17:30, 05 June 2047 — Nexus, Crisis Meeting of the Politburo
The atmosphere was taut to the breaking point.
Bluish-gray clouds of cigarette smoke made from dried hemp hung heavily in the air, mixed with the bitter scent of freshly brewed tea. Functionaries sorted files, compared assessments, and hastily jotted down ideas on yellowed paper. The faint hum of lightbulbs — manufactured in one of the many Manufacturing Stations — filled the room with a dull, flickering glow.
This was one of the Union's great data nodes — its brain.
Everyone wore the same gray political coats. Equality, expressed through outward seriousness and conformity, was considered a virtue here — a visible manifestation of the collective consciousness and of the Consul's will.
Messengers darted between the rows like silent cats, discreetly carrying files, folders, and reports from table to table. These were bound in tanned rat or pig hide and printed with movable type. Of course, there were also direct telephone lines to the archives, and scavenged computer components from the surface were still partially functional. Yet this ritualized choreography of exchange was preferred. Physical data carriers were considered more reliable than old magnetic technologies that could barely be reproduced anymore. Moreover, it was believed that only an administrative apparatus independent of decaying technology would remain functional and stable in times of crisis.
The Mechanists — the order tasked with preserving and collecting technology and knowledge — did not always agree with this conviction. A hybrid system of digital and analog technology would, in their view, be most effective. But the Consul forbade the use of computers in daily administration. One day, he argued, the last circuit boards would burn out, the last memory units would corrode, and the final spare parts would be used up. Humanity had to free itself from the illusion that it could once again reach such technological heights in the near future.
The Minister of Defense rose. A man with a grim expression and a closely cropped beard. He had already commanded the army during the Great War. The experience from that time was inexhaustible — and invaluable. His voice was firm, carried by grave determination.
"Comrade Consul, the People's Army is suffering heavy losses against the Southern League. The situation is precarious. In the last quarter alone, approximately fifty-five soldiers were killed or wounded. Under these circumstances, neither a breakthrough nor a victory is possible. Material consumption far exceeds our production capacities."
Some functionaries took notes, others listened in silence, some consulted their neighbors. A symphony of thought and debate resonated in every mind. According to the mantra: calculate, plan, adapt, repeat. By this principle, these technocratic socialists calculated their decisions for people and state — guided by their moral compass and protector of humanity, the Consul.
"In addition," he continued, "there are repeated clashes with the Eastern State. Their warrior caste is amassing large forces and probing our fortifications for weaknesses."
He paused, his words echoing between the supporting pillars.
"Without a partial mobilization of the National People's Militia, we will be unable to conduct further offensives. Our calculations call for five additional regiments."
A low murmur swept through the hall. Small groups formed, whispering about the possible consequences — and which faction would benefit.
The Minister for Economic Planning, Eng. Maximilian Weber, raised his hand forcefully.
"I understand the military situation, but a partial mobilization is economically unsustainable. We lack manpower, and the Gray Blight — that cursed fungal rot — will destroy twenty-five to thirty percent of the harvest. Rations are already at 2.000 calories. We cannot go any lower."
Murmurs of agreement followed. He was clearly preparing a compromise that even the armed wing of this technocracy would find difficult to reject — but first he had to reinforce his position.
"And we have neither the materials nor the equipment for 450 militia soldiers. The Fifth Three-Year Plan is already behind schedule. In two months, we could theoretically equip three regiments — but never five."
The Minister of Information, Drechsler, sighed quietly.
"Delivering this news to the public will be… extremely delicate."
Everyone was aware of the consequences. The war would consume more soldiers, bind and destroy more labor, and waste even more material. For an overpopulated state of sixteen thousand inhabitants, this was a heavy blow — too few hands for Agricultural and Manufacturing Stations, too many mouths for the already strained agricultural areas.
"Ha! Typical realists!" snapped Dr. Mia Baumer, chief physician of the Ministry for Epidemic Prevention.
"Living standards have stagnated for two quarters, life expectancy is declining. Instead of expanding militarily, we should protect the people! Invest in the future, not in war. Forge plowshares instead of swords. We owe that to the members of our collective."
Applause erupted from several corners, interspersed with shouts:
"We need peace!"
"Food for the children of the collective!"
"Swords into plowshares!"
But there was also visible resentment — hardened, almost accusatory faces. Above all, one man was displeased: the Supreme Marshal of the Union.
The Minister of Defense spat his words:
"The same refrain every time! Then say it openly: you want to capitulate to those fanatical crusaders and worship their god Sol! Hand over the Nexus without a fight! Without us realists, the revolution would never have succeeded!"
