On the day of the first plenary session, the Supreme Soviet chamber—the People's Palace—was permeated with the scent of shimmering metal and fresh paper.
Nameplates for the newly elected deputies stretched out in long rows, and a gavel, polished to a luster like a freshly tempered blade, rested upon the central dais.
Reporters from state-run media, independent outlets, and factional journals unfurled their notebooks and tested their pens with rhythmic scratching.
Amidst the 2,080 attendees, a cough from someone brushed against the vaulted ceiling, and thousands of voices intoned their oaths.
Wrangel awaited Maxim at the corner behind the chamber, where the red carpet terminated and turned into the administrative wing.
Maxim appeared with a thick briefcase tucked under his arm, dressed as if he still carried the morning's arctic chill of the city on his shoulders, a thin blanket draped over him. Wrangel spoke first.
"The numbers were honest. Being honest made them all the more troublesome."
Maxim chuckled.
"The Centrists have just over six hundred, the Workers' League is snapping at our heels, and the Liberty League has turned the city into a glitter-trap. The Liberal Party scraped together about a hundred seats, too. Well... a coalition through negotiation has become an inescapable necessity."
"Negotiation, he says."
Wrangel clutched the edge of his brown blanket.
"It will be hard to see things pushed through by a single 'decree from on high' from now on."
"The more that happens, the more complex administration becomes," Maxim glanced sideways into the plenary hall. "And politics becomes more complex and arduous as well."
"The more it does, the more someone will look for Vladi again," Wrangel smiled. "Father of the Revolution, predecessor, leader… call him what you will, in the end, they will call for him."
"Vladimir is likely buried in reports right now," Maxim clicked his tongue. "Appointing safety inspectors, budgets for rural electrification, expanding distribution items… He rarely gets to smell how the political air is shifting. Poor devil."
To this, Wrangel replied:
"That is something we can take care of. We are, after all, the kind of people who could sniff out the spies of the nobility. Aren't we?"
They looked at each other and laughed.
It was a laugh devoid of cynicism, the kind shared only by those with long-standing companionship.
******************************************
The sound of paper grating and the light strike of the gavel followed. Once the simple procedure of assigning positions to the People's Committee and the new deputies' oaths were concluded, the plenary hall rose like a wave and subsided.
Before the waves had fully receded, clusters formed based on factional lines.
The corridors quickly became a collection of miniature politics.
Mid-level cadre deputies of the Centrists gathered in a small meeting room on the third floor of the party building labeled 'Coordination Room.'
Key leadership figures were absent. The old guard did not feel compelled to come.
Instead, the space was filled with stiff shoulders and gleaming eyes.
The conviction that 'they are the personal guard of Comrade Vladimir' was etched onto their expressions like tattoos carved into their very bones.
"Chairman Comrade is unconditionally on our side," one mid-level cadre hammered the table with his palm. "The speed of the reforms proves it. Dispatching safety inspectors, diversifying distribution items, the electrification of collective farms… Who else would have designed that? We handled the groundwork, and Comrade Chairman signed off on it. If we only take the assignments for the People's Committee, the economic plans, the budget allocations, and the rural revitalization cards, we will win the next election by a landslide."
Another cadre interjected. "The variable is the Liberty League. Strengthening urban commune rights and local council authority… We agree with the expansion of local autonomy, but the message of state dismantling is uncomfortable. Besides, the Social Revolutionary Workers' League has brutal momentum in the regions where unions are strong. Good grief, what is this country coming to?"
They placed tabs on file folders and reached an agreement on the following points: The People's Commissariat for Economic Planning and the People's Ministry for Budgetary Affairs would be led by the Centrists; the People's Ministry for Labor Safety and the Federal People's Committee for Welfare would be shared; Rural Revitalization would be governed through cooperation between the Centrists and the Alliance for Hopeful Progress; Industry and Labor would seek the cooperation of the Social Revolutionary Workers' League after electing a neutral chairperson.
