Communist Rule Under Pressure in Generistan (Open | MT)

[Generistan]

(Open, TG with interest. If you want to get involved and need a TL/DR summary, TG me.)

Generistan Street Demonstrations Grow as Government Fails to Respond

Bulatsultan, Generistan (International Wire Correspondents) –

Monday dawned on a seventh day of protests in Bulatsultan, capital of the Republic of Generistan. What was initially a sit-in at the Palace of the May Revolution by farmers opposed to a recently-announced collectivization scheme has swelled to include what some observers are characterizing as tens of thousands of local residents expressing a variety of grievances with seventy years of rule by the National People’s Party of Generistan (NPP).

Foreign observers have characterized the government’s response as paralytic. Though reporters have observed some arrests of individual demonstrators – primarily students – by plainclothes officers of the National Security Committee of Generistan (KSG), the government has so far failed to take strong action to remove demonstrators from the streets or from the halls of the Palace of the May Revolution – which houses the national legislature, the Supreme Soviet.

Notably, Aybek Akaev – President of Generistan and First Secretary of the NPP – has made no statements since the beginning of unrest. Akaev, who assumed the combined roles after the death of Generistan’s first Communist ruler, Bilbek Sultan, is widely perceived as an unpopular figurehead for a stagnant NPP bureaucracy.

Akaev, who is 75 years old, was Chairman of the Economic Committee and a member of the “hardliner” faction of the NPP before assuming the premiership and is believed to favor a return to traditional Marxist-Leninist economic policies, and reversing limited privatization that occurred during the final years of Bilbek Sultan’s rule. Western observers suspect that these policies, coupled with rising global inflation, high food prices, and environmental degradation in the country, have fueled mounting dissatisfaction with decades of Communist rule among the student and professional classes in the country’s urban centers.

Protests so far appear to be largely leaderless, though members of the nation’s loosely organized underground and exiled opposition figures have unsurprisingly issued statements in support of the protestors. Kilit Almanaev, Chairman of the Independent Trade Unions (ITU) – a semi-legal reformist worker’s organization – today called upon President Akaev to “hear the voice of your people, the workers and peasants that are the backbone of the nation,” and to engage with the ITU as a representative of the protestors.

Dissident author and former KSG officer Haydar Boyko issued a statement of support from his home in a foreign nation expressing his “heartfelt admiration for the youth of my country who are standing up where their elders laid down in the face of tyranny so many years ago.” He hailed the demonstrators as “heralds of a wind of change” that “might sweep over the whole world from the steppes of Generistan.”

Asked for comment during a press conference on a trip abroad, Minister of Foreign Affairs Shamil Ibragimov told reporters that the situation in Bulatsultan was “entirely under control,” claiming that “so-called demonstrations are limited to a small handful of street toughs and troublemakers.” He advised the international community to “pay no mind to these malcontents, standing in the way of national progress and undoubtedly spurred on by perfidious foreign agents.”

Whether the international community will take notice or not remains to be seen, though undoubtedly the NPP government will not be able to ignore the issue for much longer.

[Generistan]

Economy Minister Degar Ekbetyev rubbed his elbows nervously as he watched the distant crowd from a window on the tenth floor of the Grand Palace. Already huge, it had grown to a truly massive size overnight. Indeed, over the top of the high walls surrounding the executive residence, the sea of humanity filled nearly the entirety of the enormous Bilbek Sultan Square. In the distance, he could see impertinent teenagers perched on the arms of the Great Man himself.

He shook his head in disgust at the disrespect, and for the tenth time that morning muttered under his breath how much he wished the old devil hadn’t copped it at such a delicate time.

Akaev had certainly cut the figure of a worthy successor – tough talking, hardheaded, brutal in political infighting. Ekbetyev, a natural coward, had seized the opportunity to hitch his wagon to Akaev’s rising star when Sultan received the fatal diagnosis. He had been elated when he was elevated to the position of First Secretary and then seized the Presidency for himself. And Akaev hadn’t forgotten his friend, moving Ekbetyev into his old job – a comfortable sinecure, full of perks. Perks! If it wasn’t for these damned demonstrations, he could be at the theater tonight in Arslan Square – a foreign ballet company was in town, and the prima donna was rumored to be a real beauty.

He turned unhappily away from the window.

“Comrade Ekbetyev.”

The large frame and shockingly bald head of Foreign Minister Shamil Ibragimov filled the entryway into the small reception room.

“Comrade Ibragimov! Welcome back. I hope you had a pleasant trip.” Ekbetyev tried unsuccessfully to hide his surprise – Ibragimov had not been expected back for another week. Evidently he had been called home as a result of the crisis. In the back of his mind he tried to evaluate what this meant for his position. Ibragimov was an influential member of the Council of Ministers, and though something of a reformist, Akaev listened to him.

“Shaking hands and drinking tea with foreigners? Far from pleasant,” he grunted. Ibragimov was not a natural diplomat. He had been in charge of oil production in Akaev’s Economy Ministry before being elevated to his current role. He was a blunt man and mildly xenophobic. However, he had a natural candor and rough charm that some of his foreign counterparts found refreshing, and his press conferences were one of the few truly popular spectacles in Akaev’s regime.

“How’s the boss?” Ibragimov asked, referring to Akaev.

Ekbetyev shook his head. “Practically bedridden these past several days.”

“The gout?”

“Undoubtedly.”

“Damnit. He’ll be next to impossible then – won’t listen to a word I say. You’ll have to sweet talk him, then. Get him to see reason, the need for concessions.”

“Concessions?” Ekbetyev cried, taken aback. “You can’t be serious – give in to the rabble?”

Ibragimov glared at him. “And what would you do? Shoot them? Have you looked out the window? They would storm this place and have us all for dinner! No, I value my neck and you should too. Plus,” he said, looking out the window at the crowd, “you as the Economy Minister have to know that the agricultural law can never be implemented in its current form. We import half of our grain from abroad as is! If oil prices decline by a fifth of their level, we’ll be underwater – the people will starve.”

Ekbetyev shook his head nervously. Ibragimov was right of course on a purely technical level – they would indeed starve if the collectivization plan was implemented in its current form. He had signed off on it, enthusiastically, knowing that there would be just enough resistance in the rural areas to prevent its full implementation. However, no one had expected this to manifest in Bulatsultan. He suspected Ibragimov was manipulating him into making an error - to change his position now would look like cowardice in the face of the protestors.

“I don’t know. You may be right. But I won’t commit myself! Not yet, not until we’ve heard from Sharipov. Things might not be as grave as we suspect.”

Ibragimov laughed. “Looking to the spymaster to save you, little man? No, if anything, Sharipov is behind this mess.”

Ekbetyev practically gasped. Ibragimov was an influential man, but Sharipov was likely the second most dangerous person in the country after Akaev himself. To speak so brazenly – he didn’t know what to say.

The door to the Council of Ministers’ Hall opened and a uniformed guard offered a salute. Ibragimov brushed roughly past Ekbetyev into the small room, and took his seat at the round table. Ekbetyev followed.

Already present were Marshal Muktar Suleymenev, Chief of the Defense Staff; Minister of Youth and Education Makhmud Tugin; Minister of Communications Aryat Butev; and First Deputy Premier Ramazan Musin, who held a portfolio of vague responsibilities but owed his position mainly to his wife’s long-running liaison with Akaev. Other members of more limited consequence entered as Ekbetyev sat.

Last to enter was a small, round man with a mustache and rimless glasses: Timur Sharipov, himself, Chairman of the KSG. Ekbetyev rose as he entered and greeted him timidly. Sharipov glanced at him and offered a small nod before taking his seat.

Akaev entered the room a silent five minutes later. He walked slowly and his wrinkled face was twisted into an ugly grimace, barely hidden by the large black mustache that dominated his lower face. Akaev had been a tall and fit man in his youth, but he was now bent and showing a very old 64 years.

The President took his seat and looked around the room. In the silence, it was barely possible to hear the noise of the crowd outside the gates several hundred meters away.

“This din is unbearable,” muttered Akaev. “Why have we not removed these people?” he asked the room. When no one answered he slammed a heavy hand down on the table. “Well? These rabblerousers and foreigners would never have dared to try this under Bilbek. Why now? Who is responsible?”

Marshal Muktar Suleymenev leapt to his feet. “Give the order, boss, and the army will move in and disperse these traitors.” Compared to Akaev’s soft voice, Suleymenev’s was a shout. Akaev nodded his approval, but then he looked to the head of the KSG, Sharipov.

“Comrade Sharipov, what is your assessment.”

