The Engineer
A History of Modern Nerotysia
A History of Modern Nerotysia
A Roleplay
Chapter I
2010
2010
This particular Tuesday morning Nikita Pipenko opted to forego his usual coffee and bagels in favor of jumbled phone calls and frantic traffic. Inside of five minutes he spoke to fifteen different people and the innards of his black jeep he littered with a jungle of paper. Preparations must be made before the day had even begun.
Shynsk, the ever-impassive capital, was neon cold and dripping with frost, its trees stripped bare and coated in gleaming ice. The streets swept themselves dirty with asphalt, cars screaming in a pleasant lullaby to all who had grown used to it. Pedestrians pattered along the sidewalks, stepping brusquely out in front of growling engines with disdain. The sun watched all, retracting its lively warmth and condemning the city, as it did every year, to live out months while frozen.
Nikita flashed his ID at the bored, blue-armoured guard and his jeep mumbled softly up the gentle incline laid out before the Palace, the Palace of the Revolution, the People's Palace, the Palace of the Party, the Palatial Parasite, the Grand Hypocrisy. Depending on who you asked. Nikita hardly glanced at its grandiose marble controversy as his jeep slid into its guts.
HIs characteristic brisk walk took him to his office in minutes, wherein he continued with his litany of phone calls, faxes, forehead-rubbing and frenzies. He was assembling an assembly of allies, a cadre of progressives, liberals, reformers, and everything in between. He even reached for the crypto-capitalists. Anyone.
His penultimate phone call was his most frantic. His ultimate phone call was his most important.
Firstly, the second-to-last:
"We have Greshnev, Yolkin, and Kochenko." Viktor Kutikov as a man was not entirely likable, and his voice was the same way, but in both there was something that kept you invested. Like a subtle lilt hidden somewhere in the harsh tones, it lifted your ears just enough to want to keep listening.
"You're sure?"
"Well, Yolkin is questionable."
"Alright. Try Ossenykh."
Nikita closed the call and was immediately greeted by another one. The number was instantly recognizable.
"Hello?"
Anya Rusakova was the most powerful person in Nerotysia. It wasn't even arguable. But one would not guess as much from her office. A tiny cube of glass and paneled wood, trimmed in exposed marble, a plain red carpet and a barebones black desk. Her bookshelves were impressive, but that was about it.
"Good morning," Nikita smiled, shaking hands. He was always disconcerted by the woman. Her expression never seemed to change. Even his famous smile did little to shift those tectonic cheekbones.
"Yes." She returned briskly to her seat. "I'm sure you don't have time to mince words, and honestly I can hardly afford to waste time myself." She grinned, tilted her head. "So let's get right to it, shall we?"
Nikita forgot his surprise, for this suited him fine. "Bit - odd, I suppose, but do go on."
"You are making a bid for power." Her grin took on a pitying flavor. "You and your friends. Quite courageous. Quite daring. It's admirable." She sipped her coffee neatly.
"How do you know - "
"It doesn't matter. What does matter is that it won't work."
Nikita sat back, interlacing his fingers. Well, this was not what he expected.
"We are working on it."
"For naught. It will come to naught. Believe me."
"We have gathered - "
"It's not enough." Her voice finally found some inflection, a casual mocking. "Did you really think that Menzki's mouth would die with him?"
"Well, we - "
"His ideas are as entrenched as they ever were. He was the latest kingpin in a machine that has lasted decades and has several ready-made successors." She raised a hand to his objections. "He was a uniquely gifted kingpin, granted - a Napoleon among Bourbons. But the machine does not die with its operator, no matter how talented that operator was."
He leaned forward. "This is the best chance we're ever going to get. Menzki's successors are old, phony, and stodgy - they have none of his charm or his energy. If we can - "
"Stop." She sipped her coffee. "That kind of thinking is going to crush you. There is never a best chance. There are only good chances. Politics is a game of creating good chances, not betting on a best chance." She slipped a file from an innocuous manila folder and slid it across to him.
"What is this?"
"Financial records. The personal fortune of a certain Dmitri Laskoy." She slid across another file. "And here are the cash reserves of a certain Zakhar Rzevsky." Nikita tangled his hand in his hair.
"Goddamn. Even our estimates didn't..." He looked up at her. "Why have you called me here?"
