"I am not one to lie about the wellbeing of our great Revolution, my friend. Though I am aware that you were likely ignorant to the fact while you fought tooth and nail in the Grand Council of Commissars on behalf of myself and our party, managing the desperate connections of our Republics have proven troublesome to say the very least. After so many years I feel incredibly... tired." Eskandari quietly explained to the baffled Noureddin, who upon hearing such words gradually grew still and contemplative. Not once had he ever heard such a thing from the Chairman of the Grand Council who he had believed to know so well. What else was he not fully aware of?

"...I see then," Noureddin watched the passing landscape as the train hurtled northwards, once more lowering himself across from his friend. "Perhaps it is finally time for you to retire, comrade. Comrade Soleiman did the very same before, and he appears quite happy at his retreat."

Hearing that Eskandari's sorrowful smile only grew more pronounced.

"When my uncle entrusted the responsibilities of Chairman unto the myself who had been elected to the position he did so with the confidence that the workers of Iran would be able to prosper. I cannot say I hold such confidence for the future now, not with the fascists still present on our border and the death of those who spearheaded a better world such as Gandhi. We cannot abandon the liberation of the working class both here and across the entire world so easily, comrade, especially not in this era of change. But..." Eskandari once more sighed, "...there is some truth in your words."

Eskandari carefully chose a handful of papers from the pile of documents that had been given to him, turning them so his fellow Commissar could read them clearly. Unlike the official paperwork of the Socialist Federation of Iran it was written in the flowing Nastaliq script. Noureddin recognized the handwriting as belonging to Eskandari, who then spoke.

"In less than a week's time will be the same day in which the Treaty of Manama was signed, comrade, and on that very day a celebration is planned to take place in Tehran. I am holding a speech and will make some announcements directly for the workers of our revolutionary state then. Perhaps when that is done I may find some peace for a time."

The Commissar watched as the mountains and valleys passed from view as the train barreled ahead. He was unsure of what to think of the future and only silently nodded to Eskandari's final musing.

Unknown to both men as they grew closer and closer to the city of 72 nations they were approaching a precipice that would change Iran and the revolution forever.

Kearguran a Aarana

EVENT COMMEMORATING TREATY OF MANAMA TO BE HELD IN TEHRAN, CHAIRMAN IRAJ ESKANDARI EXPECTED TO SPEAK

Athad Mlwanan Mthd

INCREASED NAVAL PRODUCTION BEGINS IN FARS AND KHUZESTAN

[HISPIDA]

A BAR IN SOFIA, TSARDOM OF BULGARIA -- JANUARY 26, 1952

“...and it is not the Jew nor the Bolshevik that shall control Bulgaria. It is the Bulgar!”

The small room filled with thunderous applause for the professor. The room erupted with long-armed salutes and calls of “Zdraveĭ pobeda! Zdraveĭ pobeda!”, following Kantardzhiev’s own salute and chants. Kantardzhiev couldn’t help but smile; this was the future. Screw the prime minister and screw Lukov!

“Komandir?” One man asked him. Excitedly, he reached out to shake Kantardzhiev’s hand. “My name is Yakov Ganev. I just want you to know that I’d put my life on the line for you and for Bulgaria, Komandir!”

Kantardzhiev couldn’t help but smile. “You’re the finest example of a Bulgarian I’ve seen in months, my friend.” The professor’s smile faded from his face as he looked down at the young man’s chest. ...Wai-

“Smrt za Bugarija! Da živee narodot!”

Boom!

---

THE STREETS OF SKOPJE, MACEDONIA, TSARDOM OF BULGARIA -- JANUARY 27, 1952

“Death to the Macedonians! Death to the Jews! Death to the Bolsheviks! Justice for Kantardzhiev!”

Luka Sarakinov’s hands were shaking as he brought the cigarette to his lips. To most people, they couldn’t tell he was a Macedonian. He was perfectly fine with that. The Bulgarian government had been cracking down on Macedonian culture ever since they seized his homeland in 1941, and Luka frankly didn’t really care anymore.

“Hey! You!”

Luka cautiously looked over.

“What’s your name?”

“...L-Luka. Luka Sarakinov.”

“What do you think, boys?”

Luka looked behind the burly Bulgarian. At least three other men were gathered around him, with weapons in their hands.

“Looks like a Macedonian to me!”

“Maybe he’s the fucker that blew up the Komandir!”

“There isn’t a single Bulgarian with that kind of accent!”

Luka didn’t even recognize the pipe coming down on the back of his head. He collapsed to the ground, unconscious, his conscious mind mercifully spared from the onslaught of violence that began soon after.

A police officer walked by.

The police officer walked away.

DNEVEN TRUD

RIOTS CONTINUE IN MACEDONIA, THRACE AFTER ASSASSINATION OF ASEN KANTARDZHIEV

PRELOM

KANTARDZHIEV DEAD BY SUICIDE BOMBER IN SOFIA! RATNIKS RIOT IN MACEDONIA

PROGLED

THE KOMANDIR IS DEAD! MACEDONIAN JUDEO-BOLSHEVIKS RESPONSIBLE! TAKE UP ARMS, BULGARIANS!