Sharipov remained seated, his hands folded on the table in front of him. His voice was soft, like Akaev’s, but he had no trouble making himself heard in the silent room.

“The situation is delicate, Comrade President Akaev. There are certainly indications of foreign involvement in encouraging the protests – both overt and otherwise. But the root causes are organic. I’m sorry to say that the mismanagement by some of the ministries represented here are among them.”

Akaev nodded solemnly, then looked straight at Ekbetyev.

“Ekbetyev, what is the status of the implementation of the new agricultural law?”

“Comrade President.” He swallowed, trying to master his nerves. “Comrade President, the groundwork has been laid, of course. The planning commission has sent their draft to the provincial agricultural councils, and in the Bulatsultan region, the private farms are already being repossessed by our agents. Progress is –"

“Slow,” muttered Akaev. “Did we not discuss this last month? We must move rapidly to avoid unnecessary resistance. You Ministry has dragged its feet, and now we are facing a crisis because of it.”

“Comrade President, I must protest,” squeaked Ekbetyev. “The local councils have been unsatisfactory in their efforts – impossible to work with. And we were promised the support of the Civil Guard in the provinces, which has not materialized. I have indeed sent several notes to Marshal Suleymenev, and so far received only limited cooperation!”

Akaev rapidly lost control of the discussion, which descended into argument. Ibragimov watched this with interest. He was grateful that he was rarely called to speak during these discussions. He always preferred to express his opinions to Akaev privately, or through intermediaries, understanding that the present forum was a theater put on for the benefit of the President, and possibly Sharipov.

Already it was clear that no important decisions about the crisis would be made at the meeting – it had barely been acknowledged as a crisis at all. Every day made it clearer that Akaev was incapable of mastering the situation. He was still a frightful figure, but the Foreign Minister had to admit that he had lost some of his dread of the man. Weakness had a particular smell to it, and as he watched the President sit there – wracked with gout, incapable of controlling his own Council – he caught a great whiff of it.

In the courtyard outside, he waited while a phalanx of riot police pushed the crowd away from the palace gates, and a pair of armored personnel carriers were driven through to hold a path open. He mounted into the back of his limousine, and was shocked to find Sharipov already sitting inside.
“Hello Comrade, I’m sorry to have startled you. I trust you don’t mind if I hitch a ride? It’s dreadfully inconvenient to move around these days,” said the spymaster.

“I’d have thought you had your own more convenient means of transportation,” said Ibragimov.

“What? Secret tunnels under the city, like a rat?” Sharipov grinned.

“Possibly. Or a helicopter.”

“Yes, those we do have. But why waste an opportunity to discuss international relations with an expert? You know, that was my subject of interest before I became involved in my current profession. Indeed, I hold a doctorate. Did you know that?”

“I didn’t,” Ibragimov said, genuinely.

“Yes, from a reputable foreign university. Do you want to know what my doctoral thesis was about?”

The limousine had pulled through the gates and was passing by the crowd – restrained by a line of armored cars and riot policemen. A few moments later and the crowd thinned – the limousine turned onto one of the proprietary highways reserved for government officials, and sped up in the direction of the official apartments.

“Sure,” Ibragimov said, looking out the window.

“The title of my thesis was “The Struggle for Power in Post-Communist Countries.”

Ibragimov turned his head slowly to look at the spymaster, who was chuckling.

“Apt, yes? I really am a credentialled expert on the topic. Maybe you can learn from me.”

“An interesting study from a purely academic standpoint,” Ibragimov said slowly. “But of limited practical value in our government, surely. A government by consensus.”

“Consensus, yes,” smiled Sharipov. “Universal agreement to do nothing.”

Ibragimov said nothing, but kept looking at the spymaster.

“Comrade Ibragimov, you have a reputation for frank speech. It’s a quality that I admire, in fact. In my position, you wouldn’t be surprised to hear that I face dissembling on a regular basis. It’s not unexpected for a criminal or a traitor to lie to a policeman – indeed, the natural urge to preserve one’s life would command them to. I never hold it against them. But it means that I must also have men in my orbit who will speak the truth. How else am I supposed to ‘take the temperature’ of the nation – know where I stand?”

It was a strange speech – probably the longest he had ever heard from Sharipov. Ibragimov was sure of a trap, but there was also something tempting about the opening. Had Sharipov underestimated his intelligence, or his capacity for guile?

“Frankness breeds frankness,” he said. “What do you want from me.”

“Cooperation, my friend. Everyone in that room this morning knows what is happening outside – and also what is happening to our leader. That which cannot continue will not continue. Men like us need to be prepared to deal with the inevitable crisis. And it’s better to face such things with friends by your side, no?”

“In general, yes.”

“Our positions are unique in this country. We are the two men with the most contact with foreign governments. Trust me, those governments are watching this crisis develop with interest. They will seek to manipulate it to their own ends. But we are patriots – we have to prevent foreign interests from weakening this country, even if we might rely on their help to improve its prospects in the long run.”

“You’re talking like a diplomat.”

“I am! Indeed, my role is in many ways the same as yours. And diplomacy will be more important than ever now.”

The limousine began to slow down, then pulled off onto a side road. They were nowhere near the official apartments – Ibragimov’s destination. In fact he had stopped paying attention and had no idea where in the city they were.

Sharipov smiled and extended his hand. “This is where I get off. I’m glad we had the opportunity to speak frankly to one another. We will speak again very soon, Comrade.”

Sharipov opened the door and stepped out of the car. The limousine sped off down the road.

[Rusalkan Soviet States]

Rostrograd
Federation of Rusalkan Soviet States
1350 hours
The Blue Palace

Chairman Kaffarov sat nestled into a large wicker chair, looking over a balcony into the courtyard below. He studied the movements of the soldiers below, as the changing of the guard strutted its way along with powerful goose-steps and the rigorous fanfare of militant organization. He could just make out the crimson lapels on the Red Guards greatcoats, and hear the faint shouting of officers coordinating the well practiced maneuver. Kaffarov sighed, the crisp fall air filling his lungs, before turning to the table between him and his guest and pouring a cup of tea from the samovar between them, and mixing in the cherry sauce he loved so much.

"Tell me something Nikita," he said, stirring his spoon in his tea, not looking up at the Minister of Intelligence Nikita Medvedev. "You and I both know the situation in Generistan is untenable, but Im becoming rather sick of the politicking that goes on amid the Committee every time I have brought it up. Of course Sidirov and his Foreign Affairs cronies all have something to say about it, but they never give me the answers I want, which is exactly how bad it is. They keep telling me about dinner parties."

"Im not sure I understand what it is you are asking me Anatoly," Medvedev said, leaning over as well to pour himself a cup of tea from the samovar, and taking a biscuit from the place between them as well.

"I mean, I want your honest opinion on all parties involved. I know you have eyes and ears all over the situation, I asked you too after all."

Medvedev took a sip of his tea and breathed in deeply, as if choosing his words carefully. He was lucky in his position, to not only be a member of the Central Committee but also a true and old friend to the Chairman. It afforded him certain privileges that others within the Committee did not have, such as the ability to speak freely, at least when they were in private. The only other one he knew of who had the same privilege was the Marshal, Lebedev, though this fact did sometimes worry Medvedev. He did not like his old friends seeming reliance on the military leaders of the Committee, including him. Unlike some of the others in the Committee, Medvedev did truly believe in the revolution, and was uncomfortable with the factionalism so prevalent within its leadership, and the fact that their Chairman had seemingly chosen to throw his hat in with army men and spies, the ones who could guarantee him power, rather than concentrating on the growing issues of aging infrastructure and a growing problem of smuggling and organized crime along the border cities.

But that was all a thought for a different time, as his breath was exhaled Medvedev straightened himself up once more and said with confidence, "Akaev, from what I have been told, is generally weak and frail. He projects an air of power, but does not seem to be able to keep his own politburo under control, and is afraid to commit himself to either giving into the concessions being demanded of him and his government, or the inverse of cracking down on this movement that is now questioning his rule."

Kaffarov nodded, sipping his own tea while Medvedev craned his neck to view the changing of the guard himself. A breeze blew, and tousled what little hair still remained over the top of his balding head.

"Do you think they will overthrow his government?" Kaffarov asked suddenly.

"Who, the demonstrators?" Medvedev responded.

"Yes," Kaffarov responded, a tone of general finality in his voice.

Medvedev shrugged, pushing his thinning hair back into place. "I dont know," he said. "So far they seem peaceful, though certainly angry. The sudden collectivization of their farms after so long of them being private was bound to ruffle some feathers, and they certainly didnt act quick enough to catch the people off guard either."

