Late March, 1017. As the fires of revolution blazed ever higher in the Victorian heartland, the independence forces in Columbia were seizing a definitive victory.
"All units, advance! Double time!"
"Do not kill the neutralized enemies! Take them prisoner!"
The host of the independence army was now a mere twenty-four miles—by the Victorian standard of measure—from Philadelphia, the capital nomadic city of the Columbian colonies.
From the north, militia units under Maylander's command surged across the river; from the east, the Red Guards advanced in a sea of crimson, hoisting the banners of countless agricultural cooperatives and labor unions.
To evade them, the colossal city of steel and glass began to move.
However, Philadelphia was not originally engineered for high-speed transit. Though the Governor-General's Office harassed the stokers in the engine rooms and bullied the workers to increase the pace, they could not outrun the pursuing army that drew closer with every passing day.
"Burn more fuel! Increase the speed!"
"It is impossible! If we push any further, the boilers will detonate!"
The great industrial leviathan moved with the sluggish desperation of a sickly beast.
The forces of Count Archibald, summoned by the Duke through negotiations, had sent only a fraction of their conscripts, claiming their own territories were unstable. It was a drop of water in an ocean, utterly insufficient to withstand the rebel tide.
Perhaps their deployment was as futile as throwing a handful of sand into the abyss, consumed instantly by the scale of the conflict.
Between the pro-Victorian militias, reinforcements sent by petty lords, and the mercenaries and regulars conscripted from Duke Tibalt's mainland estates, the imperial forces were no match for the independence army. By merging two massive factions with hundreds of smaller militias, the rebels had mobilized a staggering force of 200,000 soldiers.
"We shall retreat to consolidate our strength. I will return from the mainland with high-speed warships. Until then, this city must be held at all costs. Endure."
Ultimately, Duke Tibalt issued a summary order to hold the nomadic city before fleeing in haste, accompanied only by his personal attendants and elite guards.
Bureaucrats of the Governor-General's Office and Victorian collaborators packed their belongings in a panic, but the city's fate already hung by a precarious thread.
In various pro-independence Columbian newspapers, editorial cartoons depicted Duke Tibalt fleeing in his undergarments, shouting, "T-this is not a retreat! It is a strategic leap!" Other satires followed, showing rats labeled 'Collaborator' scurrying behind him in a blind frenzy.
Voices for independence rose from within the city itself.
Several collaborators stopped breathing after being struck by stones thrown from the shadows. The colonial police, witnessing these savage displays, were paralyzed with dread.
They feebly declared a night-time curfew, but the citizens ignored it entirely. Eventually, the police, terrified by a deluge of Molotov cocktails, retreated into their stations like snails refusing to leave their shells.
Philadelphia began to disintegrate from the inside out.
Finally, as the spring rains of March gave way to the blooming sprouts of April, the 6th Regiment of the Columbian Red Guards reached the gates of Philadelphia before any other independence unit.
"P-P-Philadelphia! It's right before our eyes! It's Philadelphia!"
"Long live the Soviet! Long live Communism!"
Even the soldiers 'voluntarily' conscripted by Soviet recruiters—men who possessed little actual understanding of Communist theory—could not restrain their awe at the sight of the majestic city looming over them.
And it was not only the Red Guards and the Ducal forces who noticed the army's arrival at the city's threshold.
"Listen, you know I work on the power levels, right?"
"Yes, I know, man. How long have we known each other?"
"Right. Well, I looked out through the ventilation shaft while those guard bastards weren't looking. The Liberation Army is right there. Finally, this wretched colonial rule is at an end!"
The Ducal forces had planned to barricade all civilian access to the city walls to prevent contact with the outside world. However, plans typically begin to fray the moment they are set into motion.
The strategy collapsed instantly. The workers on the power levels had confirmed the Red Guards' approach.
"7th Regiment, assembly complete!"
"The 15th Independent Battalion is ready!"
"Artillery Battalion, prepare every available piece. We open fire tomorrow as soon as the munitions arrive."
The command center, directed by the Military Advisory Group, deployed the batteries of the 50,000-strong Red Guard contingent and placed the soldiers on high alert.
Like the beating drums signaling the onset of war, military bands from both sides began their own battle, playing their respective anthems and instruments with thundering fervor.
