There are some Alternative History (http://www.ahtg.net/alterframe.html) websites (http://pages.prodigy.net/aesir/althis.htm) that display essays portraying various different historical alternatives: what would have happened if Germany won World War I, if Jesus had never been born, if there had been a World War III in 1957?

Perhaps this thread should have been in the Chutzpah Lounge, but it is about history, and I figured the History and Religion Forum could need some lighten up. My suggestion is that you, dear reader, visit the websites linked to above and give us your view of your scenario of choice. Or, why not put forward your own alternative history, and see what we'll make of it?

And if you fail to take up this challenge, comrades, I will simply use this thread to post my own thoughts on the matter and not care who reads it. Shortly I'll post a description of what the world might have been like had Russia come to dominate the world in the 1800s, instead of Britain....



Hey, what would have happened had the Confederation managed to win its freedom?

Great Russia

My dear son,


Your mother has asked me to teach you about the history of Great Russia, and even though I would like nothing better than to do so in the library of our dacha my current assignment makes it impossible to visit you in the Krimean right now. Therefore, I will send this letter with a brief description of that which you must know, and I expect you to send me at least seven thoughtful follow-up questions with the next boat. Otherwise I will be most displeased.

My dear son, there was a time when our empire was limited only to our territory in Europe, and we were beset by enemies on all sides. Germans and Turks, Britons and Swedes, Austrians and Spanish were all our enemies, and conspired to keep us low. But through the strength of our people we prevailed and expanded eastward, across the endless Siberian plains to conquer the entire north of Asia. Wide was our realm, and our future seemed secure, but we knew that it was our destiny to expand even farther, and fulfill our God-given mission to find our final borders.

Two opportunities arose for us: the first was China, and the second was Alaska. China, you must know, sold the tea that was the main beverage in Europe in the 18th and 19th centuries, and it cost the British Empire an enormous amount of silver bullion to purchase it. The Chinese emperors would accept no goods offered by the British, and demanded only silver, something which threatened to bankrupt the Englishmen. Then their merchants started selling opium in Chinese ports, demanding payment in silver, and all of the sudden they had found a way to stabilize the trade; even though the British leaders abhorred opium smuggling they knew it was necessary for the time being.

Into this situation entered our forces. Our wise Tsar found pretexts through which to attack China, bring her to her knees, and through her assert power over the British. They were prepared to go to war to make China their own interest sphere, but the French stood on our side, and war was averted for the time being. Now we controlled not only the tea trade, thereby gaining political might in Europe and a most lucrative business, but also millions upon millions of Chinese, who after some time could be used to dominate Asia.

Even more to our benefit, however, was Alaska, or "Russian Alaska" as it was called at the time. Our plan here was very wise indeed: to secretly ship over our Central Asian tribes to the American continent and allow them to spread out, controlled by Russian officers. Kirgizians, Tadzjikians, Uzbeks, and so on -- they were nomads, giving them a distinct advantage on the American plains as they could live off the land. They easily swept away the pitiful barbarians, sparing noone, and closed in on the United States in the east.

Yes, at this time there was a nation called the United States, a group of disorganized colonies without a monarch who had broken free from the weak British Empire. But as is always the case with anarchists they quarrelled among themselves, and war broke out as the southern states sought to break away from their northern brethren. We maintained good relations with both sides, and watched as they exhausted their resources and blood. After five long years we struck, taking them by surprise; when the southern states had been starved and beaten we easily swept away the occupation forces and installed an occupation of our own. The American anarchists had little resistance to place in our way, and their capital Washington fell within a few months.

This, however, did not sit well with the other European Powers. The British railed against us, and our carefully nurtured alliances were severed. War threatened, but we were saved by our control of the Asian trade and by the indecision of the Habsburgs and the French. Eventually the British and Prussians found they would have to face us alone, and this they would not do, for the might of Mother Russia surpassed theirs, and they could not even begin to contemplate an invasion of our vast territory. Is Russia not the world? How do you bring the world to heel?

Even so, we were magnanimous in victory and allowed the British to keep the colony they still maintained in North America, called Canada. We also allowed the anarchists who wished to emigrate to this northern-most colony to do so, and the Powers swallowed their anger and went back to making money, which was their favorite pasttime.

