Carlos Mendez had never liked bitter coffee.
But that morning, in his new office overlooking the Plaza de la República, he drank it black without sugar. Not because he'd suddenly developed a taste for it. But because he wanted to remind himself that there were things in life that didn't need to be enjoyed to still be done.
The desk before him was made of mahogany—exactly the same as the one once used by the Propaganda Minister under the Valdez regime. Carlos had considered replacing it. But then he decided against it. Let it stay. Wood had no loyalties. Wood didn't care who sat above it.
Spread across that desk were three newspapers from this morning's edition.
El Sol Nacional—his now, though no one needed to know how deep his ownership ran. The headline: "A UNIFYING SPEECH: THE PEOPLE CELEBRATE A NEW ERA." A photo of Ricardo Guerrero with his arm raised, a waving flag in the background. Good. Effective.
El Independiente—the second largest paper. "MILITARY COUNCIL: STABILITY OR REPRESSION?" Not outright frontal, but the skeptical tone and criticism were clear. It mentioned the arrest of two former officials from the old regime without trial. It mentioned students beginning to gather on campus. It mentioned—without explicitly stating—that perhaps not much had changed.
La Voz del Pueblo—the largest newspaper in the country. Popular among workers and unions. Its headline: "PROMISES ON STAGE, REALITY BEHIND CLOSED DOORS." Too bold. Page three featured a cartoon of a general with a crown on his head, seated on a throne while the people below waved with empty hands.
Carlos picked up La Voz del Pueblo, folded it slowly, and placed it at the top of the pile.
"Has our guest arrived?" he asked without turning around.
His right-hand man—a young man named Roberto with a thin mustache and eyes that were always half-lowered—nodded from the doorway. "Señor Armando has been waiting in the reception room since seven."
"Send him in."
Armando Fuentes was the owner of El Eco Popular, one of the capital's newspapers. A man in his fifties with a paunch and reading glasses that always hung from his chest.
He was the old-school type of journalist—started from the bottom, built his own paper with savings and loans from his brother-in-law, believed in the "people's voice" with an idealism that almost made Carlos feel pity.
But pity couldn't build a nation.
"Colonel Mendez," Armando greeted, his tone carefully neutral. He didn't sit until invited. His left hand carried a black leather briefcase—perhaps containing ownership documents, perhaps containing a pre-prepared protest.
"Señor Fuentes," Carlos smiled, but didn't extend his hand. "Thank you for coming so early. Please, sit."
Armando sat in the chair across the desk. His eyes moved from the black coffee in Carlos's hand to the stack of newspapers on the table—including his own at the very top.
"I believe we can speak frankly," Carlos said, setting his cup down slowly. "I'm not one for pleasantries. Time is too valuable."
"I agree."
"Good." Carlos leaned back in his chair, his fingers interlaced over his stomach. "El Eco Popular, last week's edition, page three, the cartoon. The edition from three days ago, the editorial 'Military and Power: Who Watches the Watchers?' Yesterday's edition—ah, yesterday's was quite interesting. The coverage of the student gathering at Caracia University. Remarkably detailed. Even mentioned names."
Armando didn't move. But Carlos noticed his fingers gripping the briefcase a little tighter.
"I'm a journalist, Colonel. My job is to report facts."
"Facts…" Carlos repeated the word, tasting it as if hearing it for the first time. "Facts are interesting. But facts also have consequences. Your newspaper circulates among workers. Workers read, workers talk, workers start to wonder whether the revolution they supported has actually given them anything. Questions like that—" he sighed lightly, "—at a time when the country is still in transition, can cause… instability."
"I'm not responsible for instability, Colonel. I'm responsible for the truth."
Carlos's smile widened. But it didn't reach his eyes.
"Truth." He stood, walking to the window, turning his back to Armando. Down below, the Plaza de la República was already filling with street vendors setting up their stalls. A boy ran after a ball, nearly crashing into an old woman's empanada stand. "Señor, do you know how the Brittonian Empire became the strongest empire in the world?"
Armando was silent. Probably not expecting this turn in the conversation.
"Not because of their democracy," Carlos continued, hands clasped behind his back. "Not because of their vaunted press freedom. They became great because they understood one thing: stability. Stability is the foundation. Without stability, there's no development. Without development, there's no strength. Without strength—" he turned, "—this country will remain a source of raw materials for foreign powers, forever."
