17:15 – July 5, 2047 – Red Square / Politburo
To say the officials were tense would have been a gross understatement.Chaos reigned.
Shouts overlapped wildly.
"We need more weapons!"
"Order full mobilization!"
"How is this possible?"
"Where are they getting these offensive forces from?!"
The Eastern Corporate State had broken the ceasefire.On the eastern front, a merciless battle had been raging for days—wave after wave.
The Blood Channel, as the tunnel section between Messeprater and Krieau was known, once again lived up to its name.
The eastern power had launched a full-scale offensive.They had smelled blood—the Union's recent losses had emboldened them.Now they hurled wave after wave into the meat grinder, hoping to break the line.
For now, it still held.But for how long?How many reserves did the Union still have for this fight?
In the face of annihilation, humanity once again tore itself apart.
"Comrades—please, calm yourselves!"
The Consul's iron voice cut through the chaos like a blade.At once, silence fell.
All eyes turned toward him—the guiding star of humanity.
They waited for his words, hung on his lips, as if he alone could still save the world.
"Let us not give in to panic," he said calmly."Panic is the mind's inability to grasp reality."
He paused, letting his gaze drift slowly across his staff until the last whispers faded.
"Yes—we have been attacked from behind.Yes—the vanguard of humanity has been deceived.But we will not fall."
The room was silent. Only the faint hum of the lightbulbs and the breathing of those present could be heard. Some believed they could feel the heartbeat of the person beside them.
"I now request the assessments of the comrades responsible for defense, economic planning, intelligence acquisition, and the Commissariat. All others will signal as usual by raising their hands."
As instructed, the hall complied.Those addressed straightened their documents in haste, clinging to reports and numbers as if statistics could impose order on the chaos outside.
The Consul raised his hand.His gaze fell upon the Minister of Defense. A silent nod—the signal to speak.
"Comrades, honored Consul," the minister began, his voice hoarse. Beads of sweat ran down his temples.
"The intensity of the attacks is comparable to those of the Great War. The enemy has concentrated enormous quantities of manpower and materiel. We estimate approximately five hundred troops stationed at the front."
He hesitated, briefly lowering his eyes.
"Our forces amount to only a third of that. We are outnumbered three to one."
A murmur passed through the room. The minister continued hastily, as if trying to outrun the unspoken judgment of his party comrades.
"These troops are exceptionally well equipped both qualitatively and quantitatively. Armored railcars, heavy infantry with light machine guns and flamethrowers, assault units with body armor. They operate efficiently, disciplined—and with terrifying determination."
He wiped his brow.
"Our lines are holding—for now. But without reinforcements, and if the pressure remains constant, they will collapse within four days at most."
He returned to his seat.
The chairwoman of the Politcommissariat—a utopian through and through—took the floor.
"If I may follow Comrade Fischer's remarks," she began with razor-sharp calm.
The council's first speaker nodded briefly.
"My commissars on site report that morale is steadily deteriorating due to the grinding nature of the fighting. Blocking units have already carried out six executions to restore combat readiness."
A barely perceptible murmur swept the hall.She did not let it faze her.
"Based on these reports, a rotation of frontline troops will be unavoidable in order to prevent further desertions. The spirit of the revolution must not break under exhaustion."
Her voice remained calm, almost gentle—yet her eyes burned with unwavering ideological loyalty.
"Forgive my interruption," another voice interjected, "but the economic dimension must be considered as well."
"Of course, Comrade Weber," the commissar replied.
"The last mobilization has fully exhausted the limits and margins upon which our planned cooperative economy rests. Any further mobilization would mean failing to meet our objectives."
A shout cut through the hall:"To hell with your multi-year plans! If those pigs break through, the plans won't matter anyway!"
Visibly angered, the Consul motioned to a guard to escort the man outside. Awkwardly, Weber continued:
"By intensifying the extraction of raw materials, we could indeed produce additional war equipment. However, we still face the risk of food shortages. Further large-scale conscription would weaken our harvest capacity even more. Additionally, we face an overpopulation problem. I fear that without a reassessment of resource distribution, we will not survive a two-front war."
A murmur rippled through the crowd—especially among the utopians, who rejected the idea outright. Diverting more resources to the war economy at the expense of the cultural revolution and public sector was unacceptable to them. In the end, however, the decision rested with the Consul. Interjections sought to sway his judgment.
"We must think of the future!"
"What use is the cultural revolution if our state collapses?!"
"The people will suffer under this decision!"
"Comrades—I believe this information is essential, if not decisive, for our decision-making," the Minister of Intelligence remarked casually.
Questioning faces turned toward her.
"Could you elaborate, Comrade?" someone asked.
"First: we assumed that the battalions of the Eastern Corporate State would require two to three years to replenish material and personnel losses after the last war. According to recent findings by our State Security Service, an attack of this intensity should have been impossible until now. And yet—they are receiving support from another power. Comrades—the United Stations are supplying weapons and volunteers to our enemy. Not only in the east, but also in the south. I fear the Cold War between our states has entered a new phase. This is now a proxy war: other powers harm us without dirtying their own hands."
The officials whispered among themselves, each trying to grasp the implications of this development.
"Why should we believe this information?" a woman called out. "The SSD knew nothing of an impending invasion."
"Our agents were eliminated almost simultaneously across all operational zones," the minister replied calmly. "Especially in the eastern sector, large-scale purges took place. As a result, the flow of information was severely restricted."
The Consul appeared deeply lost in thought.Internally, he wrestled with idealism and pragmatism; his gaze was rigid, focused.
How would he decide?How much would they have to sacrifice—and how much of their ideals would they have to abandon?
His face resembled a marble statue: unmoving, hardened, resolute.
Then he spoke again.The Father of the Nation addressed them in a measured, deep voice:
"It seems we have little choice. We must reduce resources allocated to cultural renewal. We must raise additional regiments and show our enemies that we are capable of defense. Working hours will be extended to twelve hours. The targets of the Fifth Three-Year Plan must be adjusted downward. We can only improve the lives of our population step by step. Our enemies seek to destroy us—and the hope for a better tomorrow. Let us show them what happens when one challenges our Workers' Union!"
The hall erupted in applause.Not only the realists, but also many utopians clapped—because both camps understood: the revolution itself was at stake.
The cuts to cultural and social spending were painful, but apparently necessary.
Would they be enough to survive?
No one knew.