"You, O king, are the most powerful king on earth. The God of heaven has given you the works: rule, power, strength, and glory. He has put you in charge of men and women, wild animals and birds, all over the world—you're the head ruler, you are the head of gold."
Book of the Prophet Daniel, Chapter 2, Verse 37
***
This is such an incredible opportunity! Why is it that in fanfics and novels, people who get to another world are always whining and losing it? Although, I guess i can understand them. Usually, they are reborn as children or as poor people, or, even worse, as poor children. But here? I hit the jackpot—a whole president. When else would I get a chance like this? The main thing now is not to panic and to take action. First…
— "Vladislav Nikolaevich!" — someone called out sharply from the side, immediately pulling me out of the realm of dreams. — "Vladislav Nikolaevich, are you okay? Should I call a doctor?" — A young guy, seemingly my assistant, looked at me with slight concern.
— "No, um… Arkady? Yeah, Arkady. I'm fine, don't worry," - I said, smiling a little nervously.
— "Then may I continue the report?" — he asked.
— "Yes, of course, Arkady Stepanovich, go ahead. Sorry for the pause," — I replied, trying to sit in the chair naturally and comfortably.
My assistant looked at me strangely, but nodded and continued the report.
— "Well, basically, I'm almost done. If we sum it all up, our situation isn't very good. The economy is in an extremely dire state, the national debt is around one hundred billion dollars (the numbers aren't exact due to the constant taking on of new loans, so it periodically grows), inflation has reached roughly two and a half thousand percent. In the nationwide market, there's a shortage of several essential goods, and in some regions, there are rolling power outages. Many socially important facilities are operating on autonomous power supply, and that's the best-case scenario. The country is under threat of a new famine. That's regarding the economy," — he said, adjusting his glasses and turning the page — "Regarding the priority and no less important areas - the report of the Ministry of Internal Affairs. Criminal activity across the country has increased by thirty percent, and in certain regions, such as Moscow, Saint Petersburg, and the North Caucasus District, this figure reaches fifty percent. Organized crime is actively forming and has already taken hold, including large-scale ethnic crime. According to reports from the central apparatus of the MIA, in the largest cities of the Federation there is a merging of government structures with organized criminal elements. Dangerous separatist tendencies are also being recorded. Our agents have detected activity from fundamentalist underground groups and cells of several intelligence agencies of neighboring countries in the Chechen and Dagestan republics, as well as in several republics of the Volga Federal District. The situation is currently under control, but it could get out of control at any moment. That's probably all, as you requested, Vladislav Nikolaevich. The most pressing and acute issues, as they say, "of the day,"" — Arkady concluded the report.
— "Thank you, Arkady. You may go. And call my secretary," — I said, rising from the chair and heading toward the bathroom door.
The fairly spacious room was a legacy of the Soviet era, a kind of landmark. Almost all the rulers of the Soviet state had used it, from Stalin to Gorbachev.
My assistant nodded and left for the reception area, closing the door behind him. I exhaled in relief and stepped into the bathroom.
Closing the door, I turned and fixed my gaze on the sink. Approaching it, I turned on the water and, once again, looked into the mirror at my own face, trying to get used to it.
What can I say? The face is utterly unremarkable. If you met me on the street, you wouldn't even notice: dull gray eyes, short, light brown hair. Though the nose is fairly handsome and straight, that's probably where the merits of my new appearance end.
Above-average height - about one meter eighty centimeters. A fairly athletic build, which is not surprising considering my age of thirty-eight - and my previous line of work. And my profession had been far from ordinary: a secret service agent with the rank of major in a country called the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics, which hasn't existed for a year now.
Alright, I need to sort everything out in my head. Today is February 5th, 1992. I am on the territory of the USSR, or rather, what remains of it - the Russian Federation, specifically in the city of Moscow, in the Kremlin, in the Senate Palace, office number forty-seven. My name is Vladislav Nikolaevich Zheleznyakov-Kotlinskiy. I am single and have no bad habits. That seems to be everything. I'll repeat it another dozen times - that way I'll remember for sure.
Inhale—exhale. Everything will be fine. No one will suspect a thing. Besides, the recipient's memory transferred to me almost in full - an undeniable keramitic plus. What else counts as a plus? Well, I'm relatively young, and I'm also a former member of the psi-corps of the most secret service in the entire Earth Federation in my past life. I worked in the part of the corps that handled interrogations. I processed not entirely lost traitors so that they could return to service. In simpler terms, I was a staff psychic, recruiting people back to the Federation's side.
