Several days had passed since my frank conversation with Maxim.
He had been looking after me with a rigorous diligence, and the atmosphere among the villagers towards me remained generally favorable.
As a collateral benefit, the village's few literati—acting on Maxim's recommendation—had begun reading my manuscripts. They had already integrated themselves into my growing circle of influence.
I sat on a rough-hewn wooden chair in the small front yard of the house Maxim had lent me, indulging in an optimistic contemplation of the future while lost in the biting silence of the tundra.
"Good morning, Vladimir! At your writings again, I see? Well, the more literate men we have in this village, the more I welcome it."
"Haha, good morning, Headman Pyotr. Your complexion is quite rosy today; perhaps your condition has improved. Or have you been at the vodka?"
The Village Head treated me with a warmth that bordered on the familial.
I had recently discovered that Alexandra was his daughter.
Because of this, I made a conscious effort to be particularly kind to her as well.
The girl possessed an insatiable curiosity, often attempting to steal glances at the subversive theories I committed to paper, but I decided it was of little consequence.
"Ach, no spirits for me yet. How could a man work after drinking in the daylight? Still, I appreciate the sentiment! Regardless... I must tell you, soldiers have been sighted more frequently around these parts lately."
The Headman gave a hearty laugh, but his words held a subterranean weight.
Soldiers? Likely the same patrol that had hounded me through the forest.
"What soldiers are you referring to, specifically?"
"You remember that flash of light in the southern woods some time ago? Ever since then, they've deployed troops under the pretext of rooting out a foreign saboteur. I managed to placate them with a few drinks and send them on their way. An honest, diligent youth like yourself couldn't possibly be a spy, after all."
Indeed...
They were undoubtedly hunting for me.
Under the thin veneer of a 'spy' hunt, they intended to apprehend, interrogate, or simply liquidate me. I had only a cursory knowledge of the Arknights world-state, but I knew Ursus was built upon the bones of the Russian Empire—an autocracy defined by its draconian surveillance and absolute central authority.
The realization sent a brief shiver of fear through me, colder than the wind.
Fortunately, thanks to the Headman's intervention, the soldiers only visited the village hall and failed to discover my presence for over a week. Eventually, the active pursuit appeared to lose its momentum, and the search orders were relaxed.
What, then, had I been doing during that week in Beryozovka?
"Truly magnificent, Comrade Vladimir! We must expand our ideology across the entirety of Terra! Maxim was right to place his faith in you!"
"We were blind to the true nature of Communism and Socialism. But now, we are ideologically fortified! We have been reborn as the revolutionary Intelligentsia!"
Twenty young men and women, joined by eight of the elder generation.
Including myself, twenty-nine individuals now gathered regularly to form the vanguard of a prospective Communist Party, their minds saturated with the dialectics I provided.
With a total village population of 252, more than ten percent were now direct supporters. If one included their families, it meant thirty to forty percent of the populace viewed my presence and my ideals with favor.
It had been an exhausting labor.
I spent the nights transcribing the works of the Great Socialists and Communists from memory. I had to synthesize and limit the output to avoid raising suspicions about the speed of my production, but even so, the strain left my eyes burning and my vision blurred.
However, there was resistance. Hegemony is never established without friction.
"Why in the name of the Great Bear must we protect the rights of the Infected? Do you not realize that to consort with them is to invite our own infection?"
The standard-bearer of this opposition was Fyodor Wrangel.
After the Headman, he was the most influential figure in the village. Should he remain an antagonist, the foundations I was building would remain precarious.
If my logic were to be dismantled by him, the entire movement could collapse before it truly began.
"Mister Fyodor, I ask that you calm yourself and listen to what I have to say."
I cleared my throat, adopting the measured tone of a seasoned agitator.
"Human rights are not subdivided based on the presence of disease or industrial productivity. A society that permits the quarantine and forced labor of its people simply because they are 'Infected' is a society that will eventually justify the same treatment for you—because you are 'old,' or 'poor,' or because your 'social standing' is deemed insufficient. Human rights are our collective safety net. If even one thread is severed, the entire structure fails. To protect the rights of all is the only way to ensure the rights of any. The moment this principle is compromised, social cohesion vanishes, equality is shattered, and we are left with nothing but an unjust hegemony of the powerful."
