I finalized the signature and set the pen aside.
The pen, improperly placed, began to roll before coming to a halt against the parchment.
The Chief of Staff walked toward the door and checked the lock.
The Chief of Security barked a brief series of orders into the corridor's intercom.
Immediately, silence descended outside the conference room.
The Chief of Staff spoke.
"Until a final decision is reached today, external communications are restricted. Telephone lines are severed; radio frequencies are reserved for security personnel only. Documents shall not leave this room."
The representative of the Liberty League let out a hollow, incredulous laugh.
"Using Jenkins' old playbook for his third term, I see."
The representative of the Social Revolutionary Workers' League shrugged dismissively.
"It isn't a bad approach. It would be far more farcical if our votes wavered because of the noise from the mob outside."
The Secretary of the Alliance for Hopeful Progress nodded while organizing their papers.
"Fine. However, a record must be kept. Whatever is decided in this room today must be undeniable, no matter who attempts to subvert it tomorrow."
The Floor Leader of the Centralists fixed his gaze on me.
"You summarize it, Comrade. You've been leading the charge thus far."
"Very well."
I looked down at the draft spread across the table.
"The agenda consists of three items. First: election of the Acting Chairman. Second: formation of the Emergency Response Committee. Third: scope of authority. First, let us determine the voting methodology."
The moment those words left my lips, the atmosphere in the room shifted. A heavy, bureaucratic dread settled over us.
No one present was naive enough to believe that 'voting methodology' was a neutral topic of discussion.
In this arena, the method of voting was the shape of the battlefield itself. It was the calculated selection of who would be granted an advantage and who would be hobbled by a penalty.
The Secretary of the Alliance for Hopeful Progress drew the line.
"Let it be a secret ballot. In an open vote, organizational discipline crushes the conscience of the individual—especially on a day like this."
The Centralist Floor Leader countered immediately.
"An open vote is preferable. Accountability is paramount. We must have a record of who made which choice."
The representative of the Social Revolutionary Workers' League let out a low, cynical chuckle.
"Accountability, indeed. Such a sweet word when you're holding it like a dagger to someone else's throat."
The Liberty League representative chimed in.
"An open vote isn't about accountability; it's a mechanism for weaponizing fear."
I cut through their bickering.
"The first round shall be a secret ballot. The runoff shall be an open vote. If no candidate secures a majority, we proceed to the runoff between the top two candidates from the first round."
The Centralist Floor Leader swallowed his words. A secret ballot allowed for defections, and defections eroded the hegemony of his organization. It was a method he loathed.
Conversely, the Secretary of the Alliance for Hopeful Progress blinked, intrigued. A secret ballot was exactly the opportunity they sought.
The representative of the Social Revolutionary Workers' League seemed to be reading my expression, while the Liberty League representative looked as though they had caught a whiff of my true intent.
The Centralist Floor Leader spoke in a low rasp.
"Fine. But ensure the runoff is strictly open. It must be etched into history exactly where everyone stood when the final blow was struck."
"Agreed."
I then wrote the second line.
'Emergency Response Committee: Four members. One representative from each of the four factions.'
The final line remained blank. That line would be the price of entry.
The Liberty League representative watched my hand and asked, "What exactly is the function of this Emergency Response Committee?"
I replied without lifting my pen from the paper.
"It is the apparatus meant to define and regulate the powers of the Acting Chairman."
The Social Revolutionary Workers' League representative grinned.
"Beautifully phrased. In plain Ursus, it's a mechanism for us to keep each other on a short leash."
I didn't bother to respond.
The Secretary of the Alliance for Hopeful Progress pointed to the middle of the document.
"As for the scope of authority, let us lock down the core pillars: Budget, Public Security, Audit, and Personnel. These four cannot be touched without a three-fourths majority of the Emergency Response Committee."
The Centralist Floor Leader reacted instantly.
"If you shackling Security and Personnel like that, the entire government will grind to a halt."
The Social Revolutionary Workers' League representative interjected sharply.
"If you're so afraid of stopping, act in a way that keeps things moving. Why is your first instinct to complain about being 'shackled'? Is it because that's exactly how you've been operating?"
It was less an accusation and more a cold critique. Everyone in the room knew precisely how the Centralists had maneuvered during the previous administration.
The Liberty League representative looked at me.
"Comrade Arthur. You walked into this room tonight intending to seize the Acting Chairmanship for yourself, didn't you?"
I didn't smile at the remark.
"Whether it is me or someone else, somebody is going to seize that seat tonight. Why state the obvious?"
I wrote the final line.
'Emergency orders and large-scale budget reallocations require three-fourths approval from the Committee.'
Silence filled the room. This was a sentence that clearly prioritized obstruction over action. Definitive rules always attract the most resentment.
The Centralist Floor Leader spoke through gritted teeth.
"...Very well. Next, let us establish the list of candidates."
Even without anyone speaking it aloud, my name was already on the table. It had been there since the briefing. I had set the voting rules, and the others had seen me constructing the very framework of the transition.
