The map of the Soviet Union hovered in the center of the War Room. It wasn't a military map anymore. It was a heat map of desire.
Most of the territory was a dull, compliant grey. Moscow was a pulsing, safe red, protected by the Aurora Dome.
But Kiev was flashing blue.
"It's an infection," Menzhinsky said, pointing at the Ukraine sector. "Hoover isn't sending soldiers. He's dropping catalogues."
"Sears Roebuck," Taranov spat. "They drop them from high-altitude gliders. The people read about washing machines they can't have, and they riot."
"Influence is at 88%," Yuri said. The boy sat in a high chair, legs dangling. He held a slide rule—his comfort object since the reboot. "Kiev will culture-flip in forty-eight hours. They will declare independence and ask for American aid."
Jake Vance stared at the flashing blue dot.
It was a game. Civilization played with real lives. Hoover was spamming "Culture Bombs" to steal territory without firing a shot.
"We can't lose Kiev," Jake said. "It's the breadbasket. And it's the gateway to the Black Sea."
"I have the tank divisions ready," Menzhinsky said. "We can purge the city."
"No," Jake said. "If we send tanks, we prove Hoover right. We prove we are monsters."
He zoomed in on the map. He saw the "Blue" spreading like gangrene.
"Hoover is winning with 'Cool'," Jake said. "Blue jeans. Rock and roll. The promise of fun."
He turned to Oppenheimer.
"Is the train ready?"
Oppenheimer hesitated. "The Red Arrow? It's a prototype, Jake. The reactor isn't shielded properly. The speakers alone draw enough power to light a stadium."
"Load it," Jake ordered. "We're going to Kiev."
"To fight?"
"To perform," Jake said. "We're going to show them that Red is louder than Blue."
The Moscow Railyards. Midnight.
The train looked like a beast from a nightmare.
It wasn't a standard locomotive. It was an armored dreadnought, painted matte black. Along the spine of the carriages, massive Tesla coils reached up like chrome fingers.
The sides of the train were lined with banks of speakers and holographic emitters. It wasn't transport. It was a mobile nightclub armed with nuclear weapons.
"It's beautiful," Taranov said, patting the cold steel.
Jake stood on the platform. He wore a heavy leather trench coat. He looked less like a dictator and more like a rock star at the end of the world.
"Yuri," Jake said. "You're coming."
"Is it safe?" Menzhinsky asked.
"No," Jake said. "But he needs to see this. He needs to see that logic isn't the only way to move a crowd."
They boarded. The interior was a cyberpunk bunker. Exposed cables, glowing vacuum tubes, red velvet seats.
"Engage the reactor," Jake ordered.
The train hummed. The sound wasn't a chug-chug. It was a deep, electronic thrum that vibrated in the chest.
"Destination: Kiev," the conductor announced.
The Red Arrow surged forward. It didn't whistle. It screamed like a banshee.
The Exclusion Zone. Outside Kiev.
The city was miserable.
It was raining freezing slush. The streets were littered with American trash—candy wrappers, glossy magazines, crushed soda cans.
People huddled in doorways, clutching their "Freedom Crates." They looked at pictures of refrigerators and wept.
Above them, an American blimp loomed in the clouds. The USS Freedom.
It blared a constant stream of jingles.
"Buy Happy! Buy American! Freedom is just a purchase away!"
Down on the ground, a riot was brewing. A mob was trying to storm the local Soviet garrison. They didn't have guns. They had bricks and resentment.
"Give us the jeans!" a man shouted. "Give us the sugar!"
The Soviet conscripts looked terrified. They raised their rifles.
"Hold the line!" the captain screamed. "Do not let them pass!"
Then, the ground shook.
It started as a vibration in the puddles. Then the windows rattled.
A light appeared on the northern horizon. It wasn't the sun.
It was a beam of violet plasma, shooting straight up into the clouds.
The Red Arrow was coming.
The Arrival.
The train didn't slow down. It smashed through the checkpoint barriers, wood splintering against its armored prow.
It roared into the city square, the tracks groaning under its weight.
The mob froze. The American blimp stopped its broadcast.
The train hissed to a halt. Steam vented from the undercarriage, mixing with the neon glow of the Tesla coils.
"Now," Jake whispered from the command car.
He slammed his hand on the console.
DROP.
The speakers ignited.
It wasn't Jazz. It wasn't Rock.
It was the sound of the future. Industrial Synthwave. A heavy, rhythmic, mechanical beat that synced with the pounding of a heart. It was the music of machines, composed by the ghost of Turing.
THUMP. THUMP. THUMP.
The Tesla coils fired. Arcs of blue lightning jumped between the carriages, creating a cage of electricity.
The holographic projectors spun up.
They didn't show Lenin. They didn't show slogans.
They painted the ruined buildings with neon circuits. They turned the grey slum into a glowing, cyberpunk citadel.
