Chapter Thirty-Nine (Patreon)

No sooner had Alexander arrived in Irkutsk than he was compelled to leave again. With his son Pyotr healthy and old enough to travel his father had sent a message by telegraph, demanding to meet Russia’s latest Grand Duke. Alexander, having no choice but to agree, summoned his council to see what work could be done in Saint Petersburg. The council (save for Agvan) was unanimous in their recommendation: they needed more people—specifically technicians, mechanics, factory workers, shipbuilders, sailors, and most of all Russians.

“It is a matter of scaling,” Anosov explained. “We have plenty of workers, but few who can teach them to work. Nor can we afford for all of those who can teach our workers to only teach our workers, as the factories will then shut down.”

“And this was not an issue before?”

“We had enough experts to teach a population of three million, most of whom were miners and farmers,” Arsenyev said. “We now have a population of nearly thirty million and expand into increasingly complex industries. Fortunately there are a number of experts in the western parts of the Empire, men and women who work in failing businesses and would be grateful for a change in their circumstances.”

“Serfs.”

“Indeed,” von Stieglitz agreed. “I have assembled a list of men who may be willing to sell their serfs for sufficient incentive.”

“And this will not cause issues with our finances?”

“Not if we use some of the gold and silver that has been set aside.”

Alexander narrowed his eyes. “That is a reserve for emergencies.”

“This is not an emergency,” von Stieglitz agreed, “but it will help us be prepared for them. Begging your pardon your Imperial Majesty, but if war breaks out is it more useful to have gold to buy supplies or factories to make them?”

*

On September 8th 1842 the Imperial Siberian Express departed the Irkutsk train station. Alexander watched from the caboose’s railings as they departed, Alexandrine a picture of elegance beside him. The people of Irkutsk turned out in the tens of thousands to watch them go. Some waved gold and black banners, others held a recent innovation: large portraits of the Imperial Family, most commonly Alexander’s own face. It was the result of the latest victory by Alexander’s American agents, who purchased the patent for a rotary printer from its inventor, Josiah Warren, as the man needed additional funds for his utopian anarchist commune. Funds Stalin was more than willing to supply.

Anarchism was a dangerous force, even to a strong state. And while it struggled to appeal in Russia–a land and culture where the group made decisions for the whole, rather than each as an individual–the opposite was true in the American States. It was not dangerous because it posed a collective revolutionary threat, but because of its inherent factionalism. The ability for each individual to make their decisions, rather than the necessity of doing so as a group, saw an ever-increasing number of ever-smaller factions. But that did not mean they were incapable of doing harm. After all, it took only one man to throw a bomb.

Alexander walked back into the train car as Irkutsk faded into the background, his wife still on his arm.

The inside of the train car was ornate, far more than the one Alexander had taken to Busan. The seats, though still bolted to the train, had plush cushions. The chairs themselves were made of finely carved hardwoods with occasionally gilding. The wooden walls were painted ultramarine blue, a product of Siberia’s new lapis mines.

Maria and Maximilian were waiting for them in the car, sharing a small plate of sugar-dusted cookies.

“The children are asleep,” Maria said. “I think the Alexandras tired themselves out at the park.”

“Good,” Alexandrine smiled as she sat. “We won’t need to stop for a while then.”

Alexander frowned. “Why would we stop?”

Alexandrine looked at him like he was an idiot. Alexander didn’t like that. “So they can run around.”

Alexander looked to the train car, twenty feet long. “Are the cars not long enough?”

“They would try running between them.”

“And?”

“And it is dangerous!”

“There are iron plates and railings,” Alexander replied. “It is safe.”

“They’re two, they can slip through the railings.”

“Then we keep the doors locked.”

“And if we need to get out?”

“We unlock them. They can’t reach the doorknobs yet, can they?”

“Alex,” Maria interjected, “why don’t you want to stop.”

Alexander grit his teeth. “It takes too long.”

“It is going to take us a month to reach Saint Petersburg anyways–”

“Twenty-four days,” Alexander corrected. Though longer, the trip to Saint Petersburg was far less mountainous than the one to Busan.

Maria rolled her eyes. Alexander grit his teeth harder. “My point,” Maria continued, “is that we can afford a little delay.”

“We could even spend a few days in Moscow,” Alexandrine suggested. Alexander knew it was just to win him over, but it worked. Saint Petersburg might be the capital and currently the largest city, but Moscow was the beating heart of Imperial Russia, the gateway to the East, West, North, and South. He wanted his children to see the Kremlin and visit Saint Basil’s. Alexander also needed to speak to the current Metropolitan, and see if he couldn’t put some pressure on him (and the Holy Synod) to recognize the syncretism arising in Siberia as legitimate.

“Fine,” Alexander agreed. “We can stop the train when it becomes necessary. But we will be stopping at towns before it becomes dark.”

Alexandrine smiled at him, and any feeling that he might have lost was quickly washed away.

*

Alexander felt like slamming his head into his desk. It was not the shaking of the train that brought him to such a state, nor the endless supply of paperwork and proposals as he sorted through the documents taken with him from Irkutsk.

“AAAAAAA!!!”

“AAAAAAA!!!”

The two Alexandras, barely a few months over two years old, came running at each other, cushions in hand. They collided, landing in a sprawl across the thick carpets.

“That was amazing!” Alexander’s daughter said.

“Let’s do it again!” Maria’s daughter said.

Alexander gathered up his papers. Alexandrine could deal—

“Daddy!”

Alexander stopped. He looked down, where his daughter stood. She looked up with pleading blue eyes, the same shade as Svetlana’s.

“Can you watch us?”

“I—“ Alexander put down his papers. “Of course,” Alexander agreed. “What do you want me to do?”

“Count us off,” Alexandra said.

“Alright,” Alexander said. The two Alexandras settled into place, pillows at the ready. “One.” They leaned forward. “Two. Three!”

The Alexandras kicked off, sprinting across the train car as quickly as their tiny legs could manage. They crashed into each other, pillows colliding in an explosion of dust. Maria’s daughter proved ever so slightly strong and the two toddlers toppled over, landing once more on the thick carpets. There was a moment’s pause, then they broke out in giggles once more.

“Again, again!” they cheered. Helpless before his daughter’s demands, Alexander officiated another joust.