"Comrade Chairman might be…" someone spoke in a low voice, "more radical than we think. That is not to say we shouldn't follow that great personage. So let us maintain the setup where we handle 'coordination' and Comrade Chairman handles 'decisions.'"
In that moment, the same delusion brushed through everyone's gaze:
Vladimir Park is on our side.
Their faith was unshakeable.
Just as the politicians of the Soviet Union always called out for Lenin.
South of the city center, in the auditorium of the Steelworkers' Union hall where the smell of paint had yet to dry, mid-level cadre of the Social Revolutionary Workers' League were gathered.
A sign hung on the wall reading, 'The Shop Floor: Beyond the State, Here.' A female cadre with a voice loud enough to render microphones useless shouted first.
"We cleared six hundred. Factories, shipyards, ports, and paper mills gave us their votes. The reason is simple. It means the shop floor has started to trust us."
In the back, a policy expert held up a bundle of papers.
"The agenda for the first session: codifying the 'Right to Stop Work.' Legally protecting the 'declaration of work cessation for businesses failing to meet safety standards.' Second, the 'Wage Transparency Law'—mandatory equal pay for equal work. Third, increasing the 'binding power of Workers' Council decisions.' Without these three, reform is just paper on a wall."
"And the Centrists?" someone asked.
The policy expert shrugged his shoulders.
"They are no different from us. They are comrades with a different methodology. But we must correct their habit of placing 'planning' above the 'shop floor.' Comrade Chairman? By essence, that person is on our side. Is he not the father of the workers? Perhaps he is just pacing himself because he has to bind the entire Federation together."
Laughter erupted from the back.
"That's right. Comrade Park is the one who knows the 'language of the shop floor' best."
In their eyes, Chairman Park was the 'Friend of the Workers.'
Burning faith is often declared in the most tranquil of tones. By the end of the meeting, they permitted a limited joint front with the Liberty League regarding 'urban autonomy.'
The subjects were the Communalization of the administration of the People's Militia, the expansion of parks and plazas, and the expansion of the residents' Soviet budget.
However, the deputies of the SRWL drew a line at the 'dismantling of the state.'
"The state is a structure we will soon transcend, but…" a young cadre stated, "until the day we surpass that structure, we must shield the 'shop floor' with everything we have, even for a single day more. We cannot dismantle the state without sufficient preparation."
*************************************
The meeting of the Alliance for Hopeful Progress was somewhat more dry.
Personnel from the Urban Planning Committee and the Statistics Bureau gathered and spread blueprints and charts on the floor.
Their language was the slope of the graph's axes.
"Our seat count is 162. The classic number for a casting vote. In other words, they cannot act unilaterally without listening to us," a young technocrat stated.
"The key is 'negotiable details.' What we must demand is not nominal titles but real power. By joining hands with the Centrists on plans and budgets, and with the Social Revolutionary Workers' League on industry and labor, we must quickly move the segmented authority onto a conveyor belt."
They did not speak at length about the Chairman.
However, they agreed briefly:
"Comrade Chairman has a firm ideal world, but at the core, he is a realist. That means if he receives a 'working proposal' from us, there is no reason for him to put it off until tomorrow."
*************************************
The meeting of the Liberty League was held on the second floor of a commune café.
Film posters fluttered outside the window, and a small poster for a 'Culture Week Without a State' was affixed to the wall.
Seated around a round table, they sharpened their words while sipping coffee.
"We won in the high two-hundreds this election and occupied many of the city's narrow alleys," a young woman in a black coat opened the floor.
"Translated into the language of parliamentary politics, this may be considered weak. But in the language of the commune, it is an opportunity. Two things we must do immediately: actual administrative function for the residents' Soviet, and the substitution of 'state services' with 'community services.'"
"And Comrade Park?" a question flew from someone.
A middle-aged activist let out a suppressed laugh.
"He is the architect of a transitional state. In our terms, a manager of a state that has pledged its own self-dissolution. Is he not the one who founded and named our proud anarchism? When all of Terra is turned red, then the state will be deleted, and anarcho-communism will come to the fore. Isn't it our goal to extract that faith from the current system and operate it as much as possible? To make the vertical structure of the budget flow horizontally."
