3 pm, Far Western Time
Rad Hus, Lowellsburg, Æsthurlavaj
”We now go live to the Council Chamber, where Supreme Chancellor Monika Schefer is delivering a statement to announce a new economic policy to attempt to alleviate the struggling Republic’s status on the world stage. For over a decade, the recession that has gripped the land has-”
“Sir, I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”
“What? Hang on, I’m here with the Free Press Institute! You thugs think you can just haul me off like this?”
“Ja, we can sir. Your credentials were rejected. You’re coming with us. Your crew as well.”
“He’s working for the Syndies!”
“Yeah, we’re just the grip men!”
“Ron! Anna! You godsdamned sellouts!”
“Forget it, Markus. This isn’t worth-hey! Wait a minute!”
“You’re -all- coming with us. By order of the ISK, we’re detaining all three of you. Come along. NOW.”
“When I became Supreme Chancellor, I inherited a closed off economy wracked with state mismanagement, hobbled by its own practices and tipped by a crippling overspecialization on the industrial apparatus necessary for war and its support. We were critically lacking in civil infrastructure, port facilities, arable farmland, domestic automobiles and other severely needed essentials. Millions lived in poverty. There wasn’t enough food to go around. But I am happy to declare that I was able to take the foundation that Karlos Vocht laid out for me, and carry on to accomplish the goals he set, but never managed to achieve. I am proud to announce that, as of this year, the registered gross domestic product of Æsthurlavaj has been calculated at 1.57 trillion. This figure firmly places us just short of being a part the top ten economic powers of Tyran, a far cry from where we were just three years ago.”
Gentle applause rings out around the Council Chamber, which is packed full of reporters and representatives as well as thanes and even a few jarls visiting from other states and cities across the Republic to play witness to this speech, lending their silent approval. Chancellor Schefer pauses, watching the room carefully as she smiles tightly, though those close to her can see it is restrained. The Councilors behind her, and HIGHKOM, are notably not looking pleased either.
The applause dies down, and Schefer takes a sip before consulting a paper before her and continuing.
“The work is not yet over, though. We still have a lot of damage to undo, and a lot of new issues coming up that were not properly anticipated. For this, I have sought far and wide for data to confirm my suspicions, and this is what I and my Councilors have compiled. It is estimated, by the tables we’ve drawn up, that roughly 5% of the world’s population holds onto 65% of the world’s wealth. Then it comes down to 25% for about 18% of the world and then 10% for the rest, of whom that is made up of the lower middle classes and the poorest of the world.”
Schefer glances up, looking around the massive room, pausing occasionally as if she is looking at particular individuals in the crowd. The chamber is deathly silent.
“Think about that for a moment, that’s about 71% of the world’s population either just barely surviving or in poverty. We’re lucky that the number is much slimmer now in the URA, but we are still experiencing a harsh amount of economic strife, even with all the new measures we’ve put in place. A lot of that has to do with the massive reversal we’ve enacted, even at such a slow pace. Now before I continue, I want to inform all you honored ministers, and our foreign guests and those whom the press are taking this message out to, we do not intend to take radical steps. I’m not proposing to outlaw capitalism. I don’t want to -break- major companies, that’s what got us into this problem in the first place. But unfair market stranglehold stifles fair competition and growth, and leaves us vulnerable to another recession like ten years ago, and while the State has proven itself a good manager of the upper tiers, we have to leave the bottom open for people to swing.”
Here, Schefer set the stack of papers down, her eyes scanning the crowd again as she raised a hand, gesturing to the crowd at large.
“Let me ask you a question; would you, any of you, hold a party and have 5% of the people who attend take 70% of the food you had laid out? Then you’ll be expected to feed the rest with the little bit you’ve got left, and of course there’s not much to go around. The only way you’ll feed everyone is if you force those people back and you tell them ‘you have got to leave some for everyone else.’ And there you are. That’s what I’m proposing we do. This is not a ‘break the markets’ move. I’m not talking about taking everything in and parsing it out equally, like our socialist rivals want. We in Æsthurlavaj have a decent standard of living and access to unfiltered information. We know the reality of the world, no one is in the dark. There are plenty who live off state aid that are -not- getting enough, who are barely surviving without a job or the essentials of a modern home and it is because of antiquated policies that don’t leave enough behind. The old system placed the economy in the hands of the state, and the state broke those people down into numbers. But the new system is hardly better. It places power in the hands of the wealthy, the lucky, those born into fotune or powerful positions. The nation I am building is a meritocracy, but the more we embrace capitalism and market practices into our nation, the more we place ourselves into the age old system of those who -have- and those who -do not- have. We’re seeing the return of private corporations to our shores, the use of blatant market abuse. We are at risk of being under attack by MONOPOLIES.”
A slap through the dead chamber. The audio pickup on the microphone wasn’t enough to broadcast it over the speakers, but the crowd was so silent, and Monika had struck the podium so hard it rang out, echoing off the marble and wood walls.
“I want to bring those monopolies to the table, bring the corporations to heel and I want to tell them ‘there needs to be more to go around.’ The wealthy of the world are -drowning- in excess at the expense of those below. And I’m not here to try and villainize them, or call out individuals in this crowd. But what are they going to do with $100 million? $100 billion? Can they live in all those houses? Wear all those clothes, drive all those cars? My Councilors and I have done the math. We’ve crunched the numbers. Examined other nations for precedence. And we’ve come to a solution, one that will help the poor without alienating the new wealthy class emerging in our society. For just a one-to-two percent tax depending on circumstances, we can help take some of that capital that is simply sitting around and bring it back.”