Medvedev stopped, but when Kaffarov did not immediately respond, he stumbled his words forward, finishing the thought he wasnt so sure he should express. To speak ill of another socialist state felt strange, but certainly necessary in this situation. Especially when he had been given prior permission to speak his mind.

"If the people of Generistan dont depose of Akaev, it would not surprise me of certain members of his own government might have something to say. They are paralyzed with factionalism, and most of them typically seem to be at one another throats, constantly seeking more power over the others. Its like a schoolyard in their chambers, even more so than ours."

"Our Committee is not so bad as this," Kaffarov protested, but Medvedev didnt take the bait. He knew arguing with Kaffarov over the effectiveness of the current Central Committee would lead nowhere, and instead his best bet was to try and play damage control rather than force change upon it. and besides, this was not the conversation at hand.

"I suppose," he said, taking a political approach to remove himself from the debate.

Kaffarov opened his mouth as if to press the matter further, but decided against it in the end, switching back to the immediate topic at hand. "Of the members of the Generistani government, which ones do you feel are the most likely to take advantage of this situation?"

"That I cant tell you for certain," Medvedev responded, "but I can tell you that I dont trust that fat little spymaster of theirs. Im not sure if he's actually planning anything, but I know enough about my own profession to know what those of us within it are capable of, and that he is the one who likely has enough dirt on all of the others to manipulate them into doing what it is he pleases. Ibragimov however, he is interesting. Blunt, and not always pleasant, but certainly a popular figure among the Generistani people. I would say that if there was to be a change of power, he would likely be the most humane option, though he is a reformist."

"Ibragimov, that's the Foreign Minister for their people, correct?" Kaffarov asked, an inquisitive and thoughtful glint in his eye.

"Thats the one," Medvedev said.

"We should speak with him I feel, throw our hats into the conversation somehow, but not in a way that is too aggressive. He seems like likely a good in to find out what this growing situation may mean for us."

Bulatsultan
Generistan
1512 hours
Rusalkan Embassy

Kiril was waist deep in his secretary when the phone on his desk rang, and the both of them stopped as it rang, sweaty and panting as if somehow the phone ringing indicated they had been caught in the affair that had been going on for the past three and a half months. When the phone stopped, they both resumed their fucking, tentatively at first before speeding up, when suddenly the phone rang a second time.

Kiril cursed, before pulling up his pants with one hand and reaching over for the phone again to pick it up. Putting it to his ear, he barked a quick "what?"

"A-ambassador?" same a tentative voice from the other side, and Kiril rolled his eyes glancing over at the secretary as she reached down to pull her panties up, brushing of lock of long dark hair out of her green eyes. Saints she's such a fucking tease in that skirt, Kiril thought, before responding.

"Well I dont know who else it could be," he said to the voice over the phone, "now spit out what it is you want, Im busy." As his secretary turned to leave he reached out to grasp her arm, stopping her and mouthed 'this will be over quick,' earning him a flirtatious smile from the woman.

"I have the Minister of Foreign Affairs on the line for you," the voice said, "we tried to call you but your secretary wasnt there, so we were put through to you directly."

Kirils eyes went wide like two great white saucers, and he rapidly began to zip his pants, phone tucked under his chin as he desperately tried to fasten his belt. "Oh, yes, yes I sent her home early, it was a slow day, please, let me speak with the Minister, quickly please quickly there's not time to waste. I apologize I apologize." As he made excuses, the secretary in question reached out and put her hand on his back, only to be quickly brushed off by Kiril, who turned to her with a frantic look in his eye and mouthed 'not now, not now, later.' She got the hint, and with an indignant upturn of her nose, she spun on her heal and strode out of the room, slamming his office door closed behind her. Kiril, in a sudden moment of panic, dropped the phone and ran to the secretaries desk, ripping the door open and sticking his head out. "You, Zlata, you can go home, I told them you were home early dont answer any calls, you aren't supposed to be here," before slamming the door again and rushing back to his phone, frantically drawing it to his ear again.

"Mr Khalashnik?" came the questioning voice of the Minister of Foreign Affairs from the other side, "are you alright?"

"Yes!" Kiril jumped, "yes, comrade, Im fine, Im fine, how are you?" He grimaced as soon as the words came out of his mouth, taking several deep breaths to try and calm himself down.

"I heard banging is all," the Minster said.

"Yes, that," Kiril began, "I dropped the phone is all, nothing to worry about."

Kiril held his breath, waiting for the Minister to respond, desperately hoping for the best. Generistan was a fellow socialist country, and while not allies, there had never been much for him to do. He had almost never communicated with his superiors, let alone the Minister himself. His days were mostly spent helping to organize trade of Rusalkan wheat too the people of Generistan, and meeting with lower level diplomats and authorities. And most recently of course, fucking his secretary, the most exciting thing that had happened to him since he had earned this position. And now, suddenly, the Minister of Foreign Affairs himself was calling Kiril directly. It was perplexing, and nerve wracking.

The Minister hummed, not seeming entirely in belief of anything Kiril had said, but he kept it to himself, instead starting in on why he had called in the first place. "Im sure you are aware of the mass protests going on currently in Generistan?" he asked, though it was more of a statement than a question.

"Um, yes, of course sir," Kiril said, "its been pretty hard to avoid here in Bulatsultan."

"Yes, well, what do you know of how the powers that be there are handling things?"

Kiril paused, thinking it over. He had never really payed them much mind, so long as the trade between Rusalka and Generistan flowed, there was little else he worried much about. Though now that it had been brought up, he figured maybe he should have been paying more attention to these protests. They were due to collectivization of farms, a major resource Rusalka was interested in, especially as the trade of wheat to Generistan had the potential to be a major boost to the economy.

"I guess you could say not well," Kiril finally landed on. "There has been little action one way or another on the part of the Generistan government to do anything about these protests."

Kiril could hear the Minister sigh on the other end of the phone. This was common knowledge, of course the Minister already knew that. But it was all Kiril really knew himself. He just hoped it would be enough to hide his incompetence.

"Im just going to cut to the chase Mr Kalashnik," the Minister began, an air of vague disappointment in his voice, "this is coming from on high not just from the Central Committee, but from the Chairman himself. This situation in Generistan is untenable, and we here in Rostrograd want to be more involved. Generistan has the potential to be a valuable ally, not only are they a fellow socialist state, but they are rich in resources, oil in particular. You, as ambassador, are in the position to help us achieve these goals, and to make sure that whatever direction this unrest in the capital goes, we come out on top. It doesnt matter through which side. Are you understanding what I am saying?"

"Um, yes, I-" Kiril paused, thinking a moment as what the Minister was asking of him began to set in, before he said, "are these phone lines secure Comrade Minister?"

"Of course they're secure, you idiotic hillbilly," the Minister exclaimed, his clear frustration with Kirils unprofessionalism apparent. "You are speaking on phones connected to the embassy located in a friendly country, who is going to be trying to tap them? And how? When my aids told me of your Masters thesis I figured you would be more intelligent than this, how on earth did you ever achieve your position?"

"Im sorry Comrade Minister," Kiril said, thoroughly kowtowed. However, despite what the Minister said, he was wrong about one thing. Kiril was certainly a rather backwards, brash, country bumpkin, having grown up in a small mining village out in the Sibir steppes, but he was far from stupid. To be picked out of the pack from such a backwards town so far out of the way to attend institutions such as Rostrograd University and the Revolutionary Technical Institute was an accomplishment on its own. It did nothing for his professionalism however, of which Kiril had little.

"Do you understand what I am asking of your? Or do I need to recall you and send a replacement capable of doing your job properly? Because I would much rather keep you their, as with the way things are going by the time a replacement arrived to take your position it might already be too late for us to achieve our goals."

"Comrade Minister, I understand what you are asking of me," Kiril said. "You want me and my team to acquaint ourselves with the leadership of Generistan, so as to secure an alliance regardless of whichever faction comes out on top of this crisis they are experiencing."

There was a long pause on the other end of the phone, and Kiril braced for another verbal lashing, scrunching his face and unconsciously curling in on himself, as if the next words out of the Ministers mouth would be a physical assault on his body. Instead, all that came back over the line was a clear and cold, "dont fuck this up Comrade," followed by the click and drone of the phone being hung up.