By the year 1900 we controlled all of the North American continent, from what was once called Mexico in the south to Canada in the north: with our newly created American fleet we had put the Canadians in a blockade, and threatened their borders with our brutal tribes, after which they succumbed easily. Twenty years later we dominated the Caribbean as well, and our Chinese subjects, meanwhile, had swarmed across South-East Asia under our command, subjugating the French colonies and more.

Many years earlier our leaders had predicted that a European war would come to end all wars, and once again their wisdom served us well. We were prepared: instead of trading with whoever was convenient at the moment, we had nurtured special ties with the French and the Habsburgs, ensuring that they would stand on our side. When Prussia and Britain deceitfully struck without warning in 1955, and the Ottomans followed suit, we knew we would survive the attack. The industrialized Prussians, however, proved a more ferocious enemy than we had expected, and we had to grant them control over some of our territory in Eastern Europe, swearing at the same time to take it back at the first opportunity. With peace established with Berlin we turned our wrath at the Ottomans, cutting their empire in pieces and sending them down into economic ruin.

The Britons, finding themselves without land on which to place their troops, had to settle for sea battles, and in this area they excelled. Many of our ships were destroyed across the globe: the Englishmen used steam-powered vessels and modern cannon and went to great lengths to satisfy their thirst for vengeance, for we had embarrassed them on two continents -- through the Chinese war and through Canada. However, even this bonfire eventually settled down, and with some concessions in Asia the World War came to an end.

It may seem we came to a standstill, but in fact the War was a great victory: for the first time our territory in Asia and North America was recognized as Russian by all, and the ever-present threat of invasion was forever avoided.

How fantastic are the ways of the Lord! The Jews expelled by our Tsar, vermin who sought refuge in London and other British cities, have now invented a philosophy they call socialism, with which the working classes are turned against their betters. With such a plague within their own borders, not a decade after the end of the War, the island kingdom will soon be as weak as the Japans, and as submissive; of this I am certain.

Today in 1965 we celebrate the centennial of our victory over the United States, and even as I write this the fireworks light up the early evening here on the shores of the Mississippi. Count Borisovich has ordered his cossacks to ride through town in a parade at sunset, and I must join the other officers shortly. A navy steamship will fire a salute, and General Bariatinsky's airships will sail majestically across the sky, a testament to our might and innovation.

Know, my son, that Mother Russia stretches around the globe because it is our destiny to rule the other peoples of this earth. Know that the day will come when all the Powers succumb to our might and humbly give up their colonies to our inevitable onslaught. The War weakened Britain so much that even now India and the land around her is ours for the taking, the moment our Tsar deems it suitable, and there is nothing the cowardly parliament in London can do to stop us. The moment they even whisper of war the masses will start pounding at their door again, led by their Yiddish demagogues, and so the democratic politicians find that democracy has become a noose around the neck of their empire.

But not ours. No, never ours. With a strong Tsar at the helm of all the Russias we seek our destiny, and one day, through the grace of God, we will fulfill it.


All my love,

Your Father,

in the Province of Mississippi, 1965

*S* Thank you! More visions to come.

The Cathar Heresy


August, 1853
Norfolk, Virginia


Geoffrey Hartford held down his head and hurried on as a cold wind swept through the dark streets. In one hand was a walking cane that made a swift, tapping sound against the cobblestones with each step; in the other, a newspaper which he tucked in under his arm.

In his agitated state he took no notice of the other passers-by, never slowing down on his quick walk. Only once was he awakened from his moody thoughts, as a group of Pure Ones passed by, torches in hand. Geoffrey eyed them grimly, their ritual torches and black, simple robes an affront to him. He shook his cane at them, having nearly collided with their leader, and then went on.

He stopped at an old turn-of-the-century building, the facade of which displayed an air of discreet wealth. Knocking on the door he took off his hat, and as the maid opened he spared her scarcely a glance, already hurrying up the stairs to his brother's library, where he threw the door wide open.

"Have you seen this?" he growled, throwing the paper on a dark mahogany table.

"Geoffrey, nice to see you too. Please come in," his younger brother replied sarcastically, stuffing his pipe as he rested comfortably in a chair by the fireplace. "Care for something to drink?"

"I said, have you seen this?" Geoffrey insisted, picking up the paper and shaking it. "That -- that joke Haagen won the election!"