Everyone nodded.
"A world without a state."
Someone left words on a notepad.
"But for a world overflowing with bread, books, and medicine."
Outside, a radio hummed a low tune of The Internationale.
*******************************
The Liberal Party meeting was held at their stone headquarters in Philadelphia.
As Selene Maylander laid a thick file marked 'Election Data' on the table, the air vibrated like parched wood grain.
The result of 'around a hundred seats' was to them a 'proof of existence' and a 'warning' at the same time.
"Hardline capitalists are wanting to pull out," a moderate staffer cautiously opened his mouth.
"There is pressure to cut off any room for negotiation with the Communist Party and survive solely through a network of local businesspeople. But if it comes to this… our voter base will be isolated in Columbia."
Maylander interlaced her fingers and was silent for a moment.
"We drove out the Empire in the War of Independence. The freedom of that time was everyone's freedom, not just the 'freedom of capital.' We cannot go back to the past of overturning the board with cash."
Just then, the door opened, and a bird—Mark Max—entered.
His gaze was of the sort so excessively clear that it hid what he was concealing.
He sat in a chair and tapped his fingertips on the table.
"The numbers are sad, but not bad."
His tone seemed to harbor a strange sense of superiority.
"100 seats is not a lightning strike, it is a fallen leaf. However, when leaves pile up, they cover a mountain. What is important is the direction."
Then a hardliner snapped, "Direction? Are you saying we should cooperate with the Federation? With the communists?"
Mark Max smiled slowly.
"We shall aggregate the will for all freedom and gather all truth. The Liberal Party will be the shield of the middle class and the sword of the capitalists. All as freedom wills it."
His words were a speech, but at the same time, they were an instruction.
He turned his gaze to Maylander.
"The Federation's reforms, labor safety, rationing, transportation networks—that is the engine that drives the city. Engines need lubricant. We must be that lubricant. At least for now, let us make their plans run smoothly with the efficiency of the market. In exchange, we gain 'Free Economic Zones.' If we can prove ourselves there, well… wouldn't the next election look different?"
The moderates caught their breath and nodded, while the hardliners bit their lips.
Maylander looked between the two and eventually nodded.
"Fine. Let us cooperate with the ruling party. But I will be the one to decide the line that must not be crossed."
Mark Max swallowed his smile.
A light nod, subtle enough for no one to notice.
But in that moment, the axis of the party's hegemony shifted, just a fraction, by a single tick mark.
********************************************
As the night deepened, the heat built up in each faction's meeting room.
The Centrists styled themselves as 'Vladimir's Shadow,' the Social Revolutionary Workers' League claimed to be 'Vladimir's Heart,' and the Liberty League believed they followed 'Vladimir's Vision.'
The Alliance for Hopeful Progress aspired to be 'Vladimir's Pen.'
And the Liberal Party began refining an 'economic logic' that would transcend Vladimir's existence while trading with the Communist Party.
The shadows of politics grew long and overlapped.
The old guard who had journeyed from Ursus and the early Victorian Communist Party were watching all these scenes from a distance.
They knew full well.
What Vladimir pushed for in haste, and what he deliberately slowed down. What he opened his purse for, and what he extended the timeline for.
But they kept their lips shut.
For politics sometimes matures and hardens more firmly in silence.
Though the words of the Communist Party deputies sounded different from one another, they converged on the same sentence in the end:
'Comrade Chairman Vladimir is on our side.'
That faith was the nutrient that would cause each to pull their front lines up once again, and the seed of an inevitable misunderstanding to come.
And behind the door, the light inside the Chairman's office did not go out.
******************************************
When documents pile up like towers, the room becomes a mountain range, and I become a stepping stone in the narrow gorge weaving between those peaks.
Every time a stamp is pressed, the mountain range feels shaved down a little, and it feels as if a new road opens where it was carved.
