Three policemen sat on the benches inside the commuter train. More precisely, two of them were seated, placing between them a tall, thug-like man with a clearly criminal appearance, handcuffed by one hand to an officer. His face was covered with small scratches, clearly a result of the arrest.
The third officer was standing, holding onto the handrail, looking out at Moscow's evening skyline and occasionally sneaking glances at the criminal.
The policeman, a man of Caucasian appearance, was a little over fifty and short but still sturdy. His dark-skinned face was marked by long black mustaches, while the rest of his face was clean-shaven.
Despite his rough appearance, the detainee was relaxed, leaning back on the bench, watching everyone—including the officers—as if they were insects. In short, he felt like he owned the world. And in truth, he wasn't too far off. At that time, gangsters wielded real power, and the weakened law enforcement had little they could do against them. The gangster knew it, and so, in reality, there was nothing for him to be afraid of.
— "Hey, cop," — the gangster called out from between the two officers, addressing the policeman standing in front of him.
— "For you, you scumbag," — the man said with a faint accent, finally lifting his eyes from the Moscow streets and staring at the gangster with his coal-black eyes, making him shrink and fall silent. — "It's not a cop, It's Sergeant. One more time you disrespect me, I'll hit you in the kidneys. Got it?" — The detainee, clearly unhappy with the threat, went quiet, frowning like a child. — "Got it!?" — the policeman shouted, still receiving no reply.
— "Yeah yeah, I got it. Why did you even detain me, over some minor crap?" — the gangster drawled reluctantly.
— "You'd do well to keep your mouth shut," — the policeman intervened from the side, a middle-aged man of Slavic appearance. — "You were extorting money from old folks and selling their things at the market. And yet here you are, asking why you were arrested, bastard. They've got nothing to eat, and you?" — he made a swinging motion to scare the gangster. The man, already taught by bitter experience, raised his free hand to block the fake hit.
The remainder of the ride was quiet. The policemen dragged the detainee to the station. The duty shift was already waiting for them there.
— "Dima, dear," — the cop addressed the duty officer sitting behind the desk. — "This guy needs to be put in the holding cell, we're going to process him."
— "Got it, Marat," — the duty officer and a few other officers led the detainee toward the holding cells.
— "Alright, time to get him officially processed," — the sergeant said to his partners. He was about to go get some office supplies, that is, a pencil and sheets of paper. Notably, for new cases they used the blank sides of old files, dating back to Soviet times. Things in the police were that bad. And just as the sergeant was about to fetch these items, the youngest of the three officers spoke up.
— "Marat Sergeevich, let me handle the paperwork. You and Dmitry Antonovich should head home. We've been chasing these racketeers for several days without a break. Better for you to rest, I'll deal with this here myself," — the young officer offered a very appealing idea.
— "Lesha, you sure about this?" — the visibly tired sergeant said to his young partner. — "There's no point in showing off to prove yourslef like that."
— "No, really, it's fine, Marat Sergeevich, I'm telling you. Go get some rest," — the young guy replied enthusiastically.
— "Fine," — the sergeant answered after a short pause. — "Thanks, Lesha. I owe you lard now."
— "And I'll get half a liter of vodka," — added the second officer with a smile, following the sergeant's lead. — "Let's celebrate, after all, we've been chasing those bastards for a long time. At least they'll leave people alone for a while."
— "Got it. We'll definitely celebrate," — the young officer said with a smile.
With that settled, the three comrades went their ways. Two went to report the shift to the duty officer, and the third stayed behind to formally process the detainee.
The following morning, feeling rested and cheerful, the sergeant headed back to work.
Neat and sharply dressed, he bounced lightly up the steps in front of the main entrance and into the station, greeting familiar faces and colleagues along the way. As Marat walked and greeted everyone, a strange feeling began to stir inside him. The man was slightly paranoid by nature, so the unusual glances from colleagues and friends worried him and made his mind run through different scenarios. And he wasn't imagining things——because once he got inside, the first thing he did was head toward the holding cell block, and after checking around, he couldn't find the detainee from yesterday or a few other suspects they'd picked up the day before.
