"How are we to proceed? It is now only a matter of time before the hammer falls!"
A young man clutched his head between trembling hands, his voice cracking with hysteria.
Following his lead, several elders succumbed to defeatism, hurling accusations at Maxim, Wrangel, and me. The atmosphere in the room turned toxic with the stench of fear and betrayal.
The report had just arrived: one of the inspectors—the Chief Inspector himself—had sniffed out the subversion in our ranks. He knew of the plan.
Laman's revelation had been a grenade tossed into our fragile unity. Watching the organization crumble into a panicked rabble in a matter of seconds was a grim spectacle.
"What now? Your reckless arrogance is going to get us all lined up against a wall!"
"Exactly! You must take the burden! Confess that you acted alone! Wrangel! You were the one who convinced me to follow this madness! Do something!"
Hearing their pathetic mewling, I felt a surge of cold, biting fury.
These curs had nodded along when the prospect of freedom was dangled before them, but the moment a shadow fell over the threshold, they were ready to devour their comrades to buy themselves one more day of miserable servitude. Their spinelessness was revolting.
At this moment, I felt a desperate, visceral craving for the methods of the Georgian butcher—the man of steel who would have purged this rot without a second thought.
But I was an intellectual. I would not resort to such crude, reactionary violence yet.
I needed a more cerebral instrument of control.
First, I assessed the fracture lines in the room. Most of those currently wailing in despair were neither part of Wrangel's hardened veterans nor my original revolutionary vanguard.
Wrangel's men and the core party members stood firm. Some were so tense their lips bled from the pressure of their teeth, but they did not break rank. They were waiting for a command.
The only solution was a preemptive rhetorical strike.
"Silence! All of you, be silent! A new directive is in effect!"
I slammed my boot against the desk with a deafening crack.
The sudden thunder brought an immediate, tomb-like hush to the gathering. Every eye turned toward me.
Finally. Frightened little minnows, the lot of them.
"How many inspectors do we face? Tell me, do they outnumber us? Do they possess the strength of ten thousand men? Are they so swift that they can react to an ambush before their throats are slit?"
I projected my voice, aiming it like a weapon at the crowd. My core supporters caught the cue immediately.
"No!" they roared. "They are but three mangy imperial curs!"
I thrust my fist into the air, my voice rising in a fevered pitch.
"Then why do we cower before them? Have you no shame? Is this the extent of your revolutionary will? You dare to call yourselves Communists while trembling at the sight of three bureaucrats? Well, answer me!"
I brought my fist down onto the desk with such force that the impact sent a sickening jolt of pain through my nervous system.
I ignored it. The performance demanded a sacrifice.
"Know your shame! Accept your responsibility! Were you not the ones who swore to raise the flag of the people? Now, show the steel in your spine!"
I paused, drawing in a sharp breath to steady my voice. The silence that followed was heavy, but no longer brittle.
Slowly, the tide turned. Fist after fist rose into the air as the fervor caught fire in their lungs.
"He's right! We will stand!"
"Long live the Revolution! Long live the Party! Long live the People!"
The atmosphere shifted. Even those who had been screaming for my head moments ago now lowered their eyes in contrition or joined the chorus of defiant chants.
I looked down at my hand. Something warm was trickling across the scarred wood of the table. Bright, crimson blood was weeping from my split knuckles.
I gripped the edges of the desk and bellowed, "Comrades! Are you prepared for the struggle? Are you ready to strike down the treacherous agents of the reactionaries?"
The villagers erupted into a singular, predatory roar.
"To battle! To battle!"
From the shadows of the room, crude weapons began to emerge—makeshift spears, hunting bows, and heavy crossbows meant for beasts. They were the tools of survival turned into the instruments of war.
Sickles and hammers, chisels and hoes—the peasantry of Beryozovka was transforming into a militia. I watched them in silence as they coalesced into a jagged line of steel and iron.
The fire in their eyes was unmistakable. It was the glow of a cornered beast that had finally decided to bite back.
I used the last of my voice, pushing until it felt like my throat would tear. "I stand before you and ask: whatever path I lead you on, will you follow? Even if it is paved with frost and blood, will you walk it?"
"WE WILL!"
The voice of the people shook the rafters of the meeting hall.
"Then hear me! We will overthrow the oppressors of Terra! The proletarians have nothing to lose but their chains; they have a world to win!"
I held my bloodied fist high. In response, a forest of jagged blades and clenched hands rose to meet it.
"Down with the oppressors!"
"Nothing but our chains! The world is ours!"
I lowered my hand and led the final salute.
"Long live the People! Long live the Revolution! Long live Liberty!"
The crowd thundered back in perfect, terrifying unison. "LONG LIVE LIBERTY!"
"Then let us move! To the downfall of tyrants! For the salvation of our Alya!"
I threw open the doors, and the mass of villagers poured out into the winter night like a dark, unstoppable tide. Scarcely two hundred souls, but at that moment, they felt like an invincible legion.
I watched them pass with a thin, prideful smile. Wrangel and Maxim led the armed vanguard, their faces set in grim masks of determination.
This was it. This was the Revolution.
*************************************************
"Did you hear that? Coming from that direction?"
"Indeed. It's been a persistent racket for some time now."
The two junior Imperial Inspectors were leaning against a cold stone wall, savoring their tobacco in the biting air.
The rotund inspector, clearly bored, nudged his lanky companion in the ribs. "Think the wine is any good here?"
"The wine, sir?"
"Yes, the spirits. It's been far too long since I had a proper drink. We should make sure we accept Wrangel's hospitality graciously. He owes us that much."
The inspector licked his lips in anticipation.
"Ah, gentlemen, here you are!"
Fyodor Wrangel emerged from the shadows. His right trouser pocket was unnaturally weighed down, and his right hand held a dusty bottle of liquor.
"Oh? You really shouldn't have gone to such trouble," the fat inspector chuckled.
"Nonsense. It is the very least I can offer for your service to the Empire," Wrangel replied with a practiced smile.
Greed overcoming caution, the rotund man waddled forward. The lanky inspector, curious about the vintage, followed a few steps behind.
It happened in a blurred instant.
—Squelch—
"Gah—!"
The bottle was a decoy. Wrangel's hand had moved with the speed of a veteran soldier, drawing the heavy dagger from his pocket and plunging it deep into the fat inspector's throat.
The official collapsed into the snow, leaving only a wet, gurgling sound in his wake. The lanky inspector froze in horror.
"Wh-what is the meaning of—!"
He tried to scream, his mind screaming for the protection of his cold, efficient Chief Inspector. He never felt safer than when Laman was nearby.
But the cry never escaped his lips.
—Thwip*—
"Hrk—!"
A hunter's arrow, loosed from the treeline, punched through the man's neck. He slumped to his knees, clawing at the fletching as blood began to froth in his throat with a sickening boiling sound.
He toppled over into the frost. Another imperial dog put to rest.
Only one remained.