I took a deep breath and leaned forward, locking eyes with him.
"Furthermore, you do not fear the Infected. You have simply become acclimated to the terror manufactured by the state. You have been poisoned by the propaganda of the ruling class. Have you ever actually seen a man contract Oripathy simply by standing near an Infected neighbor? Who are those dying in the Originium mines? Who were the soldiers who fought for the Empire, only to be discarded when the crystals pierced their skin? They were the working class—our brothers and sisters. They were the Proletariat. To cast out the Infected is to turn your own rifle upon your class comrades. Such division serves only the nobility and the oppressors who grow fat on our labor."
As my words hung in the cold air, Fyodor could only sputter.
"That... that is... Dammit. Let's go!"
Fuming, Fyodor stormed out of the house, followed by the dozen or so villagers who had come to voice their dissent.
"Vladimir, you never cease to amaze me. I find it hard to believe you are only six years my junior," Maxim said, watching them go.
"Comrade Vladimir has neutralized the counter-revolutionaries with pure logic! Did anyone record his words?"
"I have them right here!"
The comrades remaining in the room lifted me onto their shoulders in a brief moment of triumph. I felt a surge of genuine fulfillment, wondering if this was what true purpose felt like.
But the high of efficacy was short-lived.
Disaster struck with the cold indifference of the tundra.
"Ah!"
Alexandra, while playing in the forest, had been unfortunate enough to be pierced by an Originium shard. Deep within the wound, the crystalline malignancy took root instantly.
"This... this is Oripathy. There is no doubt," Maxim whispered, his voice trembling.
"This cannot be... why would such a fate befall Alya..." Pyotr lamented.
"Poor old man. The Imperial inspectors are scheduled to arrive in less than a month."
The gloom grew suffocating. The arrival of the Ursus inspectors was an approaching death sentence.
Pyotr retreated into the village hall, paralyzed by grief. For days, the village was submerged in a heavy silence, the laughter of children replaced by the distant, bitter sobs of the Headman echoing across the square. Even Wrangel and his farmers, who had often played with Alya, were hushed into a grim stillness.
Our nascent Party cell gathered in Maxim's house under the shroud of night.
*************************************
"When the inspector arrives, he won't stop at searching for the Infected. He will naturally look for 'subversive elements' who harbor grievances against the Empire."
"Then you are saying we are likely to be targeted as well?"
"You are correct, Comrade. An inspection of this nature carries a high probability of exposing our movement."
The role of an inspector was never merely administrative. No nation obsessed with control would settle for such inefficiency. They would purge those who showed sympathy for the Infected, and in that bloody process, any ideological deviation would be unearthed.
We were the prime targets for such a purge.
"There is a more pressing concern," Maxim said quietly. His gaze was sharper than I had ever seen it, his fingers tapping a slow, rhythmic beat against the table. "If things remain as they are, Alya will be arrested. She will spend her remaining days as a slave in the Originium mines until she perishes. These 'inspectors' are not bureaucrats; they are effectively slave hunters for the state."
Suddenly, the door swung open with a violent thud.
"Wait! Huff... wait for us. We want in!"
It was Fyodor Wrangel and his faction, their breath visible in the freezing room.
"The child... she is infected, but she has done no harm," Wrangel gasped. "She has lived more diligently than any of us... the whole village knows it. To face such a punishment at her age..."
He struck his chest with a heavy fist, a gesture of visceral frustration.
"So... what is it you are trying to say?" I asked.
"My mind was narrow. We were all blind, and you... you were right. To discriminate based solely on infection is not justice. I realize this now, and I loathe my own ignorance."
His face was etched with a profound, agonizing guilt.
"Let us cooperate. Let us strike down the inspector when he arrives and flee to Victoria. They say the persecution of the Infected is less severe there. What do you say?"
