Fortune favored us; we successfully eluded the Empire's gaze and completed our exodus.
Thanks to that narrow escape, we managed to reach the Victorian nomadic city of Birmingham.
The Count who ruled this steel behemoth... was it Archibald Ninimore? Yes, that sounds correct.
Rumor has it he is a decadent young oligarch, a parasite squandering the wealth his father accumulated. Whether those whispers hold truth, I cannot say for certain.
Regardless, we settled there. Some found work as factory laborers, others as overseers, while Maxim successfully secured a position as a physician once more.
As for me, I survived by translating books—a lowly scribe scraping by on meager commissions.
Indeed, of our entire group, only Maxim—the doctor—earned anything resembling a respectable wage! Even in this world, the medical profession remains a sanctuary of the elite.
If only I had possessed an aptitude for the sciences. I could have delved into Life Sciences or Originium Research and entered a medical college myself.
Of course, even if my humanities marks had been magically swapped for science scores, my grades would never have sufficed for medical school. Still, the pang of regret was sharp.
Ah, then again, perhaps it was my immersion in the humanities that caused the spike in blood pressure which sent me to this world in the first place. I suppose there is a silver lining to every tragedy.
We worked relentlessly in this hellscape of early industrialization—a landscape designed for the grinding down of souls. We earned our bread with desperate tenacity, and I managed to publish several more volumes during our tenure.
While those initial works were filed away in the International Communist Party's communal archives, I soon intended to release a new manifesto.
Our Ursus comrades, having fumbled through the nuances of the Victorian tongue, began spreading our ideology in the factories, the parks, and the city squares.
Few possessed a truly sophisticated grasp of dialectical materialism. Many of the new laborers joined our ranks dreaming only of the abstract ideals of 'Equality' and 'Liberty,' but those who displayed true insight were elevated to the cadre.
Between consuming Originium shards for survival, publishing underground literature, and sowing the seeds of subversion, eighteen years passed in the blink of an eye.
********************************************
Currently, I am walking toward a certain establishment, flanked by my aides.
The 'Liberty Café.' Though recently established, it has quickly become a salon for liberals, enlightenment thinkers, and the bourgeois intelligentsia.
Naturally, I was not invited.
To them, my convictions likely appear too radical, too scorched-earth.
Victoria, after all, is a nation heavily influenced by British sensibilities. Their so-called 'enlightened' thinkers are often the same charlatans who claim the proletariat is not yet sufficiently 'civilized' to merit the right to vote—a quintessential piece of aristocratic drivel.
Thus, they would naturally feel an aversion to my brand of Communism, even after I scrubbed it of the more overt odors of authoritarianism found in traditional Marxist-Leninist thought.
So, how did a radical such as I receive an invitation to this gathering?
To explain that, I must recount the many tribulations of the intervening years.
Much has happened.
First, after a decade of laboring as a translator, I published a definitive work.
I titled it: The Theory of Labor Equality.
Within those pages, I appealed directly to the workers and the Infected.
'Liberty cannot be born without Equality, and Equality cannot survive without Liberty.'
'Wealth without labor is plunder; Law without equality is deception.'
'Discrimination is a tool. The ruling class establishes the Infected as scapegoats to foster an atmosphere of terror. Until they resist this systemic absurdity, both the Infected and the non-Infected remain mere instruments of the hegemony.'
When I voiced these appeals, our dear idealistic intellectuals began to gravitate toward the Party.
Most were initially skeptical of our true intentions, but after digesting my written works, the majority found themselves synchronized with the rhythm of Communism.
And what of the workers? What of the Infected? You ask if they failed to appear?
How could those impoverished souls afford the luxury of purchasing books?
They entered our ranks through different avenues.
Agitation and propaganda in the workplace, the slums, and the public squares!
'...Thus, Victoria's exploitative feudal system is destined for collapse! Ultimately, Communism will emerge, and through it, we shall achieve true equality for all! Hear me, comrades!'
'James, did you hear? They call it Communism. They say if we make it a reality, everyone will have food on their table and a roof over their head.'
Propaganda posters plastered in the back alleys!
—RETURN ALL MEANS OF PRODUCTION TO THE PEOPLE!—
—DO NOT BE SWAYED BY REACTIONARY ATTEMPTS TO DIVIDE THE INFECTED!—
And the chants!
'Long live the Trade Unions! Overthrow the Reactionaries!'
