The main gate of the International Communist Party headquarters was, as always, teeming with people.
Guards wearing red armbands, couriers clutching briefcases, administrative officers shouting in a cacophony of languages, and middle-ranking apparatchiks smoking under the stairs, engaging in petty power plays over who held more sway.
The International Communist Party was always hailed as the heart of the global revolution, but to my eyes, it always looked like a sprawling, chaotic marketplace.
As the car came to a halt, Abdul stepped out first.
He scanned the surroundings with practiced efficiency.
I looked out the window, waiting for the door to be opened.
People were already lined up on both sides of the entrance stairs.
Some were waiting for me, some were feigning a chance encounter, and others were there simply to observe whom I would acknowledge first.
A tedious business.
"Comrade Chairman," Abdul said as he opened the door.
"It will be even louder inside today."
"Isn't it loud enough out here?"
"Out here is the noise of life; inside is the noise of politics."
I let out a short, cynical laugh as I stepped out of the vehicle.
"Both rot the ears just the same."
The moment I set foot in the main entrance, a familiar stench assaulted my nostrils.
The smell of stale paper, tobacco, dust, cheap perfume, and that distinct, stifling heat of crowded human bodies.
The lobby, decorated with classical elegance, possessed a certain dignity in its architecture, but the frantic humans moving within it stripped away any sense of the sacred.
Portraits of revolutionaries from various nations hung upon the walls.
Starting with myself, followed by Maxim, Pyotr, Alexandra, Wrangel, and the other architects of the revolution in this world.
Beneath those portraits, two low-ranking clerks were arguing while standing on a ladder trying to change a lightbulb.
"I told you to turn it from this side first!"
"Then you should have supported the base properly from below!"
"I did! It's shaking because you're so fat, Comrade!"
A truly sublime scene of the international revolution in action.
As I began to climb the stairs, someone lunged out as if they had been lying in wait.
It was Bartosh, the Deputy Director of the International Communist Party's Propaganda Bureau.
As usual, he wore a greasy smile that matched his slicked-back hair.
"Ah! Comrade Chairman! You've just arrived!"
"Can't you tell by looking?"
"Haha, your sense of humor is as sharp as ever."
I didn't bother responding.
Bartosh, seemingly unfazed by my cold reception, immediately fell into step beside me.
"The atmosphere at headquarters is unsettling. The issue of the communication blackout with the Ursus Republic is spiraling faster than expected. Every foreign branch is demanding a stance, and the Proletarian International Newspaper is hounding us for a statement..."
"And?"
"And... I believe you need to personally step in and steady the center, Comrade Chairman."
I kept walking and asked, "What does 'steadying the center' look like in concrete terms?"
Bartosh cleared his throat.
"Well, a calm message for the masses, a display of resolute will for the internal cadres, and an exhibition of revolutionary optimism for the overseas branches..."
"Void of any actual substance, then."
"...I will refine the phrasing, of course."
"I'm sure you will. You've had thirty years of practice."
We entered the corridor.
And from there, the real hell began.
People were packed into every hallway.
Snippets of Ursus, Victorian, Gaulish, Columbian, Iberian, and even Sargonite dialects flew through the air in a chaotic jumble.
In front of a massive map pinned to the wall, someone was shouting while moving red pins.
"No! If this rail line is dead, then this supply depot should be paralyzed first, not that one!"
"Comrade, those are peacetime standards! The wartime logistics system is different!"
"You think I don't know that?!"
On the other side, three telephone operators were screaming into their receivers simultaneously.
"This is the Central Communications Room! I said Central!"
"No, I'm telling you I'm also with Central!"
"Which Central?! Is it the Union Central, the Ursus Central, or the International Communist Party Central? How am I supposed to know!"
Piles of documents were everywhere.
Stacked on the floor, on chairs, on windowsills, and clutched in frantic hands.
Revolution runs on paper, and documents always multiply faster than people.
I nearly stepped on a bundle of papers as I passed.
The title read: Draft Situation Analysis for the International Party Northern Front Liaison Committee, 7th Revision.
Someone had spilled coffee over it, leaving the text half-smudged.
A truly reliable draft.
"Comrade Chairman!"
This time, another man jumped out.
It was Ernst, the First Secretary of the International Communist Party's Organization Bureau.
His face was pale.
He was naturally gaunt, but today he looked particularly ghoulish.
"We have a crisis."
"There's always a crisis here."
"No, this time it is grave."
I slowed my pace.
Ernst held out a set of documents.
"The Youth League, the Railway Union, the Women's Bureau, the Relief Committee, the Military Liaison Team, and even the Writers' League under the Ursus branch are all threatening to issue independent statements."
"Why?"
"They say the Central Committee is too slow."
"Ah."
That figured.
I skimmed the documents.
The gist was the same for most of them.
The Ursus Republic is isolated; the Central Committee must decide; the International Party must prove itself through action, not words; we criticize the opportunism of the Union government; do not abandon our Republican comrades; send weapons and food immediately.
They were sentences written with heat, youth, and purity—and a complete lack of any sense of reality.
Such is the nature of a revolutionary.
The problem is that such purity is occasionally more dangerous than realpolitik.
I handed the documents back to Ernst.
"Stop them."
"Pardon?"
"Prevent every single one of those organizations from issuing a separate statement."
Ernst looked flustered.
"But Comrade Chairman, if we suppress them now, the internal backlash..."
"That is exactly why you must stop them."
I glanced through the corridor window at the plaza in front of the headquarters.
People were already gathering there.
I could see a few flags.
They weren't chanting slogans yet, but they would be soon.
"If everyone starts opening their mouths now, the International Communist Party ceases to be an organization and becomes a collection of noise. We can soothe internal anger later, but if the world sees disorder, we are finished."
Ernst bit his lip.
"Then I will prepare a single, unified statement in the name of the Central Committee."
"No."
"Sir?"
"Don't issue anything yet."
His eyes widened.
"...Because anything we put out now would be too late."
At my words, both Bartosh and Ernst fell silent.
I continued slowly.
"What is the one thing we are most ignorant of right now?"
Ernst answered cautiously. "The actual situation on the ground in the Ursus Republic."
"Exactly. And what happens if we issue a statement first?"
Bartosh was the first to catch on. "We could be wrong."
"And if we are wrong?"
"We lose credibility."
"And more importantly," I tapped the air with my finger. "Has it occurred to you that someone might be waiting for us to speak prematurely?"
In that instant, both of their expressions hardened.
Good.
They understood at least that much.
I resumed my walk.
The conference room door at the end of the hall was wide open, and the voices of several cadres were already clashing within.
"This is clearly a provocation by the Empire!"
"Where is the proof?!"
"Just because there's no proof doesn't mean it isn't a provocation!"
"The front lines are collapsing because the Central Committee is being indecisive!"
"...Quiet."