Valentin Domanevka
Old bones ached as he stepped off the antiquated but reliable train that led from deeper within the Soviet countryside and into their capital of Moscow. This was one of the older models of train still in service, although he was not familiar with the name of its particular model. It had been in service since… 1997 he thinks, the old locomotive having been destroyed in the Nights of Fire.
It was not very fast, it was not very pretty to look at (although it was very brightly painted and handsome upon the track, like a soldier in parade dress), and the compartments were not very spacious. It was, however, built to endure far longer than it was initially planned to be used. Even now, eight decades later, it still functioned well enough to the standards of the era it was built in. It wouldn't be in service anymore if it wasn't built to last.
Although he had his doubts in young Sokolov, his toy machines seemed reasonably durable thus far. Still, Valentin had his doubts. Things that fancy were prone to breaking down much sooner than any paperwork would ever suggest. Although, that was usually an issue with the lower ranks deciding to strip copper from their wirings and sell it for a meager profit, not any real issue with the machinery. Perhaps these suffered fewer breakdowns because they killed whoever tried to dismantle them without authorization?
He snorted to himself as he took another cane-assisted step forwards, breathing in the cold (but far warmer than it had been in his youth) air of Moscow. Around him, his escort followed in perfect step, keeping their eyes peeled and weaponry readied. They were some of the best and brightest of the SovOil secret police, the truly exceptional and the highly loyal. A loyalty that was ensured by his ironclad hold over them.
Each of them is a criminal. Not was. Is. He knew their crimes in exacting detail, for years now, and so long as their loyalty remained true, he did not need to act upon this knowledge. The entire SovOil system was built around lessons learned from Lenin, so many years ago. The corporate system was designed to be so restrictive, that in order to rise through the ranks of the corporation, crime was required. Crime that was carefully monitored by the SovOil secret police, the department that he had led since 2002.
How does one maintain power and influence in a dangerous system? You ensure that you could destabilize the whole of the system if needed, and then serve that system with excellence. Valentin had achieved a personal checkmate long ago, and he was still doing quite well for himself, even into his one-hundred and thirties.
He was not the Chairman of SovOil, that was not a proper role for him. He was not meant to direct the day-to-day operations of the company. He was that which ensured the company functioned no matter the cost.
He continued his slow, deliberate steps down the pathway and to the opened door of the expensive aerodyne waiting for his presence. Slowly managing his aging frame down and into the vehicle, he settled his weight down and rested his hands on his well worn mahogany cane, staring through his thick-rim spectacles at the man who was waiting for him inside.
The middle-aged and mustached form of Anatoly Novaragov, current Chairman of SovOil. Shortly cropped and dark brown hair, pulled back in the signature balding of an older man, and paired with a set of golden mechanical irises. Faint golden lines traced over his face, extending down into a neck and torso covered in a suit designed in the modern style. Over this relatively plain and professional garb was the gaudy form of a pair of golden chains.
The form of Novaragov raised a hand decorated in five golden rings holding a bottle of insultingly light vodka and gestured for the set of glasses readied for the both of them.
"Is good to see you again, Domanevka. May I quench your thirst?" The careful grin on his face belied a sense of unease in the presence of the Director of the Secret Police.
"No." Valentin replied simply, staring at the form of Novaragov without patience for his flashy extravagance. He shifted his attention to the driver and gave a command. "Drive us to the Kremlin." At once the exclusive taxi took off, and they were on their way to the center of power of the Union of Socialist Soviet Republics. It was, of course, mostly identical to the old USSR that he served as deputy-director of the KGB.
He turned his gaze back to the form of Novaragov. "Eleven."
The man on the other side of the table flinched, and swallowed nervously. "A-ah… Eleven you say…?"
He kept his blank stare centered on the man, peering through thick glasses with frozen eyes. The man eventually broke, bowed his head, and muttered out "I apologize, Director."
"Do not apologize. You are the Chairman of SovOil. You do not make errors. Who are you blaming for this failure?"
"Ah, I was thinking Bartolem-"
"No."
"A-ah, then perhaps Justinia-"
"No."
"...Illya?"
Valentin gave a huff of frustration. It took him three tries to get someone suitable that time. He had clearly not been thinking about the issue. In the end, no matter how much he was taught, Anatoly's replacement could never quite live up to the original man. A shame his ambitions had become an issue, his old friend was exceedingly competent while he lived.
