— This is the All-Union Central Broadcasting Station, bringing you the voice of the people. We now bring you a briefing from the People's Commissar of Science and Technology regarding the communication blackout with the current Ursus Republic.
— The current interruption of communications with the Ursus Republic appears to be the result of sabotage by the Ursus Empire. The local Workers' and Peasants' Militia and the Bureau of Communications Security are responding as swiftly as possible to alleviate the inconvenience to the citizens of the Ursus Republic...
— This afternoon, the Supreme Central Command of the Workers' and Peasants' Red Army announced that investigations by the Main Directorate of Military Intelligence have confirmed the Ursus Empire is behind this incident. However, despite the dedication of the Border Guard, the operational cells have not yet been intercepted. Meanwhile, the Military Political Bureau expressed deep regret regarding the situation and issued a statement declaring they have no choice but to reconsider the strategic judgment of the Supreme Central Command.
The radio installed in the car blared noisily.
Whether it was out of consideration for my mood or a total lack thereof, the radio, turned up to maximum volume, repeatedly whispered the voices of the Union's central authority.
Of course, there was something even noisier than the radio right in front of me.
"AndthatiswhywhenIwasintheproudcoastalcityofLAintheformerColumbianRepublicIreallythoughtIwouldmakeittothemajorleagueswhichismydreamstageandeveryrestaurantIwenttopeoplewouldaskformyautographandthepresswouldalwaysfollowmetoreportonmeandIfeltlikeIhadbecomepreciselythatkindofChairmanfigurebutinsevendeysjustsevendaysIwasdemotedtotheminorleaguesandbecauseIcouldntpitchanymoreIwantedtoquitandjustgotoSargonjustgoofftoSargonanddropdeadonthespotbecauseIcouldntplaybaseballanymorebutIthoughtIshouldatleastcallmyparentsatheadhomeandwhenIcalledthenextdaymymothersaid..."
'...I thought you said you were an orphan.'
...
Leaving behind my precious eardrums—which were drifting further away by the second due to someone's noise and my deteriorating sanity—I stared out the window, lost in thought.
Let's think about this slowly.
The current political landscape is distinctly different from the simple circumstances of my early days.
Therefore, there is something I must confirm first.
"AndthatishowIstudiedVictorianandthenafterlivinginthemisorsforabitIwasfinallycalleduptothemajorleaguesandIwasnervoussomuchpressureactuallyoncethecallupcameandbeforeIactuallywentuphearingthatnewsfeltsobrightandmadefeelincradibly..."
"Abdul."
"Yes, yes, Comrade Chairman. How may I assist you?"
I smiled at Abdul.
Then I spoke.
"Take me to the residence of the Commander-in-Chief of the Union's Workers' and Peasants' Red Army."
"The Windermere estate? Understood, Comrade."
The steering wheel turned.
The car changed its course.
********************************************
"...So, you have come to find me? Is that it?"
Amfielice blinked her two amber eyes as she asked.
Well, you're the only person I know with any lingering connection to the military.
Everyone else is either retired or dead.
...I'm starting to miss Alexandra...
"You are the only person among those I have ties with who still maintains any influence over the military, that's all."
I spoke with a gentle smile.
It was the smile of a man perfectly benevolent, soft, compassionate, and wise.
"...Well, my connection with you, Comrade Chairman, consists of nothing more than receiving a medal and watching a speech in person."
"Did I not attend your wedding as a guest? I even sent money for your daughter's first birthday; are you really going to be this cold?"
"Well, that is true. Ah, speaking of which, where is your husband?"
"He went to the amusement park to play with our daughter. He should be back in about five hours."
Amfielice lifted the kettle and poured into my cup.
Tea the color of fallen leaves flowed from the spout.
I downed the tea in a single gulp.
Because... it looked cool.
"Gulp, gulp."
"Is it not hot?"
Yeah, it's freaking scalding.
"Would a man such as I succumb to such fleeting pain?"
"Your throat is quite red for someone who hasn't succumbed."
"Let's move to the main point."
I ignored my stinging throat, caused by my own idiocy, and adopted as dignified and serious an expression as possible.
"How is the current situation in the military unfolding?"
She replied immediately.
"It is the embodiment of inefficiency and factional strife."
Amfielice stood from her seat.
A smile played on her lips.
"Wait just one moment."
About thirty seconds later, she returned carrying a thick volume.
"It's the Officer Personnel Register. The latest edition, printed earlier this year."
...Why would you keep something like that in a home drawer?
"Why is this at your house?"
"I am the Commander-in-Chief. I must memorize the names of all my subordinates."
"As far as I know, our Union has at least 200,000 commissioned officers."
"That is why I am memorizing them slowly."
She thudded the book onto the table.
Amfielice flipped through the pages as if she had the layout memorized, her hand coming to a halt at a specific section.
"This is the page listing the people you might be curious about, Comrade Chairman."
Amfielice pointed a finger at a name.
"Do you see this man?"
I leaned in to examine the book.
Chief of Staff, 2nd Corps.
Born in Gaul.
Sorbonne University graduate.
"A Sorbonnist."
"This man is of the Sorbonne faction," Amfielice said nonchalantly.
She flipped the page.
"And how about this one?"
"Staff Officer of the Military Political Bureau. Born in Columbia, veteran of the Iberian volunteers. That would mean..."
"Yes, an Internationalist."
Amfielice continued to tap on names in rapid succession.
"This one is a Militarist. This one leans toward the Social Revolutionary Workers' League. This one is from the Liberty League—you can tell by his history of party activity."
Her finger moved swiftly across the paper.
"Dozens of factions are at war with one another within the same army."
I narrowed my eyes.
