"The most important question before the Comintern today is to gain a dominant influence over the majority of the working class and thus involve the significant strata of the working class in the struggle. This is necessary because while the objective situation is revolutionary... the vast majority of workers still remain outside the influence of Communism."
—Resolution of the Third Congress of the Comintern.
**********************
The moment I pushed open the heavy doors of my office, my secretary sprang up from her desk and offered a sharp, disciplined bow.
"Comrade Chairman, a telegram has arrived from the Executive Committee of the Comintern."
"At this hour of the morning?"
"Yes, Comrade. It arrived late last night, but fearing you were already asleep... I intended to present it to you first thing this morning."
"Very well. You did the right thing."
The secretary carefully extended a distinctive red envelope.
Embossed upon the wax seal was the crest of a hammer and sickle superimposed over a map of the world.
It was the insignia of the International Communist Party—the exporters of revolution.
I broke the seal.
── To Comrade Vladimir, Chairman of the Central People's Committee of the Union of Terra Soviet Socialist Republics.
I tilted my head, my eyes scanning the text beneath the letterhead.
The summary of the transmission was as follows:
First, the Comintern "highly appraises the measures taken by the Union regarding the Yorkshire incident and its subsequent stabilization as a vital component of war preparation."
Second, conflict with Gaul is no longer a matter of 'if,' but 'when.'
Third, before that 'when' arrives, the Union must secure two things.
Bread. And rifles.
The final line of the missive was particularly striking.
── "A revolution cannot be sustained by a starving army, nor can it be defended with outdated rifles."
The content itself merely mirrored what our governmental departments and the intelligence bureau had already assessed, but the phrasing was absolute.
Indeed, our most urgent needs were armaments and a grain reserve sufficient for a prolonged war of attrition.
I folded the message and set it atop my desk.
The secretary stood there, watching my expression with cautious eyes.
"How much of this have you heard?"
"…Only that the war with Gaul is drawing near, Comrade."
"That is enough. It is a fact known to all. I am convening an emergency session. Call the People's Commissars of Planning, Agriculture, and Defense. Summons Frank, Wrangel, and Feliksa as well. Bring them all."
"Yes, I will prepare at once."
The secretary retreated from the room.
Alone in the silence of the empty office, I picked up the red envelope once more.
****************************
The interior of the briefing room was relatively warm, thanks to the stoked stove.
Perhaps that was why the faces of the gathered officials looked slightly more vital than usual.
Stacks of dossiers were piled high upon the long oval table.
Wrangel was leaning back in his chair in his habitual semi-reclined posture, while Ivanov, the People's Commissar of Defense, sat ramrod straight with every single button on his uniform fastened to the neck.
Frank, our acting Commissar of Finance, still sported dark circles under his eyes that reached his cheekbones, and Karasin, the People's Commissar of Agriculture, gripped his folder with hands hardened by toil.
Feliksa sat across from me, quietly swirling the contents of her teacup.
Her gaze remained clear.
She did not look tired—in fact, she looked so vigilant it made me wonder if she ever slept at all.
Once I had scanned their faces, I pulled out my chair and sat.
"Good. Everyone is present."
The low murmur of conversation ceased instantly.
Every pair of eyes in the room turned toward me.
I placed the Comintern's telegram on the table.
"A transmission just arrived from the Comintern Executive. The gist is simple: war with Gaul is inevitable. If we are to say we are ready at any moment, we require two primary things."
I raised two fingers.
"One is food. The other is modern weaponry."
Ivanov's eyes sparked immediately.
Conversely, Frank's face visibly tightened.
"The telegram contained a specific quote."
I recited the sentence verbatim.
"'A revolution cannot be sustained by a starving army, nor can it be defended with outdated rifles.'"
Karasin took a sharp, quiet breath.
Frank straightened his posture even further.
"Therefore, the objective of today's meeting is crystal clear."
I spoke with finality.
"Within two years. Within two years, we will put a Type-26 service rifle into the hands of every soldier in our army. Simultaneously, within those same two years, we will establish a one-year strategic grain reserve for wartime. That is our goal."
"Two years..."
Karasin muttered under his breath almost unconsciously.
"A full year's supply..."
I turned my gaze toward him.
"Comrade Karasin. I want to hear from you first. We must know how empty our silos are currently before we can decide how to fill them."
Karasin stood up slowly.
The backs of his hands were covered in the thick callouses typical of a man who had gripped the steering wheel of a tractor for half a lifetime.
A symbol of our class abolition, he had risen from a tenant farmer to a People's Representative, and eventually to this position; yet his hands were still clumsy as he opened the files.
