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

Slava and Nian found a window seat. Alim sat opposite them, dozing with his eyes closed. The scenery outside the window was very different from when they arrived. There was still some greenery around Tashkent, but after the train traveled east for more than an hour, they entered the real cotton-producing region.

It was an endless cotton field, the white cotton fibers shimmering in the sunlight, like a layer of snow spread across the earth. Occasionally, a few figures could be seen bending over and working on the ridges, wearing straw hats, moving slowly under the scorching sun.

“Wow, that’s huge,” Slava said. “How many acres is that?”

Alim opened his eyes: "There's too much. More than 60 percent of the cotton in the entire alliance is produced here."

"It's all cotton?" Director Nian frowned. "What about grain?"

“We’ll bring in from outside,” Alim said. “From Russia, Ukraine, Kazakhstan… all the land here is used to grow cotton, there’s no place to grow grain.”

Slava frowned, looking at the boundless white expanse outside the window, a feeling he couldn't quite describe welled up inside him.

The entire region was growing cotton. All the land, all the water, and all the labor were devoted to one crop! This economic structure had a name in the economics he had studied: "single economy."

What's the problem with a single economy? Fragility. If something goes wrong, the whole system collapses.

The train stopped at a small station. The platform was crowded with people, mostly farmers carrying luggage. Someone was selling kebabs and naan, and the aroma wafted into the carriage. Nian Dao got up, bought a few kebabs from the window, and handed them to Slava with some dried naan he had bought the day before.

“Eat,” she said. “We don’t know how long the journey will take once we get there.”

The roast meat smelled delicious, but it was a bit tough and difficult to chew. The naan, on the other hand, was quite good; it had become very crispy in this weather, and it was nice to eat with some cold water.

...

The Red Flag Collective Farm is located 20 kilometers outside Fergana. Alim borrowed a jeep and drove for nearly an hour along the bumpy dirt road before finally seeing the farm's gate. The gate was made of wood, with a faded sign hanging on it that read "Red Flag Collective Farm" in Cyrillic script, with a line of Uzbek script below.

The farm manager was named Mukhamedov, in his fifties, with a tanned, dark red face and hands as rough as sandpaper. He wore a faded old shirt with the collar open.

"Welcome, welcome," he said warmly, shaking Slava's hand. "An expert from the Central Government, a rare guest indeed."

He led them on a tour of the farm. First the offices, then the warehouse, and then the cotton processing workshop. At each place, people ran around greeting them, serving tea and water, almost to an excessive degree.

“Our farm has more than 3,000 hectares of land,” Muhammadov said as he walked. “Last year, we produced 8,000 tons of cotton, exceeding our target. This year, we’re aiming to break 9,000 tons!”

Slava nodded and made the number a habit.

Three thousand hectares, eight thousand tons. The average yield per hectare is about two and a half tons. Is this figure reasonable? He wasn't sure. He didn't know much about cotton cultivation, but he could look it up.

"Can I see last year's books?" he asked, "production records, sales records, and so on."

Muhammadov's smile froze for a moment, but quickly returned to normal: "Of course, but the ledgers are with the accountant. I'll have someone go get them. You all have some tea and rest for a bit."

He led them to a conference room, had tea and fruit brought in, and then left. Director Nian looked around to make sure no one else was there before lowering his voice to speak.

Did you notice?

"?"

"He said that last year's production was 8,000 tons, exceeding the target, but he didn't say what the target was."

Slava thought for a moment and nodded.

"Also, the yield is 8,000 tons from 3,000 hectares, or 2.5 tons per hectare. But on our way here, I saw that the cotton fields weren't growing very well; in some places the bolls were very small, and in others they were completely empty. Do you really believe they can achieve 2.5 tons per hectare?"

Slava didn't answer. He walked to the window and looked out at the cotton field.

From this angle, the cotton field is indeed beautiful, a dazzling expanse of white cotton shimmering in the sunlight. But upon closer inspection, some problems become apparent. In some areas, the cotton plants are very short, while in others they are sparse and scattered, hardly suggesting a high yield.

