~Mariyinsky Palace, Kiev, Ukraine~August 1960(Collab with
@NecroKnight)
As was usual on Sundays, Anastasiya settled into her throne room to meet with her guests. Over the last few weeks, she had met with all manner of foreign diplomats, dukes, counts, and even a few prominent ordinary citizens. Setting aside the afternoon for this was a good idea, as it had given her an understanding of her realm far more quickly than she would have ever obtained simply listening to her advisors.
“Yeva, who is first on the list today?” she asked her maidservant, who usually accompanied her and carried a variety of relevant information. She emerged from behind one of the Ukrainian flags hanging on both sides of the room.
“You may wish to prepare yourself more than usual, Your Grace. The Chairman of the Arkhangelsk Socialist Union, a man named Amani Ivanovich Yukarev, is here today to discuss some kind of trade deal involving oil. You may essentially consider him the head of state.”
“That’s very interesting,” Anastasiya mused. “Well, I have no special love of socialists or communists, but I suppose if the leader of another country has decided to come here I should at least give him time to speak his case.”
She looked up and nodded at the door guards while speaking loudly, “You may let him in.”
Soon enough, both Anastasiya and her aide Yeva soon witnessed the sight of the namely communist leader of Arkhangelsk. Which in all honesty, might leave her a bit surprised - since instead of someone dressed up and looking like some radical - the ‘Chairman’ in question looked to be an old man, with a cane. Namely he wore a uniform that was more suited to the dean of a school or the local guide for a forest trip.
The man in question, even removed his cap in proper respect to slavic culture of hospitality - as he soon enough, gave a warm smile and meek bow, leaning on his cane. “Queen Anastasiya. Thank you for seeing me,” he spoke, his voice and attitude respectful and cordial. A far cry from the usual stereotype of the socialist revolutionary. “I apologize, if the note came on such a short notice - but news travels either quickly or slowly, from where I am from - and I determined a quick solution might be better achieved now than waiting for later.”
Anastasiya, while quickly disabused of her notions of how old the man would be, quickly lowered her eyebrows and resumed listening. This man was clearly an old radical - perhaps descended from the days of 1917 itself.
“It is my pleasure, Amani Ivanovich Yukarev. There is no need to worry - I have always felt that a leader shows themselves best not by how they deal with what is planned but by what is unexpected. There may exist some underlying tension between our nations in terms of ideology, but to put aside those preconceptions and discuss purely on a rational and personal basis is my aim in all endeavours.”
She rose from her seat, and gestured warmly for him to follow. “I have a meeting room prepared where we may discuss in more detail.”
“Thank you for that - and you have no fear about our ideological differences. I can admit, that I might be considered the radical among socialist circles instead of your own...“ he spoke, as they walked - namely his step did have some vigor behind it and he moved a bit faster than a man of his age.
As the two of them arrived in the meeting room, that was more fancy than what Yukarev had for his own work and sleeping quarters. “...I consider myself the more older type. The ideals that a person’ work should be worth their sweat. I am not the rapid radicals that once plagued the Russian Empire - though, I was one of the young fools, who got captured and sent to Siberia - after the Petrograd Uprising.”
Namely he was being honest with her, he was old - namely one of the first radicals to attempt resistance against the Tsar yet also one of the likely survivors of those events and surprisingly not radicalized. “...if you think my beliefs will hinder these negotiations, don’t be. I am as capable as any man in my position. I am simply the rational man, who supports neither the brutal Tsar nor the aimless Revolution…oh pardon, my ramblings…”
Anastasiya smiled a little at this.
He soon took a seat, and produced some papers that he had kept inside of his jacket - they were written on old paper, but were readable. Namely, papers that detailed about restarting the drilling that had been established during the Imperial era - namely the Yarega Oil Field. As it was, Yukarev explained that they could access it - yet sadly, most of the infrastructure for processing it was either destroyed in the Second Russian Civil War or simply controlled by another power.
“I am curious, if your industry would be able to processing this kind of oil into usable fuel?” he asked, sharing with her the details - namely the amount and type of oil.
“Hmm, it seems likely.” Anastasiya leaned over the table to examine it in greater detail. “Back in Imperial days, they discovered a great deal of oil here in Ukraine and built refineries alongside with drilling sites to handle the process. However, they failed to consider the type of oil reservoirs we have here. They are narrow and difficult to access, meaning there was much lower production than expected. So our refining capacity well exceeds what we actually extract. If we can restore some of those old facilities to operation, we may very well be able to achieve some kind of partnership.”
“The critical detail that I am curious about is transportation. What exactly is your plan to deliver this oil all the way from Arkhangelsk to eastern Ukraine? Automobiles? Rail? A pipeline? And through what countries do you plan to transport it?”
“Well. We had originally imagined on transporting via automobiles,” replied Amani. “Once we get things going and processing again we might be able to utilize railways…”
“I’m sadly not sure, we can buy or manage an air fleet. Unless your country happens to have one,” he spoke, with some humor in his voice. “As for what countries we plan to pass through. The current is the Moscow Tsardom and Smolensk. Since I had heard rumors, you and the Muscovites might make peace between each other.”
“As such, I was hoping we could gain access to their roads in exchange for a tithe of the oil profits,” he explained.
The Hetman nodded. “That’s reasonable enough in my opinion. Optimally rail would be the best method, but it may take a year or two to get operational even if we start now, considering the state of things in Moscow and Smolensk.” She grinned slightly. “I don’t know much about airplanes, but I’m fairly sure the ones we have would burn through more fuel getting from here to there than they could possibly carry.”