"Comrade Chairman. I will summarize."
Karasin's voice was low, heavy as damp earth.
"Currently, the Union's grain production is sufficient for peacetime standards. Provided our distribution systems remain sound, not only will the city laborers be fed, but even the paupers will not starve. We can see through the winter in the countryside without a single famine casualty. In fact, people might even put on weight."
Frank gave a slight nod.
The subtext was clear: it was sufficient 'only' for peacetime standards.
Karasin continued.
"However, if we look at it through a wartime lens... we are desperately lacking. Under the assumption that a total war occurs, requiring the mobilization of the peasantry and the requisitioning of all trains and vehicles, we currently only have approximately a three-month reserve of food relative to our current troop strength."
"And if we enact a total mobilization decree to expand our forces?"
Wrangel asked the question.
Karasin's lips pressed into a thin, hard line.
"In that case... the army would likely have to start raiding civilian grain stores by the fourth month."
A cold silence settled over the briefing room.
We had already imagined this scenario once before, during the last meeting.
A future where the army, instead of guarding the people's granaries, was the one looting them.
"To put it simply," Karasin continued.
"We can endure during peace, but we will collapse in war. Our current requisition structure cannot withstand the stresses of a major conflict."
"Then we must change it."
At my words, Karasin looked up.
"A one-year reserve within two years. Is it possible?"
He remained silent for a moment.
Frank spoke up, tidying the papers on his side of the table.
"Comrade Chairman, our own estimates align with the Commissar of Agriculture. The grain reserves are at three months for current troops, but once you factor in refugee rations, it's just over two months. To prepare for total war... we need at least a one-year reserve, ideally fifteen months. Creating that within two years is, frankly, a brutal objective."
"I notice you aren't saying it's impossible."
"No. I will stick to saying it is... 'brutal.'"
Wrangel cleared his throat.
"Then let us rephrase. What do you need? What can the Commissariat of Agriculture not resolve on its own?"
Karasin answered immediately. He had clearly pondered this for a long time.
"Manpower. Tractors, seeds, and fertilizer are all important, but the most urgent need is people. To till more land, we need more hands. The abandoned fields, the villages left to ruin by war orphans, the border regions passed over by migrants. We need an organization capable of pouring people into all those places at once. Currently, the Union has many children, but few adults."
He looked at me.
"Therefore... I wish to borrow the youth."
I mulled over his words quietly.
"The youth?"
"Yes. The Young Communist League, the United Communist Youth Labor League, the Association for the Promotion of Women's Advancement, the Sarkaz Youth Democratic Liberation Front, the various Student Study Leagues... The names are long and varied, but aren't they all overflowing with passion and no place to direct it? They must be sent to the rural villages and the new reclamation zones. Not as volunteers, but as a national enterprise."
Wrangel crossed his arms.
"You're suggesting we send the boys and girls into the fields with shovels? It's a bit of a classic trope."
"It is the eve of war," Karasin said calmly.
"Better for the youth to swing a pickaxe in the fields than sing songs in the taverns. Only then, when they go to the front with rifles, will they have bread to eat while they fight."
Frank added his support.
"Simultaneously, it will alleviate urban unemployment. The reported unemployment rate is 4%, but if you count the unofficial semi-unemployed, the actual burden is far greater. We would be creating work—solving the urban job shortage by expanding rural opportunities."
I nodded.
"Fine. We will proceed as follows."
Everyone's attention was fixed on me.
"First: We will issue the 'All-Union First Food Production Mobilization Decree.' I just invented the name, so the final title may vary. The point is simple. We will deploy every available youth and student organization—the Young Communist League, student leagues, women's advancement groups, and the youth wings of the trade unions—to rural reclamation and agricultural restoration projects. It will not be a forced draft. However, participants will receive official credit equivalent to military service. We can grant them veteran bonus points, can't we?"
Ivanov raised an eyebrow at that.
"...Equivalent to military service?"
"Correct. Serving on the front lines with a rifle isn't the only way to serve. Labor in the rear is service as well."
I continued.
"Second: We will grant the People's Commissariat of Agriculture expanded authority. They are to negotiate directly with regional Soviets and collective farms to designate idle land as national reclamation zones or state-run farms. The grain produced there will be channeled primarily into military reserves. In exchange, those regions will receive priority for industrial goods and infrastructure support."
Frank nodded, taking diligent notes.
"The Financial Control Committee will coordinate this. So long as the promises aren't too excessive... we should be able to maintain the balance."
Karasin then gave a deep bow.