The chamber begins buzzing quietly. Many in the crowd glance at each other, apprehensive, angry or just curious. A handful stand and begin pressing for the exits. In the press, both foreign and domestic, cameras begin snapping, pencils are scribbling and reporters hurriedly whisper notes into recorders and smartphones. Schefer tries to start again, but this time her attempts to speak do not entirely kill the noise. After several false starts, she merely plows on, determined.
“I imagine an Æsthurlavaj where every family owns a house, a car and a computer, the very staples of modern existence. You need a house to survive, a car to reach your job and a computer to find work and stay informed and productive. We’re instituting this bill, enacting the Share the Wealth Act, so that no one in Æsthurlavaj will work too much, and no one will be idle and unemployed. No one will have too much, and no one will be lacking. But to do that...some of that wealth has to come back. It has to be shared. Not all of it, mind. That’s where socialism fails, by failing to promote competition in business or promoting a sense of security for wealth. That’s -how- business is made in -all- societies. And breaking the corporations, breaking the banks, is a sure way to kill an economy. But trust funds. Monopolies. Who needs $25 million as an inheritance? Who needs to control everything?”
Rautjok state, near Vanfald City
Ormtjernkampen Nasjonalpark
Many of the KSA’s compound were little more than camps these days. Actual fortified compounds were difficult to find nowadays, as the old abandoned facilities the Revenant had used were exposed once the government had pardoned the fascist bastards, and with them many maps for other abandoned military zones. As a result, those former shelters were no longer viable, and many communes were quickly swept up by both the ISK and armed forces in the subsequent crackdowns. After the last year of protests and strikes against the totalitarian Schefer regime, the battle had been slowly wearing them down. They had needed to regroup. Fortunately, the use of mobile camps helped that out.
This commune, which had no name for secrecy, consisted of dozens of trucks and vans, offroad haulers that could ferry people and supplies off the beaten paths. Several more communes were out east in the wild hinterlands, more hid along the coast. But here, in Ormtjernkampen Nasjonalpark, they just looked like a group of campers.
Heavily armed campers. Plenty of weapons, both foreign and Æsthurlav made, were in every hand, or stacked up by tents and campfires. Most of them were carefully maintained by the commune’s gunsmiths, oiled and cleaned by their users. But most of them also had tape, cloth wrappings and bolts holding them together, or putting incompatible attachments on. The KSA had to make do, after all. The last few attempts at armory raids had given them little to work with, and the support from overseas didn’t help the matter, such as with the excess amount of ammunition they couldn’t use because they lacked the proper firearms or sights and grenade launchers that their fighters literally had to bolt on to make work. The Rød Vakt was a good reflection on the status of the KSA as a whole; determined, well-manned, but in rough shape and unable to get the material means they needed to resist.
But as the members of this commune did their best to fight the strange contrast of hot and cold that these far north summers brought, one militia fighter hurried through the camp, ducking past a pickup truck with soil and sod in the bed as a mobile garden, leaping over a fire where a group of tailors were stitching up worn out shirts, ducking through a large open tent where an educational lecture was in progress. Finally, the militia fighter made it to his target; a cluster of trees on the far side where several tarps were tied above to protect the people working below and their subjects, a series of vehicles that were in various states of disarray as mechanics did their best to keep their fleet going. He stopped next to an enormous flatbed truck, with its rear wheels removed to make room for a set of tracks installed from a bulldozer. The aged anti-air turret had been removed by another truck’s pneumatic crane, and its mount was currently being examined by two commune mechanics, their welding torches sparking as they made their repairs, goggles reflecting the bright flashes. Nearby, a woman had her hood tugged up, watching the scene with an almost bored expression, though the militia fighter knew she was really watching the surroundings with the most rapt attention.
“Comrade Petri!”
Several around him jerked their heads up, watching the militiaman carefully. While plenty of couriers came for Petri Aadrovak, this fighter did not look like one, with an AK over one shoulder and a beaten up Montemayor flak jacket over his coat. But the target in question did not hear, continuing his work. The militiaman tried again.
“Comrade Petri!”
This time, he did hear, and as he tugged off his goggles and shut down his flamethrower the wiry, rather crazed looking soot and grease-covered leader of the KSA stood and looked down at the gardist, a single smeared eyebrow raised. Without a word, the fighter tugged a beaten, second hand-smartphone out of his pocket, holding it out to his leader. It had a video on it. Petri put down his tools, tugged off his gloves and took the phone, tapping the play button on the cracked screen.
”-instituting this bill, enacting the Share the Wealth Act, so that no one in Æsthurlavaj will work too much, and no one will be idle and unemployed. No one will have too much, and no one will be lacking. But to do that...some of that wealth has to come back. It has to be shared. Not all of it, mind. That’s where socialism fails, by failing to promote competition in business or promoting a sense of security for wealth.”
He paused the video, scrolling it back to the beginning and watching the news report. As it played on, more and more KSA members, mechanics, Vokt soldiers and others gathered around beneath him, listening to the beaten speakers play the dreadful report. Finally, the original militia fighter couldn’t hold it in anymore.
“What does it mean, Comrade?”
Without ceremony, his smartphone tumbled down, and the young man fumbled to catch it before it got into worse shape. Petri Aadrovak, the most wanted man in Æsthurlavaj, was simply staring off into the distance.
“War,” he answered quietly. “It means war.”