Swearing under his breath, Marat headed to the duty office.
— "Dmitrich, where are the detainees we brought in yesterday?" — the policeman asked, with a hint of rising anger in his voice.
— "I have no idea, Marat. What are you talking about?" — the duty officer asked, looking up from his newspaper. — "I just started my shift."
— "I'm talking about the detainees. Shevtsov, Nevzorov, Saakashvili. They're accused of racketeering and systematic extortion," — Marat said.
— "Ah, I see. Well, they were released this morning," — the officer said, acting like it was no big deal.
— "What?! — the policeman suddenly raised his voice, saying it with a much stronger accent than usual. This always happened with Marat when his anger overflowed. — "Who gave the order?!" — the man asked. Even in his highly emotional state, he immediately began to piece things together.
— "Hey, Marat, take it easy." — The duty officer got up from his chair, trying to cool his partner's temper.
— "I'm calm. Just tell me who. Please." — Marat really did speak now in a more composed tone.
— "Well, it was by order of the head of the department." — The man said this a little awkwardly.
Hearing this, Marat didn't say a word and headed to the chief's office.
Reaching the door, he knocked on it several times and, not waiting for an answer, stepped inside.
— "Greetings, Comrade Major, sir. Comrade Major, may I ask a question?" — Marat asked in an absolutely calm voice, though inside his rage was boiling. He kept a calm expression with great effort.
— "Go ahead." — The department chief said. — "Though I can guess what do you want to ask. It's about the detainees, isn't it?"
— "Yes, comrade Major, sir."
— "I'm sorry it turned out this way. But all the victims withdrew their statements. A lawyer came, most likely hired by their boss, and took them away from us. You're not the first to come to me with complaints today. So many have already been here." — The chief massaged the bridge of his nose, tiredly.
— "How can this be, Comrade Major? It's obvious that the victims were pressured to withdraw their statements." — The policeman gestured angrily, hands flailing.
— "I know, but nothing that can be done. I have too few people and too little resources. I'm afraid, though I can't be sure, that they got away." — The chief concluded sadly.
— "Nothing can be done? This just isn't right. What on earth is going on? Have they all gone mad up there? They've let the criminals run wild. And the police don't even have money for fuel! We've been getting to crime scenes for months on buses and commuter trains. We buy our own handcuffs; some of us have to take second jobs just to survive, and many of us have families. What the hell is happening?! Is this what people wanted when they were trashing the Soviet Union? Was this their dream?!"
— "That's right — only it was the American dream."
***
Night. Music spilled from the suburban presidential residence — classical, radiant, a true balm for the soul. Waves of sound, infused with the magic of a great composer, struck the walls and streamed through towering stained-glass windows into the night air, delighting anyone capable of hearing them.
Vivaldi's "Nisi Dominus" — my favorite. "The Four Seasons" is wonderful too. But I'm drawn to something more spiritual, something that makes you think about God and the purpose of it all. Sometimes you have no choice but to think about such things. Life pushes you there.
In my case, doubly so.
It's been a week since I brought part of the oligarchs to heel. Everything was going perfectly; there wasn't the slightest sign of trouble. The oligarchs began to be useful — meaning they started paying taxes into the state budget, at the very least. I expect nothing more from them for now.
And all it took was a whisper of fear here, a pinch of doubt there, a touch of mental pressure — and voilà: before you stand law-abiding, God-fearing businessmen, ready to serve society and, at any moment, sacrifice themselves for the Motherland.
And all of it strictly within the bounds of the law. Of course.
In just a week, I had forged a functional elite — one capable of developing the country instead of ruining it. Neither in the Roman Empire, nor in its republican incarnation, nor in the British Empire, nor in Nazi Germany, nor in the United States, nor in the Soviet Union had there been anything quite like this…
Well, they were the same degenerates they had always been. But now they were united, incorruptible, and subordinate to me. With an elite like that, you could cook up something substantial in this world.
So I thought — until I came to understand this world a little better.