"With those measures... it is worth a try. If we can till more land, gather the people, and have a system of incentives in place... then a one-year reserve in two years? I will say it is possible."
"It doesn't have to be a certainty, so long as there is a chance."
I smiled.
"We aren't miracle makers. We are simply those who calculate more meticulously."
Wrangel chimed in bluntly.
"And what they call a miracle is usually just the result of a well-performed calculation. Much like the non-existence of a god."
A ripple of soft laughter swept through the room.
It was brief, but it eased the tension.
I turned my attention to the next item.
"Now that we have a rough sketch for the food situation... Defense."
Ivanov sat up straighter.
He looked as if he had been waiting for this moment.
"About the Type-26 service rifle, Comrade Ivanov."
"Yes, Comrade Chairman."
"A total rearmament of the entire army within two years. What is the minimum quantity required by the military?"
"Based on the current standing army... without considering reserves, it is 1.2 million units."
"And if we include the reserves?"
"...We would need at least 3.5 million units. At the bare minimum."
The air in the room grew heavy again.
Instead of tapping his calculator, Frank looked like he was crunching the numbers in his head, his face turning increasingly pale.
"3.5 million rifles in two years..."
He spoke in a low voice.
"That's 1.75 million units annually. It's impossible with our existing factory lines. We'd also have to expand our ammunition plants simultaneously."
"Which is precisely why I brought this up today."
I stated.
"I intend to meet with Dr. Tanya Morozov."
Feliksa smiled slightly upon hearing that name.
"Comrade Tanya has been pulling all-nighters at the institute lately. To bring her out, you'd probably have to drag her at gunpoint."
"To drag a woman who makes guns at gunpoint... that would be a bit ironic."
I pushed my chair back.
"Very well. Let us conclude."
I summarized our points one by one.
"Since the war with Gaul is virtually at our doorstep, we set our targets: a one-year grain reserve and the deployment of 3.5 million Type-26 rifles within two years."
"Agriculture will attempt to resolve its shortage through the mobilization of youth and students, reclamation, and incentive adjustments."
"As for military production... we shall discuss that after I have seen the situation with my own eyes."
I stood up.
"Everyone in this room, from this moment on, must never let the phrase 'We are ready' cross your lips. At least for the next two years. We will say those words only when we actually are."
Feliksa nodded silently.
Wrangel, Ivanov, and Karasin did the same.
In lieu of applause, we exchanged promises through our steady gazes alone.
*********************************
The institute and munitions factory of the Morozov Design Bureau were located on a specialized mobile city.
The rhythmic thrumming of the Originium engines echoed across the snow-covered plains.
Black plumes of smoke billowed into the grey sky, darkening it further.
As I stepped off the train, the roar of machinery battered my eardrums.
"I love this sound," Feliksa said at my side.
"It sounds like life. Urban noise just wears people down, but factory sounds... they feel like a heartbeat."
"Are heartbeats usually this loud?"
"Well, my heart isn't exactly the quiet type."
She gave a playful smile.
A manager standing at the factory gates rushed over and saluted hurriedly.
"C-Comrade Chairman! What an honor...!"
"Formalities later. Where is Dr. Tanya?"
"Ah, yes! She is at the inner testing range. She hasn't left the site for days..."
"Isn't that for you people to manage?"
"She simply doesn't listen when we tell her to stop..."
The manager scratched his head awkwardly.
We entered the factory.
The interior was scorching, hot enough to make one forget the winter outside.
The air was thick with the scent of iron filings, oil, and sweat.
One might imagine hell smelling something like this, but it was also a strangely reassuring scent.
The testing range was located in a separate wing of the building.
As we opened the thick soundproof door, a familiar silhouette came into view.
Clad in black work clothes, her raven hair tied back in a simple ponytail that reached her waist, she wore the Hero of Socialist Labour medal which dangled as she moved. Her shoulders and face were smeared with iron dust and soot.
Cradled in her hands was a service rifle that still possessed its factory sheen.
Dr. Tanya Morozov.
"Dr. Tanya."
She turned around.
Though deep shadows were etched beneath her eyes, her gaze was piercing and sharp.
"Chairman."
She gave a brief nod.
Then, she lifted the rifle slightly.
"Type-26 Service Rifle, Variant 2. You'd like a demonstration, I assume?"
"I would."
I walked further into the firing range.
The targets were positioned far away, beyond a series of steel plates.
Tanya began her explanation quietly.
"While the fundamental structure is based on the original Union Type-26, I have simplified the barrel processing and the bolt assembly. The loading speed is marginally faster, and the number of skilled workers required for the manufacturing process has been reduced. Most importantly..."