[Monsone]

The Dominion of Canada
Ottawa, Ontario

It was a freezing, icy, and snowy winter day, as one would expect of Ottawa in January. In the quiet Canadian capital, everything seemed at ease, the troubles of the world seemingly distant. But in the halls of parliament, the troubles of the world were seemingly lurking in every corner. There was a general consensus amongst every MP that Canada must do its part in halting the spread of fascism, through any means necessary. Fascism was now a dirty word to mention or be associated with, in Canada, synonymous with being anti-Canadian and a traitor. Some more reckless and unskilled politicians slung the word at their opponents as a cheat insult, while everyone with half a brain was constantly on the lookout for "fascist spies," not that where many to begin with, so the Royal Canadian Mounted Police claimed. Paranoia wouldn't aptly describe the situation. There was a real and palpable threat posed by the fascist world to liberal democracies like Canada, at least according to experts in the fields of political science, strategists, and the top military brass.

The House of Commons had fallen silent as Prime Minister St. Laurent got up and gazed over the MPs with a firm stare. After he finished surveying the majority of the House of Commons, he cleared his throat and with some regality and a smooth Irish brogue, the PM spoke.

"Honorable members of the House of Commons, I address you today with both a question and a plea. Over the last few days, as news from around the globe has reached my desk, it has become increasingly clear to me that like those wartime American posters frequently proclaimed, united we stand, and divided we fall. The strategy of divide and conquer is an age-old adage that was proven true during the war. By dividing its opposition up, fascism ensured its victory. It was a lack of unity and cohesion that during the war brought about the demise of many of our great allies. If we are to continue standing firm in opposition to fascism, we must ask ourselves the difficult question: What caused the defeat of our allies in the war? What caused mighty nations like Great Britain and the USSR to crumbled under the heel of fascism?"

"The answer is quite simple in my mind; a lack of coordination and unity in both the short and long term allowed fascism to trample all over Europe. American aid could have possibly saved Great Britain, prevented the tragedy that ensued, and kept the British Commonwealth of Nations together. Alas not, and from that tragedy and the chaos of it, our nation was born with the firm goal amongst many others, of fighting fascism and the evils that doomed Britain. Now, we come to a crucial moment in time, a crucial moment in our history. Fascism is an illness of the world, a blight on civilization and humanity. We have a moral obligation, like all other free nations, to take on and oppose fascism at every step, because fascism is an unrelenting virus that will continue its advance until it consumes the whole world and crushes it under its evil boot."

"And so I ask you, honorable members of the House of Commons, what shall we do about fascism?" Laurent paused before continuing. "To me, it seems the answer is clear; a united front is needed so that we may not repeat our mistakes, and instead triumph in our defense of liberalism, freedom, democracy, and human rights. Fascism thrives off of the strategy and dividing conquering, but if we are indivisible, we shall be undefeatable." He stated firmly, yet eloquently and politely. "I ask all of you to consider the possibility of ratifying a treaty that will bring together the free world against the evils of fascism. In dealings with my cabinet, we have conclusively agreed that such an alliance would be beneficial for the good of mankind, and I plan of raising such prospect the next time I meet with my American counterpart. So I notify all of you, be prepared to vote on a world-changing proposal. And when the time to do so comes, do so with your mind and your heart. If you do so, there is no way you could vote incorrectly."

"Thank you for your time." Said the Prime Minister before taking a seat to voracious clapping from both sides of the aisle; no one dared seem soft on fascism by not clapping voraciously, in the same way, no one dares not clap after a speech by the Fuhrer lest they suffer serious repercussions.

---

Vancouver, British Columbia

The cold waters of the Burrard Inlet lapped the sides of the RCNS Argonaut, a Dido Class light cruiser originally built for the Royal Navy before defecting to Canada in 1943 when the UK surrendered. Transferred to Vancouver in early 1944, the ship had been stationed there ever since, forming a key part of Canada's naval fleet in the Pacific. Now sitting off the coast of BC, the ship awaited orders after a live-fire exercise near Campbell River on Vancouver Island. At its command was Captain Richard Andre Boucher, a Quebec native that had eventually found himself on the far side of Canada, not his first choice of command but Captain Boucher was willing to take just about anything back in 1950. Even if that something was in a relative backwater compared to the Atlantic.

Staring out at Vancouver with a firm look on his face, the captain reminisced on the war. Back then, he had served on a destroyer in the Atlantic, hunting U-Boats and the like. The splash of icy waves, launching depth-charges in the frigid and dark sea, it was all in a day's job before retiring to an uncomfortable cot as the ship rocked and rolled in harsh seas. Now, from the comfort of his private cabin, Captain Boucher could reminisce with both fondness and sadness on those days long gone. The ship he had served on had been decommissioned and barely saved from scrapping by a group of war veterans that had it converted into a museum. With this melancholy in his mind, there was a knock at his cabin door. Strolling over, the captain opened the door and found himself face to face with a lowly sailor second class gripping a piece of paper nervously.

"Ah, how can I help you?" Asked the captain.

"Orders, sir." Said the sailor as he handed over the piece of paper.

"Excelent." Said the captain as he grabbed the paper. "Thank you."

The sailor saluted and Captain Boucher returned the salute. As the sailor walked away, the captain closed the door and glanced at the orders, written in English and French. They were clear and curt, as expected from the military command; no need for an elaborate piece of literature, this is the navy, not the University of Toronto.

'Sail to Yokohama -stop- Proceed to sail to Manila -stop- Sail to Madras and then Bombay -stop- Proceed to Sydney with any necessary intermediate stops for fuel or provisions in friendly territories -stop- Then sail to Auckland -stop- Sail to Pearl Harbour after Auckland -stop- Sail to San Pedro -stop- Return to Vancouver -stop-'

'Goal is to show the flag in the Indian Pacific regions and to show Canada's commitment to the values of democracy -stop- Secondary goal of testing ability of ships to survive prolonged operations at sea in case of war -stop-'