Kiril stared forwards, wide eyed at the sudden responsibility dropped haphazardly in his lap. He slowly reached over and placed the phone back down on its hook, and took five full breaths to calm himself down. He looked at the dual Rusalkan flags hanging on either end of his door, at the back of the little name tag announcing who he was on the end of his desk, and felt as his chair creaked as he leaned back. He let the panic wash over him, for ten seconds. Ten seconds he let himself feel fear, feel a lack of control, feel the pressure of suddenly, out of nowhere, having an entire potential international incident dropped onto his shoulders for what felt like him and him alone to carry. At the end of the ten second, in a flash, he tugged the bottom drawer of his desk open and removed a large, plastic bottle of cheap booze. Unscrewing the cap, he took a long tug at the bottles neck, before plopping it down at the corner of his desk. Turning in his chair, he drew open a file cabinet, and pulled out several files, each one on the main figures within Generistani government. It was time to start working.

[Generistan]

“Tomorrow night, they say.”

“What?”

“He’s speaking tomorrow night.”

“Who is?”

Ekbetyev pried his eyes away from the athletic blonde gyrating on a table across the room. He struggled to focus on Makhmud Tugin’s face. The fat Education Minister was grinning. “You were miles away, Comrade.”

Tugin drained his glass and reached for the half empty bottle of Ar’k, a particularly nasty rotgut that was the specialty of the house, and of most establishments in the country that didn’t serve foreigners. He filled his glass again, drained it, and poured himself another. He looked at Ekbetyev’s glass, still full, and frowned.

“Mother Maryam will be offended, brother. You know that her brother makes it in their barn.”

Ekbetyev grimaced, took the glass, and tossed its contents back into his throat. There was the faint whiff of horse, which he could not tell whether it came from the liquor itself or the environs of the still where it was made.

Tugin laughed and slapped the Economy Minister heartily on the back with a ham-sized palm. He really was enormously fat, Ekbetyev thought. Had he always been that way? Through his addled mind he seemed to remember a thinner, fitter man who had joined the Council of Ministers years ago. Looking down at his own waistline and belching deeply, he considered that all of them had aged in less than flattering ways – everyone except that damn soldier, Suleymenev, who if anything looked fitter than ever.

“Bastard,” he muttered aloud.

“A bastard he is,” said Tugin. “To keep us on pins and needles like this.”

“What?” Ekbetyev started.

“The boss – really Comrade, you must hold your liquor a little better. If Mother Maryam saw you like this – do you know, she was a student of mine. You should have seen her back then – lithe, nimble.”

Maryam, the Madam of the establishment, was steadily approaching 300 pounds by Ekbetyev’s estimation.

“Yes, back when I was just a humble teacher – before the Great Man plucked me from obscurity. Bilbek himself – can you believe it? Plucked me out like a diamond in the rough and placed me on a pillow. You remember him, don’t you? His aura – the man had an aura.”

“I never met him,” muttered Ekbetyev.

“Yes, I’ll never forget the day they summoned me to the palace. He stepped right up to me and spoke to me like we were old Comrades. ‘Comrade Makhmud,’ he says – he always called everyone by his first name. You see – "

Ekbetyev groaned. The liquor was settling unhappily in his gut, and his temper was rising. He knew that the Bilbek Sultan story was inevitable, but they had managed to avoid it thus far, and he had been holding out hope that the new record would hold.

He hated drinking with Tugin. With the demonstrations shutting down the entire central part of the city, though, he had had no choice. Mother Maryam’s was not one of the handful of semi-official brothels that were allowed to operate for the benefit of party officials and their retainers. Instead, it was an independent establishment outside of the city limits of Bulatsultan, in a small suburb called Ugru. Ugru was of no interest to demonstrators, foreigners, or even the secret police, as far as his information had it – and his information along those lines was typically quite good.

In fact, Tugin was the only other member of the nomenklatura who knew about it. Meeting him was the only risk Ekbetyev ran, but it was a big one – at least as far as his personal enjoyment went. And today his luck had been bad.

“ – and then the very next day, there I was sitting in a Deputy Minister’s chair here in Bulatsultan. Can you believe it?”

“Truly amazing,” Ekbetyev belched. The athletic blonde had gone, and in her place was a rather dumpy looking local girl. Uninterested, he turned back to Tugin.

“Tomorrow, you said. Akaev will address the nation?”

“The Supreme Soviet. But it will be televised, yes.”

“The Supreme Soviet? But where – the Palace of the May Revolution is occupied. Is it not?”

“Is, yes. But it will not be for long.” The fat man chuckled gleefully.

Ekbetyev stared. “Are you saying he means to act?”

“Act is one way to put it, Comrade. Suleymenev will certainly give us a show.”

So that strutting martinet had got his way. It wasn’t entirely surprising. He was a deeply stupid, venal man, but hardheaded and unafraid of argument.

Tugin refilled his glass and poured another for Ekbetyev. This time, Ekbetyev drank it without complaint.

“Yes, Suleymenev and the Army will show them,” he continued. “Malcontents and foreigners – Jews, too, undoubtedly. A short, sharp rap on the skull for the worst of them, and it will be like it never happened. I have no idea why Akaev didn’t act sooner. In fact, I favored this course of action the entire time. Bilbek Sultan would never have allowed this to happen. It’s a good thing he has tough customers like Suleymenev around him. He’s the only one of us who inspires absolute confidence.”

Ekbetyev had no confidence in Suleymenev. When Akaev took power, he had been in command of the People’s Guard, a regiment of internal troops that provided security in Bulatsultan. He had backed Akaev for the Presidency after Bilbek’s death, and been appropriately rewarded. Since then, he had spent most of his time on the social circuit – often in the company of various handsome young officers, to the chagrin of some of the more astute members of the politburo.

Even Ekbetyev – who had no interest in or knowledge of military affairs – was aware that the National Liberation Army had fallen into a shabby state under his watch. Curtailing the black market was a KSG responsibility, but elements of this fell under his supervision. He knew that weapons and ammunition, medical supplies, even rations often ended up in the hands of profiteers and Akat smugglers. There were rumors – unconfirmed by Ekbetyev – that Suleymenev even had an interest in this trade himself. In any event, he almost certainly owned shares in a dozen black market foreign exchange shops that he knew of. A venal man indeed.

The blonde was back, now coming over to their table. She twirled and wagged a finger at Tugin, who stood up eagerly.

“This is my stop, Comrade,” he chuckled, and followed her towards the back of the house. Ekbetyev sat considering whether to take advantage of the local charms himself, but what stomach he had for it was quickly being eaten away by the Ar’k. He took his coat and hat, and stepped out into the cold night air.

His car was parked around the corner. He had driven himself, knowing that the official chauffeurs were all under obligation to report to the KSG, and taken a circuitous route, careful to avoid being tailed on his way out of the city. The road closures and crowds had made that easier.

He stepped into the car and turned the ignition. He rubbed his hands together while he waited for the interior to warm. He fumbled in his pocket for his cigarettes and a lighter, flicked the latter and put it to the end of one of the former. He inhaled the warm smoke greedily.

The passenger door opened, and Sharipov climbed in beside him.

Ekbetyev stared. The ash from the tip of the cigarette grew longer and finally fell across the front of his coat.
“Good evening, Comrade,” said the fat, bald little man cheerfully. “It’s a cold night, but thankfully Mother Maryam keeps warm company, yes?”

Ekbetyev said nothing.

“This is my favorite of our little houses, actually. Yours too, if I recall.”

Ekbetyev’s clumsy mind fumbled with the situation as he tried to regain his composure. So he was hooked – that much was clear. It wasn’t that he had taken advantage of the house services on many occasions – that was immaterial. But after, lying there with a tall, ivory-skinned blonde or brunette, drunk on imported vodka, he would talk. What had he said?

“I understand Comrade Tugin was here as well – it was a regular Politburo meeting!” laughed the spymaster. He continued: “Do you know that he selects the talent himself? And for the related establishment down the road – for those of more – eh – peculiar tastes. His skills as a talent spotter are second to none, though. No less than the Great Man himself recognized him for this. He owes his position to him – his life, one could say. But I’m sure he’s told you that. Or perhaps some variation of it.”

Ekbetyev cleared his throat. “Forgive me, Comrade. You surprised me.”

“I confess that was intentional. In my position, I’m permitted a bit of theatricality. But there’s nothing to fear – who can blame you for wanting to get out of that wretched city. The noise is becoming unbearable.”

“I understand,” Ekbetyev continued cautiously, “that tomorrow we may get some relief. From the noise.”

Sharipov laughed again. “I see that the Ar’k loosened our Comrade Tugin’s lips. His faith in our armed forces, and our Comrade Marshal, is certainly stirring, isn’t it?”