The man wearing his young friend's face kept a suitably shamed expression for the rest of their ride. Soon enough, they stopped, and his expression immediately changed to the stern confidence that a chairman should have as they departed from the vehicle, greeted by another escort of trained operatives…
He narrowed his eyes at one, and tapped his cane lightly as he started walking forwards through the bright colors of the center of Moscow. The Red Square stretched out all around him, and in the distance he saw the brightly colored brickwork of St. Basil's Cathedral. The repaired State Historical museum, the Mausoleum of Lenin, and there in the distance, the walls of the Kremlin arrayed with a battery of shiny anti-aircraft guns.
He almost let out a huff at needing to walk so far to get inside, but the presentation had to be maintained for the masses. He began to make his way forwards, letting the form of Novaragov move in front of him, as was appropriate. The form of Novaragov marched forwards with the boldness and confidence as expected of youth, while the aged form of Domanevka followed behind, reliable but out of the way.
His frozen eyes trailed around him as he marched forwards.
He kept this pace, even as arduous as it was on his bones, even as he heard the sound of mechanical hooves behind him. Carefully, he restrained his anger as the form of Artyom Sokolov passed by them, riding the form of some new mechanical beast of his design. It resembled a horse only in the vaguest sense, and so too did Sokolov only resemble a proper CEO in the vaguest sense.
Handsomely cropped black hair over a casual grin and glinting golden irises. A suit jacket over the top of clothing that was entirely too casual to be appropriate, paired with cybernetic arms plated in gold. One hand held onto an overly ostentatious golden and mahogany cane, the other hand held onto an opened bottle of highest-proof vodka. Sokolov took an immense swing of the drink as he looked down on him.
He did not slow his pace for the brat.
"Ah, It's good to see you again, old man. Tell me, how's Armstrong doing, will he be here?"
"Sokolov." He simply returned, glaring at the brat that should be greeting the form of Novaragov right now, not his old assistant and mentor.
"Ah, not up for a casual chat right now? That's fine, we can catch up later after this big boring meeting is over. Say, you still play chess, right?" The brats face was infuriatingly arrogant, and Valentin knew exactly why.
Because he could never turn down a good game, even against uppity youths. Especially not against uppity youths who were actually talented in the great game.
"Yes." He returned, before giving a glare that finally sent the message that Sokolov needed to greet his fellow corporate leader right now. The youth almost flinched back at the glare, but managed to maintain his composure in riding the mechanical beast up to be beside the other man of importance.
Soon enough they began to pass through the gates of the outer walls of the Kremlin, and enter into the fortress of state proper. They were greeted by another set of escorts, these being the specially-chipped tin soldiers that guarded the most important sites of the state. Perhaps the most loyal group of all, as reliant as their bodies were on the continued support of the state.
Behind him, the lone guard he had glared at before was quietly restrained and carried away for interrogation and processing. Valentin had not approved of his transfer request to this position, which meant that he was the pawn of someone meddling where they shouldn't. He'd root them out soon enough, as was his duty.
Sokolov finally jumped from the back of his mechanical beast, grinning at the guards and pulling the superfluous leash over for them to hold. Unfortunately, the brat had just enough influence to sway normal protocol, and the guard took the leash of the not-creature with a nod. Now off the back of that thing, the three representatives of corporate power in the soviet states proceeded deeper within the fortress within the city.
Unfortunately for his old bones, they still had a few hundred meters to go before reaching the interior chamber. This was an important trial regardless, to combat an increasingly incapable group of political leaders. If one could not make this journey on foot, they clearly were too old to be a strong leader. A policy enacted in the twenty-thirties, in response to a political crisis caused by three candidates dying one after another due to age-related causes.
He remembered the incident well, it almost caused Ukraine to slip from soviet rule. So even if it was hell on his bones, he marched without complaint, for he had no worthy successor yet. The state still needed him.
Unfortunately, the young and vigorous Sokolov was somehow exempt from this trial. He grit his dentures together. Show nothing to the world. The soviets must look united and strong now more than ever. In front of him, the form of Novaragov and Sokolov chatted amicably as they kept their pace just slow enough to not leave him behind.
Finally, long and tortuous minutes of walking later, they were greeted by another subset of cybernetic guardians, and allowed to walk within the recently rebuilt Administrative Palace. It had been subject to a KGB attack during the Nights of Fire, but funding for its reconstruction was only found a few decades ago.
Walking inside, the three men were checked for any potential weapons, and then led into the subfloors. Once inside the elevator, Sokolov's expression shifted as he turned to him. Ah, so the brat was actually being serious for a moment.
"Eleven." He had a fierce expression on his face.
Novaragov hung his head slightly at the reminder. Valentin nodded in reply, tapping his cane once on the elevator floor and answering. "Logistics Director Illya Golovin. He had a buyer ready in China. We are moving to capture him as soon as this is over."
