Stirring Up a Storm by Force (1)

The Tsar didn’t set a hard deadline for a plan, and political newbies weren’t about to bend their precious ideals.

Still, they weren’t blind to the shift in the air since last year.

Newspapers flooded the streets like never before, and even illiterate workers couldn’t miss what was happening in the Tauride Palace.

Who proposed what, who shot to fame with a bold speech, who fiercely opposed whom.

A day, two days, then eight months.

“Didn’t the Tsar say he’d back any plan we bring? How long are they gonna keep scheming?” a worker grumbled.

“They said we just need over 100 votes! Are less than half these fancy Duma members even sane?” another snapped.

News poured out seven days a week, relentless. The empire’s people, drowned in this flood of info, couldn’t sort truth from noise.

Days of waiting dulled expectations.

“…It’s time to choose,” one member said.

“Dividing friend from foe is pointless now. We need to join hands, even with enemies,” another added.

“Exactly. The mood among the royals and bureaucrats is off lately,” a third noted.

The public’s spirit was sagging, and no one felt it more than Duma members facing elections in two months.

“Tch, annual Duma elections are absurd. Next time, let’s make it every four years. Swept up by the ignorant masses, how can we even speak properly?” a member griped.

“Who knew land reform, just one issue, would waste a year?” another sighed.

“It’s big enough to decide every party’s fate,” a third said.

The silver lining? Rich farmers, practically local powerhouses, were half-excluded from the Duma.

Even the Progressive Party’s bourgeois, who loathe those farmers raking in cash while they struggle, weren’t fans.

“Prince Lvov, have you decided?” a member asked.

“We’ll join the Labor Party. Chairman Milyukov agrees,” Lvov replied.

“The Labor Party… With them, we could win the next Duma vote,” another said.

The Democrats’ 63 seats plus Labor’s 38 make a majority.

Join Labor, and the rich Progressives are done for… but it’s the best move. The Tsar could flip any day in this climate.

No guarantee every member votes in lockstep, though.

“We need independents and centrists, too,” Lvov said.

“Who’s available?” another asked.

“One name comes to mind. The loud one lately,” Lvov said.

“That guy… his background’s a bit…” another hesitated.

“No choice. No one shakes the Duma like him,” Lvov insisted.

A latecomer storming the debates, the eye of the hurricane.

“Veren Volkov.”

“Rumor has it he served with the Tsar in the army…”

“No wonder he thrived in the Far East.”

“He’s no small fry.”

Allying with Labor and pulling in Volkov could make land reform their victory.

With elections looming, noble ideals and principles? Out the window.

Win the next election, then think. A little compromise won’t hurt.

They were full-on politicians now.

Lately, every word from Veren Volkov’s mouth made headlines. How did this nobody from a drought-stricken land become a Duma star in a party-split mess?

It started with those Labor Party bastards.

The loudest, most brain-dead opposition to land reform came from the landless Labor Party.

Born enemies to Veren, a soldier through and through.

“Boo! What’s land reform got to do with us?” a Labor member shouted.

“Take it all! Seize everything! No more collective farm nonsense!” another yelled.

“Reform labor laws instead! Land reform? Not a chance!” a third roared.

They opposed for opposition’s sake. Veren, quickly steeped in Duma’s chaos, couldn’t stand it.

“Idiots! That dumb, no wonder you get fired like you’re chopping your own fingers!” he snapped.

“What’d you say? What do you know? I’ve worked 15-hour factory shifts since I was 11!” a Labor member shot back.

“Oh, you’re stupid, got it. Don’t know Bunke’s 1884 Factory Law? Kids work eight hours max, not your bullshit 15,” Veren retorted.

“That’s on paper! No factory does under eight hours!” the member argued.

“There is one,” Veren said.

There really was. Some old codger, maybe with a grudge, shoved social security and labor laws in Governor Sergei’s face, making it happen.

“…Really?” the Labor member asked, stunned.

“Where I’m from, kids barely work. If they do, it’s training to learn skills. Insurance covers them, so even if they lose a finger, they get a pension. Lower wages, but they’re fine,” Veren said.

“Where’s that?” the member demanded.

“Khabarovsk,” Veren replied.

“Tell us more about Khabarovsk!” they urged.

To Veren, a lifelong soldier, leftists were vermin to squash, but for some reason, their eyes lit up when he spoke.

Then the Progressive Party turned on him.

“Tch, poor because you’re lazy and ignorant. You know nothing about industry or economics, yet dare talk labor law reform?” a Progressive sneered.

“Know how many workers I manage? Next year, I’m opening a warehouse as big as this palace by the port,” Veren shot back.

“…You’re an industrialist?” the Progressive stammered.

It was fine till then. Veren was an outsider, not in their party.

But when the Duma started fighting over Veren’s words, things changed.

“See? In the Far East, companies mandatorily provide insurance!” a Labor member crowed.

“Well, it’s split half-and-half with workers…” a Progressive countered.

“Focus, people! We’re here for the Tsar’s land reform! No side topics! But, Veren Volkov, is it true your region gives land free, by the desyatina?” a member asked.

“Usually three desyatinas, more if you clear it well and pay taxes,” Veren said.

