Luxury restaurants on Birmingham's First Street were swarming with men in tailored suits and women in low-back gowns.
Here, the city's so-called conservative intellectuals and magnates gathered to savor the bouquet of wines that cost as much as an ordinary laborer's ten-year salary. This was the quintessence of inequality.
They, too, shouted for freedom and equality.
But their freedom and equality were not for the masses. It was not the liberation of all people.
The freedom they craved was the freedom of the capitalists and the nobility; the equality they sought was parity between the aristocracy and the Royal Court.
Such paths naturally decayed into aristocratic republics or merchant-dominated hegemonies.
"Count, you look exceptionally brilliant and sharp today! Truly, the dignity of your father's lineage is becoming evident!"
"Haha! I didn't do much, really! Still, I appreciate the sentiment. Now, what was the reason for today's gathering?"
"What else could it be? It's those Red scum. Lately, the ignorant plebeians have been disrupting our lawful and righteous enterprises, hiding behind labor unions and the like. Specifically, that Ursus immigrant named Vladimir is the mastermind behind this subversion!"
"We should crush those rats into pulp! I'll authorize more guards for your factory, and we'll plaster even more wanted posters across the districts!"
"Thank you! I shall never forget this grace! Also, taxes have increased recently due to rumors of rebellion in Columbia... could you perhaps ask the Royal Court for a tax reprieve on our behalf?"
Ensconced in the highest, most extravagant chambers of the restaurant, they divided interests, exchanged flatteries, and enjoyed their banquet.
Bloated and gluttonous, they pawed at the thighs of the women beside them, lusting for flesh.
In these social circles, they practically cast money into the void. With those sums, they could have offered a 'carrot' in the name of welfare to appease the factory workers and weaken the unions, yet they chose instead to squander it on networking within the existing ruling class.
Of course, this tendency was not exclusive to the conservatives and the ruling elite.
The liberals were much the same.
They gathered in salons within the high-end manors of Birmingham's Eighth District.
Sipping wine priced at a laborer's monthly wage, they engaged in their debates.
"I'm telling you, regarding this specific point, that man Vladimir's Communism is correct!"
"Is an entrepreneur's pursuit of profit not a freedom? That scholar prattles on about freedom, yet he views our capital accumulation as an evil that destroys it!"
"How is owning the means of production a freedom! True freedom is realized only when cooperatives and unions seize the means of production! If one entrepreneur controls everything, it is a workplace dictatorship and the destruction of grassroots democracy!"
"You're expelled from our Liberal Club, you Red bastard!"
"You're nothing but a retrograde, conservative reactionary! Go crawl back to the oligarchs!"
Certainly, these people had their ideologies. Because they possessed a desire to make the world slightly better, they were a step above the conservatives who merely wished to preserve the status quo.
However, while they shouted for reform, they ultimately chose compromise with the system.
And compromise with the ruling class cannot achieve the realization of an absolute ideal. The ruling class uses every method of manipulation to control the reformers' agendas from behind the scenes, ensuring they always have a loophole to escape through.
Thus, compromise with the ruling class is merely a social cancer, a parasite that prevents true reform from ever taking root.
Eventually, liberalism falls into the trap of failed democracy—an elite democracy.
If they had attached safety valves like Social Democracy or Managed Capitalism through the partial adoption of communist policies, these ideas might have functioned passably. But it had been nineteen years since Shihun created Communism, and less than ten since it began to spread through the intelligentsia. These economic philosophies and ideologies were still in a state where their very foundations had not been solidified; thus, they were the exception.
The Liberal Clubs expelled all members who pointed out these contradictions.
They were branded as Reds, pauperists, or un-enlightened agitators as they were cast out.
"Tch! Liberalism or whatever—it's all an illusion! I'm leaving to find true freedom!"
"Pah! Filthy 'honorary conservative' bastards. Communism was the only answer after all!"
Thus, a vast number of intellectuals expelled from Liberal Clubs joined the Communist Party.
With their help, the Communist Party acquired a more bureaucratic and systematic structure.
I ascended from the Chairman of the Provisional Central Committee to the position of General Secretary of the International Communist Party's Central Committee.
The revolutionary veterans who had followed me since Ursus each received titles, becoming chairs of various committees.
Factions began to form within the party, and naturally, these party elders became the factional leaders.
First was the Centralist Faction.
"Following the ideology of the Comrade Chairman, let us devote ourselves to the values of the Revolutionary Front and stand united against the reactionaries!"
"Long live the Dictatorship of the Proletariat! Long live Proletarian Democracy! Long live the Proletarian Revolution!"
Claiming to inherit my ideology, they pursued a more left-wing 'Vladimirism' (or Unified Communism). Since Trotsky didn't exist here, that was their name for it. It was their business, so I let them be.
I had called for international revolution and proletarian democracy, so I suppose it wasn't a stretch. Regardless, they became my loyal vanguard even though I hadn't explicitly asked for it.
"You want a frail old man like me, whose senses have gone dull, to lead a faction? Are you serious?"