It all started yesterday. I was at the Senate Palace, listening to my assistant Arkady's report while half-watching the evening news. After a story about yet another tsunami somewhere in the Pacific, the program abruptly transported us to the illustrious city of New York, in the state that shares its name — where something bordering on the schizophrenic was taking place.
Some people — referred to as mutants — were robbing a bank. And at first glance, you might think: mutants, so what? People live with Down syndrome, with Tetralogy of Fallot, with Turner syndrome, with phenylketonuria. If anything, it should be surprising — even admirable — that individuals physically weak or ill would attempt something as dangerous and complex as a bank robbery. Remarkable!
But these "mutants" bore no resemblance to the frail and sickly, barely able to drag themselves along. On the contrary — they ran with vigor, and one of them was even flying.
Flying!
And why was none of this in my host's memory? Apparently, my brain had somehow blocked out the information — sparing my delicate psyche unnecessary trauma.
Besides, the Soviet Union was a fairly closed country in its own right, and it did not care to publicize maniacs — or mutants, for that matter. No, they existed, of course. But ordinary citizens had no need to know about them. Such information never appeared in the socialist mass media.
As a result, in the minds of the average citizen, mutants and individuals with unusual abilities were little more than figures from urban legends. Someone had seen something, or heard something — and that was the extent of it.
In a certain sense, this limited awareness was more rational than the West's state of full informational exposure.
The Soviet citizen felt calmer, less anxious. And really, what was the point of such information for ordinary people? They couldn't change anything anyway — it would only fray their nerves.
Though my host was hardly ordinary — after all, he was a Major in the State Security Committee. By virtue of his position, he should have known something about this.
Hm. Fine. I'll blame this patchy amnesia on the peculiarities of my own extrasensory mind. For the time being.
So I took a day off starting yesterday and began considering what I should do about the situation at hand. For me, this was something new — after all, we're not talking about just telepathic abilities anymore.
I thought about it for a long time. Strangely enough, in the end I came to the conclusion that nothing needed to be done. People managed before me, humanity didn't go extinct, the country still stands — more or less — and everyone appears healthy and content. Even these mutants robbing banks are presented on the news as something routine, hardly a threat to mankind.
So why stir the pot unnecessarily?
Still… I seem to be losing my edge. Time to focus on more pressing matters.
I'll deal with the economic elite — they'll stop gutting the economy by dismantling plants, factories, and industrial complexes just to sell them off as scrap metal. At the very least, I'm confident in my own people. The rest I'll have to handle individually.
Why weren't they all wiped out in the original version of history?!
Original history… what nonsense. I appear to be in some unknown deviation of human development. Mutants, flying criminals — it's absurd. Like something torn from a cheap comic strip.
Doesn't matter. We proceed with the reality in front of us.
The economy will gradually recover, I hope, and those bastards will begin paying wages to the workers they had previously kept on starvation rations. They'll also stop bribing everyone left and right, corrupting the entire state apparatus in the process. Now, the only thing left is to tackle inflation.
I don't really understand much about it, though. So here's the plan — we find people who do, who can help fix it. Maybe we can come up with concrete steps to fight inflation, or at least improve living conditions and create better economic circumstances.
So I'll proceed step by step, gradually shaping the world for the better, all while keeping a low profile for the time being.
***
Some time later. Nizhny Tagil. Correctional Colony No. 13.
A procession of enormous Chaykas, Mercedes cars, and SUVs drove into the yard of the penitentiary. The correctional colony itself boiled with anxious anticipation: the guards were uneasy, fully aware of who had arrived, while the inmates had no idea, yet already sensed the potential wrath the sudden visitor — and the administration — might unleash.
So they nervously kept their distance, trying not to draw attention. From the window of his office, the head of the colony watched the cavalcade of luxury vehicles — their total value easily exceeding that of the colony itself — and his mind swirled with thoughts, each more pessimistic than the last.
Honestly, what could the president want in a provincial colony, even one for soldiers and staff?
