Rhadia
08-06-2004, 10:18
Communist Party Central Committee
St. Petersburg, Rhadia, USSR
"Minister Grishkov, please present your report."
Mikhal Grishkov stood, and took measure of his situation. The other members of the Politburo, men he had known all his adult life, sat in the Central Committee's meeting room as they did every week, discusing how to lead the USSR to glory. But to prosper, a nation needed money; a comodity on short supply these days, and as Minister of Finance, a fact he knew all too well. His report would please no one.
"Comrades, our situation is. . . difficult. As I have said before, our nation needs fresh capital. Our economy is stagnating; exports are down, and at the same time we are forced to rely more and more heavily on other nations to meet our needs. As Minister of Finance, I propose to..."
The Politburo Chairman raised his hand, cutting off the younger man. Yes, we have all heard your speeches before, Mikhal Sergeovich, he thought. Open our markets, invite the capitalists into our beds, and so on. In another time, Grishkov would have been removed from his office for such ideas, but Rhadia had since fallen on hard times; the worst had been avoided by the skills of their Finance Minister, and so the Chairman forgave him of such trivial things. Perhaps the Chairman might even have considered some of Grishkov's ideas; certainly, they would have brought new life to the economy.
But we have seen the results, haven't we, he thought. We have seen that socialism and capitalism can never be married into a working system.
"Minister, we have all heard these arguments before, and the answer is still no. Our people have food and homes; if they must live without the trivial conveniencies of the West, then that is a small price to pay. I know some of you...(Here he paused, giving the Minister of Information a hard look), would have us embrace the West with open arms. But the truth is this; the system that has provided life to the people would never survive. Here, unlike the capitalist nations of the world, there are no homeless, no poor, no starving. It is capitalism that breeds these evils; would you wish those on the people, just to bring them satelite TV and the Internet?"
"Besides, we have other ways of generating the money we need."
The Chairman turned to General Alexi Romanov, Minister of Defense for the United Socialist States of Rhadia. The gruff old soldier stood, his medals flashing in the light, and directed his withering gaze at each of the Ministers before clearing his throat to speak.
"Our nation has, in storage, a rather large quantity of small arms, vehicles, and other equipment that is, to put it kindly, obsolete. My comrades within the Politburo have often suggested that we sell these to serve better purposes, as we have little use for them. I believe that the best time to do so is now. The money that these arms will bring can be used to fund the various projects you all talk about so passionitely."
Not suprisingly, Gen. Romanov's words sparked a fury of quiet comments around the table. For his part, Grishkov was silent, speaking his own thoughts to no one.
Romanov argued for so long against letting those old reserve stocks go; why change his mind now? The things we want would matter little to the Ministry of Defense, at least for now... Grishkov shook his head. Perhaps the General simply sees now that they serve no useful puropse. Most of that equipment was given to us by the Soviets, and dates back to their Great Patriotic War. Or, could it be something else; some pressure being applied to him by..... who?
One voice finally cut through the commotion.
"Who do you plan to sell these to, Comrade General? You speak as though there were buyers waiting in the wings. And what reaction would the UN have to the sudden influx of weapons onto the international market? I cannot imagine it would be... favorable."
All eyes turned to the speaker; Vasha Petyarova, the young Information Minister, who often made it a point to speak what the older, more conservative members of the Politburo would not. Gen. Romanov's eyes narrowed slightly; it was no secret he despised Vasha and the other young members of the Central Committee, whom he regarded as "upstarts".
"The Ministry of Defense has been making inquiries for some time, Vasha Ivanovich. We have identified those buyers most likely to accept our stocks... and our price. As for the international response, let us say that the world will care little if we sell outdated arms to buyers within our soverign territory."
Petyarova leaned forward slowly, his eyes sharp. Clearly, something the General had said caught his attention. Mikhal's own thoughts were running together quickly; Sell to someone within the Union? Who would need those kinds of arms here?
"And exactly who would be buying up such a quantity of arms within our own borders? Considering their age, it would have to be some...."