"It feels less like an army and more like a Soviet."
Amfielice chuckled.
"Precisely."
Amfielice flipped the page again.
This time, names marked with red ink appeared.
"These people are in intelligence. They belong to the Main Directorate of Military Intelligence. Ground Forces Intelligence. Naval Intelligence. Air Force Intelligence. Strategic Intelligence Bureau. Ah, this one is from the Military Political Bureau."
She shrugged.
"None of these people share information with one another."
I looked up at her.
"They don't share?"
"No."
"Even though they are the same army?"
Amfielice took a sip of tea.
"Because they aren't the same army. At least, not in their own minds."
A brief silence followed.
"They are political organizations wearing identical uniforms."
Amfielice's finger traced slowly over the pages of the open register.
The thick paper was densely packed with names.
Corps commanders, chiefs of staff, division commanders, political commissars, intelligence officers.
I stared down at the list for a moment.
"People usually think like this," Amfielice said.
"STAVKA wages war, the Military Political Bureau observes, and the General Staff coordinates."
She paused briefly.
Then she shook her head.
"That is an old story."
I arched an eyebrow.
"An old story?"
Amfielice tapped the front of the book.
"First, STAVKA. The Supreme Central Command."
She pointed to several names.
"Look at these people."
I read down the list.
Front Commanders. Shock Army Commanders. Strategic Reserve Commanders.
But several names were familiar.
They were names I had seen in the newspapers.
Party congress speeches, political op-eds, election campaigns.
I spoke quietly.
"These fellows... are they not politicians?"
Amfielice laughed.
"Yes. Half the generals in STAVKA these days are politicians."
She took another sip of tea.
"War is important. But elections are also important. And newspaper interviews are important as well."
I nodded.
"They are exploiting the war."
"Yes," Amfielice replied simply.
"War is a magnificent political asset."
A moment of silence.
"And so, STAVKA wages war," she added.
"But they have no intention of winning. Their temperament is a perfect match for the Sorbonne technocrats."
I let out a dry chuckle.
"Amusing. Waging a war without intending to win it."
Amfielice shrugged.
"Because if they win, the war ends."
The page turned.
"Next is the Military Political Bureau."
On this page, a small red star was printed next to the names.
They were the political commissars.
I looked down at the entries.
"These people are overtly Party men."
"Formally, yes," Amfielice said.
"Formally?"
"Yes, the reality is somewhat different."
I looked at her.
"In what way?"
"The Military Political Bureau is not an organization that follows any particular conviction."
She refilled the tea.
"It is an administrative apparatus. They record everything: the internal mood of the military, loyalty, grievances, factions."
I nodded.
"An intelligence organization, then."
"Close," Amfielice said.
"But the Military Political Bureau has one specific characteristic."
"They are apolitical."
I narrowed my eyes.
"Political officers who are apolitical?"
"Yes." She smiled.
"Whoever holds power, whoever provides the budget, whoever guarantees their promotion..."
She spoke with chilling composure.
"They will listen to that person."
I nodded.
"Certainly, they lack conviction."
"Oh, they have conviction," Amfielice countered.
"Vested interest is their conviction."
Opportunists and careerists, then.
"And finally."
She opened to the back of the book.
"The General Staff."
I looked at the names.
They were familiar.
Generals who had made their names during the Revolutionary War, and generals whose names had appeared in headlines during the Great Patriotic War.
The old guard.
I said, "These are the veterans of the Great War."
Amfielice nodded.
"Yes. Those who fought personally in the Revolutionary War. They are, in some ways, cut from the same cloth as I."
She added softly, "That is why they despise politics."
I smiled.
"A soldier hating politics is a good omen."
"Correct," Amfielice said.
"So the General Staff truly intends to win the war. At least regarding combat, they are sincere. However..."
She continued.
"There is a problem."
"Which is?"
"These people..." Amfielice tapped a page in the book.
"Hate reform and anything new."
"Why?"
"Because the old ways are what they find comfortable." She shrugged.
"And." Her finger pointed to a few more names.
"They love their connections."
"Connections?"
"Nephews. Sons-in-law. Sons of old comrades. These are the people who receive commissions and become officers through the General Staff's patronage."
I sighed.
"They are sincere about the war."
"Yes."
"They oppose reform."
"Yes."
"And they enjoy corruption and cronyism."
Amfielice laughed. "Precisely."
I thought for a moment.
Then I spoke. "Wonderful. Truly a beautiful army. How is it that all three pillars are flawed?"
Amfielice nodded. "That is exactly how the balance is maintained."
I narrowed my eyes. "Balance?"
"Yes." She closed the book.
"STAVKA is sincere about politics. The Military Political Bureau is sincere about vested interests. And the General Staff is sincere about war and nepotism."
A momentary silence.
I asked quietly, "Then which side has the power to interfere with the communication networks?"
Amfielice thought for a brief second.
"All three. STAVKA controls the Main Directorate of Military Intelligence. The Military Political Bureau has commissars that can infiltrate anywhere. And the General Staff..."
She smirked. "They are the ones who designed the communication networks in the first place."
I nodded slowly.
"My head is already aching. To think the list of suspects hasn't shortened by even one; all three remain."
Amfielice said, "All three could be the culprit."
I looked up at her. "All three?"
She gazed out the window. "And there are those who would want all three to suspect each other."
I asked softly, "Who would that be?"
Amfielice looked back at me and said very quietly.
"The politicians."
She looked toward the official vehicle where Abdul was waiting.
"It is possible that the clues allowing the military to be mobilized were provided by that person you hold so dear, Comrade Chairman."
I said nothing for a long while.
Then, I muttered under my breath.
"...It is a mire indeed."