The representative of the Social Revolutionary Workers' League held up two fingers.
Two candidates are sufficient. Anything more is merely leverage for negotiation.
The Secretary of the Alliance for Hopeful Progress nodded.
"Three candidates for the first round. We need to gauge where the loyalties lie."
The meeting naturally dispersed. No one formally called for a recess, yet the groups drifted apart to caucus with their respective cadres.
I remained seated. It was a deliberate choice.
Once the others had cleared out, I caught the eye of the Chief of Staff. He opened the door to a small adjacent chamber—the room's shadow, a place where records were never kept.
The first to enter was the representative of the Social Revolutionary Workers' League.
As the door clicked shut, his face shifted. The mask of revolutionary ideals he wore at the table vanished.
"Comrade Arthur," he whispered. "Let's be honest. Whether it's you or the Floor Leader, what matters to us isn't what happens today."
"Then you are speaking of tomorrow?"
He shook his head.
"The upcoming local Soviet elections. The industrial heartlands. Yorkshire, Manchester."
At the mention of those names, the cold calculus of the party map flashed through my mind.
The representative handed me a sheet of paper containing a map of the constituencies and projected candidate lists. He had come prepared.
"If the Centralists promise not to run candidates there, we will give you our votes. In the runoff. In the open ballot. And afterward, we will participate in your coalition."
"Withdrawal, you say."
As I let the word linger, he added quickly, "It needn't be a total withdrawal. But at the very least, a unification of candidates under our banner in those cities."
I realized that what he sought wasn't just a few seats, but the entire industrial landscape. He was asking for me to surrender the massive labor unions located in those cities to his faction in exchange for his support.
"A steep price."
He didn't laugh.
"Surely, Comrade, you anticipated a price of this magnitude?"
I spoke slowly. "Naturally. This is a sound trade."
I dismissed him. Before the door had even fully closed, the Secretary of the Alliance for Hopeful Progress slipped inside. Then came the representative of the Liberty League. Each demanded their own pound of flesh, and in return, each promised their votes.
The last to enter was the Centralist Floor Leader.
He sat across from me and wasted no time on pleasantries.
"The party organization is mine," he hissed. "The personnel lines, the planning bureaus... all mine. Do you think you can actually govern as Acting Chairman? Everything inside this machine belongs to my cadres. Acknowledge that and withdraw."
"Is there anything else you wish to say?"
His gaze was iron-hard. "If you run, you will regret it."
The recess ended.
I returned to the conference room. The faces of the representatives had changed; they all clutched something invisible in their hands—be it a document, a weakness, or a promise.
The Chief of Staff placed the ballot box on the table.
The voting commenced.
The field was narrowed to three candidates.
Me.
A senior member of the Centralists supported by the Floor Leader.
And a candidate from the Social Revolutionary Workers' League.
Each time a folded slip of paper hit the box, the sound echoed in the silent room. As expected, the first count failed to reach a majority. The Social Revolutionary candidate was eliminated.
The runoff: Me versus the Centralist heavyweight.
The representatives remained in their seats as the final ballot began.
The first to raise their hand was the Secretary of the Alliance for Hopeful Progress.
There was no hesitation. That hand gave me its vote, even as it reached for my throat.
Next was the representative of the Liberty League. He looked me in the eye before raising his hand. His gaze didn't speak of trust; it spoke of a cold, pragmatic transaction.
The representative of the Social Revolutionary Workers' League waited until the very last moment before raising his hand. The instant that hand went up, the gravity in the room shifted.
The board had tilted.
A few Centralists wavered but ultimately made their choice. Finally, a majority was reached.
The Chief of Staff made the formal declaration.
"Comrade Arthur Wellesley is hereby elected as the Acting Chairman of the Central People's Committee."
I rose from my seat. My throat was dry, but I forced the words out.
"Today's decision is not an ending. It is not even a beginning. Today, we have merely sutured a wound in the void of power."
Before I had even finished speaking, I could feel the room calculating. The hands that had just voted for me were already searching for the perfect spot to grip my neck when the time came.
The meeting concluded with the stamping of official agreements. The supplemental agreements were placed in separate envelopes. These were sealed, and the signatures of the four leaders overlapped on the wax like thin, intersecting blades.
The doors opened.
The corridor remained as long as ever. Now, it felt longer. With every step, it wasn't my body that felt heavier, but my name.
The portraits greeted me once more.
Vladimir, Wrangel, Maxim, Jenkins, and John Russell.
I stopped before John Russell. His face still looked weary, a exhaustion that now felt as though it were bleeding into me.
An aide approached quietly.
"Comrade, the crowd is waiting. You must step out now."
I nodded.
As I stepped out onto the terrace, I saw an ocean of red flags greeting me.
I looked upon them and began my oath.
"I solemnly swear before the people of this nation to uphold the Constitution, to perform my duties with integrity, to enhance the welfare of the people, to defend the State, and to meet the trust placed in me by the citizens. Should I fail in this, I shall rightfully face the judgment of the Nation. I further swear—"