The spymaster placed his elbow on the center console and leaned over, conspiratorially. Continuing in a softer voice: “But I believe that we both harbor a small, slightly unpatriotic doubt. No, don’t speak. We are old Comrades, and old Comrades know one another’s minds,” he said, nodding.

There was the stick. They had been listening to him. Every wretched word of complaint – every hope, every dream – he had uttered to those damned foreign whores. Sharipov certainly knew his mind.

The spymaster continued, smiling: “The Council meeting this morning, it became clear to me that your efforts to implement the agricultural policies of the Presidium have been heroic, if unrecognized. It takes an intelligent man to balance the requirements of his position with the realities on the ground, yes?”

There was the carrot.

“We have certainly made every effort – "

“Clearly. An impossible situation. But you must not be discouraged. Comrade Akaev is under great pressure from the situation – some of which is of his own making, I think you would agree.”

“I wouldn’t – "

“Comrade Ekbetyev, don’t protest. Debate is not your forte, and dishonesty does not become you. You are as transparent as vodka. No, your skills lie with numbers, statistics, figures. With money. Foreign money in some cases,” he chuckled.

The stick again. The foreign accounts.

“But the nation needs men who understand these things. The Great Man was a genius when it came to building socialism, and even he agreed that the nation could not survive without commerce with the outside world – no man is an island, right?”

“If Comrade Bilbek said it, then – "

“Then it must be true! Yes, even I – with all of my powers – require advice on financial matters from time to time. In fact, I may call upon you soon for this type of advice. I assume that that would not be too much of a burden?”

Ekbetyev nodded. “Of course not. Comrade.”

Sharipov opened the passenger door, and flashed a broad, friendly smile at Ekbetyev.

“I’m so happy I ran into you, Comrade. Please do be careful on your way back into the city.”

He closed the door and walked off, around the corner, out of sight.

[Generistan]

President Aybev Akaev Delivers Remarks to the Supreme Soviet

Bulatsultan, Generistan (“Red Star,” National Newspaper of Generistan) –

President Aybek Akaev, General Secretary of the National People’s Party, addressed the Supreme Soviet today from the Palace of the May Revolution. The President and General Secretary spoke to the delegates to mark the approach of the 75th anniversary of the May Revolution next month. The President and General Secretary exhorted his Comrades to look to the example of the Old Revolutionaries in their day-to-day life, and to consult the contents of the Manifesto of Bilbek Sultan, Theories on the Application of Marxism-Leninism to Generistanian Pecularities, in considering the issues that lie before them vis a vis the construction of socialism in the Generistanian context.

The President and General Secretary praised the industrial workers of Generistan for their heroic efforts in doubling oil production over the past five years, in accordance with the plan propagated by the Council of Ministers. He also highlighted the construction of the Akat Refinery and the expansion of Akat Port as examples of what the progressive socialist system had accomplished in a country that, prior to 1944, comprised a population more than 30 percent of which was nomadic.

Comrade Akaev did not fail to mention the agricultural workers of the nation, praising the peasantry equally for the great achievements they had made under 75 years of Socialist government. He conceded that grain yields had fallen in recent years, but agreed that the blame for this must lie with him, and with the Committee of Agriculture and the Economy (Chairman Comrade Degar Ekbetyev). He reiterated his commitment to implementing the Agricultural Law for Production of Wheat, Barley, and Other Crops in the 21st Century, which he assures the nation will reverse production shortfalls and ensure food security – indeed, committing the nation to becoming a net exporter of grain within the next decade!

Comrade Akaev closed with a special message for the malcontents and buzuqilar who have taken it upon themselves to disrupt the lives of working people in the capital. He assured the delegates and the people that these were a miniscule group, unrepresentative of the majority, and indeed an embarrassment to a decent and hardworking people. He promised to deal harshly with criminal elements and traitors, especially those who were working at the behest of foreign interests.

***

Streets of Bulatsultan, Generistan

“Could it have been more of a disaster?” Ibragimov wondered, struggling to stay in his seat as his limousine careened around the corner onto Karl Marx Avenue, and his driver pressed the peddle to the floor.

The car was a local build, but the engine was a foreign diesel and the car reached 120 KPH in a few seconds. The driver weaved between the five-ton military trucks that were coming on in the opposite direction, moving downtown towards the Palace of the May Revolution, where, looking back, Ibragimov could see clouds of black smoke rising over the rooftops of tenements and office buildings in downtown Bulatsultan. Overhead, even in the soundproofed interior of the car, he heard the roar of jet engines as a pair of MiGs streaked low over the rooftops, making another unsuccessful attempt at a show of force.

The limousine approached a barricade manned by a nervous looking batch of conscripts who raised their weapons and rushed forward. The driver didn’t stop, but weaved around through a gap in the sandbags – why the hell had they left a gap in the sandbags? – and continued on. Gunfire rang out behind them and Ibragimov heard the unmistakable sound of a bullet ricocheting off the car’s armored hindquarters.

“Bastards!” he said, flinching and cursing himself for it. “It’s bad enough without our own army shooting at us,” he muttered.

Things were moving too quickly. That fool – “fatuous, strutting, pompous, incompetent, drooling idiot Suleymenev, may God damn him,” he muttered. He had thrown a barrel of gasoline on a raging fire. Every order he had given had been the wrong one: using soldiers instead of trained riot police; overriding his officers and taking personal command; attacking the crowd with bludgeons instead of dispersing them; issuing the wrong type of teargas cannisters that didn’t even fit in their launchers. And lest we forget, when all else failed, ordering live ammunition distributed.

“Fire over their heads!” Suleymenev had shouted, seizing a megaphone from a dazed NCO, unholstering his own pistol, and pointing it towards the crowd. “Die, you traitors!”

The crowd had rushed the breaking line, overwhelming the soldiers, seizing their weapons, before being driven back by a burst of cannon fire over their heads from an armored car.

Ibragimov had watched from the roof of the Palace, trying to count the dead and wounded lying there in the square. By then, the troops had cleared the interior and were holding it, barely. Akaev was getting out of the helicopter, slowly, an expression of mixed terror and pain on his face. Ibragimov shuddered with disgust at the memory. A great man, a Bilbek, would have seen this as an opportunity for real heroics – harangued the crowd right there from the rooftop, or walked out among his Army and the people with not a hint of fear in his eyes. Say what you will about him, the man had had real presence.

But Akaev was no Bilbek Sultan. He had delivered his speech, or part of it, shaking throughout and starting at every burst of gunfire or explosion of a sun grenade outside – the noise reverberating around the large, cold chamber where the delegates of the Supreme Soviet sat uneasily in their chairs. The chamber had been about one third full. Ibragimov was surprised they had managed to wrangle so many of them – most, he understood, were at their dachas outside of the city, and a few had already fled abroad with their families or mistresses.

“Rats fleeing a sinking ship,” he muttered. But rats are smart, he considered. In every nook of every dark corner of the world, you find them. Rats survive.

He cursed this line of reasoning – equating cowardice with intelligence was the thinking of a weaker man. Even with things as they were, all was not lost.

Ibragimov pressed the intercom. “Driver, take me home.”

“Comrade Minister, the official apartments are downtown,” he said, uneasily.

“I am aware of my own address,” Ibragimov snapped.

“Of course, Comrade.”

The car ground to a halt, and the driver executed a u-turn across the several lanes of the wide avenue. The way back downtown was entirely empty – they passed the barricade. The conscripts were nowhere in sight.

As they drove past the office buildings and state groceries and retail shops, most of which had the glass smashed out of the windows, isolated groups of thuggish-looking individuals began to coalesce. The car weaved past sullen crowds of sullen faces, the driver honking the horn and compelling them move with the gunning of his engine.
Ahead, the white walls of the Foreign Ministry loomed. It was originally built as the palatial residence of a prosperous merchant before his untimely death at the hands of one of his mistresses. The squalid history of the place had continued into the Revolutionary period. Many of his predecessors had been venal men – alcoholic, choleric would-be lotharios in love with their own positions as much as the ballerinas and actresses that kept them company. They had filled the Ministry with retainers after their own hearts.

He had done what he could to clean the place up over the years – with what authority he had, he had shuffled the worst of the embezzlers and pimps to other departments, keeping them as far away from the actual work of the Ministry as possible. But he could never entirely get rid of the rot – that was the nature of the regime itself. It was fundamentally based on favors – truthfully, he owed his own position to loyalty and favoritism more than any particular skill or merit.