"Because, Mister Pipenko, this machine is inconvenient for me." She leaned forward for the first time with a glint in her eye. "For me and for others. You see, my friends and I are riding a wave, a tsunami, of reform. Of change." She tapped her tapered fingernails on her desk. "And this machine does not like water. Water breaks machines."
"They cannot touch you. Not after the recovery. People are starting to name their children after you."
"On the contrary, Mister Pipenko, my base is rather breakable. Like all things made of skin and bones it can be gashed and torn asunder. As is yours."
"It would be nice if you stopped with the metaphors."
"Help me." Her voice was woven with hard diamond. "Help me deconstruct this machine one step at a time. Help me slowly, surely, undo its defenses. And when all is done," she sat back, "You can ride with me on the wave that drowns the cursed thing."
"But you don't want us to make our bid?"
"No." she sniffed. "It's terribly planned anyways. It's too sudden, and you have one-quarter of the vote you need."
Nikita's mind churned silently. He had hoped to overwhelm his nuggets of doubt with armies of energy, energy to drive the nation, energy to change the world. But perhaps it had all been a fantasy. The sums of money they could command - far beyond even his wildest expectations. And their allies - all at once their names, their faces, their positions shouted in his mind. He had ignored them in his daredevil dash for a miracle, a miracle he had spent so long hoping for, a miracle he had wasted his night and morning trying to create. He looked back at Rusakova again. If her face weren't stretched so tightly over her bones, she might look like a classic beauty. Blonde hair, blue eyes, poised lips. For a moment he hated her.
"I'll need to make some phone calls."
"I am already making them for you." She got up, walking around to open the door for him. "Meanwhile you can reconsider. People won't accept radical change except in a crisis. And even then, they need to be dragged kicking and screaming. Keep your silly notions of peace and cooperation to yourself, until they won't seem so silly. Sharpen up your strategy. And fix your suit."
He chortled, grabbing his suitcase. "I hardly had the time this morning, Anya, as you very well know."
"Make the time then. That smile of yours is nothing without a nice suit." He brushed past her, intending to leave without another word, but she had one last thing to say. "And, Mister Pipenko, I would advise you to speak at Menzki's funeral." She winked. "It would be such an excellent show of character, and doesn't the poor man deserve it?"
Bells clamored, cracking the stillness of the winter air. The morning was silent, as if mother nature herself had withdrawn into black mourning. Shining black cars, a magnificent stretch limousine trailed by more than a dozen black jeeps and SUVs, rumbled down the streets of Shynsk, their windows tinted and their tires bulletproof. Hundreds of spectators lined the periphery, their clothes varying shades of black or grey, their faces downcast as the sky. The silence was crushing. Such large crowds, such yawning silence - it was an impossibility come to life.
The convoy stopped in front of the Tsarev Museum, a red collosus bedecked with the aforementioned bells and a million other garnishings. The facade was so frilled it seemed layers of the building were peeling off of the foundations.
An army of black-suited politicians flooded onto the road, forming a respectful cluster around the back of the lead limousine. The chosen six stepped forward from the crowd, and accepted the handles of the massive mahogany coffin that emerged from the limo's rear like polished excrement. They carried it up the two steps and through the open doors. The room they entered was as cavernous as it was empty. It was tradition during these secular funerals for the deceased to enter the building first on the day of the burial.
The coffin was placed on a raised dais atop a stage at the back of the room, on which several podiums were placed, spaced evenly along the edge. The chosen six then assumed their positions at the podiums while the observers shuffled in - hundreds of spectators, so many that they lined the walls and spilled out the door. Party officials took the front seats, selected members of the Inner Party sat behind them, and the general public filled up the rest. Cameras were banned during the ceremony, but numerous newsmen stood and scribbled notes as the proceedings went on.
The chosen six - four members of Menzki's family, Anya Rusakova, and Nikita Pipenko. That sixth place that Pipenko occupied was highly envied - it was gifted by the family to any party official they pleased. Dmitri Laskoy had been expecting such a spot - his pockets were slightly emptier for his attempts to secure it - and he was confounded and infuriated at this insignificant insect's sudden prominence.
