〈March of Fools〉 is an ironic masterpiece from an era of censorship. During the Yusin regime, where the despair of the youth was branded as pro-communist for potentially aiding the enemy, and only cheerfulness and wholesome values were mandated, this film satisfied those superficial requirements by portraying the lives of college students through comedy and ending with the protagonist's enlistment. However, beneath the surface, it twisted the reality of a generation that had to become 'fools' to survive through laughter, evoking a sorrow deeper than any tragedy.
— Park Yu-hee, Film Critic
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— "Tap— Tap— Tap— Tap—"
"Damn it, I can't hear anything but that woodpecker noise."
"Now, now, Deputy Director, calm yourself. At least the frequency has dropped compared to before, hasn't it?"
The office of the National Communication Security Bureau was packed with civil servants who did nothing but drain cup after cup of coffee.
Though the Bureau's main headquarters had been forcibly relocated to Gaul due to the current cabinet's 'Gaul-favoritism' policy, branch offices remained in other republics. The Victoria Branch was precisely where these men were stationed.
"Regardless, the higher-ups are breathing down our necks... I don't know how we're supposed to resolve this..."
"Wired lines were cut off because of the risk of Arts-eavesdropping, so we're stuck with wireless and couriers. I have no idea why the wireless is acting like such a piece of shite."
The Deputy Director spun his chair around to look at the Senior Clerk.
"Hey, why did we have to get posted here of all places to work like dogs?"
"If you graduated from the Department of Communication Engineering, you should have gone to the Design Bureau for a job, sir."
"You think I wanted to be a low-paid civil servant? We can't even squeeze a bribe out of this place, for frost's sake."
"True. Even the Anti-Corruption Commission wouldn't bother raiding this dump."
Losing interest, the Deputy Director lifted his cup and gulped down the remaining coffee.
He then reached out and thwacked the head of a Grade 8 Clerk named Denis with a folder.
"Hey, Denis. Why the hell are those guys from the Power Bureau working overtime with us lately?"
"Ow! Why did you hit me? You could have just asked!"
The clerk raised his head while rubbing his scalp.
"Probably... they got orders to fix the continuous blackouts happening over by Yellow Lake recently."
"Yellow Lake?"
"Yes, sir. That place about 50km southwest of Crowfell."
At that, the Deputy Director scratched his head.
"Strange."
"What is?" the Senior Clerk asked.
The Deputy Director replied, "From Crowfell to the Ursus border, both wired and wireless are down. From Crowfell to about 50km southwest, wired works but wireless doesn't. Everywhere else, both work. That means the range where wireless is dead but wired works corresponds exactly to where the blackouts are hitting from Yellow Lake to Crowfell, doesn't it?"
"I suppose so?"
"But Yellow Lake has an actual power generation complex. Why would there be blackouts? They produce the electricity right there."
The Deputy Director bit down on a cigarette.
"Something is definitely off...."
Suddenly, as if remembering something, Denis the clerk spoke up.
"Ah! Don't we have a facility of our own at Yellow Lake? Could it be that? You know, the one that's never been used since it was built!"
The look the Deputy Director gave Denis—a communications otaku of the most niche variety—said everything.
Who cares, you geek?
What kind of civil servant memorizes every single building and its location under their department's jurisdiction?
The Deputy Director was beginning to find his subordinate a little terrifying.
*******************************
"Get home safely then, Comrade Vladimir."
"Right. Take care, Comrade Amfielice."
I stepped out of the house, having been seen off by Amfielice.
Waiting for me by the car was Abdul.
"Comrade Chairman, you've returned!"
"Any trouble?"
"Aigh, a few rats seem to have attached themselves. We should move out quickly."
Abdul glanced sideways, indicating several white Trabant cars stationed at various points.
Their windows were heavily tinted.
"Hmm, I see. Let's get in and get moving then."
"Shall I shake them?"
"No, it's fine. My movements are going to be found out regardless."
I waved my hand dismissively.
Since I am a public figure, it's impossible to stay hidden unless I take a different car from the very start, like when I went to the OGPU headquarters earlier.