The driver’s pace had been slowing perceptibly over the last several hundred meters, and Ibragimov noticed now that he had stopped entirely. Ahead, through the windshield, was a solid mass of humanity. The official residences were still several blocks further, on the far side of the Foreign Ministry complex. But they could go no farther.

“Comrade Minister, the crowd is too thick. We cannot proceed. We must turn around.”

Ibragimov sighed. He was sick of failure. Sick to his bones of being thwarted at every turn in this wretched country. Here, in this progressive country, everyone was always having to turn around and go back.

Ibragimov opened the door and stepped out into the street. He drew his overcoat thickly around him. He reminded himself that it wouldn’t stop a bullet. The driver had opened his door and was calling to him.

“Comrade, Comrade, you must not. It isn’t safe!”

Ibragimov glanced back at him, and marched down the street.

There were probably several hundred people crowded around in front of the Ministry, and the street beyond that led to the official residences was also packed. Isolated small campfires lined the street, and where space permitted groups of men in overalls and dungarees – even some women – were sitting down to rest and eat. A group rose from their fire as he approached and, shoulder to shoulder, barred his way.

Ibragimov felt a hand touch his elbow and turned around to see the driver – a huge nomad – looking warily at him. He turned away, and put on his winningest smile.

“Comrades, I am sorry, but you are blocking my way.”

The tallest of the protestors, a tall, thin-faced man who wore coveralls and a long black mustache, spoke. “I am sorry, boyar, but this way is closed.” He spoke coldly, but with the natural courtesy that was the mark of the Akat tatars who inhabited the coast around Akat. “We are protesting the conditions of the workers and peasants in the country,” he continued, as if speaking to someone who had just arrived in Bulatsultan from Mars.

“I am aware of this, Comrade,” Ibragimov said. “Indeed, it is to improve these conditions that I must get to my office – there, in the Ministry building.”

The tall tribesman turned slowly and stared at the building, as if he had never seen it before.

“These are the offices of the nomenklatura,” he said, with finality. “You cannot go in there. We are protesting the conditions of the workers and peasants, who have been mistreated in this country by the government.”

Ibragimov reinforced his smile, which was flagging. It had been decades since he had dealt with these people. They had been his best workers in the oilfields: dedicated, hardworking, but stubborn and stupid as oxen.

“Yes, comrade. The government has failed you in many respects, and we must rectify this. But you see, we can’t get to work if we can’t get to our offices, correct?”

The tatar looked at him blankly. His companions were studying him coldly.

“Where do you men work?” Ibragimov asked, trying a different tack.

“The Akat refinery,” said a shorter, quicker-looking man standing beside the tatar. “We are oil workers,” he added.
“The Akat refinery! A fantastic facility. In fact, I helped to build it.”

The little man eyed him skeptically. “You don’t look like a construction worker,” he said.

“No, not exactly,” Ibragimov laughed. “No, I designed it. I am an engineer – an oil and gas engineer.”

“Engineer,” said the tall Tatar, with something that sounded like approval to Ibragimov. “Akat refinery has the best engineers in the world,” said his small companion.

“I agree entirely,” Ibragimov said. “It’s the finest such facility in the whole region.”

“We process 500,000 barrels of crude oil per day,” another of the group piped up.”

“And you will process more when they replace the hydrocracker unit.”

“Yes!” shouted the little man. “They’ve promised to replace that for four years. And the gasoline unit, we’ve been promised an overhaul by the Special Committee on Renovation of the Oil and Gas sector, but where is it?”

“I don’t know,” admitted Ibragimov. “I would have to ask my colleague at the Economy Ministry, Degev Ekbetyev.”

“You know the Minister of Economy?” asked the large Tatar, his expression changing from total blankness to slight interest.

“Of course, he is a colleague. I am the Foreign Minister, in fact. My name is Shamil Ibragimov.”

A light of recognition sparked in the eyes of a few of them, who looked at one another.

“Will you really ask him about the hydrocracker unit?” asked the little man.

“Comrade, I will do better than that! I will demand an official explanation for the delay to be delivered personally to you – the representatives of the Worker’s Committee of the Akat Refinery.”

A look of pleasure spread across the small man’s face, and it was catching. They looked at one another, proud of their new collective title. Ibragimov decided the moment was now to press.

“But gentlemen, to do this, I must get to that office building there. My phone has a direct line to the Economy Minister – if we wish no delay, you must let me pass.”

The men looked at one another, and stepped aside. The tall tatar turned and, cupping his hands to his mouth, shouted out over the noise of the crowd with a voice like a thunderclap: “Make way! Make way for Comrade Ibragimov! Foreign Minister and friend of the workers and peasants!”

The hundreds of faces turned, some standing on tiptoes and straining to watch the broad-shouldered man and the huge nomad driver as they walked through the crowd which parted around them. Ibragimov smiled and nodded at the faces as he passed.

The gates were opened to let him in, and nervous, disbelieving guards watched the smiling faces in the crowd and heard the noise of scattered applause as Ibragimov passed by.

The Ministry offices were nearly empty. His secretary was not there, and he remembered that he had told her not to come in today when he had gotten wind of what Suleymenev was planning. He called out in the hall, asking if anyone was there. A short, plump woman came out of one of the rooms, and started when she saw him.

“Comrade!” She shouted. “But, you’re here?”

“Yes. Please, my secretary is not here. Can you assist me?”

“Of course!” she shouted, jumping and following him into his office.

“Comrade?” he asked her.

“Askinova,” she said, taking a seat at the secretary’s desk.

“Comrade Askinova, please send a message to my wife. She is at my dacha. Please tell her that I am at work, and not to expect me. Then, please notify the Secretary of the Council of Ministers that they can find me here, as needed.”

He turned to go back into his office, but stopped, remembering something.

“And please also send an urgent message to the Special Committee on Renovation of the Oil and Gas Sector – that’s in the Economy Ministry – and order them in the strongest terms to provide an explanation for the unconscionable – use these phrases – delay in the renovations at the Akat refinery. Please request a response today, addressed to the representatives of the Worker’s Committee of the Akat Refinery.”

He smiled, and walked into his office.

[Generistan]

Gulen Bulok University

Aina Akhmetova’s feet fell heavily on the concrete of Worker’s and Peasants Square as she rushed towards the gymnasium building. She held her handkerchief over her mouth and nose, unsuccessfully trying to block the acrid smoke that was blowing her way from the smoldering ruins of the campus administration building. On her left, she passed the Aybek Akaev School of International Diplomacy and Foreign Languages. Despite the burning in her throat, she laughed aloud when she saw the clever rearrangement of the letters some wag had executed, transforming the General Secretary’s name into the word for a sex act involving livestock.

The floor of the gymnasium was littered with stretchers and cots, most of which were full.

“Over here, Aina,” her friend, Dinara Kalieva, called to her from one of the beds. In it was a young factory worker. His coveralls were turned down, and Aina saw a long laceration across his chest. Aina knelt beside the bed and unshipped her shoulder bag, removing a roll of bandages and a bottle of antiseptic, which she passed to Kalieva, a nursing student.

“What happened?” she asked the man.

“Ricochet,” answered a middle-aged man lying in the next cot, his left arm fastened across his chest in a makeshift cast. “Over at the Palace.”

“Ricochet? They were shooting at you?” she cried in disbelief.

The middle-aged man laughed. “Yes, but we gave it back to them – Eslam there tackled one of the Fascists and got his rifle!”

The young man grinned painfully and nodded.

“This is getting out of hand,” Aina muttered to herself as she finished wrapping the bandage around the young man’s chest.

She followed Kalieva to the next bed, filled by a casualty with a concussion from being hit with a baton.

“Ramazan came by looking for you,” she said to Aina. “About an hour ago.”

“He’s here?”

“Yeah, he and Telget are over at Alisher.”

Alisher Sultan College of Science and Technology was across the square from the gymnasium. Equipped with large classrooms, a cafeteria, and – as of yet – working telephone and internet connections, it had become the nerve center of protest movement at the university. Telget Esmailev and Ramazan Musin were respectively the President and Vice President of the Marxist-Leninist Union of Students and Teachers, the university’s student council. They had assumed de facto leadership of the “movement” on campus, though it remained far from centralized – or even organized in any meaningful way.

She unloaded the rest of the supplies she had scrounged, and rushed outside and across the square.

She found Telget and Ramazan in an empty classroom. They were arguing, as usual.

“Bilbek Sultan insisted in all of his writings – and in every recorded speech – that he was an orthodox Marxist-Leninist,” Telget was saying, in his whiny, didactic voice. “The 1973 address to the Supreme Soviet, in particular, makes absolutely clear that he was opposed to any and all deviation from the principals of Communism. The fact that he made allowances for the specific conditions in this country is just common sense – no different from Ho Chi Minh!”

