One-Eyed Parrot (1)

August. After a few days of rest upon my return, I took stock of what I’d gained.

“Soon to be deposited: fifteen million yen.”

Russia hasn’t yet switched from silver to the gold standard, so currency conversion’s a bit tricky, but the yen’s pegged pretty close to gold.

One yen’s worth about 0.75 grams of pure gold.

Factoring in currency trust complicates things, but with the U.S. and others banning gold exports, I’ve got no choice but to calculate it the dumb way.

One U.S. dollar’s roughly 1.7 grams of gold.

So, the income I’ll see over the next four years? About 26.5 million dollars.

Why am I racking my brain over this?

“Well, well, I heard Your Highness secured a hefty consolation payment.”

This guy. The noble’s black sheep, Lev Tolstoy.

A man with a wild imagination, ideas that pop like firecrackers, and a track record just as eccentric.

Everyone warned me to steer clear, but my damn curiosity about historical figures got the better of me, and I let him in.

“My relief organization, founded this year—”

“I know. You started it because of the expected famine. No rain in spring, rivers flooding in summer—starvation’s coming.”

By September, it’s time to harvest wheat, but famine’s looming. Tolstoy, the writer, dropped everything to organize relief efforts around Samara.

“But I thought you despised the government and the Orthodox Church?”

“When people are starving, who cares about that? It’s all about survival, isn’t it?”

Quite the smooth talker. No wonder he’s called a heretic. I can see why he gets excommunicated next year.

Still, he jogged my memory.

The Russian famine. It’ll drag on until next year.

Obvious, really. A bad harvest this year means hunger until the next one.

All I know is the history book line: “Hundreds of thousands starved.” The details? Not so much.

“Well, I pride myself on running a cleaner operation than any relief group. We’re planning to request aid from America and secure loans.”

“Going all in, huh?”

“Is there such a thing as half-hearted relief? It’s what needs doing.”

The biggest relief efforts are done in the Tsar’s name, but those are half-entangled with the government, so let’s set that aside.

He’s pouring in his own fortune, so I don’t doubt his sincerity…

The problem? Even with Japan’s fat payout, feeding millions will melt that money like spring snow.

I’d already figured people would swarm my newfound wealth.

For months, I’d been mulling over uses for it, mostly tied to the Far East…

“Is it really that tough?”

“No, no, it’s gotta be done. But, Count, doesn’t it feel like you’re doing the state’s job?”

“Ha, someone’s gotta do it, right?”

He doesn’t even hide his distrust. No wonder he’ll blame the Tsar and Church for the famine’s fallout.

At over seventy, his clear eyes bore into me like a madman’s. Writing against a wall really isn’t a job for normal people.

As our conversation veered, I kept thinking.

A massive sum, not in the national budget.

The last private fortune I’ll likely ever hold as crown prince.

I can’t just blow it all on relief.

Good thing it’s coming in installments over four years.

“Oh, right! If the compensation arrives over several years, you could issue bonds to pull the funds forward, so no worries!”

Damn it. How much does this guy know? Wasn’t he half-exiled from high society?

But giving up on the Far East is too much.

The Far East is promising—rich resources, vast land, barely taxed.

The downside? We’ve only held it for a short time, so security’s shaky.

Through Vladivostok’s port, we can trade freely with America. Nomads, Koreans, and Chinese immigrants are flocking to that sprawling land.

The Japanese compensation was meant to be seed money for a Russian Wild West.

And it’d prep us for the Russo-Japanese War down the line.

“Your Highness? Are you listening? Relief isn’t something you start after a famine hits. You’ve got to prep now—stock supplies, select regions, maximize efficiency!”

“Yeah, yeah.”

This famine isn’t on the level of, say, a certain country’s “Arduous March.” If it were, the empire wouldn’t have gotten off with just hundreds of thousands dead.

Still, this disaster cracked the façade of my father’s iron-fisted autocracy.