After years of turmoil, Uzbekistan has exhausted all means to meet its production targets, including but not limited to using large amounts of chemical fertilizers at the expense of the land to forcibly increase production, or other unethical methods. Moreover, water resources have been used extensively for crops, and groundwater and rivers have been severely damaged.

The door opened, and Muhammadov returned, followed by a thin, middle-aged woman carrying a stack of account books.

“This is our accountant, Comrade Fatima,” Muhammadov introduced.

Fatima placed the ledgers on the table and stood aside with her head down, saying little. Slava opened the first ledger, which was last year's production record: every page was filled with dense numbers, recording the cotton yield of every plot of land.

He looked at it line by line, page by page, copying down the key numbers in his notebook. Muhammadov sat beside him, a smile always on his face, but his eyes were fixed on Slava's movements.

“Ask us any questions,” he said. “Our farm’s accounts are crystal clear, there are no problems whatsoever!”

Slava didn't look up, continuing to flip through the ledger. The more silent he became, the more anxious Muhammadov grew.

“Here,” he pointed to a number in the ledger, “July 15th, Plot 3, yielded 120 tons. Right?”

Muhammadov leaned over and took a look: "Yes, that's right."

“But look here,” Slava turned to a page, “the sales record for July 15th shows that only eighty tons of cotton from plot three were sold.”

Muhammadov's smile froze.

“Um…” he blinked, “It might be transportation damage; cotton can be damaged during transportation.”

In reality, when the cotton was bagged, a lot of space inside was filled with stones and gravel. Both the local officials who were collecting the cotton and the farmers in the collective farms knew this. Everyone was working together to meet the quotas, and today, suddenly facing the central government's commissioner, no one was prepared.

"Forty tons of loss? One-third?" In Slava's view, underreporting was possible, but this figure was too high and too outrageous. "You should recalculate it carefully; it must be a mistake."

"Yes, yes, it must be a miscalculation."

Muhammadov smiled ingratiatingly and took advantage of Slava's offer to change the subject: "It's probably a mistake in the bookkeeping. You know, our farm has limited resources, and sometimes mistakes are inevitable..."

Slava simply stopped keeping track and started flipping through the ledgers again. More and more problems arose: production and sales didn't match, planting and harvesting areas didn't match, and some figures were even clearly altered later, the marks of which were still clearly visible!

Seriously, aren't you all going to put on an act? How can you be so brazen? Where are the officials? Where are the auditors? What are you all doing? Have you all been corrupted?

He remembered Andropov telling him before he left that "the concealment of cotton production and fraudulent funding in Uzbekistan is a systematic process," and now it seems to be coming true. If the Uzbeks had not concealed the production in the first place and had let the central government see the production limits here, there would have been no layers of additional charges, and the situation would not have turned out this way at all.

It's alright, he can continue his investigation. The truth about Uzbekistan is currently shrouded in mystery, and he will investigate it thoroughly.

But now, he needs to see for himself whether it's the same everywhere. He can no longer trust any figures given by the Uzbek government; he can only trust his own eyes now.

How many farms are there in the entire Fergana Valley? Dozens? Hundreds? If every farm is faking it, what would the total number be?

If Andropov's account is correct, what could possibly force everyone to lie? Organized crime? Local officials? Or... Moscow?

Slava walked out of the meeting room and stood on the porch, looking at the cotton fields in the distance. Director Nian walked over to him and handed him a glass of water.

What's the next step?

Slava finished drinking the water in the cup and returned it to her.

"Sheroff is right, trust is indeed a very precious thing—I don't believe any numbers anymore."

"We need to do two things simultaneously. During the day, we'll randomly check each farm—we won't be taking Alim's car anymore; we'll conduct a secret operation. I want to see just how big the loopholes are. As for the night..."

We're not experts, after all. So, tonight we'll write and telegraph scientists at universities and agricultural colleges elsewhere in the Union, asking them about the potential for increased cotton production. Now we'll head back to the guesthouse to prepare this week's briefing for Andropov.”

Director Nian looked at him and sighed softly.

"We're really in deep trouble this time, and I feel like our future is completely bleak."

"I think it looks promising."

