Tracks to Warsaw, Berlin, and Paris
"I hope this train will one day connect all the way to Warsaw, Berlin, and Paris."
"I entirely agree."
Of course, the Korean Empire and the Soviet Union were different beasts. And now that the Empire was pushing democratization, the gap felt even wider. Above all, the Soviets had taken notes from us, but they never tried to ape our particular brand of Korean-ness. Nor did we particularly want them to become more like us. Or, to be more precise, I didn't think it was possible.
The Soviets had always been a mess like no other, then and now. Sure, their postwar economic boom made the chaos look like the bustle of prosperity, but in truth, it probably would've seemed like they were all on the verge of civil war. And even that semblance of order they had scraped together still struck our citizens as downright bizarre.
It boiled down to this: the Korean Empire had used communism as a tool; the Soviet Union treated it as the end goal. Given how we'd started shedding our communist skin lately, anyone in the Empire with a lick of knowledge about the Soviets couldn't help but wonder, "What the hell are those Russians up to?"
Truth be told, most of our citizens didn't even realize they were communists. Our Party was just... the Party. So they saw all our communist quirks as plain old tradition. And now we were trying to shake some of that off. Meanwhile, the Soviets were heading straight toward that "traditional" model.
No wonder we had a hard time understanding each other.
'Why the hell would they do that?''Why the hell would they do that?'
But despite all that, we had plenty of overlap.
"This is called a collective farm."
"Kinda like our agricultural cooperatives, huh?"
This held true even as we democratized.
"This is the constitution, these are its articles, and this is the national health insurance that stems from it. Every year, they collect 5% of income to build a fund for medical expenses."
"How does the Empire handle it? We Soviets don't need that—the state covers everything."
Process and goals aside, our ultimate aim was the same: socializing the proletariat. That's why we clicked more than you'd expect. We both wanted a world for the propertyless masses, built by them. In that sense, alliance was inevitable.
The only real split was this: Soviet Chairman Lenin believed society could be built solely from the proletariat. Our General Secretary? He saw it as not just insufficient, but impossible. Everyone else in society would turn on such a nation. And we'd be waiting for that moment.
Still, the Empire had to join hands with the Soviets. Let them have that frozen hell of Siberia, with its brown bears, polar bears, beavers, and sturgeon splashing around. Fine by us. Even if it meant the Empire got treated like a second-world power. Hell, it was better that way—the Soviets' territory looked bloated enough relative to their strength to make everyone nervous.
That kept both the Soviets and those devilish Anglo-Americans on friendly terms with us: nice and polite, all smiles. The Soviets needed to stay plenty big for that. Otherwise, we'd be the ones straddling their second world—and every time they pulled some revolutionary stunt, the West would dump the blame on us.
For an Empire that wanted cozy ties with the first world if possible, that'd be a nightmare. A real headache. Deep down, I even agreed with those revolutionary impulses. A guy who'd spent his life compromising knew better than most: some things just couldn't be compromised.
I glared at the bespectacled man in front of me.
"You know, you look kinda familiar."
"As you can see, I've taken on a big role this time. Not surprising if you don't recognize me."
"Mind if I ask your name?"
"What does a name matter, comrade?"
"Your Korean's gotten pretty fluent, Comrade Trotsky."
"Hahaha."
A light silence.
Then a long one.
Trotsky couldn't quite wrap his head around it, inwardly. The guy across from him had a dazzling record, sure, but he'd never stepped fully into the spotlight himself. So why the wariness? Did he know I'd been in the Empire? Know what we'd done there? Maybe.
"Going to the Soviet Union really gets the heart racing."
"It'll always be a heart-racer for comrades."
"Visiting Lenin's mausoleum does hit hard, though."
"Yet you never accepted even one of our invitations."
"I was busy in London, all sorts of things."
Back during the height of democratization. Whether Lenin was on his deathbed or not, if I'd bolted to the Soviets out of nowhere, parts of the military would've branded me a spy. London couldn't say much thanks to the Anglo-Korean alliance, but the Soviets were another story.
