Murra
24-09-2007, 20:11
Engelsgrad, Murra
Pyotr Churneshko stares unhappily out of the monorail window across the barren metropolis. In the distance a thunderhead looms threateningly against the grey sky; but in the foreground there is nothing but the smoke and dirt of the city, the four-hundred-meter skyscrapers thrusting forbidding figures into the clouds. Below the monorail line Churneshko can see the skyways, and he knows that far below them are the old commuter trains taking people around the nation. He knows because he helped design them what seemed like ages ago, when hope for the Oligarchy was so bright and it seemed everything was going to work out.
His saturnine eye lazily tracking a police chopper's progress between the skyscrapers, Churneshko considers turning his attention back to the newspaper. It is really a farce; he knows well, better than most others in the nation do, that the newspapers are all state-run. Even the opposition and 'underground' newspapers; when Churneshko's name was still Pyotr Domorov and he was a senior official of the Party, with a position so high and remote that almost nobody had any idea what it actually was, he had been shown the factory where they printed the Freedom Underground. All of the newspapers were strictly censored by the Media Office, and he knew what the guidelines for Underground articles were: ridiculous allegations, abuse heaped on various public figures, information that was public knowledge or exposés of open secrets. The Underground newspapers were not supposed to make people think, but rather to play on what the Government knew many people believed. Commonly, indeed, citizens were disgusted by the level of tripe printed in the underground newspapers and avoided them entirely.
Of course, the Government also allows certain foreign newspapers to be distributed; but those are mainly far-right-wing papers such as the Praetonian Royal Standard or the New Clanon City Times; and more so, they have passed through the Media Office, which subtly rewords articles to appear even more extremist and deranged, and rewords editorials to, in places, betray socialist or left-wing tendencies. The aim, of course, to display for Murra's benefit how insane other countries are, and imply that their citizens would much prefer to live under a Murran style government.
Churneshko is bound for the government offices. Rather than being located in a huge palace or a single central building, they have been spread out around a number of apartment buildings in the city's poshest district, all connected by underground tunnels to briefing rooms and bunkers far below the city. The builders of Engelsgrad planned this in order to bring the government closer to the citizens, and to help propagate the belief that government officials lived little better than citizens themselves; now, when all pretense of that myth had vanished, it served to protect the government offices from attackers as they had no idea where exactly to bomb.
It is a duty he hates, but one he is bound to. The Government has repeatedly informed him that he knows far too much, and if he were no longer useful, he would be eliminated. Perhaps the only reason the Government has not eliminated him yet is because they cannot be bothered to expend the resources to do what Nature herself has already started on. Churneshko is seventy-six, a long dormant throat cancer from his years of chain-smoking beginning to take over his body; either way he has at most a year or two to live. Healthcare in Murra is unfortunately not what it once was.
Today, however, he is bringing the Government information -- highly useful information that only one with his connections, only a man still allied to House Domorov, could know. Information that could preserve, or destroy, the nation.
Heaven knows when the Murran Noble Houses came to be. During the feudal era, each noble was a count, and the counts were ruled by the King in Praka, or Mezhgani, or whatever city he had decided to establish as his capital. Over the centuries the nobles lost none of their influence; preserving isolated worlds of courtly life during the Black Death, funding explorers and artists during the Renaissance, et cetera. Even when Murra had become a democracy, the ancient houses had still held so much influence, owning between them just about every major corporation in the nation and buying and selling politicians like sports players, that one would be hard pressed to claim Murra had ever been truly democratic.
But then their powers -- everyone's powers -- had been abruptly stripped in the Revolution. Naturally, compensations had been made; most of the noble houses still held prominent positions in the Party. But the damage was done, and for the first time in ages, power did not rest with the houses or their allies. Fifty years had the new order ruled, and its rule is absolute; everything is distributed by the Government, with property limited to a small personal income (between $4,000 and $20,000 a year) for purchasing other effects, unnecessary items, or (inevitably) products of the black market.