And that’s when the communists start to rise.

Pouring money into Far East military buildup would only fuel communist terrorism, not curb it.

But dumping it all into relief? That’d just delay the empire’s collapse by a few days.

“Count, hear me out.”

A compromise, then.

“What about relocating people by year’s end?”

“…What do you mean?”

“Relief’s fine for hard-hit areas, but what about migration? With a year’s support.”

“Migration where?”

“To the far-off Far East.”

We’re already taking immigrants. Anyone who moves there—regardless of nationality—gets three desyatinas (about 9,000 pyeong) of land, tax-free.

But most migrants are Asians fleeing hardship. Slavic migration is minimal.

If we could move Slavs there…

The Far East would basically be mine.

It took me three months to get from Vladivostok to the capital, didn’t it?

To them, pouring resources into such a distant place must sound like colonizing the moon.

But it’s too early to give up.

“So, let’s prepare for when the Trans-Siberian Railway’s done!”

“I heard Your Highness was pushing for more troops in the Amur Military District—”

“Hey, hold on!”

“Was that wrong?”

“…Word travels fast. What, are you a Duma rep for the people?”

“I’m a peasant rep, not a worker! I’m off!”

“The Far East will overflow with migrant farmers! Hey, don’t run!”

As the officially recognized next emperor, who’d dare oppose my first big idea?

“Why’s the Far East so vulnerable despite the population boom? I thought it over, and it’s the quality. We need your help.”

“You’re saying it could thrive commercially even without the railway?”

“Exactly! Resources, manpower, active trade—does any part of our empire trade with America as much as the Far East?”

“True, trade with Japan and the U.S. has grown there… but, Your Highness.”

“What?”

“This is the Education Ministry. Local education’s the state Duma’s job.”

“…”

Until the railway’s done, the only option is to strengthen the region itself.

“Witte, you’re my only hope! It’s our land—give it the basics! Education, commerce, security, free trade! Allocate the budget now! Planned cities are the future!”

“Argh! The Tsar won’t approve! I keep saying, there’s no budget!”

“It’s practically lawless out there! Make the settlers restless—turn them into a diaspora like the Jews. Support a migrant brigade. Weren’t the Cossack regiments born that way?”

“Six years mandatory service, nine in reserves—who farms then? Armies eat money. No way!”

Now officials clutch their papers and bolt at the sight of me.

Is it just me, or are fewer people crossing my path in the halls?

“…You’re my last shot.”

“Huh?”

“Lomen Nikolai Nikolaevich.”

“Yes, Your Highness.”

“You know Baron Andrey Koff, right?”

“My father’s close with him. I greeted him in Vladivostok too.”

“Your family’s got five active generals, and with your connections, you reach the whole army, right?”

“Well… yes?”

“Perfect. I’ve got a mission for you. Tell the Far East governor to boost the military district’s forces. I’ll fund it with my personal money.”

“Out of nowhere?”

“I’ve thought it over—whatever else, we need more troops there.”

“Your Highness, the governor boosting forces on his own could draw the Interior Ministry’s Okhrana. Stop putting me in danger. I just want a quiet life.”

Damn it, this won’t work, that won’t work. What can a crown prince do in this country?

Isn’t Russia a centralized autocracy? Why can’t I do anything?

Damn it… If I were forty, maybe.

No matter how loud I shout, it’s just “the inexperienced crown prince’s reckless plan.”

And standing out in cabinet meetings? Not a chance.

Among the empire’s sharpest minds, how much could I shine? I just read my assigned railway reports when it’s my turn.

Everyone’s loyal to my father, not me.

Naturally, the grand plans of a twenty-three-year-old crown prince, unable to wield real power, are just pipe dreams.

Still, my summer-to-fall meddling wasn’t entirely fruitless.

One day, half-protesting about the Far East, my father summoned me.

“Son, I hear you’re keen on the Far East.”

“Yes, Father.”