'Liberation for the Infected! Long live Equality! Long live the Republic!'
Our membership swelled daily. The substantial contributions from radical intellectuals, paired with the meager copper pennies donated by workers and the Infected, transformed into thousands of posters lining the city walls.
Comrades like Wrangel took charge as chairmen of underground trade unions—strictly illegal, of course—or assisted in their formation, providing the Party with a heavy industrial backbone. Old Pyotr, Alya, and Laman patrolled the quarantine zones and slums, recruiting the downtrodden.
A portion of our dues was dedicated to printing free pamphlets for the masses.
'Friend, have you read this? Why the Masses Must Remain Poor?'
'Eh? Oh, that? Of course. It says the aristocrats and factory owners are the real villains, doesn't it?'
'Exactly! Come, join the Party. The dues are a mere fraction of what we pay the Count in taxes. The Union Chairman says a man named Edwards is collecting applications at the tavern today.'
'Splendid. Let us go at once. Where is the meeting?'
Thus, the number of Communists grew steadily, and the city's industrial core leaned ever faster toward our cause.
By this year, in this massive nomadic city of 800,000, a staggering 110,000 are either registered members of the Party or belong to a member's family.
Our International Communist Party had outgrown its infancy as a clandestine cell of intellectuals.
Exceeding ten percent of the total population was our most encouraging milestone yet.
Furthermore, our ideology had leaked beyond Birmingham into other regions and nations!
—From Iberia: We have collected over five hundred signatures from local comrades. We submit these documents herewith. May we have permission to establish the Iberian Communist Party?
—From Ursus: Our numbers have grown significant, but we suffer a famine of literature. Can you smuggle more volumes to us?
From the once-mighty Iberia to the frozen tundra of Ursus we had abandoned!
The 'International' in our name was finally beginning to hold weight.
Naturally, surveillance and opposition intensified in tandem.
—CRUSH THE AGITATION OF REBELS WHO SEEK DISUNITY!—
—UNITY UNDER THE LEADERSHIP OF THE COUNT!—
Our 'illustrious' Count responded with propaganda posters so garish and archaic they looked like they had been designed by a backwater dynasty north of a demilitarized zone.
It was a staggering display of incompetence.
The shock only deepened when I learned these were not the work of lazy bureaucrats or an out-of-touch manager—the Count himself had personally dictated the design and slogans.
I suppose, being the Count, he is technically the manager.
Regardless, I briefly wondered if the man was genuinely deficient in the head, but then I reminded myself he was a hereditary aristocrat; such idiocy is a prerequisite for the role.
Of course, the administrative apparatchiks beneath him were far more dangerous.
The moment our membership crossed ten thousand, the secret police began trailing me.
'Wh—Who are you?!'
'Enough talk! Die!'
That was a particularly unpleasant encounter.
I was simply walking down the street when a blade was suddenly pressed against my throat.
Fortunately, a worker guarding my shadow acted quickly, caving the assailant's skull in with a hammer. That ended the assassination attempt, but I have moved between safehouses ever since.
I truly felt like a revolutionary leader from the student movements of the 70s or 80s.
Nevertheless, I endured the life of a fugitive, continuing to publish books, presiding over Party congresses, and delivering speeches. I fulfilled my duties as Chairman to the letter.
There were numerous raids, but each time, the sacrifice and devotion of a few dedicated comrades allowed the majority of us—including myself—to escape the net.
Ah, I seem to have digressed. This chatterbox nature of mine is a stubborn habit.
To return to the present: I have arrived at the entrance of the Liberty Café.
Deep breaths... I am nervous. Tremendously so.
"Comrade Chairman, are you feeling the pressure?"
It was Comrade Edwards, my aide, who spoke.
Though he lacked a proper mustache, the short growth he managed to maintain gave him the distinct air of a twenty-something opportunist.
"Comrade Edwards, one should always feel pressure in these moments. I am tense every time I step into a meeting, even after eighteen years of chairing them."
"To be honest, I feel the same every time I accompany you, Comrade!"
Hmph. He is quite the flatterer.
My mood improved slightly.
I patted his shoulder.
"You shouldn't be nervous serving me; you should be nervous when you're with your girlfriend. Tend to your love life well."
"And you, Comrade Chairman? Do you not have a lady in your life?"
"You little scoundrel."
"Gah!"
I delivered a sharp kick to the idiot's shin.
The boy is truly a menace.