The opposing armies held their breath, weapons leveled. Soviet high-speed landships, converted from nomadic city segments, approached Philadelphia, their massive caterpillar treads churning the earth with a mechanical roar.
The proud sons and daughters of the Soviet prepared for the morrow's offensive.
Yet, the preparation for that desperate struggle ended with unexpected futility.
"Kill the collaborators!"
"Long live the Columbia Communist Party!"
"W-Why are the Reds in here too...!"
Bolstered by the presence of the external forces and acting on orders from the International Communist Party, the Columbian Communist Party cells within Philadelphia launched an uprising.
"It matters not. As long as those rebels outside cannot enter, this will be suppressed shortly. Leave the cleanup to the police."
Even in this chaos, the defending General maintained a leisurely composure. However, before long, his assessment was revealed to be a catastrophic miscalculation.
"A-A riot has broken out in the power levels!"
"The workers are opening the gates! Wait—the city is slowing down!"
"They killed the engines?!"
"T-The gates are opening!"
Philadelphia's gates, which had seemed as unyielding as solid rock, swung open with pathetic ease.
"I don't know what's happening, but charge!"
"Our unit must be the one to plant the Red Flag on the Governor-General's building! Advance!"
After a brief clash of war cries and the clattering of cold steel, the Duke's forces—their morale already decayed to the point of collapse—declared an unconditional surrender to the Red Guards.
Citizens tore down the Victorian banners, and the Red Flag fluttered atop the Governor-General's office. The crests of the Duke and the Royal House were cast into the flames.
On April 15, 1017, Philadelphia, the capital of Columbia, was liberated.
"The time has come."
It was the dawn of April 17.
After the news of victory on the Columbian front reached Birmingham, the soldiers we had dispatched began to return one by one.
Alexandra, our revolutionary hero who had decapitated numerous Ducal henchmen and shattered the imperial forces across the Columbian theater, arrived in Birmingham with part of the Military Advisory Group.
They entered dusting off coats heavy with the grime of long marches, but their eyes burned with the zeal of those awaiting the decisive battle of the morrow.
"Uncle, are we truly doing this tomorrow?"
"Yes. We must. If we don't do it tomorrow, we may never get another chance."
I brushed the dust from my trousers and patted her head comfortingly.
Her short-cropped hair was disheveled. In my memory, she was still a mere child; seeing her grown like this brought an unexpected surge of emotion to my chest.
"Alya, I expect great things tomorrow."
At those words, Alexandra tilted her chin up proudly, her eyes hardening with resolve.
"You needn't worry. I'll do well, as always."
I gave her a crooked smile in return.
Sigh... regardless, there will be no rest tomorrow. I must stand in the very center of history's progress. And within this revolution—this progress that will be stained with blood—I must be the cause of all that death. My insides feel like they're being scorched.
I stretched, maintaining my wry smile. I walked slowly toward the exit and gripped the handle of the door that stood directly before me.
Then, I spoke in a teasing tone.
"By the way, Alya, aren't you feeding Laman—your husband-to-be—any oysters or the like? The boy returned looking like a skeleton. Exactly how hard are you two working at night? Pace yourselves and give him something for his stamina. His bones are going to rot at this rate."
I kicked the door open and made a quick exit.
"W-W-What happens with Laman is none of your business!!!! You perverted old man!!!!!"
Endearing girl.
I managed to force a laugh at her innocent outburst, deliberately ignoring the future bloodbath that would soak the city tomorrow.
"A people united will never be defeated!"
"Proletarians of all nations, unite! This is our resistance against oppression, this is our revolution!"
"Seven million workers, rise for liberation! March forward into the struggle!"
"To the square! Forward!"
April 18, 11:00 AM.
In the industrial district of Birmingham, beneath heavy grey clouds, thousands of steelworkers began their march, hoisting labor union banners, Communist Party flags, and placards they had kept hidden away.
At the vanguard stood numerous cadres of the Central Committee: Maxim, Wrangel, Pyotr, Laman, Alya, Edward, and even his companion. I stood alongside them at the front.
We marched with arms locked, shouting our cries.
"Give us bread! Give us liberty!"
"Repeal the conscription! Rescind the requisition orders! Were all those massacres and drafts just so we could lose Philadelphia?"
"Where are our fallen sons and daughters? Return them to us—the children buried without names in the alien soil of Columbia!"