And, most importantly, right now my "body" holds the position of acting President of Russia.
And here's how it happened: the previous president was impeached. The loser didn't want to step down, rallied a few high-ranking military officers, and planned to dissolve the parliament using tanks and a pinch of explosives. That's when the Russian intelligence services intervened. The idiot was blown up right at his dacha with a precision missile, and then his accomplices were wiped out - literally. However, many of his supporters remained in the country, and most of them, of course, simply lay low, waiting for their moment.
Anyway, I got distracted. When all the chaos settled, the security forces and the newly minted Russian elites needed a new president - a compromise figure who would suit everyone. The choice fell on me. Honestly, the candidate was really perfect in that sense: my personality, in every way unremarkable until today, made for an ideal puppet for the gray cardinals of modern Russian politics.
Although now I would say they miscalculated a bit, which, in general, isn't really their fault. After all, they couldn't have predicted the emergence of another personality inside the head of their dearly beloved puppet. And that, mind you, is an entirely different variable.
Meanwhile, while I was thinking all this through, my body on autopilot carried out all the necessary routines. I glanced at the clock and realized it was time to leave the bathroom - the secretary would be arriving soon.
I stepped out and sat down in my chair. A few minutes later, there was a knock at the door.
— "Come in," — I said, smoothing down the stray strands of my hair.
A woman entered the office. She was well over sixty — Maria Ivanovna. Despite her age, from my recipient's memory, I knew she was an exceptionally organized and attentive executive secretary. Unlike modern clumsy women, good only for bedchamber amusements, this elderly lady still remembered what secretaries were really for. It was almost a pity that this year, it seemed, she was planning to retire.
— "Maria Ivanovna, what time is the meeting with the leading entrepreneurs and the young "businessmen"?" — I asked, rummaging through the desk, trying to find the necessary papers for the meeting with the movers and shakers.
This was done more for formality than for any real use. After all, for a conversation with these sharks of wild capitalism in their most savage form, I would need arguments of a different, unusual kind, not these little notes on cheap paper.
— "In fifteen minutes, Vladislav Nikolaevich," — the secretary replied, glancing at her notebook and making pencil notes that only she could understand.
— "Excellent, let's move out," — I said, nodding, and headed toward the large conference hall.
As Maria Ivanovna and I walked through the palace corridors, I once again sank into my thoughts.
So, young entrepreneurs and leading businessmen. I would say - the "best" people of the city: the richest, the most influential.
The irony is that they're just a gang of oligarchs, and some of them are outright criminals. These scum are rapidly devouring the country, its resources, its people. If nothing is done, people won't even have time to blink before, in ten years - or even less - all that will remain of the state are a few petty princes and a kind of feudal free-for-all.
One might think, what does it matter to me? After all, this isn't my country, nor my people. But, banal as it may sound, it's the memory. The memory of my recipient doesn't let me just walk away, hide, and live for my own pleasure. And no matter how much I want to deny the obvious, I am no longer who I used to be.
Moreover, even if I run away, what awaits me? The fate of a president in exile? A political hostage? And if I get deported back, and enemies of this body take power in the country, I'll either be imprisoned or simply killed.
No, I won't agree to that. After all, I'm an officer of the Federation, and if I have the opportunity - and, most importantly, the desire - my duty is to help humanity reach the stars once again.
Lost in all these thoughts, I didn't even notice when we reached the large conference hall. The door opened, and I saw a crowd of the current "masters of life" - scoundrels and nouveaux riches, whom the people of this once-great, but now dying, country so deeply hate and despise.
— "Maria Ivanovna, thank you, you're dismissed," — I said as the secretary left and closed the door behind her.
I made my way to my seat as the announcer declared my presence. Approaching the chair, I felt the gaze of dozens of greedy and malicious eyes on me. I wondered what they were thinking. That each of them was specifically smarter, richer, craftier? Or maybe just better? Though, what difference does it make? Soon all this scum would think only at my command - and that's not a figure of speech. Everything must be precise and fast, in the tempo of a waltz.
***
Fuck, I need some sleep. Why did I even bother coming? So what, a first meeting with the freshly minted little president. Why did I even show up? Doesn't matter anyway - the country is ours, and this little guy in a suit is an empty shell, he doesn't decide anything.
That's it, done and dusted. The old Soviet factories are already ours, or soon will be. The mines, sawmills, steamships, roads - everything will fall under our control.
Just for appearances - listen, nod, like: "Yes, we understand, hard times," throw a couple of hundred grand "for the needs of the motherland," and leave. What time is it anyway? I glanced at my golden watch. Where is that clown hanging around anyway?