"Of course I have seen it. It's all over town." Franklin Hartford was not one to be rattled so easily, and he calmly took a tentative puff from his pipe, trying its taste. "French tobacco . . . adequate, I suppose, but I rather prefer the Cuban kind." Turning to his brother he continued, "Please, calm down and have a seat. Take off your coat. Yes, the election: it is a bore, but what can you do? He is elected, and that is that."

"That is that? It's a bloody outrage, is what it is! A Cathar in the White House!" Nevertheless Geoffrey took off his coat and sat down, resting his stiff legs. "I never thought I would see the day, but now it has come. This country is going down the river, and I am not planning to stick around to watch it happen. No, I have done my share, and I am tired of it. I won't stay here and wait for the law to come and find me on some trumped-up charge. I am emigrating."

To Geoffrey, it was truly a sad day. The son of a minister he had always been loyal to the Protestant faith, and during his career as an editor of The Virginian he had been actively involved in the religious battles that shook American politics. Catharism, he knew, was an affront to God, and yet for more than a century it had been allowed to spread across the nation, just like it had once engulfed Europe.

"Emigrating? I think you are overreacting, old boy," Franklin replied. "Cathars are fools, but they are sensible fools. Protestantism will survive here; this is not Europe."

Once, the Cathar Heresy had been limited to Languedoc, the southernmost part of France that had been an independent nation during the Middle Ages. There it had lived side by side with the Catholic faith in peace, but after having been prodded by Rome, Louis VIII of France had gathered his forces for a crusade against the heretics. However, in the last moment he had stayed his hand and sought a compromise: the Cathars were allowed to keep practising their faith if they would join France voluntarily, and keep their beliefs to themselves. The Languedocians had agreed, and so the two countries were joined without bloodshed in 1226.

After a few decades the restrictions were lifted, and Cathar societies began to appear all over France and in the Italian states. Two centuries later it competed with Catholicism in terms of strength, and inspired many of the great painters of the Renaissance. Its Gnostic beliefs were exciting: in the Cathar worldview two gods competed for power, and the world was their stage. The Christian god had created Light, but his opponent the Demiurge had locked light in imperfect matter as he created the material world, a prison for men.

Over the centuries Catharism had evolved, and was now emphasizing the rejection of fear, an emotion created by the Demiurge to keep mortals down and prevent them from rediscovering their true power as demigods. Cathar youths could often be seen testing their strength and courage in games such as jumping through fire, climbing walls and mountains, and duelling. A warrior spirit had become fashionable during the Renaissance and stayed with the religion.

An example of this was the Battle of Lissabon, which Geoffrey remembered all too well: his party had called for the immediate sending of troops to relieve the Catholic outpost, but they had lost in Congress. Portugal had gone the same way as Greece and Norway before it, and the price for its resistance had been just as bloody.

"Sensible, I think not," Geoffrey replied. "With their games and madness; how can you call anyone sensible who rejects the Bible?" He shuddered at the thought. Without the Bible, then what was left of Christianity? Without the Holy Script, which the Gnostic leaders accused of being a Catholic forgery, you could twist and turn the religion to suit whatever purposes you desired. Geoffrey was convinced this meant the loss of the gospel of love and mercy, the loss of atonement for sin. Under Catharism, the meek would never inherit the earth.

Franklin stood up and poured himself a glass of brandy from a decanter, then brought a glass for his brother. Geoffrey gratefully accepted it, and they drank in silence. Finally, the younger brother spoke:

"Then where will you go? The French Empire is still holding sway in most of the world. Their Cathar orders are everywhere. You are safer here than in Europe; here, religious freedom is guaranteed. I can regard only Russia as an alternative, but would you really want to live among the Orthodox? In some ways they aren't much better than the Cathars."

Geoffrey shrugged. "At least there I am not known for my views. And I have enough money to settle down somewhere near the Baltic Sea. Yes, I think it would be comfortable enough. Those violent bastards will never get their hands on me, I promise you that." He thought back to his childhood, when Irish Cathars had rioted in the streets, burning the Protestant churches in their way -- no, not only Irish, he reminded himself. There had been many Americans among them as well. And now they were in the majority.

