Max Weber posited that the power driving the modern state lies neither in charisma nor tradition, but in the calculated precision of bureaucracy.
The issue was that such precision, at times, was more effective at exhausting the soul than illuminating the truth.
The checkpoint on the outskirts of Yellow Lake was exactly such a place.
As the grey inspection vehicle ground to a halt before the barrier, I felt a premonition that this day would be grueling. The fog had not yet lifted, and the steel skeletal structures rising beyond the mist looked like a forest—or perhaps a prison. Long cables wept low in the wind.
For a mere transformer station, there were far too many guard posts; for a test facility, there were far too many men carrying rifles. It wasn't an ordinary site by any stretch of the imagination. It was simply that the aesthetic sense of those trying to hide that fact was utterly wretched.
Two sentries approached. Usually, these guards fall into two categories: the ones who act like they own the world and the ones who are just drawing a paycheck.
Abdul asked from the passenger seat, "Shall I handle this?"
"Stay back. It's not your turn yet."
Abdul nodded without a word. A truly competent man rarely does what he hasn't been asked to do. Of course, if it were something that genuinely needed doing, he'd act first and apologize later, but this wasn't that time.
I pulled my coat tight and stepped out of the car.
"Present your permits," the sentry said, his voice stiff.
I held out a dossier instead of an answer. He flipped through the pages one by one. Despite being unable to digest even a few lines, he kept furrowing his brow. His wasn't the face of a man trying to understand a document; it was the face of a man using a document to assert dominance.
"Is this the original deployment order?"
"It is."
"You have a large entourage."
"Do you expect us to come for an emergency inspection as if we're on a picnic with a single technician?"
"Why is there a communications technician attached?"
"Because there is a high probability that the power anomalies and the radio interference are interlinked."
"Open the cargo bay."
At that point, I was certain. These men weren't suspicious of anything specific. They were just looking for a pretext to stall for time. I decided to change my strategy. There was no need for me to prove anything. I just had to make them sick of us.
"You may open it. However, if you cannot name every single tool inside, you will permit me to close it immediately."
The sentry opened the bay. Inside were toolboxes, measuring instruments, spare cables, document crates, insulated gloves—standard industrial junk. He scanned them briefly before returning to the paperwork. When faced with the unknown, humans adopt one of two attitudes: they either become honest or they become more pedantic. The sentry chose the latter.
"Are you saying you came directly from the main office?"
"I am."
"Why?"
I finally looked the man straight in the eye.
"Admirable. That is your third question, and your comprehension of the documents remains abysmal."
The sentry's expression hardened. "Excuse me?"
I smiled. "You neglected to read Clause 6 of the supplementary files. For emergency inspections of facilities with the potential for regional blackouts and communication failures, restoration procedures take precedence over site entry audits. You looked at the third page and skipped the fourth; you are violating regulations while pretending to uphold them."
He hurriedly flipped the pages. I didn't give him a second to breathe. These types would only regain their confidence if you gave them a gap to bark back, so I had to keep the pressure on.
"Let me make it simple. Every second you keep us standing here, if the equipment spikes again, that won't just be a checkpoint delay. It will be a failure of field response. And from that moment on, your name will be in the record. I will forward that record to the main office, the Committee, and if necessary, all the way to the People's Commissariat for Federal Planning. Are you comfortable with that?"
One sentry clamped his mouth shut. The other chimed in.
"We still have to verify identities."
"Excellent," I chuckled. "Then let's start by writing down both your names. Rank, current time, reason for entry delay, and liability for additional blackouts or communication expansion caused by the obstruction of an emergency inspection. I'll take it down, so please recite it slowly."
At that moment, Neurath quietly opened another folder beside me. It was the signal that it was time to close the deal.
"Very well," Neurath said. His voice was calm and chilling. "Let us begin by drafting a statement of reason from the checkpoint. Provide your name, rank, the basis for your field judgment, and the reason for refusing the emergency inspection in writing. We shall forward it to the Central Committee as is."
The faces of both sentries soured simultaneously. It was the familiar look of someone realizing their luck had just run out. That was enough. They didn't need to fear us; they just needed to be fed up with us.
Footsteps echoed from inside the guard post, and a middle-aged man who looked like the security chief emerged. The bags under his eyes were deep, and his hair seemed to have fallen out along with his sense of responsibility. He smelled like a middle-manager—tired, irritable, and above all, possessing a deep-seated loathing for anything troublesome.
"What's going on?"
The sentry replied, "There was a procedural issue..."
"Tsk, as if that explains anything." The man scanned the papers. I spoke before he could even finish.
"Are you the one in charge?"
"I am, but—"
"Then this is simpler." I clasped my hands behind my back. "I can choose one of two things right now. I can continue this Q&A with you and record just how inefficiently your department is operating, or you can raise the barrier and let me focus on the job I came to do. Which do you prefer?"