He walked back to the desk, picked up El Eco Popular, opened to page three, and read one sentence in a flat voice: "'The people don't need new leaders who do old things in the same way. The people need change, not just a change of faces.'"
He closed the paper.
"A beautiful sentence… truly beautiful. But a sentence like this—" he placed the paper on the desk, pressing it flat with his palm, "—a sentence like this can make a worker suddenly feel that the revolution that just happened was a betrayal. When we've barely had a month to build something."
"Build something," Armando repeated, and for the first time, there was a sharp edge to his voice. "What is being built, Colonel? The cabinet is filled with the same generals who once dined at the same table as President Valdez. The newly appointed chief justice is the brother-in-law of a Military Council member. And journalists who write criticism—" he stopped, swallowing something, "—journalists who write criticism are starting to disappear."
Carlos didn't answer. He just stared at Armando with an unreadable expression.
"Who has disappeared, Señor?"
"Ramón Castillo. A columnist for La Voz del Pueblo. He didn't return home three days ago. His wife filed a report with the police, but—"
"But no action has been taken?" Carlos raised an eyebrow. "That is indeed concerning. I'll check with the Chief of Police personally today. There must be no kidnappings or forced disappearances in this country—that's a legacy of the old regime we must eliminate."
He saw Armando blink, uncertain.
Carlos picked up his coffee cup again, sipping slowly. It tasted bitter. He didn't hate the bitterness—he hated his inability to control it.
"Señor," he said, setting the cup down. "I didn't come to shut down your newspaper. I didn't come to threaten you. I came to offer something."
"What?"
"The opportunity to be part of something larger."
Carlos opened his desk drawer, took out a document, and slid it across the table. Armando read the title, and his expression changed.
The National Maritime Industry Development Proposal.
"The Republic of Venez," Carlos said, his voice lower now, like someone sharing a secret, "was blessed with a long coastline on this continent. We could build ports that rival any in the world. But for a hundred years, we've only been spectators. Foreign ships carry away our minerals, our agricultural products, our timber—and we receive the crumbs."
He stood, walking to the large map hanging on the wall beside the window. His index finger traced the curved coastline.
"Brittonia rules the seas because they built ships. They built docks, they built shipyards, they trained sailors. As long as we can't sail our own ships, we will never be truly independent. Independence isn't just about not being colonized. Independence is the ability to determine our own fate. And our fate—" he tapped the map, "—lies in the sea."
He turned to face Armando.
"To achieve that, I need stability. I need a people who aren't busy suspecting each other. I need time—five years, ten years, maybe more—to build a foundation that won't crumble when the storm comes. And for that, I need newspapers that help people understand that something is being built, not just who sits in which chair."
Armando stared at him for a long moment. His gaze moved from the map on the wall to the document on the desk, to Carlos's face, which was no longer smiling.
"You want me to become your lackey," Armando said. His voice had lost its politeness.
"I want you to become a partner," Carlos corrected. "You'll still write. You'll still criticize. But your criticism will be constructive. You'll help people understand that development requires sacrifice. That freedom without stability is anarchy. You won't lose your voice, Señor. You'll just… harmonize it."
"And if I refuse?"
Carlos sighed. He returned to his chair, sat down, and for the first time that morning, he looked tired. Not physically tired, but something deeper.
"Then I'll be sad," he said honestly. "I'll be sad because the one newspaper that truly dares to speak will be closed by the end of today. And next week, there will be a new newspaper with the same name, the same editorial office, but a different owner. And your talented journalists—Ramón Castillo, for example—will lose their jobs. Perhaps lose more than that, depending on how stubborn they insist on being."
Silence.
Armando stared at him with eyes full of something Carlos couldn't identify. Not anger. Not fear. Perhaps… the same exhaustion.
"Do you truly believe what you're saying, Colonel?" Armando asked finally. His voice was calm. "About the sea. About development. Do you truly believe it?"
Carlos didn't answer immediately. He let the question hang in the air, let it enter his chest, let it touch something he'd buried deep.
"My father," he said at last, "was a fisherman. His boat was small, his nets torn, and every time he went to sea, he prayed he wouldn't encounter the large Brittonian ships that took all the fish before he could get any. He died when I was twelve. His boat was hit by a Brittonian merchant vessel in the fog. No one was punished. No one was held responsible. This country had no power to protest."