Vasha trailed off into silence, his face growing pale with dawning understanding.... and horror. Grishkov turned from Petyarova to Gen. Romanov, then back. He too could feel his face growing cold. Certainly he can't mean...
"No.... no, no, no." Vasha shook his head. "Never. I will never..."
"You will agree, Vasha Ivanovich. The preparations are already made."
All now turned to the Chairman. He had risen from his seat, and now began to slowly circle the table. As he passed behind the Information Minister, he stopped, resting his hands on the back of Vasha's chair.
"Our agents have no ties that can be traced back to us. As far as the mujhadeen know, they are local arms merchants sympathetic to their cause. And we have also planned to release some of the arms onto the world market; not enough to spark international curiousity, but enough that the rebels won't suspect that their new rifles are coming from federal arsenals."
Vasha swallowed audibly, speaking to the Chairman without turning.
"What happens when the mujhadeen decide that, with their new weapons, they should start fighting again? My God, General, your sons are..."
"My sons are soldiers of the Union, Information Minister. They will do their duty, as we all must."
The Chairman finished his trip around the table, coming back to his seat. He gave the assembly a final look before calling for a vote. The Ministers of Agriculture, Energy, and Internal Affairs raised their hands immediately. Ah, thought Mikhal. You have been planning this for some time, Mr. Chairman. The other Ministers cast their votes after some hesitation, and no doubt deep personal conflict.
Finally, only the Ministries of Finance and Information remained. Mikhal understood that to refuse to follow the will of the majority (Which is no more than the will of the Chairman, he thought) would end his future with the Communist Party. He could not work to better the country without a position in the Central Committee, and there were other, far less capable men who would be all too eager to take his place. Mikhal closed his eyes, offered up a brief prayer, and raised his hand.
Vasha, sitting alone now, slowly took it all in. He looked into the eyes of each man sitting around him; one by one, they met his gaze, then quickly glanced away. At last he came to the Chairman. He looked into his eyes a long time, and it was Vasha who had to look away. A single tear slid down his cheek, but he raised his hand. The Chairman smiled, but his eyes remained cold. He turned to Gen. Romanov.
"Do it."
St. Petersburg, Rhadia, USSR
"Minister Grishkov, please present your report."
Mikhal Grishkov stood, and took measure of his situation. The other members of the Politburo, men he had known all his adult life, sat in the Central Committee's meeting room as they did every week, discusing how to lead the USSR to glory. But to prosper, a nation needed money; a comodity on short supply these days, and as Minister of Finance, a fact he knew all too well. His report would please no one.
"Comrades, our situation is. . . difficult. As I have said before, our nation needs fresh capital. Our economy is stagnating; exports are down, and at the same time we are forced to rely more and more heavily on other nations to meet our needs. As Minister of Finance, I propose to..."
The Politburo Chairman raised his hand, cutting off the younger man. Yes, we have all heard your speeches before, Mikhal Sergeovich, he thought. Open our markets, invite the capitalists into our beds, and so on. In another time, Grishkov would have been removed from his office for such ideas, but Rhadia had since fallen on hard times; the worst had been avoided by the skills of their Finance Minister, and so the Chairman forgave him of such trivial things. Perhaps the Chairman might even have considered some of Grishkov's ideas; certainly, they would have brought new life to the economy.
But we have seen the results, haven't we, he thought. We have seen that socialism and capitalism can never be married into a working system.
"Minister, we have all heard these arguments before, and the answer is still no. Our people have food and homes; if they must live without the trivial conveniencies of the West, then that is a small price to pay. I know some of you...(Here he paused, giving the Minister of Information a hard look), would have us embrace the West with open arms. But the truth is this; the system that has provided life to the people would never survive. Here, unlike the capitalist nations of the world, there are no homeless, no poor, no starving. It is capitalism that breeds these evils; would you wish those on the people, just to bring them satelite TV and the Internet?"
"Besides, we have other ways of generating the money we need."
The Chairman turned to General Alexi Romanov, Minister of Defense for the United Socialist States of Rhadia. The gruff old soldier stood, his medals flashing in the light, and directed his withering gaze at each of the Ministers before clearing his throat to speak.