I'm a busy man, a businessman as of late, after all. Although, yes, I messed up a little, I admit it. Mostly it's Moscow guys here, a couple from Saint Petersburg showed up, and a few others. They hyped it up as a meeting with all the big shots, but in reality, half of them didn't even show - couldn't be bothered. Well, screw them. At least I'll get to see what kind of fruit this one is.
Back in January, when all the impeachment chaos was happening, I was in Tajikistan, dealing with some issues regarding the transportation of the "grim one" to our blessed domain. Shuttling back and forth. That's how I missed the moment when they sat him on the throne.
Ah, here we go, the door opened. Well, someone's coming in. Probably him. Yeah, him. The announcer is rattling off something. Let's take a closer look.
Hmm… this prez looks pretty meh, though he's big. The face is nothing, gray, forgettable. Well, whatever - it's not a woman.
But that's strange. Where's the security? No goons. Not even the clowns from the presidential regiment showed up. The situation feels unusual. But whatever, I wasn't expecting any tricks.
First of all, they should be scared. In this damn country, we're in charge, not them.
Second… for the spies and soldiers backing this puppet, it's completely unprofitable to poke the hornet's nest. No one wants a hassle, let alone a civil war.
Third…
Third... Hey, what the… What's happening? My head… goddamn it… WHAT THE HELL?!
Shit… it hurts… Mooooom… Ugh… My he-e-ad… it's… cracking…
***
The entire huge hall looked like a ward for incurably mentally ill patients who'd been pumped full of heavy tranquilizers. Some were knocked out in their chairs, others sprawled on the floor with wet stains in all the usual places. Quite a sight. But the main thing - I'd achieved my goal: they're all mine now.
Soon they'll come to senses, and as if nothing happened, disperse to their homes - already as my agents, fully loyal to me. One problem down. With the help of these "people," I'll start gradually solving many of this country's problems - the very problems they themselves created, by the way. It just takes time - and everything will be fine.
As I understand it, not all the oligarchs are here, but I think that with the support of the majority, no one will dare say a word against me. They'll be afraid. At least, I hope so.
And now I want to take a shower and sleep. I'm completely exhausted. Perhaps today I've given away five years of my life, but that's the price. It was necessary. I hope it wasn't in vain.
***
The broadcast of a Russian news program. The host, wearing glasses and sporting a bushy mustache, dressed in a blue suit, stared intently at the camera, occasionally glancing at a sheet of paper with cues and reading the news, quenching viewers' thirst to learn something new.
— "Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. This is the weekly evening show "Phas Cik" and I'm your host, Vladislav Listov. Today on our program, we have a guest - the well-known political activist and writer Eduard Apelsinov. Hello, Eduard," — the camera's focus shifted from the host's face to a wide shot, showing the guest alongside him.
— "Hello, Vladislav," — nodded a lean man with slightly disheveled gray hair and thick-lensed glasses.
— "Today on our program, we're summing up a year of rule by the new democratic government in Russia, and our editorial team decided to invite you as a staunch opponent of the new course set by the country. What can you say about the current situation, judging, let's say, by the interim results of their work?" — the host began the broadcast with a long, detailed question, making it clear that the interview would move at a brisk pace from the start.
— "They're killing us. That's what I can say," — the guest replied calmly, showing not a trace of emotion or agitation.
The terrifying words were spoken with such unwavering conviction that their contrast with the tone momentarily stunned the host, causing him to fall silent for a brief moment before asking the next question.
— "Excuse me, Eduard, but could you clarify what you mean?" — asked the host, his voice slightly puzzled.
— "Certainly. I'll explain. But the fact that you don't understand what I'm talking about is, of course, unfortunate," — the guest began, now more emotionally. — "I just got back yesterday from Vologda. Do you know what I was doing there?"
— "No," — the host replied briefly.
— "I was covering the site of a terrible tragedy. A family burned in their home. Seven people were devoured alive by the fire: the mother, three sons, and three daughters. The youngest girl was five years old. A Russian family. Do you know how it happened?" — the host shook his head. — "The parents worked at the local collective farm. But recently it began to collapse, like everything else in our country. The work disappeared. The father left to earn money in the city. Do you know what happened to him?" — the guest asked a rhetorical question. — "He went missing. Later the police found his body in a ravine outside the city. Some visiting bandits robbed him and killed him. The family was left alone: the mother and six children. And the children would have grown up — yes, it would have been hard, difficult, full of deprivation, but they would have grown. But even that didn't happen. The collective farm was bought by a local bank. It needed the land, not the farm itself. So it was quickly bankrupted and bought for next to nothing. The collective farmers who lived there, including this family, were told to leave the land. But where were they supposed to go? It was their only home. The people refused to leave. And then their houses started burning. The bank simply sent its thugs, and they began setting the houses on fire. That's the result: they went too far. The house was set on fire while the family was inside. Small children burned alive. Naturally, the entire collective farm rose up. Neighboring collective farms and villages supported them. The thugs were caught; they wanted to carry out mob justice, so to speak, the people's way.