My consistent pro-Soviet stance had always raised eyebrows in certain military circles. The Empire's outlets weren't just China, after all. And the military mentioning the Soviets gave me headaches. Honestly, I trusted the Soviets more than our own brass.
They weren't under my direct command, for one. "Military" my ass—they were just One Association careerists and adventurers gone mad. Weren't they ditching potential allies to make more enemies, all to shake the Empire down? Believe domestic adventurers trying to puppeteer us vs. believe the Soviets, for whom war with the Empire would be a total bore? No contest—the latter.
The problem? That very reason let those adventurers yap endlessly at the Soviets to boost their clout. The Soviets weren't crazy enough to hit us, so it was risk-free provocation. Caged dogs barking their heads off, the lot of 'em. Deserved to get beaned with rotten soy paste. Not that I'd built those cages for them.
I stared Trotsky down. I knew exactly how dangerous this guy was. Why he was on a train bound for Russia—no, the Soviet Union.
In my eyes, the current Soviets were practically a democracy. Aiming for proletarian dictatorship, sure, but with a multi-party parliament. The executive was proletarian-run, but the Duma-style assembly operated with real autonomy and democracy.
Naturally, my potential mausoleum visit was already gossip fodder there.
So.
'This multi-party Soviet council-state wants to chat with the real-deal Communist Soviets (true) before the train ends.'
About a week left on this ride.
'That's why I was so reluctant to come.'
Visiting a Soviet where Lenin might still breathe was insanely risky. They'd twist anything I said into something favorable, one way or another.
'Damn, even dead, that bald bastard's a handful.'
Who else's orders, name, or dying wish had Trotsky riding with me? I wanted off this communist express right now. You could reason with a living Lenin; a long-dead one? Good luck.
While the Empire's Supreme Leader played mind games with Lenin's hell-sent messenger on the communist express. The world, alas, wasn't swept by democracy's breeze but communism's inferno. Not spring or summer—no, hellfire had come.
All thanks to the Third International's Soviet Union drawing Second International holdouts worldwide into its fold. They all came knocking, begging aid from the rising Soviets.
The Great War had left the Seconds more than scarred. They'd pledged loyalty to states promising proletarian spots, only for those states to slash pensions for wounded vets. Postwar reconstruction boomed briefly, but reality bit hard. That short boom didn't resurrect the dead economy.
Result? Unemployment everywhere, strikes everywhere. An International complicit in such states? It wasn't an International anymore.
Blame the war: it killed the very men to fill jobs, and those jobs died with them. Women filled the gaps left by the dead men. So ex-soldiers and citizens, having lost so many, suddenly faced joblessness.
And when they struck, they got blamed: "You're why we're suffering!" No wonder they were pissed. So they knocked on the new International's door. Imperialism had softened a bit, so why not beg from the other side?
The Soviets obliged.
"Comrade Stalin, please sign here."
"…"
Lenin's Swiss vault-keeper, Stalin, gladly signed the invoice. Before dying, Lenin had tasked him with vault-keeping and communizing Europe.
With a scribble, funds flowed from Swiss vaults into communist hands.
Naturally, this lit fuses in postwar-troubled France, Germany, and Britain. To them, the whole country looked on communism's brink. The brief postwar boom had seemed okay for a war's end, but it was just the signal for long-term depression.
Britain at least cut colonial costs and naval budgets, scraping by. Workers returned to posts.
Defeated Germany borrowed massively from America for its boom.
France? Different story. Paris of Marx's dreams, Commune's breath.
"Hell, might as well skin 'em alive."
The Algerian mess. Pour more into Algeria? Public revolts. Quit? Public revolts again. Damned if you do, damned if you don't.
Small mercy: multinational forces approved for "Algerian peacekeeping." Sure, for Algerians—but it'd neuter extremist militants.
Problem? The name: "Peacekeeping for Algerians." France's own proposal getting that label? Ironic issues.
Enter the Empire's subtle nudge: Let France settle for the coast and littoral, majority-French zones.
Worth considering. Kept a foothold.
One sure thing: Empire backed French garrisons there. If elections or whatever let Frenchmen choose French life, they'd stay French. That was our answer, and France took it.
On a path of strikes and bankruptcies, things worsening—France surprisingly liked it.