"Our nation has, in storage, a rather large quantity of small arms, vehicles, and other equipment that is, to put it kindly, obsolete. My comrades within the Politburo have often suggested that we sell these to serve better purposes, as we have little use for them. I believe that the best time to do so is now. The money that these arms will bring can be used to fund the various projects you all talk about so passionitely."
Not suprisingly, Gen. Romanov's words sparked a fury of quiet comments around the table. For his part, Grishkov was silent, speaking his own thoughts to no one.
Romanov argued for so long against letting those old reserve stocks go; why change his mind now? The things we want would matter little to the Ministry of Defense, at least for now... Grishkov shook his head. Perhaps the General simply sees now that they serve no useful puropse. Most of that equipment was given to us by the Soviets, and dates back to their Great Patriotic War. Or, could it be something else; some pressure being applied to him by..... who?
One voice finally cut through the commotion.
"Who do you plan to sell these to, Comrade General? You speak as though there were buyers waiting in the wings. And what reaction would the UN have to the sudden influx of weapons onto the international market? I cannot imagine it would be... favorable."
All eyes turned to the speaker; Vasha Petyarova, the young Information Minister, who often made it a point to speak what the older, more conservative members of the Politburo would not. Gen. Romanov's eyes narrowed slightly; it was no secret he despised Vasha and the other young members of the Central Committee, whom he regarded as "upstarts".
"The Ministry of Defense has been making inquiries for some time, Vasha Ivanovich. We have identified those buyers most likely to accept our stocks... and our price. As for the international response, let us say that the world will care little if we sell outdated arms to buyers within our soverign territory."
Petyarova leaned forward slowly, his eyes sharp. Clearly, something the General had said caught his attention. Mikhal's own thoughts were running together quickly; Sell to someone within the Union? Who would need those kinds of arms here?
"And exactly who would be buying up such a quantity of arms within our own borders? Considering their age, it would have to be some...."
Vasha trailed off into silence, his face growing pale with dawning understanding.... and horror. Grishkov turned from Petyarova to Gen. Romanov, then back. He too could feel his face growing cold. Certainly he can't mean...
"No.... no, no, no." Vasha shook his head. "Never. I will never..."
"You will agree, Vasha Ivanovich. The preparations are already made."
All now turned to the Chairman. He had risen from his seat, and now began to slowly circle the table. As he passed behind the Information Minister, he stopped, resting his hands on the back of Vasha's chair.
"Our agents have no ties that can be traced back to us. As far as the mujhadeen know, they are local arms merchants sympathetic to their cause. And we have also planned to release some of the arms onto the world market; not enough to spark international curiousity, but enough that the rebels won't suspect that their new rifles are coming from federal arsenals."
Vasha swallowed audibly, speaking to the Chairman without turning.
"What happens when the mujhadeen decide that, with their new weapons, they should start fighting again? My God, General, your sons are..."
"My sons are soldiers of the Union, Information Minister. They will do their duty, as we all must."
The Chairman finished his trip around the table, coming back to his seat. He gave the assembly a final look before calling for a vote. The Ministers of Agriculture, Energy, and Internal Affairs raised their hands immediately. Ah, thought Mikhal. You have been planning this for some time, Mr. Chairman. The other Ministers cast their votes after some hesitation, and no doubt deep personal conflict.
Finally, only the Ministries of Finance and Information remained. Mikhal understood that to refuse to follow the will of the majority (Which is no more than the will of the Chairman, he thought) would end his future with the Communist Party. He could not work to better the country without a position in the Central Committee, and there were other, far less capable men who would be all too eager to take his place. Mikhal closed his eyes, offered up a brief prayer, and raised his hand.
Vasha, sitting alone now, slowly took it all in. He looked into the eyes of each man sitting around him; one by one, they met his gaze, then quickly glanced away. At last he came to the Chairman. He looked into his eyes a long time, and it was Vasha who had to look away. A single tear slid down his cheek, but he raised his hand. The Chairman smiled, but his eyes remained cold. He turned to Gen. Romanov.
"Do it."