She tapped the rifle gently.
"We have increased parts interchangeability to over 90%. All future Type-26s will use the same magazines, the same bolts, and the same trigger mechanisms as the Type-21s. It won't matter which factory produces them. Maintenance will be far easier."
Ivanov scanned the rifle with the critical eye of a veteran soldier.
"How is the ergonomics?"
Tanya pulled the charging handle, producing a sharp metallic clack.
She braced the rifle against her shoulder and fired a single shot.
—BANG!
With the sound of striking metal, a hole appeared dead center in the target.
"The recoil is similar to the existing models. However, aiming is slightly easier. The sights have been improved. You could hand this to a raw recruit, and they'd be proficient after a month of training."
"A month..."
Ivanov, as a soldier, and I, as the Chairman, simultaneously registered that duration in our minds.
"Good. In my eyes, the rifle is a success," I said candidly.
"The issue isn't the quality of the gun, but the quantity. Correct, Comrade Tanya?"
Tanya's eyes wavered slightly for a fleeting moment.
She caught her breath before answering.
"You sent me the target quota, Chairman. 3.5 million units in two years."
"Indeed."
"May I speak honestly?"
"That is why I am here."
Tanya closed her eyes and then opened them.
"...It is impossible with this single specialized mobile city."
Frank stopped writing the moment she spoke.
"What is the maximum annual production capacity?" Wrangel asked.
"With our current equipment, it is 200,000 units per year. If we run night shifts at full capacity, we can push that to 250,000. Beyond that... either the machinery will fail, or the workers' limbs will fall off."
Tanya stated this matter-of-factly.
"The current lines were designed for the production of old-style rifles, and the processes are geared toward that. Even though we've simplified the structure of the Type-26, it still consumes just as much steel. Rifles are a numbers game. This city alone cannot achieve a total of 3.5 million units."
She looked directly at us.
"So, I will be bold enough to say this."
Tanya's voice dropped an octave.
"We must build more factories."
A brief silence hung in the air.
I could almost see the numbers racing through Frank's head.
Frank eventually voiced his concern.
"My apologies, Comrade, but we lack the budget to expand this mobile city. The remaining modules are for residential use, so the burden..."
Then, a thought struck me.
Yorkshire.
Weren't the ones who incited the rebellion capitalists?
What if we took the industrial sectors owned by them—and the core Liberty League party members who turned a blind eye to the riot—detached those from Yorkshire, and coupled them here?
"If we were to convert half of Yorkshire's industrial facilities into munitions manufacturing, would it be possible?"
I turned to Frank.
"Comrade Lanster. In the view of the Financial Control Committee, is this our best option?"
Frank took off his glasses and rubbed his forehead.
Then, he spoke with absolute honesty.
"Whether it's the best or not... we won't know until two years have passed."
He offered a thin smile.
"But... very well. I agree. If our wallet is thin, we must decide where to spend even the smallest coin, even if it's just the byproduct of a negligible transaction."
I took a slow breath.
The smell of iron dust in the factory filled my lungs.
"Fine."
I declared.
"We will decouple a portion of the industrial district modules from Yorkshire. If you receive these factories, can you provide 3.5 million Type-26s in two years?"
Tanya drew a deep breath.
And then, she nodded.
"Yes. I will personally oversee the redesign of the factories and the equipment layout. I will personally select the workforce. I will standardize the process manuals. Within two years, I will pile 3.5 million Type-26s, fully crated, on your desk, Comrade Chairman."
"My desk might collapse under that weight."
"Then we shall pile them in the warehouses."
Tanya allowed herself a rare smile.
I reached out my hand.
"Let us proceed. Dr. Tanya Morozov—as the Director of the Morozov Design Bureau and the chief of the Type-26 service rifle project—let us undertake this two-year gamble of the Union together."
She gripped my hand firmly.
Her palm was rough.
It was the texture of a hand that spent its life handling guns and slabs of iron.
"Well then..."
I lifted one of the rifles.
"It looks like this thing is going to torment us for the next two years."
Tanya shrugged.
"Isn't it this very thing that will ensure the Union survives?"
I held the barrel pointed toward the sky.
The sounds of machinery, the breaths of the people, the falling snow, the smoke, and the even louder sounds that would soon echo through the world.
The thunder of Gaulish artillery and Arts.
The cracks of Union rifles and the shouts of our men.
For a fleeting second, everything seemed to overlap.
"And it is for the people, as well."
I whispered very softly.