“Hot damn! One desyatina’s too little! We need at least three—no, more for honest taxpayers!” a member shouted.

“Madmen! We can’t even manage one desyatina!” another yelled.

When one side said it was impossible, the other cited Veren’s example.

It could’ve ended as “Far East uniqueness.”

The real issue? Veren dove into the chaos himself.

Common sense: if I return in a year with nothing, will Sergei give me that port land? That stingy bastard, even swimming in cash, budgets like a miser.

Results. Veren needed to show work—PR, influence, anything.

Nothing beat getting in the papers as proof of effort.

That’s when it started. Veren, the independent, went wild, stirring the Duma.

“You older members remember the ‘80s—salt and poll taxes scrapped. Progressive stuff. But when revenue dropped, stamp taxes hit stocks, bonds, and property. Today, I boldly propose reforming stamp taxes!” he declared.

“Stamp tax reform? What’s that got to do with state land distribution?” a member asked.

“Everything! Stamp taxes on land purchases! Raise them and add a holding tax every ten years!” Veren said.

“Agreed!” a Labor member shouted.

“Labor Party, stand and applaud!” another urged.

Labor, once brawling, now rose to cheer Veren’s speeches.

“But isn’t that oppressive? Taxing just for holding land, no production?” a Progressive countered.

“Then scrap capital gains tax to avoid double taxation!” Veren shot back.

“Dear Progressive comrades, Veren’s more progressive than us!” a member exclaimed.

“Why should the state take my hard-earned money when I pass it to my kids? Keep going, Veren!” another cheered.

Even Progressives, feeling kinship as industrialists, praised him for “buying” votes with tax talk.

“And this’ll spark land transactions across the empire, barely happening now. Isn’t that the free market, pure capitalism?” Veren said.

“My God, he’s thinking land price stabilization?” a member gasped.

“A market free of government meddling! Veren’s a true liberal!” another declared.

Veren didn’t know or care if his ideas would happen.

The Far East and here are worlds apart… but who cares?

He’d leave next year. Before that, he’d burn the Far East into their minds—hell, make the empire dream of it.

By now, Veren was almost enjoying it.

The superiority when brawling factions cheered his words.

The thrill when millions’ representatives looked at him with near-fanatical devotion.

That spine-tingling rush drove him to stir the Duma more.

His influence was crossing party lines.

“Stop with the nonsense and state your allegiance! Who do you back?” a young member demanded.

“Which party? Ever served in the army? I did 15 years active duty, proving my loyalty,” Veren shot back.

“Don’t dodge!” the member yelled.

“Draft dodger!” another shouted.

“You skipped service?” a third accused.

“I served! I served, damn it!” the young member protested.

“Reporters, what’re you doing? Get that guy’s name!” Veren barked.

Pointing at a cocky young member, watching them get torn apart—it was euphoric.

The weight of his words, unlike anything in the army’s hierarchy, felt like a drug.

Today, he stood, closing his eyes. The crowd’s fervor was already palpable.

Before speaking, the hall brimmed with goodwill and expectation.

“Esteemed members, and all who heed my words, I solemnly declare today,” Veren began.

The near-silent hush, unlike his first chaotic Duma day, was stark.

“It’s time to present a land reform plan to the Tsar. We can’t delay for those suffering. I propose a solution: a national land reclamation project,” he said.

Even Veren, with some business experience, had no clue how massive or feasible this was.

It just sounded good, something no one would hate.

“Veren, is this already done in the Far East?” a member asked.

“There, reclamation’s pointless—they’re past that. Farmers don’t even pay taxes,” Veren replied.

“Farmers don’t pay taxes?” another gasped.

“Not the point. The Peasant Land Bank’s purpose? To help farmers with poor credit buy land. It’s about expanding their holdings!” Veren said.

“Right!” a member shouted.

“Well done!” another cheered.

“A national reform through the Peasant Land Bank? If the market grows, no one fights!” Veren continued.

“…Makes sense,” a skeptic muttered.

“Plausible,” another admitted.

Doubters lingered, but Veren’s fans roared without question.

Tomorrow’s headline? Can’t wait.

Basking in applause, Veren reveled in the thrill.

The plan’s details? Let the brainy state-led-free-market-whatever bureaucrats figure that out. He didn’t care.

If it passed? In a Duma split fifty-fifty, fat chance.

If it didn’t? No loss. Today’s idea came from last night’s drunken epiphany. If it flops, he’d get pity for being “unfairly shot down.”

Veren felt that strange fire in him but hadn’t fully succumbed.

This is enough.

No matter how addictive this rush, it couldn’t beat Sergei’s port lease.

Surely, Sergei would greenlight it now.

But Veren didn’t know the karma he’d racked up.

“…What?” Veren asked.

“We want you in the Democratic Party. We’ll give you seats,” a Democrat said.

Lately, not just day but night, people sought him.

“How many seats? Four? Five? You’re a born capitalist. We’ll invest in your business!” a Progressive offered.

“Invest?” Veren echoed.

“Workers nationwide resonate with you. Make our land like your Far East!” a Labor member pleaded.

“It’s not that great there…” Veren mumbled.

All he wanted was Sergei’s port lease.

But that spark in his heart kept growing.

Veren, shaking the Duma, was starting to waver himself.