Specifically, since this is the residence of Amfielice, who holds the supreme command of the military—even if my own role as Commander-in-Chief of the Red Army has become mostly ceremonial—the area is likely crawling with surveillance.
To avoid suspicion, it would be better to simply drive out in the open.
"Where to, sir?"
Once inside the car, Abdul turned to look at me.
I had only one answer.
"To the International Communist Party headquarters."
As the car door shut, the external noise was muffled by a thin layer of silence.
Abdul started the ignition.
The engine hummed low as the official vehicle slowly pulled away from Amfielice's residence.
I leaned my back against the seat and gazed out the window.
The evening streets of Victoria were peaceful.
Newspapers featuring war knights on the front pages were stacked at the stands; businessmen in suits walked toward the evening trams; laughter already leaked from the pubs tucked into the alleys.
Even when it feels like the world is going to ruin, the streets always seem remarkably mundane.
Yet, there were things that didn't fit into this tranquil scenery.
A white Trabant.
A grey Moskvitch.
And an excessively polished black Volga.
I looked at the cars reflected in the rearview mirror and muttered, "Quite a few of them."
Abdul, in the front seat, nodded.
"This is actually on the lower side, today."
"This is?"
"Yes. Since Comrade Chairman went to the OGPU office, there normally should have been more, but everyone is treading carefully."
I narrowed my eyes. "Treading carefully?"
"Because if they make a move first and it gets back to Director Feliksa, they'll be in trouble."
That made sense.
I looked at the rearview mirror again.
To a casual observer, the cars following us looked like ordinary government vehicles or undercover police cars.
But Abdul clearly didn't see them as ordinary.
He tapped a finger toward the mirror.
"See that grey Moskvitch at the very back?"
"Yeah."
"That's from the General Staff."
I squinted. "How can you tell?"
"The license plate," Abdul said as if it were obvious.
"They disguised it to look like the Victoria Military District's numbering system, but they intentionally use the 17 or 44 series for the last two digits. The old generals of the Revolutionary War generation love those numbers. It's like a superstition."
"... There's such a thing?"
"Yes. Also, the wheel caps are different."
"The wheel caps?"
"The General Staff cars don't skimp on the maintenance budget, so their wheel caps are shiny. The car might be ancient, but the wheels are sparkling. They try to look frugal on the outside, but it always shows in places like that. It's an old man's aesthetic."
I looked at the mirror again.
Indeed, while the car's body looked weathered, the wheels were strangely brand new.
... Sharp fellow in all the most useless ways.
Next, Abdul glanced at the left lane.
"The white Trabant next to it is the Main Military-Political Directorate."
"And why is that?"
"They just like Trabants."
"That reason is far too simple."
"It's right because it's simple." Abdul chuckled softly.
"The rats in the Political Directorate love performing frugality. Humble cars, modest clothing, worn-out briefcases. But inside, they carry the most expensive cigars from Bolivar and fountain pens from Leithanien."
I peered at the white Trabant through the window.
It really did look like something a low-level clerk at a city hall would drive.
"Furthermore, look at the roof of that car. It has two antennas."
"... You're right."
"Radio cars for the Political Directorate always install a spare antenna. They don't usually use it, but having it there gives them peace of mind in the field. Political commissars are a breed that lives on paranoia, after all."
It sounded plausible when put that way.
I sighed. "Then what about that black Volga?"
Abdul's expression became slightly nuanced.
"Ah, that's either the Anti-Corruption Commission or the Security Intelligence Bureau."
"One of the two?"
"Both drive like absolute lunatics."
"..."
"And both love black Volgas. They think it makes them look authoritative."
Abdul paused for a moment before adding, "The difference is that the Anti-Corruption Commission's bumper will be clean, while the Security Intelligence Bureau's bumper will be full of scratches."
"Why is that?"
"The Anti-Corruption Commission never has to ram anyone else's car, but the Security Intelligence Bureau rams first and asks questions later. Though they probably think twice before ramming a car with a VIP in it."
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