The middle-aged man's lips twitched. It wasn't a smile; it was a grimace of defeat. He glared at the sentries once before speaking.
"Let them in."
"But the regulations—"
"I said let them in!" he added with an irritated growl. "If that gentleman really did come from the Center, he'll make our lives miserable all day. If he's a fake, the people inside will catch him eventually."
The 'dignity' of bureaucracy is usually revealed in moments like this. Just as the dignity of an aristocracy is a blend of high-mindedness, inefficiency, and hypocrisy, bureaucracy finds its 'dignity' in the friction born of stability and laziness. Regardless, the barrier went up.
As I climbed back into the car, Abdul whispered softly, "I suppose people really do fear paperwork more than guns."
Neurath answered without looking at him. "A bullet ends a man, but paperwork follows you even after death."
The statement wasn't wrong. It was just irritating to hear.
**
The vehicle passed the checkpoint and moved deeper into the facility. Beyond the fog, the entire complex slowly revealed itself. There were low, long administrative buildings, a power distribution room, a rear zone surrounded by barbed wire, and black structures looming in the distance. At first, I thought they were trees; then, I thought they were factory chimneys. Only as we drew closer did I realize what they were.
Antennas.
And they weren't ordinary ones. A massive forest of giant antennas stood there. To claim no one knew these were being erected would be to describe a myth, not a nation. But this was a country managed by civil servants, not gods. The conclusion was simple: everyone knew and everyone looked the other way.
I stopped walking.
"Alright. Let's split up here."
They all looked at me. "I'll meet the operations manager and check the ledgers. Neurath, stay by my side and keep their throats tight. Denis, sweep the technical room. Just don't get excited and start giving a lecture on telecommunications."
Denis flinched. He had clearly been called out.
"Abdul."
Abdul already had a cigarette in his mouth. "I'll keep watch." He naturally drifted toward the rear.
I met the operations manager in a second-floor office. He was in his late forties; his hair had clearly receded in inverse proportion to his promotions, and the shadows under his eyes were etched deep by late shifts and liability dodging. He wasn't a composed man, but a man who had to pretend to be composed. He was perfect for browbeating.
Initially, he offered a formal smile. "You've come a long way. Hard work, isn't it?"
"Indeed," I sat down. "But it seems you are the ones who made this hard work necessary."
His smile cracked slightly. "The blackout was a local issue. Most of it has been restored, and the direct link to the communications failure hasn't been—"
"'Most' is such a convenient word."
"Pardon?"
"Power consumption has spiked, yet your reports are placid. Night shift personnel increased, yet the approval chain remains unchanged. Emergency fuel consumption is up, yet there are no records of emergency operations. Do you call such a state 'mostly restored'?"
He opened and closed his mouth like a fish. "That... is due to reporting discrepancies between departments."
"I see. Reporting discrepancies." I leaned back in my chair. "What a magnificent phrase. Doesn't that usually mean nobody wants to take responsibility?"
Neurath, flipping through the ledger, opened it to a specific page. "The sequence of the date stamps here is reversed."
The manager looked over. "What—"
"This document was approved ex post facto. And the entry records here differ from the copies held in the administration office. Either one is a forgery, both are inaccurate, or someone doctored them after the fact."
The manager made an excuse. "Haha... we are under a wartime footing, so the administration is a bit chaotic right now."
I scoffed. Wartime footing. What a wonderful excuse. Most people believe that those four words excuse inefficiency, concealment, and delay. But I am different. I believe that on a wartime footing, the ledgers must be even more precise. Where people are dying, at least the numbers should stand straight.
And besides... the UTSSR hasn't even issued a mobilization order, let alone entered a wartime state.
Neurath tapped the ledger quietly. "This isn't a mere cover-up. The entire administrative procedure itself is rotten."
Remarkable. Neurath had a terrible personality, but his timing was impeccable. It felt as if the manager's remaining hair was falling out in real-time.
**
Meanwhile, in the technical room, Denis had become a completely different person. The nervous youth from moments ago was gone, replaced by a telecommunications obsessive who had caught the scent of equipment. The room appeared unused at first glance—transmitters tagged for disposal, dusty panels, old waveform recorders, and half-disassembled relay devices. It looked like a storage room that hadn't been touched in years.
Denis immediately sensed something was off. Equipment meant for disposal doesn't smell like this. He touched the side of a panel with his gloved hand. It was warm. The wear on the contact points was recent. The recording rolls showed signs of being changed recently, and some panels even had dust artificially sprinkled on them. It wasn't old and worn; it was styled to look old and worn.
He looked into a meter and suddenly stopped. "Wait."
The field technician guiding him asked, "What is it?"
Instead of answering, Denis tilted his head. Tap— Tap— Tap— Tap— It was a faint sound. Not a cooling fan, nor vibration in the pipes. "That's not a fan, is it?"