"Elder, you are a true freeman who sought liberty by personally slaying an Ursus inspector in the early days of our revolution! Please, just this once!"
"Hmm... very well."
Old Man Pyotr became the Deputy General Secretary of the Party Central Committee and the leader of the 'Liberty League,' a faction of libertarian socialists.
The supporters of the Liberty League called themselves the only 'true liberals,' but to my eyes, they looked closer to Anarcho-Communists. When I plagiarized and wrote out Kropotkin's The Conquest of Bread for them, they nearly died of excitement.
They showered me with over 5,000 words of praise until I had to tell them to stop because my ears were ringing, but honestly, it felt good.
Next was Maxim.
"Comrade Maxim, you are the only one who can represent the position of the petite bourgeoisie among us. Shouldn't small workshops be allowed to operate privately?"
"Mmm... I suppose I agree with that."
Maxim, Chairman of the Party Ethics Committee, became the leader of the 'Alliance for Hopeful Progress,' a faction of Democratic Socialists.
Democratic Socialism—well, it wasn't bad. They would serve as the party's right wing, and I held high hopes for them to help establish internal party democracy.
Finally, there was Wrangel.
"Comrade Wrangel! You are truly the hope of us workers! Please, accept the leadership of our league!"
"I am a man of little knowledge; why do you wish to thrust such a heavy burden upon me? Begone."
The laborers and unionists placed fervent hopes in him. They founded the 'Social Revolutionary Workers' League.'
"Did you not hear me, Comrades? Unless I receive word from the Comrade General Secretary, I have no intention of accepting. If I take this position prematurely, we might be the ones to ignite the fuse of internal party division."
Unlike the other two, he initially declined. Now in his mid-forties, he felt the role didn't suit him. However, I believed he was the perfect fit for the position.
"Comrade Edward, please deliver this letter to Comrade Wrangel."
"Ah! Understood, Comrade Chairman! I mean, Comrade General Secretary!"
So, I sent a letter requesting that he please accept the position, and upon reading it, Wrangel gave his ready consent. He had only declined because he feared the others were inciting factional strife; if that wasn't the case, he was happy to take it.
Thus, the Social Revolutionary Workers' League—a league of laborers, a league of syndicalists—was complete.
.
.
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As always, Wrangel's loyalty is moving... I'll have to buy him a drink later. Something expensive. With that thought, I drifted off to sleep.
************************************************
"Extra! Extra! Small-scale unrest has broken out in the Columbian colonies, and our troops have suppressed the traitors!"
"What, that's just a daily occurrence now."
"Honestly, why did the high and mighty lords create that 'Mandatory Law' or whatever and incense the colonists? I wonder if that harsh Duke Tibalt can handle it properly."
"Are you insulting the Royal Court? You're a Red, aren't you?"
"And is it a crime to speak the truth, you reactionary bastard?"
"Guards! Guards!"
Another day in Birmingham, no different from the rest, was passing by. However, today was an important day. It was December 31st!
I stood on the podium and shouted.
"Now! Then, from this moment, we begin the 19th New Year's Celebration of the International Communist Party!"
""WAAAAAAAH!!""
Everyone gathered in the socialist pub in Birmingham's Fifth District raised their beer and rum in a toast.
This gathering wasn't just happening here; other party officials led similar events in other pubs. Our party membership had exceeded 100,000; fitting them all into a single pub that could barely hold 200 was impossible.
Eating fried potatoes, roasted meat, and bread, our party members filled their stomachs after waiting on their feet for so long.
"Laman! Speak up! Have some courage!"
"Ugh.... Alright. Ahem!* Next on the agenda is the reading of the congratulatory message sent by our Iberian comrades! But... since I don't know Iberian very well, I'll pass it to someone else! Alya!"
"Booo! He's so embarrassed he's passing it to his girlfriend! Pathetic!"
"Old man! Stop teasing him! At least our Laman is kind-hearted. I'll read it!"
Laman and Alya had been flirting for about six or seven years, and only now that they were in their thirties did they finally exchange confessions and decide to marry. It's a bit rich coming from me, but they're definitely both disasters at romance. Thinking about Old Man Pyotr crying to me while drinking about this makes me suspect it might be a shotgun wedding. Still, true love is what matters.
"Comrade Edward! I heard you're getting married in a month? Congratulations! Is the lady beside you..."
"Haha! Thank you, Comrade General Secretary! This beauty beside me is indeed my fiancée!"
There were other couples, too. Our dense Edward had finally managed to seal the deal. I'm not sure why he's so perceptive with his girlfriend but remains a complete airhead around me—so much so that I've had to kick him in the shins before. I guess his girlfriend is more important than me? Well, that's only natural, so I'll let it slide.
.
.
.
Anyway, we laughed and chatted, enjoying the food and the party. Workers, Infected, and intellectuals mingled, dancing to passionate Ursus folk tunes played on the accordion.
And then, we looked toward the rising sun. That massive sun was red, beautiful, and majestic.
The year 1015 drew to a close, and the dawn of 1016 arrived. In Columbia, the winds of change were beginning to howl.