— "Semenov!!! Semenov!!!" — shouted the head of the prison, a stocky man with a mustache.
— "Yes, Dmitry Stepanovich?!!" — the deputy warden entered the office.
— "Grisha, make sure you warn me when the president is close"
Before the assistant could answer, a voice came from behind the door.
— "No need, Grigory, I'm already here, Dmitry Stepanovich, may I?" — the man who would rule the country for the coming years regarded him questioningly.
— "Vladislav Nikolaevich, good to see you! Please, Grisha, fetch some sweets, tea, coffee, or maybe something a bit stronger?" — the prison chief asked me, staring wide-eyed.
— "Thank you, Dmitry Stepanovich, but there's no need. I'm at work, and besides, I'm in a hurry. Arkady, bring me the documents," — I said, sitting down on the guest chair.
— "Here are the documents regarding the amnesty of certain employees of the Ministry of Internal Affairs, the Armed Forces, the State Security Committee, and the Main Intelligence Directorate. Please review them. I would also like to conduct preliminary interviews with them — without any unnecessary ears or eyes."
— "Yes, of course, may I?" — said the head of the colony, taking the documents and putting on his glasses. — "Hmmm, let's see… aha." — While he studied the papers, I looked around the office. Hmm, very modest, nothing fancy: an old desk and a worn sofa by the door. Clearly an honest watchdog.
— "Well then, the documents seem to be in order. When would you like to speak with them?"
— "Right now," — I said, rising to my feet.
— "Unusual… very well, you may go ahead," — replied the head of the correctional colony, rising heavily and leaving the office.
We walked down the corridor toward the visitation rooms, to meet people important to my work. After all, we were in Correctional Colony No. 13 in Nizhny Tagil. I don't know who occupied this place in my world, but here it was filled with military personnel and security service staff — the so-called red zone, or "red duck," as people called it.
According to the official version from the previous president's administration, this was where scum, outcasts, and traitors sat — those who hadn't appreciated the new, glorious "liberal" world, dogs of the old Soviet regime.
But I wouldn't be myself if I hadn't dug a little deeper, and eventually I discovered that not everything that glitters is gold. Or, put more simply, most of the prisoners here were just people who refused to participate in the country's looting — and paid for it with their freedom. Alas, the fate of a few true patriots.
Right now, I can't release too many; I'll have to settle for a couple, maybe five at most. If I were to amnesty a dozen or more at once, it would look far too suspicious.
After all, I have plenty of enemies in the security forces as well, not just in the business world. So my choice fell on Petr Georgievich Lushev, former commander of the Soviet forces in Germany, Hero of the Soviet Union. He was removed from his post as commander when he nearly triggered a third world war.
During the collapse of the Soviet Union, he was almost the only general who tried to do something to stop it. He brought the entire "German" group of forces to full combat readiness, including strategic bombers loaded with nuclear warheads and the trusty old ballistic missiles.
Of course, it didn't really make much sense — the country no longer existed, and it was impossible to restore it. At least, that was beyond the power of the German group of forces. They were also surrounded on all sides: to the west, the North Atlantic Alliance; to the east, the former Warsaw Pact allies. For a brief moment, the whole world seemed to be returned to the Cold War era.
However, it couldn't last forever — they simply wore him down. All the commanders who supported him were arrested, and they intended to hand him over to the West, where an electric chair awaited him, charged with, I quote, "provoking a third world war and terrorism."
Somehow, by a miracle, they didn't hand him over. Apparently, something clicked in the minds of our elites — they realized you can't hand over a Hero of the Soviet Union, a war veteran, to the Americans for execution. The people simply wouldn't understand.
Anyway, I digressed — by that time, we had already reached our destination.
— Thank you, Dmitry Stepanovich. I'll take it from here, — I said, opening the door and stepping into the visitation room, taking a seat. On the opposite side sat Lushev, slightly rumpled, but most importantly, alive and relatively healthy.
— Hello, Petr Sergeyevich. You probably know who I am. Are you ready to serve your motherland once again? — I said, before probing a little into his mind.