Ambitious Men of the New Era
“Representative Lenin! Stop inciting the tax strike immediately! You entered this parliament through a democratic vote, so recognize the Republic already!”
France had shown endless tolerance to the Stahlists remaining in the south. One had to look no further than the fact that Vladimir Lenin, a foreigner, had managed to force his way into French citizenship and now sat in the Chamber of Deputies.
Surely, it was time for him to compromise.
But Lenin, whose very soul was forged from revolutionary passion, shook his head firmly.
“First, let me clarify something. You seem to believe that I am the one inciting this tax strike, preventing Montpellier and Marseille from sending their taxes. But that is not the case. This is purely the will of the people!”
“You are the representative for Montpellier!”
“A deputy is merely a representative of the people! If the people's will is such, what am I to do?”
“Then what on earth do you want?”
“Just as in America, citizens have the right to bear arms and form militias. Codify this into law, and join the Bancor system! That is all!”
“You traitorous bastard, I'll kill you!”
The conservative deputy hurled his hot coffee at Lenin. But Lenin was a man who had spent years as a field officer. With a swift, agile tilt of his head, he easily dodged the flying mug.
And so, the circus began.
“I can't work with this cabinet anymore! Either dissolve parliament or throw that bastard in jail!”
“Fine, let's dissolve parliament!”
“Good! Let's take off our badges and settle this once and for all!”
Thud! Crack! Crash!
The moment the no-confidence motion and the dissolution of parliament were declared, the chamber devolved into absolute chaos. French deputies were nothing special anyway. They were either overt former rebels like Lenin, or political thugs.
With parliament in such a state, there was no way the outside world could remain sane. Montpellier and Marseille refused to send a single franc in taxes. The value of the currency soared out of reach, forcing citizens to resort to bartering. Even as the economy collapsed, the prime minister changed four times in a single year.
The people of the révolution, the French, possessed far less patience than the Germans. Realizing they could expect nothing more from parliament, the citizens of France grabbed their clubs and took to the streets.
Georges Clemenceau clenched his fists, staring at Lenin.
I was... deceived. I was deceived! To think I allied with a red bastard like that...!
Georges Clemenceau had loved the Republic his entire life. Watching it crumble, he had willingly lent his strength to the Stahlists. Yet, he did not regret trusting Freud. After the war, Freud had returned to his professorship and was lecturing once more. But that bastard Lenin... was openly denying the Republic!
Is this the true Republic? Is this the reality of the Republic I so desperately yearned for?!
Georges Clemenceau found himself deeply missing Robespierre. As a Frenchman, Clemenceau naturally harbored a lingering admiration for Napoleon. Of course, being a republican to his bones, Georges had made a habit of badmouthing Napoleon whenever he had the chance... but now, he felt he could finally understand how Napoleon must have felt.
Meanwhile, in a certain French wine bar, a lanky former young officer and a white-haired veteran spoke in hushed tones.
“Look at France today. What... what did we even fight for?”
“...”
“Even if our defeat was inevitable... this is too much! We must wipe out those reds in the south immediately!”
“De Gaulle. Mind your tongue.”
Pétain calmed the hot-blooded De Gaulle, but... he, too, was filled with bitter resentment for France.
“The great Republic is the homeland of Napoleon. One day... Napoleon will return.”
“Yes, General. By the way, what is General Dubail up to these days?”
“He does nothing but drink every day. He is completely ruined...”
De Gaulle and Pétain swallowed their bitter wine, their hearts heavy with indignation. Just then, a low, grim voice drifted from behind them.
A political thug?!
The two former officers quickly turned, hands resting on the pistols at their waists. But... standing there in a fedora was a man they had never expected to see. It was Georges Clemenceau, carrying himself with the imposing presence of a tiger.
“...”
“...In that sense, I have come to see the Duce in the hope that Rome will join the Prague Treaty Organization.”
“...”
“I ask this of you. Through the Bancor system, Rome will stand tall as a ‘tourism superpower’.”
The Duce, Mussolini, kept his mouth shut and nodded. He bit his lip so hard it nearly bled.
Ask... he's asking?
Mussolini could not forget the days when he enjoyed immense glory as a member of the National Revolutionary Party. This was no request; it was an ultimatum. If he refused, wouldn't he be replaced by someone else in an instant?
The term 'tourism superpower' grated on his nerves. Rome, as its name implied, was the heir to the Roman Empire. Its official name was even the Roman Republic!
And yet... what? While Germany grew day by day as the factory of the world... Rome was to be a 'tourism superpower'?
Mussolini's inferiority complex flared uncontrollably.
And yet, as time passed after the establishment of the Bancor system... the lives of the Romans undeniably improved. Borders opened, and with railways, roads, and ports... ‘all roads led to Rome’.
Millions of tourists flooded in. Naturally, Rome's wealth grew at a staggering pace, far exceeding that of a mere city-state. But Mussolini's personal situation did not improve in the slightest.
“You traitor who sold out our country!”
“What on earth do you even do in that office?!”
“Resign, Duce! Resign!”
The citizens of Rome still remembered the glory of Rome, and indeed, the glory of Italy. However, because they were well-fed, their resentment did not boil over into extreme violence. Instead, they chose a healthier way to commemorate Italy's glory: hurling abuse at the Duce.
Stones flew into the Duce's office daily. How could such a man call himself the leader of a nation?