He looked at Armando.
"I want the children of coastal fishermen not to lose their fathers to foreign ships. I want them not to feel they have no rights in their own waters. I want this country to have warships that can protect its waters. I want our ports filled with ships flying our flag, not someone else's. That's what I believe, is that wrong?"
Armando didn't answer.
He stared at Carlos for a long time. Then his gaze shifted to the stack of newspapers on the desk—the cartoon of the crowned general among them. He picked it up, folded it slowly, and tucked it into his black leather briefcase.
"I'll consider your offer, Colonel," he said. His voice was flat.
Carlos nodded. "I'll give you three days."
Armando stood. At the doorway, he stopped and turned.
"Colonel Mendez."
"Yes?"
"Ramón Castillo. You said you'd check with the Chief of Police."
"I'll do it today."
Armando nodded slowly. "Make sure he goes home, Colonel. He has three children."
The door closed.
Carlos sat alone in that room, behind the mahogany desk. He sipped his coffee, now cold. It was very bitter.
He picked up El Eco Popular from Armando's briefcase—the newspaper had been left behind. He stared at it for a long moment, then folded it neatly and placed it in his drawer.
Outside the window, the Plaza de la República was bustling. The boy who'd been chasing the ball now sat on his mother's lap, eating an empanada with sauce-covered hands. Vendors laughed. An old man sold colorful balloons, and a group of small children ran after him.
Carlos closed his eyes.
He imagined warships flying the Venez flag sailing across the ocean. He imagined ports full of activity, smoking shipyards, young people studying maritime engineering at new universities. He imagined his father—a man with calloused hands and sunburnt skin—standing on a dock, watching those ships, and smiling.
He opened his eyes.
Outside, everything was still the same. Vendors, children. A small world that had no idea what was being fought over behind these closed windows.
He took a deep breath.
Ricardo Guerrero. The idealistic general who believed a nation could be built on beautiful speeches and a clean heart…
Carlos didn't hate Ricardo. He couldn't hate a man who'd stood at the front line when bullets whistled across the Santa Anna Bridge. But Ricardo didn't understand that after the war, what was needed was no longer courage, but decisiveness.
And Carlos would be that decisiveness. Even if Ricardo didn't like it. Even if the people didn't like it. Even if history would one day write his name as executioner rather than hero.
What mattered were those ships. What mattered was the Venez flag flying over seas that had long belonged to others.
Everything he did—the newspapers he controlled, the opposition he silenced, the enemies he eliminated—all of it was merely a means. A means to achieve something larger than himself. Larger than Ricardo. Larger than anyone alive today.
He opened the drawer and took out the proposal again. The National Maritime Industry Development.
Three more years, and the first steel mill would stand on the coast. Five years, the shipyard. Ten years, the first domestically built warship.
That was the target. And Carlos Mendez wouldn't let anyone stand in his way.
***
Our first tutor was an old man with sharp eyes and a beard that always smelled of chalk dust.
His name was Professor Juan, and he taught history in a way I never expected: he would spread a world map across the long study table, then have Isabella and me point out the names of long-extinct kingdoms while Eleanor—who was supposed to be participating—preferred drawing cats in the map's margins.
"This," Juan said, his finger pressing down on a peninsula in southern Europe, "was once the center of a civilization that dominated the entire Mediterranean. They built roads, aqueducts, laws, a language. But they fell. Do you know why?"
"Because they grew too large?" Isabella ventured.
"Because they grew too confident that no one could defeat them," Juan corrected. "And when that confidence turned into carelessness, enemies they'd once dismissed entered through the cracks they'd left unguarded."
He glanced at me briefly. Too sharply.
"Much like a nation," he continued. "A strong nation isn't just one with a large army. It's one that knows its own cracks, and seals them before others find them."
I nodded like a ten-year-old hearing a normal history lesson. But inside, I took note. This man wasn't just a teacher. The way he spoke, his choice of words—something was different.
After class, I asked Isabella about him.
"He used to be a professor at Caracia University," she replied, her eyes not leaving the book she was reading. "Expelled three years ago for being too critical of the old government. Father went to pick him up from his house on the outskirts."
Expelled. Deemed critical. Father went to pick him up.
