Due to the onset of hostilities, the border between the Victorian Republic and the Ursus Republic has been sealed.
Transport of all materials, save for military supplies, has been strictly prohibited.
The Border Guards and the Victorian Republican Army rapidly mobilized to the frontier. Their rifles are now turned inward, eyes fixed with predatory intensity on any potential sleeper agents bold enough to attempt a crossing into Ursus under the current shadow of war.
For the common citizen, news of the situation in Ursus is now filtered through only two narrow channels: the state-sanctioned press and the crackle of telegraph lines.
Inside the headquarters, it was pure pandemonium.
"Connect the call, damn it! What in the hell is happening in Ursus?"
"¿Qué dice? ¿Podría repetirme en ibérico?" (What are you saying? Could you repeat that in Iberian?)
"You bastard, don't you speak Victorian? Uh, fine. You there with your hand up, do you have intelligence?"
"Где находится тот туалет? Я не знаю, потому что это мой первый раз здесь." (Where is the latrine? I don't know my way around, this is my first time here.)
"What is this gibberish! Stop babbling!"
The International Communist Party's Liaison Bureau was functionally paralyzed. For years, they had offloaded every minor administrative task to the Union's People's Commissariat of Foreign Affairs; now, when faced with a real crisis, their lack of operational competence was laid bare.
The fallout was instantaneous.
"Communication with the government of the Ursus Soviet Socialist Republic is dead!"
"杂音太重了,听不见啊?" (The static is too heavy, I can't hear a thing!)
"The line has been severed mid-way!"
Contrary to the imposing, brutalist grandeur of the International Communist Party HQ, the interior was a mess of rot and bureaucratic decay.
Wiring was so tangled that no one knew which jack connected to which receiver, and many of the telegraph lines had been gnawed through by rats in the walls.
Communication circuits to foreign parties or social organizations—save for the most frequently used ones—were inoperative due to a chronic lack of specialized maintenance personnel.
Yet, the most critical failure was the link to Military Command.
"...Something is jamming the signal."
The call went through.
The receiver on the other end was lifted.
But the voices of the Supreme Command of the Ursus Republican Army did not travel across the wire.
Instead, through the thick, drowning static, the haunting melodies of the Ursus Imperial March and the Imperial Anthem played on a mocking loop.
It was the same at every branch of the Communist Party and every revolutionary collective across Ursus.
"...Great Mother."
In that moment, the realization struck them all like a frostbite. All communication between the Ursus Soviet Socialist Republic and the International Communist Party had been systematically decapitated.
*****************************************
I had rushed back to Headquarters, but there was little I could actually do.
"So, you're telling me every single line to Ursus is practically dead?"
"Yes. Not 'practically'—they are entirely dark."
"Did you try a public exchange? Perhaps it's just the HQ network failing."
"We requested the Columbia Branch to attempt a connection to Ursus. They reported total failure on their end as well. Something is very wrong, Comrade."
My heart sank into my gut.
It felt like the work of the Ursus Empire.
Was this Kashchey's handiwork? If we consider the list of suspects...
"It seems the Empire has made its move."
The Empire was the most likely culprit. After all, it is the Empire that is currently waging an existential war against the Ursus Republic.
Our other rivals—Leithanien, the Bolívarian Monarchy, Sargon, Yan—are far too occupied with their own internal strife to launch such a sophisticated hostile measure against the Union right now.
They might enforce embargos or hike tariffs—which, given the history of the Union's diplomacy, are practically 'neutral' acts—but a total communications blackout? That is an act of total war.
Moreover, the party that stands to gain the most is the Ursus Empire. By severing communications, you halt supplies, you paralyze the movement of armies, and you shatter the administrative backbone.
It is a strategy akin to severing a nervous system. No matter what the sensory organs feel, the signal never reaches the brain; the brain, in turn, cannot command its limbs.
I didn't know how they achieved it—perhaps some grand-scale Originium Arts—but the result was absolute.
However...
"Something... something feels off about this."
"Comrade Litvinov, what exactly is bothering you?"
Litvinov paced around the room, nervously twisting his mustache. I placed a grounding hand on his shoulder.
He finally spoke.
"Logically, this shouldn't be possible on this scale. My father was a signalman. I took the vocational continuity program in primary school, so I know the fundamentals."
Litvinov began rummaging through the lockers used by the communications crew. He tossed aside handfuls of reports and maps until he unearthed a specific chart.
He unfurled the All-Union Wired Communication Route Map, a labyrinth of symbols I could barely decipher.
"The Union's wireless system is too expansive to be taken down by a localized Arts strike. Furthermore, several critical communication routes were designed to be 'Arts-Hardened.' We avoided Originium altogether and used inefficient, archaic copper and polyethylene cables specifically to guard against such sabotage."
Amidst the tangle of lines and relay towers, a single, thick trunk of cables converged at one point before crossing into Ursus.
It was a massive bottleneck—the nexus of our communications. Kropfen.
Neurath chimed in.
"Doesn't that prove Kropfen was hit? Perhaps Imperial spies or Emperor's Blade agents managed a temporary severance."
Litvinov shook his head vigorously.