Never... never provoke the sensibilities of a (former) lifelong-single graduate student.
"Let's head inside."
"Oww... Understood, sir."
********************************************
"Now, we are graced today by a very distinguished guest. Allow me to introduce the founder of Communism—Mr. Vladimir Park!"
A wave of applause washed over the café.
It was not unanimous.
Those seated on the left clapped with fervor; those on the right offered either half-hearted gestures or remained stony-faced and silent.
I see. It seems those on the left are the radicals, while the right is occupied by moderates or conservatives.
The fact that those on the right wore clothes several grades more expensive than their counterparts on the left confirmed my suspicions.
I bowed politely to the assembly.
"Greetings, fellow members of the intelligentsia."
I straightened my back and continued.
"I have come today to present a single fact. It is one you may already know well. However, it is one many of you choose to ignore."
The left side leaned in, hanging on every word.
The right was divided—some curious, some already dismissive, expecting the same old rhetoric.
"That fact is this: this city, and by extension this world, is diseased. We can no longer avert our eyes from the symptoms. I suspect that among you, there are nobles and there are capitalists. Therefore, I intend to speak uncomfortable truths. I wish to discuss the final solution to this sickness."
I gripped both sides of the lectern.
Injecting passion into my gestures, I began my oration.
"Total revolution! A revolution to upend every exploitative structure! Creating a world where all are equal and free is the only final solution! The proletariat and the intelligentsia must unite through revolution to crush the feudal aristocracy and the predatory bourgeoisie! Only then can the freedom and equality of the worker be established! The means of production—which dictate the scale of power in modern society—must be shared among those who work. Only then will democracy be rooted and our liberties maintained!"
I hammered out our ideals in a rapid-fire staccato.
"Land must be communal! Freedom of the press must be absolute! No, not just the press—all forms of expression! Unless an act severely infringes upon the liberty of another, all freedoms must be sacrosanct! Such freedom is only possible through equality. Without equality, a new ruling class—a second aristocracy—will inevitably emerge. We must operate on strict meritocracy where fair opportunity is guaranteed to all! This is Communism! This is the new Justice!"
I turned my gaze toward the republicans and liberals.
"Republicanism and Liberalism are noble ideals, certainly! But they have their limits. If you drive out one tyrant only to let the new wellspring stagnate, the capitalists who monopolize resources and the means of production will eventually suppress liberty to maintain their hegemony! Ultimately, Liberalism fails! And what of Republicanism? A Republic is a fine structure. But if the man with the most resources can seize the reins of power, there is no check against him! In the end, monopolists or populists take control, claiming rights are granted only to those who follow their order and their duties. Republicanism invariably loses to the ruling class and those with silver tongues!"
Now, I addressed the conservatives.
"And you, conservatives! It is your turn! You claim the current system is functional enough through custom, and thus should not be changed! But within that 'functional enough' are the tears and blood of the Infected and the laborer! Your factories sever limbs and manufacture the Infected by the thousands! You say Conservatism respects tradition and order, but which tradition? The tradition of aristocratic privilege? An order that only recognizes the profits of the factory owner? A tradition that maintains oppression is merely a corruption that must be swept away by revolution! You claim chaos follows when order collapses, but your 'order' is already a chaos that tramples millions of lives! Even as we speak, the Infected are denied medicine and workers starve while laboring sixteen hours a day! Is this an order, or is it hell?"
My throat was parched.
I reached for the water beside me and took a long draught.
I resumed my speech.
My voice was rasping, but my message was clear. I spoke with every ounce of conviction I possessed.
"I declare here, before this assembly of intellectuals: Communism is not a mere ideology. It is the reality for those suffering at this very moment. The time for action is upon us. Let this knowledge, this discourse, this declaration become the revolution that we, the intelligentsia, ignite! For the Infected and the non-Infected! For the worker and the peasant! For the masses! For the reality that faces us—for the Communist Revolution!"
Thunderous applause erupted.
Shouts of 'Long live the cause!' and 'Revolution!' filled the air.
...
Simultaneously, on the right, I was met with a barrage of personal insults. Pale-faced men and women shrieked for the police as they scrambled to exit the café.
Hmph.
Time to depart—rapidly.
I signaled Edwards, and we quickly slipped out of the building.
We vanished into the shifting tides of the common people.
The police and the Count's lapdogs arrived at the Liberty Café a mere five minutes after my departure.