"Pardon?"
"It's a continuous striking sound." He moved a few steps, tracing the wall wiring. In another direction, the sound became clearer. Tap— Tap— Tap— Tap— That rhythm was the exact same beat he had heard hundreds of times in the basement situation room's recordings.
"It's the same."
"What is?"
"The recording. This is the same sound."
"...? I mean, what recording are you...?" Ignoring the guide's confusion, Denis stared between the wall, the meter, and the wiring diagram with a dazed face. It wasn't agitation; it was the heat of discovery.
**
Meanwhile, Abdul was slowly circling the parking lot and the perimeter. Cigarette in mouth, he exchanged idle chatter with the drivers and pretended to kick the tires, but his eyes never rested. What he saw was simple. The fuel trucks had entered toward Building 7 twice. The guard rotations were unusually frequent. There were more vehicles with military plates than expected. And just moments ago, a black Volga had arrived later than all other vehicles. Usually, such cars don't arrive late.
"Building 7 seems busy today," Abdul said casually to a driver.
"It always is," the driver replied.
"If that's the case, its fuel consumption is closer to a power plant than an office building." The driver fell silent. That was enough. Abdul didn't press further. He discarded his cigarette and quietly entered the building.
**
I was seeing the shadow of Building 7 through the ledgers. The spikes in power consumption. The fuel increase. Night-time personnel movements. And dozens of other logs. The Power Bureau, the Bureau of Telecommunications Safety, the Guard Detachment, the Regional Administration Liaison Office... It was a combination where it was hard to pin the blame on just one department. Even if I didn't know who ordered it yet, it was clear that a great many people had collaborated and stayed silent.
Just then, Denis practically ran into the office. "I found it."
"What?"
"The direction of the sound. It's coming from Building 7. And this equipment..." He caught his breath before continuing. "It's not scrap. There's a larger device behind it. This isn't just a spare line."
The manager's face turned grim. "That is an unauthorized zone."
I looked back at him. "Then there's all the more reason for me to see it." He tried to say more, but Neurath already had a copy of the entry logs in hand. He swallowed his words. Thanks to that, we headed straight for Building 7.
At the end of the corridor stood an old clerk. He stared at me for a long time before speaking. "Excuse me..." The air froze for a moment. "You look very familiar. You look just like that man who gives speeches on Central Broadcast. The Founding Father, I mean."
In moments like this, panic is the end. Composure is the only answer. I shot back without even blinking. "I hear that often. I have such a handsome face that I'm frequently misunderstood. But still, there will never be another man as great as the Founding Chairman..."
The manager barked out, "Does it matter if he looks like him? Everyone back to work!" The awkwardness passed. It hadn't been completely erased, but it was enough.
When the steel doors of Building 7 opened, I briefly lost my voice at the sight inside. The ceiling was vaulted. Massive steel frames rose high, and structures wound with copper coils stood in rows. Cables crisscrossed the ceiling and floor like vines. Vacuum tubes glowed faintly, and between them, mechanical relay hammers were moving in a rhythmic beat. Tap— Tap— Tap— Tap—
The 'woodpecker' sound was echoing here. It could no longer be called noise. It was the heartbeat of this monstrous facility. Denis spoke in a voice bordering on terror. "This isn't test equipment." He stepped toward the control panel. "It's a strategic transmission array. With this much power, they could drown out radio across an entire sector. This explains why the lines toward the Ursus Republic went dead."
He paused before uttering a more chilling thought. "They didn't hide this. It's too big to hide. Everyone simply looked at it and pretended they saw nothing."
Neurath cross-referenced the ledger with the output records. The power spikes and the communication blackout periods matched perfectly. "Excellent," Neurath muttered, then corrected himself. "Now it is clear that killing just one person won't end this."
It was then—
"I'm here!" Thud!
In that instant, Abdul rushed in, having knocked out the manager with a knife-hand strike to the neck. But there was no hint of a smile this time. "I smell something bad."
"What is it?"
"The black Volga that just arrived—the plates were swapped. Besides, those cars don't come at this hour. And the front gate guards have doubled."
I asked briefly, "They have no intention of letting us leave?"
Abdul nodded. "Most likely."
As soon as he finished speaking, the lights flickered off and back on once. Everyone held their breath simultaneously. Tap— Tap— Tap— Tap— Only the relay sound remained steady. Then, from a loudspeaker somewhere in the ceiling, a voice blared.
"Unauthorized intruders detected in Building 7. Implementing total lockdown of all zones. All inspection team personnel, do not move from your current locations. Repeat. Unauthorized intruders detected in Building 7."
No one spoke first. The woodpecker sound continued to beat in its steady rhythm, as if that massive machine was finally, truly, staring us right in the eye.
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