"To be burned to a glow is also called light, my friend."

Chapter 7 Willing to risk everything, daring to bring down the emperor.

Over the next three weeks, Slava and Director Nian began their secret operation.

It's called a secret, but it's not really a secret. It just means not giving prior notice, not taking Alim's car, but instead hitching a ride or taking a public bus, and randomly picking a few farms to visit.

They almost got lost the first time. The road conditions in the Fergana Valley were worse than they had imagined; in many places, there were no proper roads at all, only dirt tracks worn into them by tractors and oxcarts. Slava now completely disregarded any data provided by the collective farm—

Bull Demon King, if you expect to improve agriculture with this level of infrastructure, you might as well hope to erect a portrait of Washington in a cotton field and print 500 kilograms of cotton every week.

"The car is stuck in the ground, how do we get out?"

Under the scorching August sun, and with no air conditioning in the beat-up little car, the driver went to a nearby farmer's house to escape the sun, leaving the two of them by the vehicle. Slava fiddled with it for ages but couldn't get the car out of the mud, and in frustration, kicked a tire.

"Just walk! Haven't you realized that breathing on a machine, throwing a tantrum, or rolling around on it is useless? Come and look at the map! Damn it, is this map from World War II? Nothing matches up at all!"

Director Nian stood at a three-way intersection, looking at the endless cotton fields in all three directions, and cursed.

"I knew I shouldn't have tried to be so clever—oh well, how about we go left?"

"You've made a 'leftist' mistake, Director Nian," Slava teased, wiping his sweat.

"Then go to the right?"

"You right-leaning opportunist!"

"Go straight ahead?"

"Accelerationism is unacceptable!"

"Go back the way we came?"

"Don't turn back the clock of history."

"Damn it! I'm not putting up with this anymore!" Director Nian, who was also covered in sweat from the sun, kicked Slava in the butt and shoved the crumpled map into his arms.

After fiddling around for a while, an old man driving a donkey cart finally gave them a ride to the nearest farm. The old man didn't speak Russian, but after some gesturing, he roughly understood where they wanted to go. The farm was called Zhineva Farm, a bit smaller than Red Banner Farm, but similar in layout.

The administrator, a lean man in his forties, was visibly startled when two strangers suddenly appeared at the door. Slava produced a letter of introduction, claiming to be a researcher from the central government, and then showed them a letter of introduction issued by the Uzbek Agricultural Bureau, wanting to see the cotton production situation.

The lean man's expression shifted several times before finally plastering on a smile. He invited them into his office, serving them tea and water with excessive enthusiasm. When they looked at the ledgers, they were exactly the same as those at Hongqi Farm!

Production and sales didn't match, nor did the planting and harvesting areas; the signs of alteration to the figures were clearly visible. Slava asked a few questions, and the lean man stammered, mentioning accounting errors, transportation losses, and different statistical methods.

After leaving the Geneva farm, the guide said, "It's like copy and paste."

“It doesn’t matter if it’s nothing,” Slava said, putting his notebook back in his bag. “These people even use the same excuses.”

Over the next few days, they visited four or five more farms, both large and small. The situation was similar at each farm: the accounts were problematic, the figures didn't match, and the managers either stammered or made wildly inaccurate statements.

The farm accountant, an honest and simple middle-aged woman, was so pressed by Slava's questions that she almost burst into tears.

“Comrade, we have no choice,” she said, wiping away her tears. “The quotas assigned by the higher-ups are so high that if we can’t meet them, we have to find a way to make up the numbers. If we don’t make up the numbers, we can’t withstand the consequences if the higher-ups investigate!”

"What is the target?" Slava asked.

“Last year it was two and a half tons per hectare, this year it’s gone up to two and a half tons.” The woman shook her head. “We’re lucky if our land can produce two tons. What do we do with the rest? We can only make things up.”

"Why not report this to higher authorities?" Slava was not referring to their middle-level managers, but to higher-level places, such as the procuratorate.

The woman looked at him, her eyes holding something indescribable.