Sokolov cursed and almost spat on the ground. "Eleven fucking shipments. Eleven!" Valentin could hear his teeth grind as he raged. "How the hell am I supposed to make up for that? I…" Sokolov paused and took a deep breath to calm himself. His golden gaze locked on old Valentin's frozen glare. "...I want his head."
Valentin nodded in response, and a man's life was sold.
The elevator stopped on their floor, and Sokolov's expression immediately corrected itself, displaying only what was appropriate for the young council corporate representative. The corporate representation on the wider council was three individuals. The Chairman of SovOil, the Director of the SovOil secret police, and the representative of all other soviet-approved corporations. Sokolov was not here in his capacity as CEO of Zhirafa, but as representative of all soviet corporations not named 'SovOil'.
The potential conflict of interest interested them none.
The central chamber doors opened before them, and the trio marched into the heavily fortified bunker room that currently contained the most important individuals in the entirety of soviet lands. In the center of the room was a large, rounded, metal table around which were nine seats. One seat was situated at the far end from the bunker entrance, and was directly in front of a large screen on the wall behind them.
Seated in that central chair was the most powerful man in the north. Alexsandr Vasiliev. General Secretary of the Soviet Party and Chairman of the Council of Ministers. A man born with iron in his bones. Valentin knew, because he had watched the boy as he grew up. Now a proper man in his forties and in the prime of his career as effective dictator over the whole of the USSR, kept in check only by his good sense and the chains he gave himself. Graying hair paired with violet eyes and a scarred visage, the boy he taught how to play chess locked eyes with him and nodded once. It was rather hard to make out considering the glare of the immense screen behind his head.
To his left, two useless ministers pittered on about some nonsense, a man and a woman. Appointed to their ranks to appease certain individuals of wealth. They did not matter. Valentin shut them out from his mind, but not his memory. He'd review everything they said later, it was unlikely to matter, but he didn't rise to his position by dismissing potential threats.
To his right, the slightly taller form of Shive Romanov readied some form of presentation on a dataslate currently connected to the larger screen with a long cable. Wireless was a risk in this place, only used in sections which it was absolutely required. Romanov, imposing Marshall of the United Socialist Soviet Republics, was a veteran of decades of conflict and warfare of all intensities, starting first as a commissioned officer in a small corporate army and rising through the ranks through a combination of competence and ruthless politicking. White of hair, a face weathered by deep lines and scars, dark green eyes overshadowed by deep-set sockets, and a finely cropped beard.
To the side of the useless ones, the form of Dr. Fedorov waited patiently, eyes closed and hands resting in his lap. The second oldest man currently present, and one of the few that could afford to completely ignore the standard politicking that was normally required of those at these ranks. He was the leading expert on cybernetics in the whole of soviet lands, with masters degrees in both cybernetic engineering and general surgery, teacher of a few hundred fellow experts, and one of the most crucial individuals when it came to ensuring the production of the famed cybernetic warriors and workers of soviet lands.
A thin man, with a balding head and eyes replaced with thick cybernetic replacements, with hands similarly replaced, and a comfortable coat and suit swaddling his aged form. Besides him was the form of an immense giant of steel.
The giant was not seated at the table, for his bulk would eclipse it several times over. Rather he was a distance away, frame in a crouched position and thickly armored head staring over the collective. Twelve feet tall when standing, five-thousand five hundred pounds of metal, myomer, weaponry, and perhaps one of the most fearsome opponents in chess that he had ever had the pleasure of facing. Aaron Armstrong, the mightiest man in the soviet armies.
A single glowing optic twisted from behind a visor, and turned to face them. He nodded at Armstrong as the three of them moved to their reserved chairs adjacent to Romanov.
One of the useless ministers announced their arrival, waking the napping Dr. Fedorov.
It also heralded the arrival of the most powerful entity in the USSR.
Behind Vasiliev, the screen flickered once, then changed to reveal the form of a single line of audio visualization.
"Chairman. All parties have arrived. Shall the meeting begin?" The monotone voice of the machine asked in formality.
An AI that was developed to aid the USSR in managing issues of resource deprivation and pollution, according to the public. An AI that was developed to aid in the management of all aspects of Soviet governance, in truth. The AI that had a listening ear in all things currently connected to the Soviet net, even if this was distributed amongst the various city-nets and separate iterations of the overall whole.
The AI called Geroi effectively just asked the meeting to start. He kept his disapproval carefully hidden.
Vasiliev nodded, and knocked twice on the table. "Gentlemen, and woman." He announced without much care for polite words. The useless minister tried to hide her irritated reaction without much success. "We'll begin at once. First order of business is review. Antonin, do the summary of our current situation."
The other useless minister stood, and began to recite information that all present were already well aware of. That was his job after all. Worthless.