Our second tutor arrived. He taught economics and administration—subjects that even Isabella struggled to follow. The balding man with thick glasses was named Vicente Reyes, and he'd served as head of the fiscal department at the Ministry of Finance before the coup.
"This country," he said on the first day, pointing at the numbers he'd written on the large blackboard, "spends sixty percent of its revenue paying foreign debt. Sixty percent… that means for every ten Bolívars that enter the treasury, six leave immediately. To pay loans the old regime used to buy weapons."
Eleanor, who was already bored, asked: "Why not just pay half?"
Vicente laughed. Not a mocking laugh, but that of someone who'd just remembered that children could ask questions in the most sensible way.
"Because if we don't pay, the countries that lent us money will get angry. They could block our trade, freeze our assets abroad, or—in the worst case—send their warships to 'enforce the contract.'"
"Warships?" Eleanor's eyes went wide.
"Warships," Vicente repeated, serious. "We don't have warships, Miss Eleanor. We have three old patrol boats whose engines often die in the middle of the sea. So if they come with large ships, there's nothing we can do."
I paid attention. Vicente Reyes spoke about debt and warships in the same tone Carlos Mendez spoke about maritime industry. Perhaps they'd worked together. Perhaps they still did.
Or perhaps it was merely coincidence that all the tutors sent to us were people who saw the same problems in the same way.
That night, in my room, I wrote in my sketchbook. Not maps of circles and lines anymore. But notes: debt, industry, ships, sea. Beside them, I drew the coastline of the Republic of Venez with a large arrow pointing toward the open ocean.
The gray cat jumped into my lap, spun around three times, then curled up with its tail wrapped around its nose.
Eleanor had forced me to bring him inside three days ago. "He's the palace cat now!" she'd shouted when I said stray cats shouldn't sleep indoors. Mother had just shaken her head and told us to wash up before dinner.
"Fantasma," I murmured, stroking his coarse fur. The name Eleanor had chosen because he appeared and disappeared like a ghost. Sometimes in the garden, sometimes in the kitchen, sometimes suddenly in the hallway without a sound.
I liked this cat. He didn't demand much. Food, sleep, occasionally bringing dead mice as unwanted gifts. And he had the ability to be in the right place without anyone noticing.
***
Dinner with the family at the palace always felt like theater.
The same long table, the same crystal chandelier, the same servants coming and going with silent movements. But the chair at the head—Father's chair—still felt foreign, even after weeks.
That night, Father came earlier than usual. His uniform was still complete, but his tie was slightly loosened, and his eyes—when he looked at each of us in turn—seemed like he was trying to remember our names.
"Mateo," he said, and I noticed he'd called on me first. Unusual. "Professor Juan tells me you're learning quickly. He said you asked about the Roman Empire and why it fell."
"Because it grew too large," I answered, repeating what Isabella had said in class.
"Hmm." Father picked up his soup spoon. "Was that the professor's answer?"
"He said it was because they grew too confident that no one could defeat them."
Father stopped stirring his soup. He glanced at me briefly, then returned to his bowl. "Do you agree?"
A heavy question for a ten-year-old. But the way he asked—like he genuinely wanted to know my answer—made me think for a moment before responding.
"They forgot to guard their cracks," I said finally. "The professor said enemies entered through places they left unguarded."
Father didn't answer. But I saw the corner of his mouth lift slightly—not quite a smile, more like a man finding something he hadn't expected.
Eleanor, who could never stay silent for more than thirty seconds, interrupted. "Father, I have a cat! His name is Fantasma! He likes sleeping in brother's room!"
"Fantasma?" Father raised an eyebrow.
"Yes! Because he appears suddenly! Like—" Eleanor spread her arms wide, "—whoosh! Suddenly there!"
Isabella sighed. "Eleanor, Father just got home. Don't be so loud."
"I'm not loud! I'm telling him!"
"Eleanor," Mother chided, but her tone was soft. "Father is tired. Speak quietly."
Eleanor pouted but complied. She picked up her spoon and began eating with deliberately slow movements, as if protesting through deceleration.
Father laughed. A small sound, but real. It was the first time I'd heard him laugh since we moved to the palace.
"Fantasma," he repeated, shaking his head. "A ghost cat… Fitting for this place."
Dinner continued in a more comfortable silence after that. Isabella talked about her history lessons, Eleanor slipped pieces of fish under the table for Fantasma, who'd appeared from somewhere and was now sitting by my feet, Mother asked if Father had eaten lunch.
