Crossposted from the Alternative History Armoured Fighting Vehicles thread. A bit of explanation on Prussia's economy, but mostly on its defence industry.
EDIT: Also, new update! :3
Moscow, Russian Soviet Federative Socialist Republic, Union of Soviet Socialist Republics
18th October, 1956
“...in other news, tensions are escalating in Hungary as dissident university students began launching increasingly brazen attacks against the legitimate Hungarian government, allegedly agitated by Western agents and sympathizers supporting the disgraced chairman, Imre Nagy. General Secretary Ernő Gerő has assured Communist partners that the movement will shall be 'defeated with great justice' in defiance of Western designs on the Hungarian nation. In his rally...”
Autumn had arrived in Moscow, and the frigid air was slowly leaking into the streets around the walls of the Kremlin. Pacing along the vast stretch of the Moscva River, a lone officer holding a set of files appeared shrivelled under his heavy coat, the chilly breeze trying to pierce into his frail body. The officer cap, to his dismay, provided even less protection to the elements, not like the ushanka he kept in his hotel room. He wished for once he had that with him to swap. However, ever the dutiful follower of regulation, he kept stubbornly to his officer cap in what was the most harrowing review he ever had, not the least since it concerned his own future.
“...with your credentials, I'm afraid it would be very difficult for us to back your resettlement plans, Captain Stolypin[1],” the voice of the most powerful man in the Soviet Bloc rang, as the image of the distant desk of obscured executives flashed back into his mind, “however, since your superior has assured us, we will... review your proposal in earnest. We will let the both of you know of our decision.”
Clinging to the railings as he took a hefty gasp, Yevgeny could still feel his nerves rattled at the sight of the Premier and his fellow staff staring right across the room at him. What was he, he felt, a mere captain promoted for a few weeks of typewriter punching in Korea to these people, powerful men with the will and connections to control half the world? What was he even doing there?
“Still shaken, Yevgeny,” questioned a calm voice behind him, “I can understand if it's your first time. I get the butterflies too when I had to address Stalin for the first time.”
Looking to his side, he could see the shadow of the man who managed to get him into the Kremin. Tall, blonde and charming, the astutely dressed colonel had the look of a proud war hero, a small scar on his head that could easily be mistaken as a war trophy. For the fairly short, spindly Yevgeny, Colonel Vladimir Petrovich Tonchev was everything he was not, confident, brave and possible ruthless too. A veteran in the Soviet Air Force during the Great Patriotic War, the man probably had no shortage of lovers, despite his marriage to a well-connected family. Yevgeny, of course, never really dared to ask. He could only assume he might trade a sharp wit of his own about his own wife, the infamous 'black widow' that somehow allowed herself to be 'caught' by the 'court jester'.
“Easy for you to say,” he mused in a bit of self-depreciation, “you were fighting Germans since you were thirteen. A young pioneer turned pilot. I wish I had that kind of steel nerves.”
“Well, it wasn't as if I had a choice,” Tonchev answered in kind, leaning on the railings as he faced the Moscow River too, “bastards will kill us all otherwise.”
Watching the senior pick out a cigarette from his pocket cigar box, Yevgeny could only agree. Everyone knew what kind of monsters the Germans were. Even though Stalin, for one, matched Hitler in every respect in terms of ruthlessness, he never exactly killed people for who they were. Just what they might plan against him. Even the deportations were for that specific reason, even if the accusations were covering entire races. If anything, unlike Hitler, Stalin oppressed everyone with equal disregard, hardly playing favour to any one race.
At least, that was what he assumed at first.
While his experience in Korea remained an afterthought despite the fairly serious bruising, he never quite shook off what the POWs in Pyuktong told him. Interest in communism, he deduced, stemmed from disenfranchisement due to poverty. It was, as he long learnt from state education, the root cause of the February and October Revolutions. However, what was the root of this disenfranchisement? African Americans like Clarence Adams, seemed to have a ready answer – racism. Whatever the ideals spread by the enlightenment, it was clear the escalating gap between the Europeans of the 19th Century and their counterparts throughout the world had imbumed in them a sense of arrogance for their 'genetic superiority'. Having outstripped their Asian rivals to become the premier powers in scientific and empirical-based knowledge, the kingdoms and republics of Europe and their immigrant-spawned dominions in the Americas, had become conceited over their overpowering might despite the lack of manpower. Intent on dominating the trade networks to enrich their own societies, they had taken to usurp power throughout Africa, Asia and the Americas, bending the indigenous societies to their own whims. All that, as claimed by the revolutionaries of the Soviet state, was what communism was created to combat against, the continued disgrace of the poor and downtrodden not only in Russia, but throughout the world.
But Yevgeny felt unnerved at the direction taken by the current Soviet state. Digging what he could beneath the web of propaganda (no less with Sara's help), he began piecing a disturbing picture of his homeland.
Indigenization (Russian: коренизация; lit.
putting down roots) , the policy launched since the victory of the Bolsheviks after the Civil War, was replaced by a silent, but systematic program of Russification. People like himself, with perfect command of the Russian language, was favoured as loyalists, while those who could not were derided as separatist, of little use to the state and a danger to Soviet unity. Claims of dissolving ethnic boundaries veiled a startling attempt to recreate the Tsars' own persecution of its non-Russian subjects. Those of Asian or Baltic descent were the most particularly affected, as peripheries with the greatest potential to secede at the first chance. While the constitution guaranteed that right in the first place, part of him was concerned that it might be exploited at some point, either by local strongmen seeking to consolidate power at Moscow's expense, or by local opposition itself. And who, he grudgingly admitted, could blame them?
