09:55 – July 9, 2047 – Nexus / Politburo
The Politburo was in uproar. The recent wave of attacks had dealt the Union a severe blow. Six civilians had been killed, among them two children. A dozen more were being treated in the People's Infirmary for severe burns. Their scars would mark them for the rest of their lives.
Perhaps the Lord truly knew His children. Or perhaps He had been blinded by the thousands of atomic suns. Could He even still see humanity down there beneath the earth, buried under concrete and steel?
Either way, it meant hunger.
Hunger for hundreds—perhaps for thousands. And if no alternatives could be found, there would be deaths by starvation: women, children, men, the elderly. Old or young—it would not matter. They would die.
Now, the final options were being examined.
"We estimate that these attacks have destroyed seventy-five percent of our mushroom production in the most recent territorial acquisition. A famine is unfortunately unavoidable. In addition, the armories and their supplies were completely destroyed,"said Functionary Weber as he delivered his assessment, straightening the cards bound with rat-leather covers.
Shouts crashed through the hall like electrical discharges:
"We're going to starve!""First the Eastern Front and now this?!""We're exposed in the South!"
"Grow mushrooms! Imports! Imports!""Lower rations per capita—no one must starve!""We must declare a war technocracy!"
War technocracy—a system with only one purpose: to protect the Revolution. A system that reduced all consumption to a minimum in order to guarantee maximum defensive strength. A system the Consul had already invoked during the Great War of 2035.
First, the state had to be secured—before the Viennese underground could be unified, before people could once again live as human beings.
This demand did not go unchallenged.The Realists were convinced it was the only way to safeguard the future.The Utopians saw it as a regression to old patterns—where humans were treated merely as raw material.
Yet even in this charged atmosphere, one functionary attempted to argue her case on behalf of the Free Commune.
Doctor Baumer took the floor.
"Esteemed comrades, I understand that we now face more urgent problems than fulfilling our social and economic targets. Nevertheless, I appeal to all of you—and especially to our great Consul—not to neglect these goals entirely."
She paused briefly. The clicking of mechanical calculators filled the air; messengers glided lightly across the floor; fresh tea was poured.
"Furthermore, before we turn to the latest military developments, I ask that we consider the results of my ministry's risk assessment. The documents are filed under E-K4 and lie before you. They concern the situation in the Free Commune. In the name of humanity, we must dispatch a relief unit to the Commune."
Angry shouts erupted.
"Who cares about your assessment if the front collapses?""Typical—diverting manpower and resources for pointless missions!""We must secure the protectorates!""We must punish our enemies!"
The Minister of Defense rose.
"Esteemed members of the Council—the Southern League is attacking us with extreme brutality. Ammunition and consumables are scarce. We are currently deploying flamethrowers to stabilize the situation. Our lines have been pushed back by one hundred meters. Whether we can withstand this pressure in the long term is uncertain."
After a brief hesitation, he continued in a cool, almost ashamed tone:
"I… I propose redeploying penal regiments to the front to compensate for personnel losses."
The Supreme Political Commissar stepped forward. Her voice, usually calm, now vibrated with fury.
"Comrades, in extreme situations, extreme measures are required."
A murmur of approval spread through the hall.
"We should have purged the station from the outset; our 'humane' approach to pacification has failed. My commissars have already arrested twenty-three clerics and partisans. I propose that they be publicly executed—using targeted cruelty to instill fear in the hearts of our enemies!"
"How will that save us if we kill them all?" someone shouted.
"Shoot one partisan and two more will rise!" another voice countered.
"That's not a solution—that's revenge!"
"No—we must exterminate them!"
Unfazed, the Commissar continued:
"Only a large-scale purge offers us a chance. 'Rehabilitatable' criminals will be transferred to re-socialization facilities."
"That's your solution? As a Utopian, I expected something constructive!" a delegate shouted.
Her gaze twisted toward the heckler.
"Yes—this is the only solution! If necessary, I will turn the entire station into one vast gulag. Our enemy understands only strength. They have mistaken our care and mercy for weakness. Now we will show what happens to provocateurs, saboteurs, and traitors to military morale."
She clenched her fist.
"We will crush them like insects beneath our boots and tear out every last spark of faith in their god or their 'Keeper of Truth'—utterly and completely."
The Consul cleared his throat—barely audible, yet unmistakable. The room fell silent. They knew this expression well: the iron stoicism that defined their Guiding Star.
He spoke in a measured, calm voice.
"Esteemed comrades, I understand your outrage. But if we tear each other apart, we hand our enemy a decisive victory."
He paused—and with him, the room.
"Only a strong vanguard creates a strong state, and only a strong state creates a strong humanity. Our nerves are raw. But if we lose our reason, we lose our hope."
Once again, every functionary present was reminded why he—and he alone—held the future in his hands: a helmsman on the stormy ocean of time, a rock defying the gale.
"There will be no retaliatory measures against the civilian population,"he declared firmly."Many of them have consistently cooperated with our forces. Large-scale violence would undo the hard-won progress of assimilation and integration."
He continued:
"However, all those proven to have participated in the attack will be executed. And all members of the ruling clerical caste will be transferred to re-socialization facilities."
He slammed his fist on the table.
"This ruling caste of the Southern League, with its fanatical, irrational faith, must—and will—be eradicated."
The assembly stood frozen, eyes fixed on their leader.
"No poem and no verse of their holy books will survive our rationalization.We will transform this station into a model example of the superiority of techno-socialism.It will be renamed Gramsci City—the Fortress of Reason."
A subdued murmur swept through the hall. People dared to breathe again as the Consul reached the climax of his speech.
"The renewal of our society must not be delayed by the actions of these barbarians.Regrettably, the situation leaves no alternative but to reduce food rations once more.We must mobilize further sectors of our economy to win this production battle."
"Let us—for the good of humanity—crush our enemies with an armored fist and free the suffering masses from their stranglehold!Only we offer the possibility not merely to survive, but to prosper."
"Long live the Union!Long live techno-socialism!We lead our species into the future—for the honor of mankind!"
The assembled party members answered in unison:
"Long live the Consul!"
The bureaucratic machinery of the TSUdM lurched into motion. Militia units were mobilized, production restructured, and the Cultural Revolution intensified. The clerical caste was systematically eliminated—one after another, they disappeared.
Regiments were redeployed, materials reassigned, production lines prioritized. Reconstruction of Station Gramsci City was immediately accelerated. Based on Report E-K4, a humanitarian mission was dispatched to the Commune. Additionally, the last border posts were sealed.
The Union inhaled the scent of steel, oil, and order—
the calm before the next storm.