“That’s cherry-picking!” bellowed Ramazan, who towered over his shorter, bespectacled colleague. “The beige book is completely clear that building a nation has to come first, before socialism even. He warned us again and again about the dangers of internationalism, of – “

“That’s completely missing the point of his entire –“

“God! His favorite book was Kirchner’s biography of Gulen Bulok, damnit!”

“You Bulokist deviants are all the same – Bulok this, Bulok that. Bulok had no ideology! No conception of class struggle.”

“Gulen Bulok is the father of this country, you blithering idiot!”

“Bilbek Sultan is the father of the country! Bulok was an up jumped shopkeeper – his land reforms left the major landlords owning even more than when he started!”

Telget tore his frustrated eyes away from his colleague as the door closed behind Aina. His expression brightened.
“Comrade Akhmetova, welcome.”

“Where were you?” demanded Ramazan. “I came looking for you. Dinara told me you’d gone outside.”

“I was looking for medical supplies,” she answered, annoyed at his tone. “The infirmary is out. I raided the pharmacy on Marx-Akaev Street.” She said the last with a hint of pride at her own initiative.

“Good!” shouted Telget.

Ramazan grunted. “You shouldn’t have gone alone. The KSG men are prowling about. We caught one trying to slip onto the grounds. We tarred and feathered him,” he said, with a savage grin.

“The streets were empty,” she said, swallowing her distaste for the brutality. “I didn’t see anyone, police, soldiers.”

“They’re probably all down at the Palace,” Telget continued. “Akaev gave his speech there this morning.”

“I know,” she said.

“Speech – he could barely string his words together. I swear he was shaking,” Ramazan said, laughing. “Afraid of a few thousand of his own people. Imagine what will happen when Almanaev gets here!”

“Almanaev is coming?” she asked. Kilit Almanaev was the Chairman of the Independent Trade Unions – the closest thing to an organized opposition movement in the country. He had gone underground at the start of the demonstrations, and most rumors placed him in the northern city of Esfar. Rumors of his return to the capital had been swirling for several days. “You’re sure?”

Telget shrugged. “It’s rumored. No one knows for sure. There are a couple representatives of the ITU here, taking shelter from the KSG. One of them told us that he planned to come to Bulatsultan. But no one knows for sure. The situation is confused.”

“He’ll come,” said Ramazan. “He can’t afford not to. The workers were chanting his name at the Palace today, during Akaev’s speech. They’ll crown the man king if he comes back.”

“Then God preserve us,” muttered Telget. “The last thing we need is a king, or another dictator. This is a movement of the people, and the people must lead it themselves.”

Ramazan snorted. Before he could cut in, Aina interrupted. “Someone said they were shooting at you. With live ammunition.”

Ramazan puffed himself up: “Akaev’s thugs tried to massacre us, yes. As if a few bullets can stop the movement.”

Telget shook his head. “They issued live rounds at the palace, yes. But the soldiers fired high, for the most part, over our heads.”

“The soldiers won’t shoot their own brothers. The army and the people are one.”

Telget shot him a harsh glance – “are they thugs or your brothers? Make up your mind.”

“Were many killed?” asked Aina.

“No,” Telget said. “No deaths, as far as I know. Some injuries, broken bones.”

“And we’ll pay them back for it,” said Ramazan. He gestured towards the far wall, where Aina noticed several automatic rifles were stacked along with a crate of ammunition. “We took them off the soldiers when we rushed their line – they can’t even hang onto their own guns, the dogs.”

Aina looked nervously at the weapons.

“The people have a responsibility to defend themselves,” said Telget softly.

“Perhaps,” she said. “But I don’t like it.”

Telget gently took her arm and led her towards the entrance to the classroom. “When was the last time you slept?”

“Yesterday,” she said, looking back at the weapons. Ramazan was inspecting the action of one of the rifles.

“Go home to your dorm and get some sleep. The movement will carry on without you for a few hours,” he said, smiling.

[Rusalkan Soviet States]

Bulatsultan
Generistan
1100 hours
Rusalkan Embassy

Zlata, the secretary, watched as Kiril pulled himself groggily up the last flight of stairs, a look of mild frustration on her face. Tucked under his ear he had a phone, and was arguing with his wife. They always argued, it was a near constant occurrence in the mornings for Kiril and his wife to fight, often over something trivial or benign. Not that Zlata cared much, she had met his wife on several occasions, and had also seen her cheating on Kiril long before her and her bosses affair had begun, the wife out at a little cafe with some unknown Generistani man, kissing and laughing together. Zlata grinned to herself at that, knowing that dear sweet Ms Kalashnik was just as much of a whore as her husband was.

Zlata, for her part, saw it as an opportunity, a little piece of ammunition to keep in her back pocket. She didnt care much for Kiril, aside from him being her boss. But she saw his uses. If she could find a way to carefully, quietly, destroy their marriage from somewhere in the background, then perhaps, and only perhaps, she could swoop in and insert herself into the equation in such a way that did not merely make her out to be the mistress. Diplomats had plenty of perks after all, something she hoped to gain access to.

Zlata was shocked out of her smirking reverie by Kirils hand, slamming down on her desk. "Zlata," he said, "how's that draft you were working on, the timetable for my meeting with Foreign Minister Ibragimov."

"Oh, uh," Zlata began, feeling almost as if she had been caught in a lie for scheming off of Kirils failing marriage while he was right there. "Yes, I have it," she continued, shaking off the sense of shame she felt and pulling the schedule from her desk drawer. "Here, I've left you plenty of time in the morning to get ready, and also managed to organize tea and some food for you and the Foreign Minister at 12:00. From there, there is a brief amount of time to show him around the embassy, or just chat, before meeting in your office to hash out the details of everything you wish to organize between the two of you. At 3:00, the meeting will be over, and I can make up another schedule should you have another meeting planned with Mr Ibragimov."

Kiril reached forward and snatched the paper from Zlata's hand, looking it over with a critical eye. The crows feet at the corners of his face crinkled up as he squinted at the lunch part of the schedule. Looking back at Zlata, he pointed at the menu of food being served, and said, "why eggplant?"

"Its healthy," Zlata said, "and besides, its served with caviar."

"No, no no no, not the eggplant," Kiril said, shaking his head at the selected meal. "Make it pelmeni, Sibir style with all the meat and all that. And have the cooks prepare bliny as well, we can serve caviar with that instead."

Zlata nodded, taking the schedule back as Kiril turned to leave, opening his office door and stepping inside. "Ill be making some calls, if anything comes up please let me know," he said, before closing the door in his wake. Once inside, he tugged his old, slightly too big jacket off and hung it over the back of his chair, his tie slightly crooked and his hair messy. It was how he always looked, Kiril was a smart man but he had never fully shaken off his village ways, always been scruffier than his colleagues, rougher, more uncouth, and occasionally a loudmouth more inclined to fight with his fists than his words. It was probably why he had been put in a position like this one, in a country where his mannerisms would not cause undue duress, because he wouldn't need to interact with other officials much.

Kiril looked at himself in the little mirror in the corner of the room and sighed. There was a stain on his collar, blood from cutting himself while shaving. Running a hand through his hair, Kiril sniffed and groaned with displeasure, before picking up the phone. Typing in a number, he waited until the line picked up, and the operator announced he was speaking to the office of the Foreign Minister of Generistan, Comrade Ibragimov. Kiril waited a moment, unsteady on his feet as his responsibilities seemed to pile up more and more with every passing day, before taking a deep breath and setting in.

"Hello," he began, "this is Kiril Kalashnik, chief ambassador to Generistan for the Federation of Rusalkan Soviet States. Im calling so that I can set up an appointment to host the Foreign Minister here at our embassy, and discuss the relations between our two nations going forward."

[Generistan]

"Hello," he began, "this is Kiril Kalashnik, chief ambassador to Generistan for the Federation of Rusalkan Soviet States. Im calling so that I can set up an appointment to host the Foreign Minister here at our embassy, and discuss the relations between our two nations going forward."

The short, plump secretary, Askinova, picked up the phone.

“For Foreign Minister Ibragimov? I’m sorry, who did you say you were again? I don’t see anything on his calendar about a meeting at a foreign embassy. Is Comrade Ibragimov expecting your call? What was your name again?”

Ibragimov stepped out of his office, a quizzical look on his face.