The Nobles have had enough, and they have used their still moderate influence to take steps towards ending the rule of the Collectivist Oligarchy. Its beginning has a classical simplicity.
Trieste, on the Adriatic Coast
Trieste is a beautiful and isolated city. The sole Murran holdout on the Adriatic Coast, it is four hours by train from Novi Gurnav, the nearest city. By sea, it is separated from the rest of Murra's ports -- Gdansk, Nunnan, Mezhgani -- by almost a week's journey. For that reason, it is a microcosm of Murra, with its own naval garrison, its own powerplants and postal service, its own farms in the countryside within what was once Slovenia. If for some reason the mainland of Murra were to fall to a sudden attack, Trieste would remain quite unaffected with its own regional government taking control of the city. The capital-letter Government has little to do here.
For that reason, perhaps, it is most likely to breed discontent. Indeed, that is what Slavjedan Kasic was counting on as he steps off the train into Union Station. Slavjedan is the heir of House Kasic; while that House has been historically quite private and withdrawn, and even today is the least-known of the major houses, it is by far the most powerful surviving house. House Kasic represents money with a capital M: where it goes, who makes it and how. Slavjedan Kasic is both the inheritor of a fortune estimated in the seven figures and has amassed his own personal wealth through manipulation of stocks and bonds; while personal wealth is limited to $1 million, Slavjedan Kasic has found that carefully placed bribes and even more carefully placed death threats can overcome even that iron barrier. He is far from the wealthiest man in even Murra itself, and compared to many of the world's affluent the entire funds of House Kasic are but a drop in the bucket; but by a few words, Kasic can reverse or change the cash flows of mighty corporations and nations. A well placed move can bankrupt a powerful economy. That is the kind of influence House Kasic has.
Kasic inserts his ticket into the exit turnstile; the deadly doors slide open with a whoosh, letting him through, and then close again with a rush of air. He steps out into the surprisingly warm atmosphere of Trieste, a welcome change from the biting cold of Namensk. Taking an elevator to the monorail, a couple hundred feet above the ground, he heads for the waterfront, where the monorails taper off and the skyways lower themselves to the ground and become normal roads. The waterfront is the wealthy neighbourhood of Trieste; it is only accessible by car or on foot and the buildings are smaller. He walks. At the end of one sidewalk, overlooking the sea, he comes to a normal house; a rare sight in Murra. Through the blinds drawn across its large square window he can faintly see that someone is at home. He walks up the walkway and rings the bell.
"Comrades, my fellow Murrans! For too long a corrupt, collectivist Oligarchy has ruled over us -- enslaved our bodies, claimed our rightfully earned money only to fund its bloated military forces, denied us the God-given rights to free expression and free enterprise, and ran roughshod over the environment. No more!"
Yes, Mr. Yehudan is at home. Yes, he is available, especially for such an Aristrocrat as you, Mr. Kasic. Would you like to speak to him?... And within a few minutes, Kasic is in Franz Yehudan's inner sanctum, his holiest of holies, his forbidden isle. A library. Reading is widely discouraged by the Party, for reasons that are still unclear; instead, it promotes use of television and internet (both of which are provided freely to everyone, although the quality of those services can be somewhat diminished). What transpires in the interview between Kasic and Yehudan is largely not relevant; they are, after all, old friends, and discuss matters of no import to anyone else. But there are a few passages that concern us today, towards the end of their discussion.
"From this day forward I will work to ensure that Murra is liberated from the oppressors. My target shall be not only the liberation of Trieste; no, for once Trieste is freed my followers shall march on Praka; they shall torch Namensk and Nunnan; they shall raise the flag of freedom over Engelsgrad and Mezhgani. And when we are done we shall forswear violence and pollution, and build a new, brighter world on the ruins of the old..."
"Trieste, a tax haven?"
"Why not? We're practically independent at this point anyway. It would be days or weeks before the Government could work up enough military to deal with it."