Looking out at the opposite back, he questioned, “sir... If I may ask, why did you recommend my proposal. Forgive me if I sound disparaging, but is there anything you want to ask me in kind? I feel like I need to return the favour.”
Giving a small chuckle, the colonel replied, “no offence taken, I assure you. I merely I found your proposal of great interest to me. A daring, perhaps fatalistic challenge to the state, in fact – if I haven't been there to edit it to cover your ass. However, I do think you have a point. The current SSR system requires a bit of change. Right now, our country is being held together at one center, Moscow. If Moscow falls apart, so will the union. All it takes is one weak leader to take the helm. When that happens, we'll be reenacting the end of Rome for the viewing pleasure of the Western world. For that reason, we must build a solid foundation for unity across the board to combat possible separatist intent. Favouring Russian-speakers isn't enough. No... in fact, it's
exactly what we should dismantle if we are to prevent collapse.”
It was a handful, coming from the colonel. Yevgeny hated to admit it, but his superior had a way with words he could never hope to spew. Shaking his head in relent, the captain felt the man seemed well placed for a future in the Kremlin itself. For someone like him to take interest in Yevgeny's project seemed like a grand opportunity, but knowing Vladimir, he probably wanted something in return.
“In any case,” he added, “I admit, I do have a request in mind. It wasn't like I haven't planned to ask for it anyway when I made the approval, my apologies. Don't worry, it's nothing illegal. Just a little mentorship for a young pioneer just like yourself. You'll like him.”
“Who,” Yevgeny asked, facing the senior in curiosity. While he had a feeling the colonel was going to ask for a return, he never expected to become a mentor to anyone. As Vladimir turned to face him, he coyly stated, “you'll find out soon enough. I arranged for him to join you in your next assignment in Hungary. I'll let you know the details later. We still have to hope for the deal to pass, do we?”
Bowing his head a bit, Yevgeny could only admit it to be the case. For now, however, Hungary awaited, and perhaps, if the proposal fails to convince the panel, he might just settle down with Sara in Samarkand for good. He could feel the strain of his job wearing him thin. He just was not sure how long he had to be apart from her like this.
“Hungary, huh...” was all he could muse by now, as the two continued to watch the opposite skyline lit up beneath the dimming skies above.
________________________
Samarkand, Uzbek Soviet Socialist Republic, Union of Soviet Socialist Republics
18th October, 1956
“Hungary, I see,” a voice rang into the receiver, “sounds a bit dangerous.”
Seated along the ruins of the old Silk Road, the ancient city of Samarkand had long been a contested frontier for much of its history. From the Persian Achaemenids and Sogdians, to Alexander the Great; from the rule of the Mongol horselords to the remnants of the Central Asian emirates. Today, it remains a frontier republic of the Soviet Union, successor to the conquerors of imperial Russia. And like other frontiers in Central Asia and Siberia, Samarkand and the region as a whole had become a dumping ground for deported minorities deemed potential fifth columnists by the Muscovite authorities.
Living in a modest but startlingly well-furbished house in the suburbs, a young boy was seated on the floor scribbling on paper with crayons as his mother spoke on the phone. With black hair and typical Asiatic features, there was no question of his blood ties to his mother. But his blue eyes spoke of European origins, far unlike the small, exiled Korean community he and his mother owe their identity to. Even his surname, Pak, did not reveal anything suspect; and his patronymic did little to betray his father's true identity beyond the name, with so many Koryo-saram Russified beyond recognition of their counterparts in the homeland. Only the housewife on the phone knew the identity of his father in full. While hardly a secret in official papers or the prying eyes of neighbours, not much was spoken of the man or the strange-looking, well-to-do family living on the site.[2]
“It's probably just a bit of discontent,” Yevgeny's voice rang over the phone to the oddly amazonian housewife, “Colonel Tonchev said command will send escorts for us. Don't worry, I won't die that easily, not unless – God forbid – World War III breaks out there. I should be back by the month's end.”
“You're not one to believe in God, Yevgeny Sr,” Sara chimed in her usual sarcastic fashion, “force of habit?”
“It goes with my mother, I guess,” he admitted, “I just hope my proposal gets through.”
“Strange,” she teased endearingly, “I was hoping you might fail. Then you'd have to come back and tend to your son.”
“You're still sore I left in a hurry, aren't you,” the father uttered in discomfort, “it's not like you have a job anymore. Someone has to hold a salary.”
Cackling a bit, the former agent wasted no time toying. Tapping the phone, she remarked, “how do you know I've actually quit? Because I told you so? Alright, I won't hold you back. Take care, Yevgeny.”
“Ah...” blurted the officer, “take care then.”
Putting the phone down, Sara's devious smirk finally receded with the facade. Her hand still gripped on the receiver, the woman could not shake off her discomfort. After all, what she knew of the situation in Hungary, some of which came directly from her former colleagues, the population was growing increasingly incensed, with the Communist government largely powerless to stem the tide of unrest. It would be a matter of time before Budapest calls for Soviet tanks to roll in. When that happened, it was nobody's guess what would entail.
“Be careful,” she muttered grimly, a tinge of fear working its way up her spine for the first time since her 'retirement', “seems like you're headed somewhere very ugly.”[3]
- PROMOTION!
- Don't tell me you didn't see that coming
- Guess where we're heading next.
Cast
