08:40 – 27.06.2047 Nexus / Politburo
The Politburo was in high spirits.
The hall was filled with the muted murmur of officials, occasionally breaking into restrained laughter. After years of deprivation and endless war, there was finally a reason to celebrate—at least here, far removed from the front.
Even the constant bustle of the couriers had fallen silent. Their hurried dance between the pillars had ceased; folders were archived and put away. Now it was time to savor the taste of victory. Glasses clinked as mushroom schnapps, tea, or other concoctions were raised. Self-rolled cigarettes were lit and passed around.
A victory two years in the making.A victory that had cost three hundred soldiers their lives—now within reach. One station had fallen, and with it its agricultural production. Hunger and hardship within the Collective could finally be eased. The Southern League would not recover from this blow. Robbed of its breadbasket, defeated in the field, and abandoned by its god, the crusaders would launch one final, desperate assault. In vain, they would shatter against the defenses of the Union.
Soldiers dug in deeply behind the captured station. Barbed wire, sandbags, and machine-gun emplacements fortified the newly claimed jewel. The People's Army stood ready to drive the pilgrims back to their messiah, to their Keeper of Truth, to the supposed descendant of Sol. With fire and volleys they would be cut down—train by train, man by man.
How many would fall in this struggle?How many crusaders would be swallowed by the maelstrom of war?How many people would die for food, for ideology, for faith?
The Consul rose and opened the session with a speech of praise:
"Esteemed comrades, as you all know, our People's Army has achieved a remarkable victory. This would not have been possible without the tireless efforts of the Comrade for Defense and the Supreme Military Council. To them, I extend my deepest gratitude."
Thunderous applause filled the hall. Glasses clinked, corks popped from homemade spirits. The smell of self-rolled cigarettes hung in the air, mingling with the aroma of fresh tea.
Realists and utopians alike understood the significance of this moment. For the first time since the beginning of the war, an enemy station had fallen—and likely the last. The Southern League had lost a substantial portion of its food production. Under these conditions, the continuation of the war was unthinkable.
The Union had won.The Union had ended the bloodshed.
At least in the eyes of those who had never witnessed the horrors of the front.
Honored by the Consul's words, the Union's Chief Marshal, Paul Fischer, stepped forward. With a grave expression, he began his address and assessment of the situation:
"Thank you, Mr. Consul. But let us not forget that none of this would have been possible without the will and perseverance of our soldiers."
A murmur of approval rippled through the hall—an expression of dutiful loyalty.
"Our troops have entrenched themselves roughly eight hundred meters behind the captured station. We expect a desperate counterattack. The Schutzbund will attempt everything to reclaim the territory."
The Schutzbund—as this army of religious zealots called itself—was organized along a feudal theocratic militia system. Each station was required to pay a fixed tithe to its Keeper of Truth: weapons, raw materials, food—and people for the front. Sometimes even half-grown children were sent on crusade toward Stephansplatz, the former holy site, the great cathedral of Vienna.
Only when the faithful of Sol reclaimed this sacred place, they believed, would the seemingly endless winter end—and the radiation finally fade. Perhaps the gray veil would lift then.
The Marshal paused, lowering his gaze. For a moment, silence filled the room, as if in remembrance of the fallen.
"Unfortunately," he continued, "our losses are far higher than initial estimates suggested. According to current data, we have lost at least one regiment. This number will likely rise in the coming days—we are counting over two dozen severely wounded."
The celebratory mood gave way to a heavy silence. Only the faint clinking of glasses echoed between the gray concrete pillars.
The quiet was finally broken by Engineer Maximilian Weber, a man who had never possessed much tact for such moments. Numbers were likely all that mattered to him.
"Esteemed comrades," he began, "these enormous losses represent a severe setback for our industry and for the fulfillment of the Fifth Three-Year Plan."
He glanced nervously around the hall. Light bulbs flickered. Rigid faces stared at him as if peering into his soul. Yet no one objected.
"It appears there will be no demobilization of our militia forces. While the secured infrastructure ensures the population's food supply, I urge the utmost urgency in reopening the surface. An astronomical amount of material was consumed in this battle."
The Consul nodded curtly. He did not speak—but everyone in the room understood the message clearly:
Now is not the time for such discussions.