"He was an honored, honorable, and beloved leader amongst governors. He was a doer amongst talkers. He was a tactician amongst armchair generals. His service to the nation - his prodigious talent for diplomacy, for negotiating, his inspiring energy to fight for the Nerotysian people, his connectedness to that people - it will never be forgotten. Not in a hundred days, not in a hundred months, not in a hundred years. Not even in a hundred decades. His immense triumphs will echo through the ages. His kindness, his caring, his deep understanding of the Nerotysian people - that will echo through the generations."
Claps rang across the ceiling, moderate and politely enthusiastic. Anya Rusakova lowered her head in humble gratitude, her eyes shifting to scan Nikita, who clapped with bright-eyed aplomb. He could almost read her pupils - you better not waste this, this chance I have siezed for you. He did not plan to.
As the applause died down he tapped lightly on his microphone. With a practiced voice he began:
"Ivan Menzki, as a man, is heard to overexaggerate. His accomplishments, his intellect, his raw size - all of these are immense and immeasurable by our tiny standards. His dedication to the party, and moreso, to the people, was - "
At this word Nikita paused, looked down at his prepared remarks. He let his eyes rest thoughtfully on the words he had typed up, and his face was still in contemplation. He allowed the surprise to settle. And then he looked up, crumbling his papers in his hand.
"Ivan loved apples." The audience tittered, nervous. Such a departure from dry, dull etiquette and carefully prepared speeches was almost unprecedented.
"I'm serious, he did. Every time I saw him he was eating one. His trash can? Nothing but apple cores. He would put teachers to shame - his desk was filled with dozens of apples. He had an entire drawer dedicated to apples. And he was not polite about his apple obsession."
The audience tittered again, warming up to Nikita's impromptu emotion.
"I remember the first time I met him - the very first time, ever - and I was just a little gnat at this point." He chuckled. "Well, I still am a gnat, but I had just begin my gnat career in the Policy Commission. And this was my big break. And so I met him and I was reading out my first-ever policy draft to him - I forget what it was about now - and all throughout, he was just eating an apple. Loudly."
The audience laughed.
"I was quaking in my shoes and he was just leaning back in his chair, his jacket off, finger hooked in his suspenders, eating an apple."
More laughter.
"And when I was finished I was sure I was a goner. But he leaned forward and he said, 'Pipenko, you're so boring I would have fell asleep if I remembered how. Now, tell me about your policy the way you would tell it to the people, because that's all I care about.'"
Titters.
"So I did, and he said it was crap. Some real shit. Of course, he said after months of work it had the potential to be fantastic, but it was still crap. And so I worked on it. And when it came to the Central Committee, and I was standing there watching them debate it, all I could look at was Ivan across the room, eating an apple, winking at me.
"Later, much later, I asked him why he always ate apples like such an asshole. Because with every bite I nearly crapped my pants that morning. And he told me, 'that's just the thing - everyone associates eating apples during meetings and whatnot with assholes. But apples are delicious, and everyone should eat them all the time. So I'm going to change that by eating them and not being an asshole. I'd also like to change how people feel about marijuana smokers, but I don't think even I can go that far.'"
The audience laughed, their minds toying with Menzki's rumored marijuana addiction. Nikita waited, smiling.
"And that was the kind of man he was. He was the kind of man who believed what he believed with his very bones, and would fight whatever fight was needed to get his beliefs across. He thought that eating apples should be seperated from their reputation. So he did. And now, I make sure I eat at least one apple per meeting."
More laughter. It was perfect. Nikita congratulated himself.
"That's the kind of man he was. Miss Rusakova's words, the words of so many like her - they are all true, and all deserved. But I think they miss the point. And I've gotta tell you, my own speech was an exact copy of theirs, and I didn't want to fall asleep in the middle of the funeral. I wanted to talk about how Ivan really was. A straightforward, simple, principled man. A man who doesn't lie to your face. A man of immense integrity. A man of grit. A man who eats apples just because he likes to eat apples. A man who will love you and protect you just because he likes to love and protect. A man, in short, who insults you - and makes you feel loved for it."
Applause. All-encompassing, astounding applause. Applause abounded, overflowed, burst from the walls and splashed onto the streets. Nikita bowed his head, acknowledging, flashing his own look at Rusakova. Discreetly, she mouthed a congratulations to him -
Excellent work.