Then, between the main course and dessert, Father asked again. His tone was casual, like mere small talk.
"Mateo, have you started learning about economics?"
"Yes, with Professor Reyes. We're learning about debt."
"Debt." Father repeated the word. "What do you think?"
I cut the meat on my plate, buying time to pretend to be busy. "He said our country has a lot of foreign debt. If we don't pay, they might get angry."
"How angry?"
"Send warships."
Father didn't answer immediately. He leaned back in his chair, staring at the ceiling painted with colonial-era angels.
"Warships," he repeated. "Are you afraid of warships, Mateo?"
A trap of a question.
I turned to him. His eyes were still on the ceiling, but I knew he was listening.
"Afraid," I answered honestly. "But more afraid that we don't have our own ships."
Father lowered his gaze. He looked at me. His eyes were sharp, searching, like that night in his old chair when I'd spoken about the train and the sleeping engineer.
"You know," he said quietly, "some people in the government say we should start building a defense industry. Warships. Weapons. They say it's the only way we'll truly be independent."
I waited.
"But to build that, we need money. Money that could be used for schools, hospitals, roads. Money we might have to take from basic goods subsidies, from aid programs for the poor."
He paused. His gaze shifted to Isabella, now quiet, to Eleanor, already getting drowsy in her chair, to Mother, watching him with an unreadable expression.
"Do you think it's worth it, Mateo? Sacrificing today for a future that isn't certain?"
"Ricardo—" Mother started to interrupt. But she held back.
I put down my fork slowly.
"Professor Juan said the Roman Empire fell because they were overconfident," I said. "But he also said they lasted a really long time before that. Maybe because they built roads, well, and rules."
"Aqueducts," Isabella corrected softly.
"Aqueducts," I repeated, smiling at her. "They built things that lasted and could be used by many people. Maybe if we build things like that—things useful for many people—they'll be patient and wait."
Father stared at me.
Then he laughed. A real laugh this time, so much that Eleanor, half-asleep, woke up and stared in confusion.
"You're truly my son, Mateo," he said, his tone sounding… relieved.
"You know," he said, his voice lower now, meant only for me, "sometimes I forget you're only ten years."
I smiled. The smile of a child who knew nothing. "I forget my age too, Father."
He blinked. Then smiled again—a smile that made the wrinkles on his face briefly disappear.
Mother finally interjected. "Ricardo, don't burden the children too much. They're still young."
"I'm just asking, Sofia. Man need to learn to think about the future."
"He's only ten! Let him play with his cat."
Eleanor, hearing the word "cat," immediately perked up. "Fantasma! Father! That's my cat!"
She jumped from her chair and ran toward me, bending under the table, and emerged a few seconds later with Fantasma squirming in her hands. The cat glared with his sharp yellow eyes but didn't scratch. As if resigned to his fate as a living toy.
"This is Fantasma!" Eleanor lifted the cat to chest height. "He likes sleeping in brother's room! Sometimes he brings dead mice."
Father laughed again. "Dead mice are gifts, El. It means he likes Mateo."
"The gifts are dirty!"
Isabella covered her mouth with her hand, holding back laughter. Mother shook her head, but I saw the corner of her mouth lift.
Fantasma, having had enough of Eleanor's handling, twisted his body nimbly and jumped into my lap. He curled up there, his tail wrapped around my waist, and closed his eyes with an expression that said "don't bother me again."
I stroked his head slowly.
Across the table, Father was watching me. Not for long, just a moment. But long enough for me to see something in his eyes I couldn't explain.
Like he was seeing something he didn't understand, but had decided not to question further.
***
That night, after all the lights were out and the palace had returned to silence, I sat on the edge of my bed with Fantasma in my lap.
Outside the window, the city lights twinkled as usual. But now I saw them differently. Every point of light down there was a family unaware that on this hill, a general was fighting his own shadows.
That a colonel with fog-like eyes was planning something that could change this nation's fate. That a child who should be sleeping was counting moves on a chessboard he'd never asked to play.
Fantasma purred softly. A steady, rhythmic purr, like a small engine that kept working without ever asking why.
I stroked his fur one more time.
"You're lucky," I whispered. "You just laze around all day."
He opened one eye, looked at me briefly, then closed it again. As if agreeing with what I'd said.