"Kropfen is within the territory of the Victorian Soviet Socialist Republic. The Empire knows their enemy is currently the Ursus Republic, not the entire Union. To strike Victorian soil now would be..."
"But would they care about such distinctions in the heat of battle? They're already fighting across a continent. Comrade, I think your theory is drifting into the realm of third-rate fiction."
At Neurath's dismissal, the veins in Litvinov's forehead throbbed. His ears flushed deep crimson.
"Are you dismissing an analysis rooted in practical expertise as mere fantasy?"
I stayed silent. I had been away from Union politics for too long; I barely knew what Kropfen was, let alone the intricacies of its defense. Between their arguments, it was becoming impossible to tell if this was an Imperial plot or internal sabotage.
To prevent the debate from devolving into a shouting match, I adjourned the meeting.
"That's enough. We all need time to organize our thoughts."
I dismissed them and slumped into my chair, letting the silence of the room envelop me. Which faction was trying to blind me?
The Empire?
Elements within our own Union?
Or some unknown third party?
I wandered deeper into the labyrinth of suspicion. Every theory spawned a dozen doubts, and every doubt was eventually swallowed by the sheer absurdity of the situation.
Just as I was clutching my head in a groan of frustration, the door creaked open.
"Comrade Chairman, a letter for you."
A secretary entered holding a single envelope. A letter? Now?
"A letter? At a time like this? If it's a fan letter, leave it on my desk in the office. I'll get to it when the world isn't ending."
I waved him off, but the secretary took a step closer, his expression grave.
"...It is of the utmost importance, Comrade."
"...."
I wordlessly took the envelope and read the contents.
"..."
The secretary stood motionless, watching me. I reached for my lighter.
A crisp ping echoed as the lid flipped open. I held the paper to the flame.
The paper curled into ash as it burned away.
"It seems things have become complicated."
Feliksa was calling me. The OGPU was calling me.
***************************************
"Do you know the state of things, Comrade? Truth be told, our OGPU has lost quite a bit of its luster compared to the old days."
"Is that so?"
"Oh, yes. Indeed. Compared to the past, it's an absolute world of difference. Night and day."
The driver Feliksa had assigned to me, Abdul, was a relentless chatterbox.
Too much talk for a clandestine trip.
Nonetheless, wasn't the OGPU still the largest counter-intelligence apparatus in the Union? Why would its power be declining?
"Do you want the simple explanation or the complicated one?"
"Well—I'll take the simple—wait, how did you know what I was thinking?"
"It's as easy as pie, Comrade! You don't survive being an orphan from Sargon and make it all the way to the Union without learning how to read a face!"
Abdul reached into the glove box—ignoring the steering wheel for a terrifying second—and pulled out a document.
He handed it back to me.
"For starters, take a look at this. It's a rough breakdown I put together."
I took the papers and scanned them briefly.
.
.
.
What is this? Why are there so many intelligence agencies?
"Right? Too many chefs in the secret kitchen, isn't it?"
"Yes, exactly. Back in my day, there were only—wait, you did it again—"
"It's been brewing for twenty years. Comrade Feliksa refuses to step down... Ah, scratch that. There was simply no one with the talent to replace her, so our OGPU hasn't changed its head in decades."
Abdul spoke as the OGPU headquarters began to loom in the distance.
"Naturally, she knows too many of the dirty secrets our proud politicians would rather keep buried. So, the high-and-mighty of the Union reached a 'grand strategic decision!'"
The car drew closer to the fortress-like complex. Men in grey trench coats with fedoras pulled low over their eyes stalked the sidewalks.
"They created new intelligence branches by splintering OGPU's authority. Then they poured the budget into those new agencies to keep the OGPU in check."
Suddenly, our car accelerated straight toward a solid concrete wall.
"Hey, hey! Watch out!"
Horrified, I gripped Abdul's shoulder as we hurtled toward impact.
But Abdul didn't flinch.
"Hold on tight, Comrade!"
The car swerved into a blind spot hidden from external cameras and sped toward the barrier. We were going to crash—!
"Aaaggh... huh?"
There was no impact. The wall slid open with silent, mechanical precision, swallowing the car into the building's hidden interior.
"Haha! How was that, Comrade Chairman? Nothing like a bit of thrill to wake you up, eh?"
Abdul laughed heartily, but I wasn't smiling.
Feliksa was standing right in front of the car.
"Comrade Chairman, it has been quite a while."
"Mmm. Comrade Feliksa. You've been well?"
"Yes, I've been fine. Settled down, started a family, living the quiet life."
Feliksa held out a folder.
"The reason I called you... there's something I thought my favorite Chairman should know personally."
She leaned toward the open car window and whispered directly into my ear.
"Regarding the severed communication lines—we've confirmed it wasn't the work of Ursus Imperial agents."
Aha...
So, one of our own agencies played a trick? Not on an enemy, but on the International Communist Party itself?
"Then what is this?"
"A list of the agencies within our Union that could be behind this. To be honest, since my authority has been wanned over the last five years, I've even included the OGPU on that list. I want you to be careful, Chairman."
So this folder was a directory of suspects?
"I am always in your debt, Comrade Feliksa."
I truly was. I waved a grateful hand as Abdul pulled the car away, then I opened the folder.
......
She might as well have just told me to suspect everyone.
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