"You forget, Franz.... Murra has so many military personnel that even if only five or six million of its official figure of 200 million are on duty, they could swiftly be deployed to subdue the city."
"Ah, but against my advance, military power is useless. I simply offer the garrison a better life under a free market system.... that's where you come in."
"I see. You want a few offshore mining operations, perhaps? A major insurance company? Healthcare would be big, maybe I can bring in pharmaceuticals."
"Don't be sarcastic. Look at the opportunities. If we can simply buy out the Murran military, we can even use it against the loyalist elements. We can walk all over Engelsgrad and be hailed as liberators. Of all people, you should know best that money is power."
"Murrans! Citizens of the world! Join me in my quest to defeat the evil collectivists. Oligarchs of Murra! Your days are numbered. Already your offices in Trieste are burning, and wild mobs of the citizenry rush through the streets, hungering for blood. Even your military forces have turned against you. Surrender now, dismantle these communist institutions that oppress us all; and you shall be spared much pain. But hold out, and woe! great and terrible the destruction that shall be wreaked upon you!"
The speech is accompanied by footage of cheering mobs brandishing signs; of assorted buildings in Trieste exploding; of soldiers gunning down governmental clerks.
Kasic walks through the skyways of Trieste, watching. The televised speech is expensive; some of it could be found in stock footage from the Revolution, but most of it must be carefully fabricated. The actual takeover of Trieste is peaceful; only a few buildings of loyalists are actually blown up, along with token portions of the skyways and monorails, but everyone agrees that it is quite necessary. The televised speech and accompanying images are broadcast on an overriding frequency throughout Murra, replacing whatever programming is currently displayed on the television; and they are broadcast outside the borders of Murra to foreign nations. Kasic and Yehudan know quite well where their main base of support will be, from strongly anti-communist nations.
He watches the city, and gradually his eyes turn upwards until they are resting in a blue break in the grey clouds; and a sphinx's smile begins to curl on his lips.
Pyotr Churneshko stares unhappily out of the monorail window across the barren metropolis. In the distance a thunderhead looms threateningly against the grey sky; but in the foreground there is nothing but the smoke and dirt of the city, the four-hundred-meter skyscrapers thrusting forbidding figures into the clouds. Below the monorail line Churneshko can see the skyways, and he knows that far below them are the old commuter trains taking people around the nation. He knows because he helped design them what seemed like ages ago, when hope for the Oligarchy was so bright and it seemed everything was going to work out.
His saturnine eye lazily tracking a police chopper's progress between the skyscrapers, Churneshko considers turning his attention back to the newspaper. It is really a farce; he knows well, better than most others in the nation do, that the newspapers are all state-run. Even the opposition and 'underground' newspapers; when Churneshko's name was still Pyotr Domorov and he was a senior official of the Party, with a position so high and remote that almost nobody had any idea what it actually was, he had been shown the factory where they printed the Freedom Underground. All of the newspapers were strictly censored by the Media Office, and he knew what the guidelines for Underground articles were: ridiculous allegations, abuse heaped on various public figures, information that was public knowledge or exposés of open secrets. The Underground newspapers were not supposed to make people think, but rather to play on what the Government knew many people believed. Commonly, indeed, citizens were disgusted by the level of tripe printed in the underground newspapers and avoided them entirely.
Of course, the Government also allows certain foreign newspapers to be distributed; but those are mainly far-right-wing papers such as the Praetonian Royal Standard or the New Clanon City Times; and more so, they have passed through the Media Office, which subtly rewords articles to appear even more extremist and deranged, and rewords editorials to, in places, betray socialist or left-wing tendencies. The aim, of course, to display for Murra's benefit how insane other countries are, and imply that their citizens would much prefer to live under a Murran style government.