For now, Shtal was successfully keeping Rome under control. If Shtal had any fault, it was his failure to accommodate Mussolini's sensitive, delicate ego.
Of course, had Shtal heard this, he would have retorted: “What kind of bullshit is that? Is he on drugs? If he felt that way, he shouldn't have joined that national revolution nonsense. Tell him to be grateful he's even breathing.”
But Mussolini, having escaped with his life, had completely forgotten such minor details.
“Why... why did it turn out like this?”
Regardless, thanks to the Bancor system, the Roman Republic's economy expanded day by day. But what did that matter to Mussolini?
“Shtal, Shtal...! How dare you humiliate me like this?”
The mere fact that his life was held in the palm of a man like Shtal was a source of immense humiliation for Mussolini. The more Rome's economy grew, the deeper his inferiority complex festered.
“I will have my revenge... I swear it...!”
Compared to France, where riots and street battles raged daily, Russia was in a better state. At least there was order. Yet, the French workers at least had the energy left to fight with guns and blades.
“Cough, cough...”
“Ugh, ugh... it hurts so much...”
Inside a poorly ventilated factory, workers were packed together like sardines. They worked fourteen hours a day, living a hellish existence with no rest.
“Doesn't Russian labor law state that workplace accidents must be compensated?!”
“Ha, what did you say?”
“I lost my finger working myself to the bone for this company! At the very least, shouldn't you provide enough food for a week?!”
“Haha. A peasant dares speak of such things. Drag him out immediately.”
“S-spare me! Please!”
The political system had changed. The absolute monarchy of the Russian Empire had transformed into a constitutional monarchy. The economy had also been revitalized. Through a long civil war, Russia, which had remained a feudal serfdom well into the twentieth century, had transitioned into an industrial nation.
But in reality, nothing had changed. No, it had grown worse. For the nobles who used to rule over serfs now treated the workers in the exact same manner.
The aristocrats drank vodka and danced in banquet halls beneath glittering chandeliers. In place of the Tsar, Orthodox priests, bribed by parliament, urged the workers to accept their miserable fates.
“Join the Bancor system?”
“No, that is not the point! With the country in this state, would Vice Chairman Shtal even accept us?!”
“This state? What is wrong with our country?”
“At this rate, another Bloody Sunday will happen!”
“General Brusilov. Nicky, who caused Bloody Sunday, is no longer with us, so you may rest easy.”
This... this was parliament?
It had the trappings of a parliament, with both ruling and opposition parties. But Russia could not be called a democracy, even by the most generous standards. Of course, the ruling and opposition parties fought fiercely... but whenever their core, lucrative interests overlapped, they always formed an alliance.
Even France is better than this!
French deputies, as representatives of the people, fiercely attacked their opponents to champion their constituents' wishes. They adhered to the core principles of representative democracy—the only difference being that their attacks were physical.
But the Russian deputies, the moment the session ended, gathered together—ruling and opposition alike—to laugh and party.
In the end... General Brusilov had no choice but to make a decision.
“Bukharin... are you ready? Truly?”
The young revolutionary, Nikolai Bukharin, gripped the handle of the pistol at his hip, his face set with resolve. General Brusilov looked at him with a worried gaze. Leon Trotsky replied coldly to Brusilov's concern.
“General Brusilov. The chaos in Russia is spreading uncontrollably. The war is not over. Rather, the end of the war... is merely the beginning of a new war for Russia.”
Bukharin clenched his teeth, answering in agreement with Trotsky.
“Yes. A brighter, more hopeful future awaits us.”
Trotsky smirked.
“Indeed. To calm the chaos, we have no choice but to tear out its root cause.”
Finally, Brusilov nodded.
“...Move the army. Russia will no longer be a country of monarchs and nobles. Nor will it belong to the capitalists. Give Russia to the people!”
Trotsky and Bukharin clenched their fists, speaking with fierce determination.
In Congress, preparations were underway for the enactment of the Eighteenth Amendment to the United States Constitution.
...the manufacture, sale, or transportation of intoxicating liquors within, the importation thereof into, or the exportation thereof from the United States and all territory subject to the jurisdiction thereof for beverage purposes is hereby prohibited.
Of course, regardless of the law, America's nights glowed brilliantly with neon signs. Lively jazz echoed through every street. Hundreds of Ford automobiles cruised the roads. Even with the war over, the economic boom showed no signs of stopping.
A closed economic bloc known as the Bancor system had emerged right in the heart of Europe, but... something like that could not halt American exports. In fact, it was quite the opposite! Economic growth, in one way or another, always brought about an increase in trade.
“The Treaty Organization's automobile imports are growing every year!”
“Shouldn't we... cooperate with those Bancor nations as well?”
“Of course! They are our biggest customers!”
The stock market soared day after day. Heavy industries like automobiles, steel, and petrochemicals drove stock prices upward, flooding America with wealth.
“Isn't there any product with higher profitability than this?”
“Why, radio and television stocks, of course! Honestly, I was wondering when you'd jump in.”
“Isn't that a bit risky?”
“Just as Ford did with cars, every household will eventually have a television. What is there to worry about?”
The dot-com bubble? That was nothing. The financial authorities and investors of that future era at least had the experience of past crashes, knowing how to brace for the impact. But the twentieth-century Americans bought up tech stocks like wild chimpanzees, throwing caution to the wind.
In the very heart of this roaring prosperity, in the year 1919—the year the first Roosevelt died.
Now, the second Roosevelt was gazing across the ocean.