Heated arguments broke out between the rows. Realists versus utopians. Brother against sister. These party factions argued almost incessantly — over every plan, every detail, even every comma. Two opposing approaches, united by the same vision of the future and held together by their leader.
"Comrades — silence."
The voice of the Consul, Anton Schauer, was calm but unmistakable. His words cut through the chaos like a blade.
"I understand both sides. Nevertheless, we must act.
Additional troops will be mobilized to the extent that we can sustain logistically.
The Ministry for Research and Education is to examine ways to increase food production — and to develop protection against the Gray Blight.
The Ministry of Foreign Affairs shall investigate whether food imports from the Sevenhirten Confederation are possible."
Several hours later, after a recess, Weber presented the first consolidated assessment:
"Comrades — we can mobilize three regiments without causing severe production losses. The prerequisite is random recruitment from all stations.
However, war materiel is nearly exhausted. Of the required weapons and additional equipment, only seventy-two percent and sixty-four percent, respectively, are available.
To produce the remainder, we require:
– 1.8 tons of steel– 2.7 tons of coal – 1 ton of fabric – 0.5 tons of leather – approximately 5,000 labor hours"
Functionaries routinely ran calculations on mechanical calculators, checked figures, and made rough estimates. Everything appeared to be in order. As usual, messengers passed files and folders to the delegates. The chamber resembled a brain — functionaries as neurons, processing information and impulses transmitted through the messengers like synapses. A biological machine.
The Minister for Economic Planning spoke again.
"We must shift the militia and parts of civilian production to a war economy. And since the Gray Blight is spreading everywhere, living standards will decline. But for victory, we have no choice other than the partial mobilization of our nation — economically and militarily."
Silence fell over the hall. The strain of the numbers was visible on the faces of the functionaries.
Next came the assessments from the Office of Foreign Affairs. Reports passed through the gray rows.
The summary was clear: no imports were possible. The embassy in the Sevenhirten Confederation reported that the fungal blight was raging there as well. It was likely spreading elsewhere too. In truth, the idea had probably been doomed from the start. The Confederation was cut off from the rest of the system — or rather, from the world of trade. Between them lay the Free Trade Syndicates, a coalition of proto-corporations and mafia-like structures that shamelessly exploited their position between five states. They demanded tariffs of at least twenty percent — often more, depending on how urgently the goods were needed.
The assessment of the Ministry for Research and Education was no better. All measures taken had contained the Gray Blight, but not eliminated it. A cure was a distant prospect.
Disillusionment spread. The people would suffer hunger — but not starve en masse. Tragic, certainly, but only a setback. The same would happen in other states. An explosive cocktail that could erupt into uprisings at the slightest sign of weakness.
But what was to be done? What could be done at all?
Dr. Mia Baumer raised her hand.
"Comrade Consul… may I ask Comrade Weber something?"
A nod.
"I understand your calculations. But if we continue shifting toward a war economy, we will miss all social targets of the Three-Year Plan. We are the avant-garde of the working masses — builders of the collective future, protectors of humanity. If we must fight a production battle, then it must be on two fronts: not only on the military front, but also on the home front.
How do we justify these sacrifices without directly considering the well-being of the people?"
The Supreme Marshal leaned forward.
"What do you propose? We lack raw materials, labor, food — everything. If we do not defend the revolution, there will be nothing left to improve."
Mia replied calmly:
"Our neighboring states fight us because they fear the success of our society. But war threatens to consume our achievements.
Therefore, I call for a mobilization for the renewal of the collective — a cultural revolution."
A murmur swept the hall. The word echoed like thunder.
The Consul himself had once coined the term. His gaze betrayed approval.
Mia continued:
"We need more resources for hospitals, schools, agricultural areas, research — and tangible improvements in everyday life. Only then will we endure. Only then will we secure our vision of the future. Only then will we create a utopia."
Slow applause came from the party leadership. Others followed — hesitant, uncertain.
Was it approval? Irony? Intimidation?
Mia smiled cautiously.
The Consul rose and spoke in a calm but firm voice:
"That is why both the pragmatism of the realists and the moral nobility of the utopians are indispensable. We are waging a revolutionary struggle — socially and militarily.
The Political Commissariat will oversee the cultural renewal. For a better future."
He raised his fist.
"For the honor of humanity."
The party members echoed the call.
The Union would fight this production battle — with the goal of expanding its culture, its essence, and its dominance.