Jake stepped out onto the roof of the train. He held a microphone.
"Citizens of Kiev!" his voice boomed, distorted and amplified.
He pointed at the American blimp.
"They offer you pictures of things you cannot touch! They offer you debt!"
Lightning crackled around him. He looked like a god of storms.
"I offer you Power!"
The Tesla coils discharged upward. A massive bolt of lightning struck the clouds, ionizing the atmosphere.
For a moment, the grey sky turned a brilliant, shocking purple.
"I offer you the Future!" Jake roared. "We are not building refrigerators! We are building starships!"
The music swelled. The bass was so heavy it shattered the windows of the shops selling American trash.
The mob stopped screaming. They stared.
This wasn't a catalogue. This was visceral. It was dangerous. It was Cool.
Yuri stood beside Jake. He was wearing noise-canceling headphones. He watched the crowd.
"Their pupils are dilating," Yuri observed. "Adrenaline levels rising. Serotonin spiking."
"They're excited," Jake said.
"They are awed," Yuri corrected.
High above, the American blimp turned around. It couldn't compete. Its jingles sounded pathetic against the roar of the Soviet bass.
The Backstage.
The concert lasted an hour. By the end, the people weren't rioting. They were dancing.
Jake retreated inside the train. He was sweating.
"We flipped the city," Menzhinsky reported, looking at the tablet. "The Blue is fading. Kiev is Red again."
"For tonight," Jake said. "Awe fades quickly."
"We need to give them something permanent," Oppenheimer said.
"We will," Jake said.
He walked to the rear of the train. Two Spetsnaz guards were waiting by a sealed compartment.
"Did you find him?" Jake asked.
"We pulled him from the Gulag transport, Boss," Taranov said. "He was in the local holding cell. The NKVD was going to shoot him for reading an American magazine."
Taranov opened the door.
A man sat inside. He was gaunt, missing teeth. He looked broken.
But his eyes were bright. Intelligence burned there.
"Sergei Korolev," Jake said.
The man looked up. "General Secretary?"
"You are the Chief Designer," Jake said. "In another life, you put the first man in space."
Korolev blinked. "I am a traitor. I designed gliders."
"You design rockets," Jake corrected. "And I have a job for you."
Jake gestured to the window. Outside, the Tesla coils were still firing, illuminating the awe-struck faces of the Kiev youth.
"You see them?" Jake asked. "I promised them the stars. I need you to build the ladder."
"The Americans are ahead," Korolev rasped. "They have Von Braun."
"Von Braun builds missiles to kill people," Jake said. "He works for a paranoia. I want you to build a ship to leave this planet."
He placed a blueprint on the table. It was the N-1 Heavy Lifter. But modified with the dirty nuclear tech.
"I'm taking you to Moscow," Jake said. "I'm giving you a city. Star City. You will have food. You will have power. You will have everything."
"And in return?"
"You give me the Moon," Jake said. "Before Hoover can put a Coca-Cola sign on it."
Korolev touched the blueprint. His hand trembled. He traced the curve of the rocket.
"It will be... loud," Korolev whispered.
Jake smiled. He could still hear the synthwave thumping outside.
"I like loud."
The Return.
The Red Arrow left Kiev at dawn.
The city behind them was changed. The "Freedom Crates" lay abandoned in the gutters. The people were stripping the copper wire from the American electronics—not to sell, but to build their own radios.
They wanted to hear the music again.
In the command car, Yuri sat with Korolev. The boy and the old man were looking at a star chart.
"The trajectory requires a gravity assist," Yuri said, pointing a crayon at the paper.
"Yes," Korolev nodded, treating the child like a colleague. "But the fuel weight is the variable."
"We use the nuclear pulse," Yuri suggested. "Inefficient radiation, but maximum thrust."
"Logic," Korolev smiled.
Jake watched them.
He had gamified the ideology. He had treated culture like a weapon. And he had won the skirmish.
But the war was escalating.
Taranov handed him a secure phone.
"It's Hoover," Taranov said. "He's calling the Red Phone."
Jake took the receiver.
"Mr. President," Jake said. "Did you enjoy the show?"
"You stole my city," Hoover's voice was icy. "And you raided my frequency."
"I just played some music, Edgar."
"You want a race?" Hoover hissed. "Fine. You want the Moon? You can try. But space is cold, Stalin. And accidents happen."
"Is that a threat?"
"It's a promise," Hoover said. "I'm authorizing Project Orion. We're not building a rocket. We're building a battleship."
The line went dead.
Jake looked at the ceiling of the train car.
"Orion," Oppenheimer whispered. He had heard. "Nuclear pulse propulsion. He's going to weaponize the launch."
"Let him try," Jake said.
He looked at Yuri and Korolev, sketching the future on a napkin.
"He's building a battleship," Jake said. "We're building an escape pod."
He poured a drink.
"Next stop: The Moon."