Tonight is the same.
Weekly accident report from the People's Committee for Labor Safety—'Manchester District 5 steelworks, surprise inspection result: good, though strengthening of anti-slip markers around the furnace #3 opening recommended.'
Electrification budget for collective farms—'Yorkshire Plains District 3, 24 additional transformers, 8km of distribution line extension.'
Expansion plan for distribution items—'Eyeglass lenses and hearing aids, baby formula and sanitary pads, expansion of pilot areas for cultural ration coupons (performances, books).'
Revision of housing standard drawings—'Add 10mm lowering of staircase landing thresholds, adjust position of handles for rooftop evacuation exits.'
I press my seal onto the red ink pad and stamp it—thud.
I strive to distribute the administration as much as possible, but the work seems only to increase.
"Ah, my hand hurts."
My wrist is stiff, so I set the pen down, then pick it back up.
Beyond the window, the light of the hallway filament bulbs spreads thinly.
I feel like I hear someone laughing and someone else raising a small cheer from very far away.
I wonder if the lights in the plenary hall, the party headquarters, and the union offices have gone out by now.
Thinking of the plenary hall reminds me of earlier.
On my way out after finishing today's plenary session, Wrangel and Maxim saw me from a distance and raised their hands.
Old man Pyotr just gave a slight nod.
Their expressions were, as always, simple and friendly.
They are people who know what I'm thinking before I do.
That is comforting, yet at times when I see them guessing what I'm about to say without me speaking a word, it can be terrifying.
The words that surfaced most in my head today were 'safety,' 'wiring,' 'drawings,' and 'ration coupons.'
I recorded the election results once at the top of the page, and from the next page onward, I spent it on accident processing, stop-work orders, and transit pass budgets.
I roughly know how the factional meetings are turning, who is shaking hands with whom, and who is selling my name to build their conviction.
But to be honest, I have no energy to shove my elbows deeply into that board right now.
The board in front of me is a different kind of board.
It is less glamorous and less loud, but it is the board where the trams move tomorrow morning, the distribution center counters open, the factory sirens ring, and lights turn on in the countryside.
I rest my forehead on the edge of the desk for a moment, exhausted.
The scent coming from the paper—a mixture of pulp, ink, and the faint oil from human hands—acts as a substitute for a strong tranquilizer.
Outside, the various factions are likely believing me to be on their side.
Just from what I hear in the hallways sometimes, the Centrists call me the 'Leader of the Revolution,' the Social Revolutionary Workers' League remembers me as the 'Friend of the Workers,' the Alliance for Hopeful Progress probably thinks of me as an 'Idealist equipped with reality,' and the Liberty League would write of me as 'the person who will lead the world through the transition to final revolution.'
The Liberal Party… I'm not sure about them.
Over all those labels, I just stamped my name.
Vladimir Park.
Park Si-hoon.
Independent Deputy of the Supreme Soviet.
Chairman of the Supreme Soviet.
Chairman of the Central People's Committee.
General Secretary of the All-Union Communist Party Central Committee.
General Secretary of the International Communist Party Central Committee.
There were many words printed on my business card, but the role I am holding onto tonight was simple.
It was simply to press the stamp to lead the Federation along a better path.
I heard the sound of the political landscape shifting from very far away, like radio static.
I know that someday I must bring my ear closer to that sound.
But honestly, I have no room to look now.
Pressing one more stamp today is the priority.
One stamp makes one sentence a reality.
One sentence changes one day.
If the days collect, people's lives change.
That is why I pour coffee down my throat.
As I kept working, it grew dark outside.
I shook out my wrist once more and pressed the stamp on the final approval line.
The sound of the stamp echoed in the middle of the room.
I turn off the lamp and lock the door.
Behind me, the window at the end of the hall is still bright with light.
For some reason, that light feels like a promise destined for me.
Distant yet certain. A light like a promise that machines will run, books will be read, and roads will be illuminated tomorrow.
And today, I fulfill my responsibility to keep that promise.
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