— "Were they able to?" — the host asked.
— "No, the police arrived and managed to pull the bandits out, preventing the lynching. Supposedly they took them for a 'proper' trial," — the guest said with obvious sarcasm and mockery.
— "Well, that's actually good. Vigilante justice is still unlawful. No matter how right the people may be - and I understand their anger - everything still has to be according to the law," — the host expressed his point of view.
— "Oh yes, of course. But the thing is, the thugs were released. There was no trial," — the guest replied.
— "But… how could that be?" — the host said in surprise.
— "The police announced that there wasn't enough evidence, and the bandits were released. Even though all the evidence was there: traces of gasoline on their clothes, testimony from several dozen people. A few of the bandits even confessed to what they'd done. But that didn't suit the police. It was declared that all the evidence had been obtained under pressure. That's how it is — that's the situation. And the same thing is happening everywhere: across the whole country, across the entire former Union. When I was leaving Vologda, witnesses had already begun disappearing, and the police started arresting the most zealous 'vigilantes,'" — the guest concluded grimly.
— "I take it there's no point in asking whether you're satisfied with the rule of the new government?" — the host asked, trying at least to shift the topic and ease the conversation.
— "Of course not. What is there to be satisfied with?" — the guest waved his hand. — "Listen, I myself was dissatisfied with many things in the Soviet Union, but that was no reason to destroy the country for it. Many lands for which our ancestors shed blood, for which our grandfathers died and our fathers suffered, we simply lost - with a snap of the fingers," — the guest snapped his fingers in sync. — "Millions of Russian people effectively found themselves on foreign soil. Can you imagine? Yesterday they were at home, and today they've become strangers. Do you understand that? And we can't help them in any way, because even here, in Russia itself, we can't protect Russian people. All the industry has collapsed, millions of people are out of work and living in poverty. Any day now, all these people will start dying from hunger or cold. Millions of Russians and others… With our own hands we destroyed what our ancestors built for a thousand years. With our own hands we did what the Germans couldn't do! The country is dying. And if a man who can stop this doesn't appear immediately, believe me, the consequences will be terrible. Even our descendants - if Russian people still will exist - will be dealing with the consequences for centuries."
***
In a limousine upholstered in soft leather sat the new Russian oligarch Viktor Stanislavovich Kostrov. He was immersed in gloomy thoughts. The soft seat he was sinking into brought not the slightest relief. On the contrary, it only emphasized his discomfort. Sweat ran down his back, leaving a cold trail, while dozens of thoughts spun in his head like a raging current rushing toward its mouth.
His jacket was stained with vomit, and the area around the fly of his trousers with urine. The tycoon still couldn't fully come to his senses. He was returning from that very ill-fated meeting. Everything felt like a haze; only a strange urge and a certain conviction gnawed at him from within. This drive compelled him to act, following someone else's will, and what was most surprising, he didn't even realize it, taking others' intentions for his own.
Two black Mercedes cars with security closely followed the limousine in front and behind. Their gleaming bodies reflected the evening lights like steel monsters ready to protect their master from any threats. But now Kostrov did not feel safe. He was more vulnerable than ever, and that feeling pressed on him like a heavy stone on his chest.
The limousine left the city, and soon they found themselves within the area of a former party settlement, where the dachas of the Soviet elite had once stood. Here, among tall pines and luxurious mansions, time seemed to stand still. After the collapse of the USSR, this elite village became home to the new masters of life — oligarchs like Kostrov, who sought comfort in luxury and power.
Suddenly he remembered how, in his youth, long before becoming an oligarch, he had dreamed of being part of that elite. He imagined himself sitting in the same soft chairs, discussing important matters with high-ranking officials, shaping the destinies of people. But now that all of this had become reality, he felt lost, as if his dreams had turned into a nightmare.