Churneshko is bound for the government offices. Rather than being located in a huge palace or a single central building, they have been spread out around a number of apartment buildings in the city's poshest district, all connected by underground tunnels to briefing rooms and bunkers far below the city. The builders of Engelsgrad planned this in order to bring the government closer to the citizens, and to help propagate the belief that government officials lived little better than citizens themselves; now, when all pretense of that myth had vanished, it served to protect the government offices from attackers as they had no idea where exactly to bomb.
It is a duty he hates, but one he is bound to. The Government has repeatedly informed him that he knows far too much, and if he were no longer useful, he would be eliminated. Perhaps the only reason the Government has not eliminated him yet is because they cannot be bothered to expend the resources to do what Nature herself has already started on. Churneshko is seventy-six, a long dormant throat cancer from his years of chain-smoking beginning to take over his body; either way he has at most a year or two to live. Healthcare in Murra is unfortunately not what it once was.
Today, however, he is bringing the Government information -- highly useful information that only one with his connections, only a man still allied to House Domorov, could know. Information that could preserve, or destroy, the nation.
Heaven knows when the Murran Noble Houses came to be. During the feudal era, each noble was a count, and the counts were ruled by the King in Praka, or Mezhgani, or whatever city he had decided to establish as his capital. Over the centuries the nobles lost none of their influence; preserving isolated worlds of courtly life during the Black Death, funding explorers and artists during the Renaissance, et cetera. Even when Murra had become a democracy, the ancient houses had still held so much influence, owning between them just about every major corporation in the nation and buying and selling politicians like sports players, that one would be hard pressed to claim Murra had ever been truly democratic.
But then their powers -- everyone's powers -- had been abruptly stripped in the Revolution. Naturally, compensations had been made; most of the noble houses still held prominent positions in the Party. But the damage was done, and for the first time in ages, power did not rest with the houses or their allies. Fifty years had the new order ruled, and its rule is absolute; everything is distributed by the Government, with property limited to a small personal income (between $4,000 and $20,000 a year) for purchasing other effects, unnecessary items, or (inevitably) products of the black market.
The Nobles have had enough, and they have used their still moderate influence to take steps towards ending the rule of the Collectivist Oligarchy. Its beginning has a classical simplicity.
Trieste, on the Adriatic Coast
Trieste is a beautiful and isolated city. The sole Murran holdout on the Adriatic Coast, it is four hours by train from Novi Gurnav, the nearest city. By sea, it is separated from the rest of Murra's ports -- Gdansk, Nunnan, Mezhgani -- by almost a week's journey. For that reason, it is a microcosm of Murra, with its own naval garrison, its own powerplants and postal service, its own farms in the countryside within what was once Slovenia. If for some reason the mainland of Murra were to fall to a sudden attack, Trieste would remain quite unaffected with its own regional government taking control of the city. The capital-letter Government has little to do here.
For that reason, perhaps, it is most likely to breed discontent. Indeed, that is what Slavjedan Kasic was counting on as he steps off the train into Union Station. Slavjedan is the heir of House Kasic; while that House has been historically quite private and withdrawn, and even today is the least-known of the major houses, it is by far the most powerful surviving house. House Kasic represents money with a capital M: where it goes, who makes it and how. Slavjedan Kasic is both the inheritor of a fortune estimated in the seven figures and has amassed his own personal wealth through manipulation of stocks and bonds; while personal wealth is limited to $1 million, Slavjedan Kasic has found that carefully placed bribes and even more carefully placed death threats can overcome even that iron barrier. He is far from the wealthiest man in even Murra itself, and compared to many of the world's affluent the entire funds of House Kasic are but a drop in the bucket; but by a few words, Kasic can reverse or change the cash flows of mighty corporations and nations. A well placed move can bankrupt a powerful economy. That is the kind of influence House Kasic has.