"Report? Report to whom?" She gave a bitter smile. "The district's quotas are assigned by the state, the state's quotas are assigned by the Republic, and the Republic's quotas are assigned by the central government. Who can we report to? It's not that no one has reported it, but in the end, it either disappears without a trace at the state level or we receive a warning."

In fact, after more than a decade of operation, Uzbek Party Secretary Rashidov had already established a network of interests spanning both official and criminal circles in the area. Any report would be blocked at the local level. If farmers wanted to leave the farm and go to Moscow to file a complaint, not to mention whether honest, poor farmers had the money and connections, the mere fact that they had to register their household registration and be watched by local officials loyal to Rashidov would be enough to give them a hard time.

Even if they succeeded, so what? Rashidov has Khunjerg backing him; who would be willing to offend the President for the sake of a commoner?

Slava did not ask any further questions.

That evening, back at the guesthouse, he sat by the window, staring blankly at his laptop. Director Nian poured him a cup of tea but didn't say anything.

“You know what,” Slava said after a long pause, “at first I thought it was a group of corrupt officials fabricating evidence to swindle money. If we found out their crimes and arrested them, the problem would be solved.”

"And now?" Director Nian sat down next to him, the evening breeze blowing her silver hair, which then fell onto his notebook.

“Now I realize that these people… they are certainly not clean, but they were forced into it.” Slava tapped the table with his fingers. “The targets are too high, they simply cannot meet them. They can’t complete the task without falsifying data; if they don’t complete the task, they will be held accountable. It’s a vicious cycle.”

"So the problem lies in the metrics. What kind of bullshit plan is this? Our ideal metric is to set scientific production metrics based on real data reported from above and the joint opinions of a large research team, technical team, and mathematicians. But in reality, the metrics are just decided on a whim by Xun Zong."

"It's less a planned economy and more a bureaucratic command economy," Director Nian concluded.

“That old bastard Xunzong, so obsessed with fame and fortune, he deserves to die! If I were the mentor waiting for him to come down to see me, I would definitely give him an uppercut first, then call Dalinzi over to beat him up, and make him and Suizong go plant corn!” Slava whispered. “So we all understand where the root of corruption lies, right?”

PS: Can the eldest son of the alliance meet his mentor openly and honestly?

Director Nian didn't answer, but her eyes showed that she already knew the answer.

------

The letters began to be mailed out in the second week. Slava and Niandao spent the whole night in their guesthouse room, writing at their desks and discussing changes to the wording. They wrote to the Cotton Research Institute of the All-Union Academy of Agricultural Sciences, to professors in the Biology Department of Leningrad Polytechnic University, to the Turkmen Cotton Research Center in Ashgabat, and also sent a telegram to the Moscow Water Conservancy Department.

The question asked was very simple:

"Given a given land area, water resources, climate conditions, and level of technology, what is the theoretical limit for cotton yield?"

Of course, the location won't be written as Uzbekistan; it can be changed to a province in the Eastern Roman Empire at the same latitude and with a similar climate.

After the letter was sent, there was a long wait. The secret service already knew the contents of the letter—but KGB President Andropov had already given his approval, so the letter would not be intercepted. Some scientists who dared not write the truth would also give their true thoughts under the "hints" of some mysterious people.

Three weeks later, replies began to arrive.

The first letter was written by an elderly professor at Leningrad Polytechnic University. It was quite long, written in the style of an old-school intellectual, full of quotations and roundabout phrases, but the core message was clear:

“Young comrade, your question touches on a sensitive area. I can only tell you some basic facts: based on 380 million hectares of arable land, of which about 240 million hectares are used for cotton cultivation, with current varieties and farming techniques, the yield limit is about 1.5 to 1.8 tons per hectare. Even under the most ideal conditions, the total output will hardly exceed 400 million tons. As for 600 million tons... unless we can change the laws of physics.”

But here are plenty of facts as you mentioned.

PS: The average yield of Eastern Roman cotton is 2.1 tons per hectare, which already takes into account the results of genetically modified cotton technology.

The second letter came from Ashgabat and was even more direct:

"Six million tons? Are you kidding me? Even if you drained all the water from Lake Baikal, the Eastern Roman Empire couldn't produce six million tons of cotton!"