“The Muscovites have indeed recognized our independence, and my government plans to reach out to them soon. A profitable trade deal can only warm relations further, in my opinion.” Walking back around the side of the long, ornate table at the center of the room and seating herself at one of the chairs near the head of the table, she turned to look at him more directly. “My final questions are what percentage of the final profit go to you and us respectively, once we take off the portions for Moscow and Smolensk, and where the fuel will go afterwards.”
“Most of our surplus fuel that we do not keep for our own purposes is sold into Eastern Europe, namely Poland and Austria. Do you desire the fuel back or merely the profits?”
“Hmm. I am sure that is up for debate. But how about having seven percent each be awarded to Smolensk and Moscow, since we are namely passing through them and not directly utilizing anything beyond their infrastructure,” he explained.
“As for the rest, how about splitting in fifty percent for you and thirty-six for us?” he said. “Since namely, you will be doing much of the work of processing the oil into fuel. As for returns, we’d be comfortable receiving back the fuel in return. While profits are nice, I think we have much more use in finished goods than money in general.”
“...and this isn’t me being the socialist here,” he humored. “We have more use of grain and fuel, that paper money to be honest. Our only trade route with Finland is used on a monthly basis, depending on the weather. As such, goods are better than money in this case.”
Anastasiya blinked in evident surprise, expecting a harder deal than she got. She was mentally preparing herself to haggle, but already receiving what she was planning as a goal from the start, it no longer seemed necessary.
“Very well then. We will transport back thirty-six percent of the fuel to you, and offer the same option to Moscow and Smolensk with their seven percents, of either receiving the fuel or profits. The remaining fifty percent we will keep or sell. I’ll have my secretary Myron write it up. She pushed open the door and called, “Yeva, have Myron come see me immediately.” The response of “Yes, Your Grace,” echoed softly as she let the door close once again.
She offered her hand to Chairman Yukarev. “It’s refreshing that we could come to such an amicable arrangement. If there are any further details that need to be worked out, I can send an ambassador or you can send yours.”
“Thank you for this opportunity,” replied Yukarev, shaking hands with the Queen of Ukraine.
~Armyansk, Crimea~The old man was very bored indeed. He lit up his seventeenth and probably last cigarette of the day, resting comfortably in a chair just outside his house, moon shining ever-so brightly in the clear sky. A couple of wayward “soldiers” in casual clothes, Mosin-Nagants slung over their backs, walked up the dusty street, maneuvering their way around the potholes.
“Hey, pops. Care to spare a couple cigs for us?”
“I’m not a ‘pops,’ I’m Marat. And why should I? Damn things are getting more expensive every day.”
Hearing that, they both moved in unison to get up in his face.
“You may be an old man, pops, but we ain’t about to take this kind of shit. We spend all day protectin’ ya from the Ukies, we deserve a few cigs for the trouble.”
The old man glared back with hopeless defiance. “Sure, tell me how many Ukrainians you’ve fought in the last year. There aren’t any, are they?”
With that, as expected, one of the soldiers wound up and delivered a swift right hook straight into his face. Marat fell off of his chair, but then he started to pick himself back up and-
An alarm blared from the town center.
One of the soldiers exclaimed, “Shit!” They both started to run off, but the other one briefly turned around to say, “We’ll be back for you later, pops!” Marat had made his way back into his chair to watch them go.
“I hope you get shot, fucking juvies.” He wiped the blood off his mouth just as the sound of gunfire began to clatter through the town.
An aircraft engine’s drone began to be noticeable in the distance, along with the sound of periodic explosions that could only mean one thing.
“Damn. Be careful what you wish for, I guess.” Marat made his way to the old cellar in back of his house, in lieu of a bomb shelter. It was the best he could do. The last thing he saw as he closed the hatch were the rumbling treads of a tank rounding the corner.
-
Marat had been in the dusty, now slighly more ordered cellar for about twenty minutes when a knock came on the door of the cellar after a period of silence. He had been moving things around inside during the battle, heedless of it all, by candlelight.
“Hello? Is anyone in there?” came a voice in Ukrainian-accented Russian. After a moment of hesitation, Marat replied, “Yes, I’m here.”
“You can come out now, it’s all clear.” Marat opened the door, and climbed out to be face-to-face with a new couple of soldiers, a fair bit more sharply dressed than the last. The one who spoke saluted. “Good afternoon, sir. We have to ask that you evacuate.”
“Evacuate? What for? I thought the battle was over?” He replied in Ukrainian, surprising the soldier, who switched back to it as well.
“We apologize, but the Royal Army needs to temporarily appropriate the town as a supply point. We’re transporting you all to a provisional camp in Kalanchak, it should only be a matter of a week or two before we’ll allow you to return to your homes.”
Marat was displeased, but he nodded. These soldiers were a lot more serious than the ones he had encountered earlier.
They directed him to the town square, through a terrain now bearing many more scars than before. He saw a few bombed houses on his way, but he was sure there were many more closer to the former garrisons.
He climbed onto a white military truck which evidently no one had bothered to change the camo on with the help of a young woman already seated, and sat across from a couple of young men. As he looked up, he couldn’t help but notice that he had met the two before. Marat couldn’t help but comment.
“Must not have been protecting the country very well if you’re both still alive, huh?”
They both glared holes into the floor as the people around him burst into chuckles and smirks, despite the circumstances.
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