Radio Gorchakov

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Radio Gorchakov
П - С - Н



The latest news from Mars and the Motherland, on behalf of the Directorate. For internal use only.

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A Message from the Administration

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Colonel General Danila Vsevolodovich Zakharov

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The lamp flashes red, and the labourers hurry to drop their tools and stand up straight. Saluting in unison, they know the consequence of disobedience. Only those down in the quarries and shafts are free to ignore the broadcasts, up here the Standard Protocol A1D4Y dictates the code of conduct down to the letter for the prisoners. The supervisors monitoring them stare blankly at their security camera screens. The technicians will spend the next few hours meticulously going through the recordings, to survey who fell behind in the routines, and who excelled.

"Commander Zakharov speaking. It is my duty to report that Work Unit 061A suffered a breakdown in communications with the administration tonight."

The tension can be felt in the air throughout the entire ore processing dome. A revolt in WU061A, one of the oldest penal labour battalions. One of the most loyal, they had thought. So trusted that they had been granted access to several maintenance systems without overseer supervision, a rare honour. No illegal migrants, no politicals, no thieves in law. Just good boys from back home, who had made a mistake or two. Close to rehabilitation. Why'd they mutiny?

"Upon investigation it was found that Work Unit 061A had violated numerous security protocols, which seriously threatened the integrity of our defence systems. The issue has now been terminated, through the timely intervention of Prisoner 10835, who martyred himself by deactivating Dome 061A's airlocks." The cold stare of the Colonel General could be felt by each inmate, looking right into their souls. "I am proud to announce that One-oh-eight-three-five has been posthumously re-awarded his citizenship. His name was Vasiliy Nikolayevich Bolshakov. He was born in Murmansk. He was twenty-eight years old." The gritting of Zakharov's teeth and the clenching of his fist was almost audible, straight through the intercom airwaves.

"Do not forget him. That is an order." A short silence. "The Motherland prevails. Zakharov, out."

The nameless prisoners all knew it, deep down. Returning to their seats after the broadcast's end, their mournful faces hidden behind ore dust respirators, they knew it. Zakharov was no man, not like the rest of them. Not just a stuck-up military сука, not just a paper pusher. They had all known it from the first day of their arrival, when they watched the mandatory pre-recorded introduction video before being dragged off to some workshop. They could feel it. Zakharov was no man, he was a god - or at least he was as far as their lives were concerned. He was Anubis the Jackal, the V. Putin Mine was the underworld, and the penal process itself was the eater of souls. The Colonel General had weighted Bolshakov's heart, and found it lighter than a feather.

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Humanitarian Efforts

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Aid workers arriving in Clearwater City

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A woman sits in a bar. It's... just a bar. The type you'd find anywhere in the arid landscape of central Mars. It's not the sprawling nightclubs of New Europa, it's just a bar. There's at least two dozen and a half different types of vodka lined up on the shelf behind the bartender, a woefully generic man. The labels indicate that about half of them are produced in state-owned factories, the rest no doubt by state-connected alcohol moguls of some sort. The woman is sipping on a glass of something distinctly clear-looking. It most likely involves vodka. Most things does, up here.

"Hey, Vlad, hit me up with another of these whenever I'm done with this one. Put it on my tab." The man scratches his beard, and seems just about to say something gloomy about her tab. He's interrupted by a flash of red, and a sparkling voice pouring out of the loudspeakers. "Heeeeelloooooooo Camp!" Sighing erupts throughout the venue. "Maryusha here, from the Gorchakov News Bureau! I do hope you know my name by now, darlings." Damn right they did.

"The Colonel General has ordered me to make a few announcements for you happy Russian citizens out there, and as you know", she giggled, "you don't say no to Zakharov!" The bartender shrugged, returning the woman's annoyed glance. He couldn't turn it off, just as little as the labourers down below could. "Citizens! As you know, not everyone out there likes our beloved Union State. In fact, statistics show that the majority of responders on Earth do most distinctly not approve of the All-Russian Nation. We can't blame them for that, of course - few of them have ever been to the Motherland to see for themselves, and buy into the media's lies instead."