Fragments of the meeting with the new president, Zheleznyakov, surfaced again in his mind. This man did not seem capable of changing all the rules of the game. Kostrov couldn't shake the feeling that he had been pumped with something, that his mind was clouded and his body no longer obeyed him. The image stood before his eyes: Zheleznyakov, with a cold gleam in his eyes, speaking about the need for decisive action. His words settled strangely in Kostrov's soul, stirring an odd sense of pleasure. It seemed impossible to object. The president demanded support from the oligarchs and concrete steps to strengthen his power.
Kostrov knew that Zheleznyakov would not tolerate failures. That thought made him shudder.
"I won't disappoint him," he thought, gripping the armrest of the seat.
He had to act. But how? How could he fulfill the demands of a man who seemed unable to fully control the situation? Or perhaps he could? Kostrov wasn't sure. All of it looked like a tangled game in which his position could be at risk. He could not afford to fail — neither before the president nor before his competitors.
"Clearly, the president is not a puppet! No! Stop!"
Kostrov squeezed his eyes shut and bit his lip until it bled. Then he covered his face with his hands.
"I just need to follow in the wake of the new policy, and that's it. Away with thoughts! Away with doubts!"
The limousine continued moving along the deserted streets. Looking out the window, Kostrov watched trees, houses, and lights flash past.
At last, the car stopped. Kostrov flinched, his heart beating faster. He looked out the window and saw that they had arrived at his home — a luxurious mansion surrounded by high fences and surveillance cameras. Here he was supposed to feel safe. But now the place seemed like a trap.
He stepped out of the limousine, trying to maintain an appearance of confidence. The guards at the entrance greeted him respectfully, but in their eyes he noticed a hint of concern. Kostrov felt panic rising within him. He could not allow himself to appear weak; he could not fall in the eyes of those who depended on him.
Entering the house, he immediately headed for his study. The huge desk, covered with papers and documents, seemed to be waiting for him. Kostrov sat down in his chair and finally allowed himself to exhale. But he couldn't relax.
His suit was wrinkled, his hair disheveled — all of it revealed his inner tension. He no longer resembled the confident man he was used to being. Anxiety shone in his eyes, and the beads of sweat on his forehead he nervously wiped away, as if that could relieve the weight pressing on his shoulders.
At that moment, his attorney Alexey entered the study. Tall, with neatly trimmed hair and a perfectly fitted suit, he looked as if he had just stepped off the cover of a fashion magazine. But when he saw his boss, Alexey froze in place. His face twisted in surprise.
— "Viktor Stanislavovich," — he began cautiously, — "are you alright?"
Kostrov didn't even lift his head, as if searching for an answer to an unsolvable question.
— "Yes, I'm fine," — he said, but his voice sounded unconvincing.
At that moment, his young wife Anna entered the study. She was as beautiful as a spring flower, but now her face showed worry. She looked at her husband anxiously, and Kostrov felt irritation flare within him.
— "Viktor, what's wrong with you?" — she asked, stepping closer. — "You look terrible."
Kostrov gritted his teeth but said nothing. Instead, he turned to Alexey, who seemed to be waiting for further instructions.
— "Alexey", — he said, trying to speak confidently, — "we need to move the assets. And get the children back. Do it quietly."
The attorney raised his eyebrows in surprise but nodded and began writing down the orders.
— "Of course," — he said, trying not to show his astonishment. — "But what about the deals to sell the factories?"
— "Stop all the deals," — Kostrov said sharply, feeling his patience wearing thin. — "We can't take any risks right now. I have other plans for them."
Alexey, hiding his confusion, nodded again and hurried out of the study. Kostrov was left alone with Anna, who continued to watch him with concern.
— "Viktor, what are you doing?" — she said. — "You can't just cancel everything. These are our money."
— "You don't understand," — he said sharply. — "I'm doing this for us!"
— "For us?" — Anna repeated defiantly, her voice taking on a steel edge. — "You only ever think about yourself! There you go again with your bullshit..."
Unable to contain the rising anger, Kostrov stepped toward her and, without hesitation, struck her. The blow was sharp and strong, and Anna, caught off guard, fell to the floor like a doll with its strings cut.
Without looking back, Kostrov walked past, feeling his heart pound wildly in his chest. He didn't want this, but he was too consumed by his thoughts to stop and consider the consequences.
Leaving the study, with Anna lying on the floor, he headed for the exit. Thoughts swirled in his head like a stormy sea. He could not allow himself weakness, could not be distracted by personal matters. Outside, the limousine awaited. Sliding into the car, Kostrov felt anxiety once again. The limo moved off, and, staring out the window, he tried to focus on the tasks ahead.
***