Eagle, I don't want to form an alliance anymore.

"Yes."

The old man nodded and said nothing more. Slava and Director Nian continued walking forward.

After walking for a while, Director Nian finally spoke: "That old man is right, there is something wrong with what you are saying."

What's wrong?

"I can't quite put my finger on it, but it's just...too modern?" Director Nian thought for a moment. "Let me put it this way, your grammar and vocabulary are fine, but your intonation and rhythm are off. It sounds like a foreigner learned it, too standard. To be honest, you almost gave me the uncanny valley effect when you were speaking earlier."

"With your looks, you almost caused a Dali Garden effect in real life—wait, wasn't this language skill just an act you put on for me?"

"What I'm giving you is language skills, not the street slang of Moscow in the 1980s," Director Nian said. "You'll have to learn that yourself, by listening to how other people speak."

Slava sighed. Sure enough, not long after, they spotted a state-run canteen with a blue sign with white lettering hanging at the entrance. A short queue of about seven or eight people was forming beneath the sign. Slava and Director Nian walked over and joined the end of the line.

The line moved forward slowly. He looked at the backs of the people in front of him and suddenly remembered something.

"Year Director".

"what?"

"That name, Velikoslav, did you give it to him?"

"Yes, what's wrong?"

Why is it called that?

Director Nian was silent for a moment, then the corners of her mouth curled up slightly. If others had seen that expression, they would probably have thought it was a young woman secretly laughing.

"It's nothing, I just think it suits you quite well."

"No, where would be suitable?"

Don't you think the name 'Great Glory' is very powerful?

Великослав, pronounced Velikoslav, means "great glory".

Slava looked down at himself. He was 1.6 meters tall and weighed 80 kilograms, wearing a wrinkled shirt and ill-fitting trousers. The director next to him was more than ten centimeters taller than him. The two of them looked like Shuke and Beta, the Haier Brothers, or Gin and Vodka.

"You did this on purpose, didn't you?"

"Huh? Me?" Director Nian's rose-red eyes were brimming with tears, her expression so innocent it was almost infuriating. "What could I have done on purpose? I was just wishing you a bright future."

"Then I wish your whole family good health and happiness." "Okay, okay, don't think I haven't been around the modern internet!"

The two bickered as they waited in line. A whiff of oil and soup wafted out from the open door—a slightly fishy, ​​yet also fragrant aroma. Slava's stomach growled at just the right moment; he hadn't had a proper meal since his transmigration yesterday.

"Let me plan this out. Let's start with five rubles. What do you want to eat?" He glanced at the menu.

"A bowl of borscht, a meatloaf with buckwheat porridge, and a cup of kvass," Director Nian said. "That's enough for two people, don't be picky."

"I didn't choose."

"Okay, you didn't choose."

The line continued forward, and Slava glanced back again. Across the street, around the corner, a man in a grey jacket was reading a newspaper. He had been following them since they exited Lubyanka, shifting positions twice but always remaining within their sight.

Slava shook her head and looked away, glancing at the people queuing in front of her. A plump middle-aged woman was complaining to an elderly woman next to her; after listening for a while, it seemed she was talking about her husband.

This is the life of an ordinary person. And he stands here, a time traveler from 2019, accompanied by a mysterious entity that claims to be a system, with KGB agents watching him from behind, only thirty yuan in his pocket, and he can't even remember his real name.

He suddenly felt like laughing. But he did nothing, simply continuing to wait in line for his first meal of this era. The line moved forward two more steps, and finally, he was inside.

The sounds of knives and forks clattering against plates, along with indistinct conversations, drifted from the cafeteria inside. A waitress wearing a white hat poked her head out and called out something, causing the queue to shift slightly.

Slava took a deep breath.

Since things have come to this, let's eat first.

Chapter 2: Accidentally Entering the Imperial Family's Domain

The state-run canteen was larger than Slava had imagined.

About thirty tables were arranged in neat rows, covered with plastic tablecloths, the patterns of which were worn and illegible in some places. Several fluorescent lights hung from the ceiling, illuminating the entire hall. Along the wall was a row of windows, and below them were several potted green ivy plants with wilted leaves, as if they hadn't been watered in a long time.

A blackboard hangs on the wall directly opposite the entrance, with today's menu written in chalk. Several lines of text have been crossed out, and the word "None" is scribbled next to them.

"What are you standing there for? Elbow!" Director Nian shoved him.

There were seven or eight people queuing at the food window. Slava followed behind the guide and began to decipher the words on the blackboard. Borscht, meatloaf with buckwheat porridge, mashed potatoes, pickles, black bread, and kvass. The prices were written after the menu items, all in the tens of kopeks, which was considered cheap for that era.

Anyway, it's not as expensive as it was during the years when the league broke up.