In space, no one can hear you cringe. "But Mars, Mars is different my darlings! Mars is a new world, with new chances and less baggage. Here, we can prove ourselves to the international community. As of today, smiling in the presence of foreign visitors within the Camp is mandatory, in accordance with Social Edict no. A83. Always be prepared, folks! You might be having a bad day - but it can only get better, if you just keep on smiling!" The bar was dead quiet, as each purveyor of fine spirits scanned the establishment for anyone foreign-looking. Relieved to find none, they returned to their drinks.

"The same principle applies abroad! We, the Martian Directorate, shall be "Russia with a human face"!" Someone else once said something similar, the woman recalled. He was given tanks, not airtime on the local closed-circuit radio network. "Within the coming months, the Directorate will continue our recent charitable endeavours. Notably, many of you good little worker-soldiers out there will soon be visiting beautiful Clearwater City, so shine your boots a little extra the next few weeks boys and girls, gotta look your best, don't disappoint our multicultural comrades!"

"As for the pollution situation in the lake, the insane cultist terrorists out in the desert, and the lap dogs of the American-European military-industrial complex encroaching on the soil our predecessors spilt blood for - don't you worry about that, darlings! Mommy Maryusha and Daddy Danila has it all under control, everything will just be fine." A brief silence ensued, as if the announcer had realized she had no actual content to provide the listeners with, other than short little headlines that they all could read about online anyway. "Now, music for my little darlings! I know what your favorite genre is, don't you worry - the statistical department told me. Time for some classical music. DJ Lysenko, drop that beat!"

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A Message from the Administration (2)

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Colonel General Danila Vsevolodovich Zakharov

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The voice returns. No, not again. Not again. The thoughts run wild through his shattered mind, as the red light flashes red through the spartan, minimalistic cell."Commander Zakharov speaking." The prisoner claws frantically at his ears, his nails long worn down, but the monster in his head just won't go away. "Good news, everyone." Such a cheerful sentence. Such a cold voice.

For two years they had kept him locked in this hole in the wall, one of thousands, all in neat rows. They used to let him out to work the ore, but after he lashed out against a guard once too often they threw him in the cell permanently. An ´"indeterminate sentence", for safety reasons. He used to be someone. He had controlled one of the largest gangs in all of Gorchakov, run the lives of a hundred thieves-in-law and more. But his fiery temper set him back. Now, even that heat had been sucked out of him.

"The Directorate has reviewed its nutritional policy, in light of the recent technological modifications." The dark voice boomed out of a speaker, now protected with a shielding coat of bulletproof glass, high up in the ceiling. He couldn't reach it, and he had nothing but his paper clothes to throw. A likewise freshly installed camera followed his every move, a gleaning red eye in the dark keeping him company, providing the first warmth he had felt in months. The security technicians who installed it a few days ago had been the first people to visit in the same.

The prisoner abandoned his futile attempts to shut the voice out, and his heavily tattooed hands slumped to the cell floor once more. The ink - manufactured from molten rubber mixed with water and sugar - ran all across them, up onto arms, shoulders and beyond, in intricate patterns he had long forgotten the meaning of. A thin circle with a thick, black dot within. Diamonds and crosses. The face of a twisted demon. Beautiful onion domes, the work of an exceptionally skilled fellow inmate. In some places, wide white scars indicated the former location of 'artwork' that the prison authorities had found particularly insulting. With the political messages gone, only the memorials to his deeds remained - often, it was murder, by shiv or fist.

"As of today, all Camp inhabitants who report security incidents and suspicious activities to the Directorate will receive an additional 15% added onto their monosaccharide rations if the information is found to be accurate. If the incident or activity is taking place within the Work Unit of said inhabitants, they will receive an additional 5%." No, no, no. He shuddered, as his captor silenced for a moment before continuing. "Loyalty will be rewarded."

If he in his former life had been the type of person that cried, he would have done so. What wouldn't he have done for that increased ration, at this point? Nothing. He had killed for less, once. But he had no Work Unit. He had no toiling labourers to report. Not anymore. The Colonel General had made sure of that.

"The Motherland prevails. Zakharov, out." The speakers shut down, and left the ragged man alone with his thoughts. And with his new red friend, watching in the dark, of course. It wouldn't be long before they could start having conversations the two of them. Any listener would do by now.