The crowds along the route were fearful, yet their reaction was distinctly favorable. When our thunderous slogans echoed through the alleys, people opened their windows and waved handkerchiefs; children waved at us with delight.
Such a reaction was an inevitable conclusion. Even after the failed uprising of months past, the Count had continued his requisitions and conscriptions, while the only news received was of defeats, or reports of the Count holding banquets and hunting parties.
Excluding the bourgeoisie who profited from war materiel, no citizen looked upon the war with favor anymore. They loathed the meaningless conflict; they loathed the corrupt, debauched nobility; and they yearned for the days when bread was plentiful.
Perhaps it was due to these short, piercing slogans that struck at their rawest emotions. Workers from nearby factories began to join us—first a few, then by the hundreds.
Party members and unionists joined the fray carrying the banners of the Social Revolutionary Workers' League, the Liberty League, the Alliance for Hopeful Progress, and flags of Vladimirism.
Workers poured out from the steel mills, construction sites, textile factories, and Originium processing plants. The scale of the march swelled until the number of protestors reached 100,000.
Laborers made up the vast majority. Having lost all faith in the Count, they carried hammers, shovels, and various industrial tools. Some, who had apparently read my revised 'Anarchist's Cookbook,' carried Molotov cocktails, improvised explosives, homemade firearms, and crossbows.
"Arise! The time of revolution is here!"
"United we stand, divided we fall!"
"All power to the Soviets!!"
The procession reached the schools. Students in uniform began to join the demonstration. Most were those who had lost classmates, juniors, or seniors in the previous protest.
"Down with the nobility!"
"Stop this baseless war!"
"Punish the murderers who slaughtered the innocent!"
The number of marchers swelled to 120,000.
When the march reached the residential districts, its growth turned explosive. Anti-government citizens were swept up by the sight of the myriad banners and placards. The news of Philadelphia's fall had ignited their anti-war sentiment, and they cast themselves into the revolutionary torrent immediately.
"Down with the war! Down with the aristocracy!"
"Sweep away the parasites of society!"
After traversing the residential blocks and markets, and marching through the most densely populated sectors, the number of protestors—including common citizens and Party members summoned by local cadres—neared 300,000.
Three hundred thousand. The city itself was in motion.
And then, we entered the square.
Some protestors, unable to forget the trauma of that previous day, faltered. Yet, swept along by the ranks ahead and behind them, they stepped cautiously and slowly into the open plaza.
Before them stood the soldiers, arrayed in the same formation as before. An officer sat atop a warhorse, gripping a cavalry saber, just as he had then.
Over ten thousand military personnel leveled their swords, spears, bows, and crossbows at us in a dense wall of steel.
Several protestors broke into a cold sweat of terror. The same was true for several of our cadres.
"W-will they shoot us again...?" some muttered in voices strangled by fear.
"Keep your wits about you! Whether you die now or later, death is the same!"
Old Pyotr, who had begun using a cane due to his failing health from overwork, rallied the cadres' morale. I was just as terrified as the rest.
A single minute passed like an hour. Then, the officer on horseback thrust his saber high into the air.
Had it been three months ago, that sword would have immediately pointed toward the crowd, and a hail of arrows would have shredded the protestors. But now, something was different.
Though the number of soldiers was far greater than before—over ten thousand men packed together with their weapons leveled—the expressions on most of their faces were not those of mindless killing machines. Their faces showed a iron-clad resolve, yet that resolve was not directed at us.
In that moment, the officer's saber swept downward toward us.
The protestors at the front braced for death, squeezing their eyes shut. The workers gripped their tools tightly, determined that the sacrifice of those in the vanguard would not be in vain after the first volley.
Several discharges echoed. The sound of cold steel clashing rang out. Screams erupted.
"Aaaaaagh!!"
However, the screams did not come from the protestors' side.
The people opened their tightly shut eyes and looked forward with bewildered faces. In their field of vision—and mine—the officers who had stood so majestically upon their warhorses were gone.
All we could see were officers lying in the dirt bleeding, and non-commissioned officers being neutralized with blades held to their throats by their own men.
Then, a massive roar, as if shouted through a chorus of megaphones, erupted from the soldiers.
"Long live the Communist Party! Long live the Revolution! All power to the Soviets!"
The revolution was only just beginning.
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