His voice was trembling, bordering on a sob, as he bowed his head in a plea for alliance.
I hesitated. Could this man truly be trusted? Was this a genuine conversion or a desperate gamble?
As I stroked my chin in contemplation, Maxim stood up abruptly.
"And why shouldn't we?"
He stepped onto a chair, raising his voice to fill the room.
"Let us unite. Regardless of this alliance, once the inspector arrives and discovers our ideology, we are all dead men. Only those who stood against us might have survived. But now?"
Maxim paused to gather his breath.
"They have asked to join us. They have submitted to our leadership. Even if they were to turn back now, a central inspector will not care for their petty local grievances. If one falls, we all fall. We are now a community of fate—we live together, or we swing from the same gallows!"
He was right.
The act of Wrangel coming to us to admit his fault regarding the Infected was a massive political gamble on his part. To doubt them now, when they had surrendered their pride, made me feel a flicker of shame.
Furthermore, Wrangel's faction hadn't been defenders of feudalism; their only true point of contention with us was the treatment of the Infected. Now that they had repented, there was no reason to refuse them.
I stood up and approached Wrangel.
"Very well. We cooperate. We will liquidate the inspector and make for Victoria. If we mobilize all the livestock in the village, we can transport the elderly and children, along with enough supplies and currency to begin anew."
I extended my hand to Wrangel. He gripped it with a crushing strength, shaking it violently.
"Yes. We must. For Alya. For poor old Pyotr."
As we shook hands, the other villagers followed suit, reaching out to their former rivals. I began pouring spirits for those whose cups were empty.
Wrangel raised his glass, leading the toast.
"For Alya!"
"""FOR ALYA!"""
Maxim shouted next.
"For Headman Pyotr!"
"""FOR HEADMAN PYOTR!"""
Finally, the room erupted in a single, unified roar.
""""ZHARE! (CHEERS!)""""
******************
Two hours of drinking had passed.
"*Hiccup!* *Hiccup!*"
I was swaying, my head light from the potent industrial spirits we had been consuming. Most in the room were in a similar state of intoxication.
"Hehe... the young lad is already drunk? So, what is this dream of yours? This... Communism thing?"
Wrangel—no, Comrade Wrangel—placed a heavy hand on my shoulder. This man was built like an industrial crane.
"Yes... we spread Communism... *hic*... across the world. We make this Terra... a place where no one gets hurt... *hic!*... That is the goal..."
I managed to finish the sentence between bouts of hiccups. Wrangel gave a booming, boisterous laugh.
"A big dream for a young man! Ha! So, what shall we call this organization of yours?"
"The International... the International Communist Party..."
There was no Comintern in this world, so 'International' would suffice. In this realm, 'Communist Party' would serve as the vessel for anarchism, socialism, and every revolutionary theory I brought from Earth.
Hence—the International Communist Party.
"Yes! The International Communist Party! I like the sound of it!"
Wrangel laughed again, raising a glass that had been mysteriously refilled. He bellowed to the room:
"To a world without discrimination of race, region, or infection! To liberty! For the International... for the Communist Party, ZHARE!"
Somehow, my own glass was full again as well. I raised it, refusing to be outdone.
"Zha...re..."
The remaining conscious villagers echoed the cry.
""Zha... re...""
We drained our glasses and promptly collapsed into a drunken stupor. As consciousness faded, the muffled voices of those still awake drifted into my ears.
"Oho, they're out cold. *Hic.* Dreaming impossible dreams... how romantic."
"You think it's possible?"
"I do! When I read that book he wrote—*Justice and Order*—I was truly moved."
"And yet you fought him over the Infected?"
"*Hic*, I did. I regret it now. Alya... I'm so sorry... *sob*."
"Look at him, the man's crying! Fyodor? Fyodor! Hey, don't you dare vomit in my house!"
Their drunken bickering brought a faint, weary smile to my face. That night, I dreamed a dream of a better world.
Of course, the following morning, I woke with a headache so violent it felt as if my skull were being split by a pickaxe. I spent a good deal of time retching.
I really... I really should have known my limit.