Behind the window stood a woman in her forties, wearing a greasy apron. Her face was expressionless, mechanically repeating the same actions: listen, scoop, hand over, collect money, give change, next.

When it was the tour guide's turn, she ordered the dishes: "Two servings of borscht, two servings of meat patties with buckwheat porridge, two cups of kvass, and four slices of black bread."

The woman raised her eyelids and glanced at her, her gaze drawn to her silver hair, before returning to normal and continuing to put things on the tray.

"Three rubles and forty kopeks."

The guide took out the five-ruble note from her pocket, handed it over, took the change, and turned around with the tray. Slava followed behind her, also carrying a tray with two cups of kvass and bread on it.

They found an empty table by the window and sat down. The borscht was a deep purplish-red, with a layer of oil and a few cilantro leaves floating on top. Slava picked up a spoon and took a sip; it was hot, but the taste was better than he had expected. It was sour, with the earthy aroma characteristic of beetroot, and a hint of tomato flavor.

P.S.: Actually, the borscht in Russia is extremely sour. When I was traveling there, I had a modified version to suit the Russian taste, and it was really delicious.

"How is it?" Director Nian had already started eating.

"good."

"Just eat whatever you can. These days, it's good enough to have enough to eat."

Slava took another sip of soup, feeling his stomach warm up. He was truly starving. Since he had transmigrated yesterday, the only thing he had eaten was a glass of water someone had given him during a break in the interrogation.

The meat patties were a grayish color, and I wasn't sure what kind of meat they were made of—maybe a mix of pork and beef, or something else entirely. They tasted alright when eaten with buckwheat porridge, a savory and slightly salty flavor.

According to the Meat Products Act passed by the Union National Standards Committee in 1979, offal from cattle, pigs, or sheep, edible blood plasma, starch, or wheat flour can be added to these meat products. Some unscrupulous factories even use cheaper carboxymethyl cellulose instead of starch, which may result in a texture that tastes like chewing paper.

After eating for a while, Slava asked, "What do we do next?"

"You're asking me?"

"Aren't you a system? Why aren't there any mission prompts or anything? You told me you wanted to change history, but you didn't give me any specific tasks. So, if I crashed a Boeing into the Twin Towers decades in advance, that would count as changing history, since airport security is lax these days anyway," Slava complained.

Director Nian continued chewing, wiping the soup off the plate with black bread, then popped it into his mouth and smacked it a few times before saying:

"You think I'm a game NPC? 'Ding, you have received the quest: Save the Alliance?'"

"Well, you have to be of some use, right?"

“My purpose is to keep you from dying too quickly,” Director Nian said, taking a sip of kvass. “The rest is up to you.”

"...Alright then."

Slava finished the rest of his bread, leaned back in his chair, and began to think about the situation at hand.

No documents, no money—they had twenty-five rubles and sixty kopeks left, enough to eat for several more days. But they had no place to live, no workplace, and no social connections. In a highly organized society like the Union, someone outside the system was like an ant that had wandered into a machine, destined to be crushed sooner or later.

And there are special agents watching them.

"What are you thinking about?" Director Nian asked.

"I'm wondering how many days we have left to live."

“You’re being pessimistic,” Director Nian said. “You’ve overlooked one thing. The KGB didn’t release us to watch us starve; they’re waiting for us to make contact with certain people or do certain things. This means they think we have value, or at least value for censorship.”

You have to understand, even being sent to the Far East to dig potatoes is better than being a homeless person on the streets.

"So instead of waiting for them to come and arrest us, why don't we take the initiative to make them think we're 'useful'?" Slava thought about this logic, which made some sense, but it also seemed a bit like a desperate gamble.

"clever."

“What use am I?” he asked.

"Think about it yourself."

"Uh... I can code? Python? C?"

Director Nian glanced at him but didn't say anything.

“Okay, in 1980, even DOS hadn’t come out yet, so that doesn’t count.” Slava contradicted himself. Back then, even IBM’s personal PCs hadn’t been released yet; coding skills were practically equivalent to knowing Martian language.

But speaking of this—

“Wait a minute,” he suddenly remembered something, “the IBM PC was released in 1981.”

"and then?"

"It's July 1980 now, one year from now."

Director Nian frowned, seemingly waiting for him to continue.

“That’s a personal computer!” Slava whispered. “This thing will change the whole world. There’s already a second-generation Apple product in America, and a bunch of small factories are making microcomputers. Next year, when IBM enters the market, the whole industry will take off, and then…”

The worker at the next table finished his meal, burped, picked up his empty plate, and walked towards the recycling area. The two young women left too. The cafeteria was less crowded, but there was still a buzz of conversation.

"And then?" Director Nian pressed.

“The alliance fell behind in this area,” Slava said. “The microelectronics industry, integrated circuits, these are things the alliance could never catch up with. By the late 1980s, the gap had become too big to be bridged.”