“I’m sorry, Comrade Ibragimov. A man saying he’s the ambassador from the Rusalkan Soviet States - Kiril Kalashnik. I think it may be a crank caller. I’ll get rid of him immediately, don’t trouble yourself.”

Ibragimov’s eyes widened. “No, no! Please, Comrade Askinova, that is the ambassador. Put him through directly. Directly!”

Ibragimov walked back into the office and closed the door. For all her dedication – indeed, she was one of the only administrative staff members who was still reporting to work – Askinova lacked tact.

Ibragimov vaguely remembered Kalashnik from when the Rusalkan diplomat had presented his credentials to President Akaev. He recalled a pleasant but somewhat disheveled young man.

He picked up the phone.

“Excellency? This is Shamil Ibragimov. You must forgive Comrade Askinova. How may I help you?”

[Rusalkan Soviet States]

"Hello," he began, "this is Kiril Kalashnik, chief ambassador to Generistan for the Federation of Rusalkan Soviet States. Im calling so that I can set up an appointment to host the Foreign Minister here at our embassy, and discuss the relations between our two nations going forward."

The short, plump secretary, Askinova, picked up the phone.

“For Foreign Minister Ibragimov? I’m sorry, who did you say you were again? I don’t see anything on his calendar about a meeting at a foreign embassy. Is Comrade Ibragimov expecting your call? What was your name again?”

Ibragimov stepped out of his office, a quizzical look on his face.

“I’m sorry, Comrade Ibragimov. A man saying he’s the ambassador from the Rusalkan Soviet States - Kiril Kalashnik. I think it may be a crank caller. I’ll get rid of him immediately, don’t trouble yourself.”

Ibragimov’s eyes widened. “No, no! Please, Comrade Askinova, that is the ambassador. Put him through directly. Directly!”

Ibragimov walked back into the office and closed the door. For all her dedication – indeed, she was one of the only administrative staff members who was still reporting to work – Askinova lacked tact.

Ibragimov vaguely remembered Kalashnik from when the Rusalkan diplomat had presented his credentials to President Akaev. He recalled a pleasant but somewhat disheveled young man.

He picked up the phone.

“Excellency? This is Shamil Ibragimov. You must forgive Comrade Askinova. How may I help you?”

"There's no harm done, I rarely have had much need to communicate with you directly, so I dont blame Comrade Askinova for not knowing who I am," Kiril said, looking over his shoulder at TV in the corner of the room, picking up the remote and flicking it on. He was glad to have access to Rusalkan channels on this TV, as he poked through the directory for local channels, none of them were covering in any realistic detail what had happened in the city square this morning. All the noise and shooting had woken up his wifes stupid little dog with the skin condition, and the damn thing had stood at the window yapping through what Kiril had hoped would be a relaxed morning where he could sleep in. Of course Akaev and his imbecile of a Marshal had ruined that, one of the few pleasures Kiril took from his mornings.

Tiring of trying to find decent coverage, Kiril switched the channel over to a Rusalkan one, and was instantly hit with an overhead view of the square, when the crowds had rushed the soldiers, looted shops, been shot at and frightened the shivering old man who ruled their nation. Kiril smirked at the footage of Akaev, the man was weaker every day, and Kiril felt pride in choosing Ibragimov as his first choice to speak with. The man seemed to have a good head on his shoulders.

"I have to be honest with you Comrade," Kiril began, "Im watching the news right now, and Im seeing how the events at the square went. Which, Im sure I dont need to tell you, was probably not the way your government was hoping things would go. I had hoped to speak with you sooner, but angry students and farmers wait for no one, so I guess we'll have to make do with our current situation."

Kiril smiled as he spoke, and hoped it would carry through the phone.

"Thats ultimately why Im calling you," he continued, pushing forward with the script he had written out in his head so he could get all of the formalities done with as quickly as possible. "My own government has seen fit to have me try and get a better handle on what's happening here in Bulatsultan, and so I thought you would likely be the best person to start with."

[Generistan]

"Thats ultimately why Im calling you," he continued, pushing forward with the script he had written out in his head so he could get all of the formalities done with as quickly as possible. "My own government has seen fit to have me try and get a better handle on what's happening here in Bulatsultan, and so I thought you would likely be the best person to start with."

“Yes, the situation is certainly delicate. Regrettable, in fact.”

He spoke slowly, choosing his words carefully. When he had assumed control of the Foreign Ministry, he had insisted to Akaev that he have access to a clean phone – one that was not tapped by the KSG – purely in the interest of avoiding an international scandal. Akaev had agreed to that condition, but he had never been entirely sure whether it had been acted upon. He had quietly consulted technical specialists on his own account, who could find nothing amiss with the phone lines, but he preferred to proceed as if Sharipov was personally listening in on every call he made.

“Certainly, it is in our government’s interest as well as yours to present a clear portrait of the situation in the capital – which, I must add, is largely under control, though it must appear messy to an outside observer.”

He hesitated for a moment before he proceeded with his next suggestion. If he was indeed being eavesdropped upon, it would be easy enough to explain. Rusalka was a large, friendly, socialist nation and a trading partner. A meeting to reassure their ambassador of the situation - especially upon their request - was in many ways unavoidable and would raise no hackles.

“It would be my pleasure to try to present you with a view of the situation, and what measures our government is taking to deal with it. But I would suggest that it might be better to do so in person.”

The crowd outside, having finished their breakfast, had begun chanting slogans again. Even in his office, which did not face the street, he could still hear the noise vaguely.

“If I remember correctly, your embassy is off of Gilgit Place? I will be in that neighborhood around noon, and would be pleased to stop by briefly, if convenient.”

It would be somewhat against protocol – properly, he should have invited Kalashnik to the Ministry, but under the circumstances it was hardly possible. As far as he knew, the city’s “embassy row” remained relatively peaceful.

[Rusalkan Soviet States]

“If I remember correctly, your embassy is off of Gilgit Place? I will be in that neighborhood around noon, and would be pleased to stop by briefly, if convenient.”

It would be somewhat against protocol – properly, he should have invited Kalashnik to the Ministry, but under the circumstances it was hardly possible. As far as he knew, the city’s “embassy row” remained relatively peaceful.

"Gilgit Place, that's correct, near the more eastern end of the road," Kiril said, "I would be happy to meet with you, Im sure it would be good for you as well to be able to get away from all the, ah, distractions Im sure can be found around your Ministry building."

Kiril did not say it directly, but the implication was clear. Come to the Rusalkan embassy, where any bugs or wire taps would not be feeding directly into the ears of Sharipov but instead the Rusalkan Minster Medvedev, who would not care.

Kiril continued to smile on his side of the phone, watching a live feed of two talking heads as they discussed the unrest in Bulatsultan. He reached into his shirt pocket and removed a cigarette case, an ornate rendition of the Rusalkan seal engraved on the side, and lit up a cigarette he pulled from it with a flourish.

"I look forward to meeting with you Comrade Minister, I believe we've only met the once when I delivered my credentials, it should be good to get to know you better."

[Generistan]

"I look forward to meeting with you Comrade Minister, I believe we've only met the once when I delivered my credentials, it should be good to get to know you better."

Ibragimov, frowning, replaced the receiver, and let his hand slide onto the top of the desk. His fingers drummed arrhythmically. He hadn’t had time to consider whether he was making the proper choice. Uncharacteristically, he had gone with his gut.

Upon reflection, though, it wasn’t such a bad idea. Things were beginning to move too quicky here in Bulatsultan. It was a time when any friend at all would be useful, and the Rusalkan ambassador could be a valuable friend, both to him and to Generistan. In any event, he had agreed to go, so he was bound.

He stood and pulled his coat around his shoulders. As he stepped out of his office, Askinova stood up and handed him a printed note.

“From the Special Committee on Renovation of the Oil and Gas sector,” she said.

Ibragimov read the note and broke into a laugh. “This will do,” he said. “Please, can you send Mehmet up? This must be delivered to the Worker’s representatives. Outside.”

By the time the limousine pulled out of the gates of the Ministry building, the crowd had thinned. The tall tatar stood to one side of the gate, saluting as Ibragimov waved. His short companion waved the note over his head: “650,000 barrels per day by July!” Ibragimov caught him shouting as the car roared past.

As he suspected, Gilgit Place was quiet – riot police and armored cars controlled traffic going into the foreign diplomatic quarter, and there were few Generistani faces on the streets at all. His driver pulled through the gates of the Rusalkan embassy. As he stepped out of the car, Ibragimov reflected that he had only been here once before, some years ago.

Greeted with appropriate pomp, he awaited the Rusalkan ambassador.