Kasic inserts his ticket into the exit turnstile; the deadly doors slide open with a whoosh, letting him through, and then close again with a rush of air. He steps out into the surprisingly warm atmosphere of Trieste, a welcome change from the biting cold of Namensk. Taking an elevator to the monorail, a couple hundred feet above the ground, he heads for the waterfront, where the monorails taper off and the skyways lower themselves to the ground and become normal roads. The waterfront is the wealthy neighbourhood of Trieste; it is only accessible by car or on foot and the buildings are smaller. He walks. At the end of one sidewalk, overlooking the sea, he comes to a normal house; a rare sight in Murra. Through the blinds drawn across its large square window he can faintly see that someone is at home. He walks up the walkway and rings the bell.
"Comrades, my fellow Murrans! For too long a corrupt, collectivist Oligarchy has ruled over us -- enslaved our bodies, claimed our rightfully earned money only to fund its bloated military forces, denied us the God-given rights to free expression and free enterprise, and ran roughshod over the environment. No more!"
Yes, Mr. Yehudan is at home. Yes, he is available, especially for such an Aristrocrat as you, Mr. Kasic. Would you like to speak to him?... And within a few minutes, Kasic is in Franz Yehudan's inner sanctum, his holiest of holies, his forbidden isle. A library. Reading is widely discouraged by the Party, for reasons that are still unclear; instead, it promotes use of television and internet (both of which are provided freely to everyone, although the quality of those services can be somewhat diminished). What transpires in the interview between Kasic and Yehudan is largely not relevant; they are, after all, old friends, and discuss matters of no import to anyone else. But there are a few passages that concern us today, towards the end of their discussion.
"From this day forward I will work to ensure that Murra is liberated from the oppressors. My target shall be not only the liberation of Trieste; no, for once Trieste is freed my followers shall march on Praka; they shall torch Namensk and Nunnan; they shall raise the flag of freedom over Engelsgrad and Mezhgani. And when we are done we shall forswear violence and pollution, and build a new, brighter world on the ruins of the old..."
"Trieste, a tax haven?"
"Why not? We're practically independent at this point anyway. It would be days or weeks before the Government could work up enough military to deal with it."
"You forget, Franz.... Murra has so many military personnel that even if only five or six million of its official figure of 200 million are on duty, they could swiftly be deployed to subdue the city."
"Ah, but against my advance, military power is useless. I simply offer the garrison a better life under a free market system.... that's where you come in."
"I see. You want a few offshore mining operations, perhaps? A major insurance company? Healthcare would be big, maybe I can bring in pharmaceuticals."
"Don't be sarcastic. Look at the opportunities. If we can simply buy out the Murran military, we can even use it against the loyalist elements. We can walk all over Engelsgrad and be hailed as liberators. Of all people, you should know best that money is power."
"Murrans! Citizens of the world! Join me in my quest to defeat the evil collectivists. Oligarchs of Murra! Your days are numbered. Already your offices in Trieste are burning, and wild mobs of the citizenry rush through the streets, hungering for blood. Even your military forces have turned against you. Surrender now, dismantle these communist institutions that oppress us all; and you shall be spared much pain. But hold out, and woe! great and terrible the destruction that shall be wreaked upon you!"
The speech is accompanied by footage of cheering mobs brandishing signs; of assorted buildings in Trieste exploding; of soldiers gunning down governmental clerks.
Kasic walks through the skyways of Trieste, watching. The televised speech is expensive; some of it could be found in stock footage from the Revolution, but most of it must be carefully fabricated. The actual takeover of Trieste is peaceful; only a few buildings of loyalists are actually blown up, along with token portions of the skyways and monorails, but everyone agrees that it is quite necessary. The televised speech and accompanying images are broadcast on an overriding frequency throughout Murra, replacing whatever programming is currently displayed on the television; and they are broadcast outside the borders of Murra to foreign nations. Kasic and Yehudan know quite well where their main base of support will be, from strongly anti-communist nations.
He watches the city, and gradually his eyes turn upwards until they are resting in a blue break in the grey clouds; and a sphinx's smile begins to curl on his lips.