Just kidding, there was already a huge gap in the early 1980s.

However, it's not too late to start now; there's still a chance to salvage the situation. The alliance's computer industry actually started relatively early in some aspects, even leading in some areas during the 1950s and 60s, but it has fallen behind ever since. The reasons are complex, including systemic issues, problems with investment direction, and a bit of luck.

“You mean—” Nian Dao asked Slava after he finished speaking.

"What I mean is, if I can make the people here realize the importance of this issue, maybe..."

"Maybe what? Do you think someone like you, who doesn't even have an ID card, can persuade the KGB to work on computers?"

"It's not them, it's someone at a higher level. You know, it's not far off that Emperor Xunzong will fall seriously ill and then someone else will seize power."

Director Nian was silent for a moment. The fluorescent lights in the cafeteria emitted a slight hum, mingling with the sounds of people eating.

"Do you know OGAS?" Slava suddenly asked.

“I know,” Director Nian said. “The Alliance’s national automated management system plan was proposed by Glushkov in the 1960s, but it was later abandoned.”

“Yes, it failed.” Slava nodded. “But the reason it failed wasn’t because of technical problems, but because of political infighting and bureaucratic wrangling. The finance department and the planning commission each had their own agendas, and neither wanted the other to gain an advantage, so the matter dragged on indefinitely.”

This isn't difficult to implement, because it's essentially an information-based data collection system; it doesn't involve any mysterious AI-related concepts.

"You brought this up to say—"

“What I want to say is that the OGAS project proves one thing.” Slava leaned forward, lowering his voice, “As long as there is a powerful enough information processing system that can collect and analyze data in real time, any economic system can become more efficient. The problem with the Alliance’s plans has never been the plans themselves, but the information asymmetry—the higher-ups don’t know the real situation below, the lower-ups report false figures to meet targets, and the huge bureaucratic system fostered for data collection adds layers of extra fees, making the whole system rotten.”

Director Nian stared at him for a few seconds: "If the KGB heard you say that, they'd either think you're crazy or that you're a dangerous person."

"Why? Glushkov wasn't sent to dig potatoes, but Kosygin, who wanted to introduce potatoes to the market, is still stuck in a lowly government office?"

"Because you're saying there's something wrong with the league's system."

"No, why are you starting to accuse me? I didn't say there was a problem; I said the information system couldn't keep up."

"Being here is one thing."

Slava realized he might have said too much. He leaned back, picked up his cup, and took a sip of kvass. It was sweet, with a fermented wheat aroma.

Director Nian spoke up again: "But your idea is quite interesting. To come up with something that only addresses the symptoms, not the root cause, and use technical means to alleviate the existing problems and give the alliance a boost so that it has the constitution to withstand the reforms. This approach might really interest some people."

"Which people?"

“Those who haven’t completely turned bad,” Director Nian said, “the Alliance has never lacked idealists. Five years ago, wasn’t there a hardcore ruthless guy who stole a frigate and stormed the tower to try and launch a 2.0 bombardment of the Eastern Palace? What a pity. If he were still alive, that would be great. Tsk tsk.”

Slava thought for a moment. He knew that there were indeed such people in the Alliance's leadership. Not everyone was a lazy, complacent bureaucrat; some were genuinely thinking about problems and looking for solutions. Andropov was one of them—although he also had many limitations, at least he was trying to do something.

And then there's Ogarkov, the chief of staff who keeps talking about a military-technical revolution, saying that the alliance's technology is lagging behind the times, and that if they don't change, they'll fall behind and be attacked. But the problem is how to get in touch with these people.

"Why think so far ahead?" Director Nian interrupted his thoughts. "Let's get through this first. Have you finished eating?"

"Finished."

"Let's go."

The two stood up, carried the plate to the recycling window, and then walked towards the door.

------

The sunlight outside was still blinding. Slava squinted for a moment to adjust, then started walking out onto the street. The man in the gray jacket who had been watching him was still there, but he had moved to a different spot, standing under a tree across the street, pretending to be reading a newspaper.

"Which way?" Slava asked.

“Whatever,” Director Nian said. “We have nowhere else to go anyway, so let’s just treat it as a walk and a meal.”

They walked along the sidewalk. Passing an ice cream stand, several children were in line, chattering excitedly about which flavors they wanted. A little girl in a floral dress held a tube of creamy ice cream, her mouth covered in licks, and her mother was wiping it with a handkerchief.

After walking about two hundred meters, Slava noticed a man walking towards them. The man's steps were steady, his purpose clear, and he was heading straight for them. He was wearing a dark blue jacket over a white shirt, without a tie. He looked to be about thirty-five or thirty-six years old, with a clean-shaven face and neatly combed hair.