Why were they so violent, so aggressive? They never seemed to forget those early conflicts with the Catholics, before the Mediterranean was won over. To them the whole world was a battleground, or so it seemed. The only non-violent Cathars were the Pure Ones, the baptized preachers who were taken out of the endless cycle of rebirth, destined to go to heaven -- unless they broke the rules, in which case they would go to hell. But as long as you weren't a Pure One you never had to worry about hell, and therefore you could do whatever you wished without fear of retribution. At least that was how Geoffrey interpreted their teachings. Most Cathars simply were baptized on their deathbeds, when there weren't any time left for them to sin, and so they would reach heaven without having had to work for it.

Preposterous!

And yet, that system had pleased far too many. Catholic and Protestant alike had been easily swayed by such a seductive arrangement, which also made sure their soldiers never had to worry about sinning when they slayed and pillaged. In two long wars Britain had held out against Cathar France and Prussia, but eventually they had had to admit defeat, and now France spread the Gnostic belief all over the world. Only in a handful of countries could you still walk down the streets without seeing blackrobes carrying torches, worshipping Light.

The two brothers spoke late into the night, dreaming back to the old days. Geoffrey urged Franklin to come with him many times, but the younger brother would not ask his family to leave their home. And so this proved to be one of the last times they saw each other; the next month Geoffrey left for one of the Protestant enclaves in Russia, and after he had abandoned his home it was bought by a Cathar physician who needed spacious quarters for his many slaves.

Since Cathars regarded both matter and the body as creations of the Demiurge, they considered slavery to be not worse than any other way to spend your time in the worldly prison. In fact, slavery and duels and wars were encouraged, as they strengthened the spirit and made it possible for men to defy the pain, the worries and the fear created by their jailkeeper, as befitted followers of the true faith. Whatever other morality there once had been in the West was now largely swept away, as Gnosticism finally and irrevocably shaped the world in its image.

Truly excellent, Fredrik. You wouldn't be an old "roleplayer" by any chance, would you?

Nordblod, thanks! Yes, an old roleplayer. D&D and later Vampire:the Masquerade, I must admit. I have also written some V:tM short-stories, though these would not be relevant for this forum.

Jarl, I have some fiction posted in the VNN Archive, but some of it disappeared along with many of my other essays when VNN was restructured last fall. I saved them in my own archive, however. Perhaps I could post one or two here; even though they have already been displayed in VNN, that was a long time ago.

Yes, Worth the Price might be worth posting, but then I should post In Their Footsteps first, even though that is not exactly an alternative history story. But the main character in WtP appears as a youth in ITF.

In Their Footsteps


"So, tell me about this dream of yours."

"I don't know how to tell you . . . it was all very strange. It might not come out right."

"Try me," Mike said. He sat down in a greasy couch to listen. Watching Robert acting all confused and puzzled like this, the way he had been all week, convinced Mike that something must be wrong. He knew Robert well: they had been friends since long before high school, and they had remained friends in the following years. Their lives were usually as easy as they could make them; they simply worked when they had to, collected unemployment checks when they were able to get them, counted the hours to the weekends when they would go to a party or hang around the bars, hook up with friends, drink a few beers, chase tail, maybe get into a fight, have some fun. . . . It was a carefree life, with no worries about the future.

Robert was never one to mull things over, but this week had been different. Mike had been working at a gas station for a month now, and Robert, who was currently unemployed, often stopped by at lunch time to talk for a while. This Monday, however, Robert had not showed up. He hadn't tried to contact Mike later in the day either, and the next day had been the same. Today, Wednesday, Mike called his friend, was met with only a vague and reluctant reply, and then decided to find out what was wrong. He went to Robert's apartment, not far from his own, and after a long, forced conversation managed to get to the source of his worries. It was all because of some dream; nothing important. But because it sounded like such an odd explanation, Mike was anxious to hear what the dream was about.

"Well," Robert began, "this dream . . . at first there was this sky . . . filled with gray clouds, and I couldn't see the end of them. It was like a real tough storm. And beneath it was a cold, hard landscape: huge mountains covered in snow, no trees or shrubs or anything. I had the feeling nothing could live there. I also got the feeling I knew where the mountains were . . . the Alps, in the middle of Europe. And a woman was walking across them. . . ."

"A woman?"

"Yes. She was struggling against the wind, and against the snow whipping her face. She wasn't dressed in modern clothing; she wore some kind of animal hide, fur, made into clothes, and boots made in the same material. She had long, flowing hair that was blowing in the wind, and she carried a baby swept in blankets. She had . . . I don't know how to say this, but I knew somehow that she had fled an attack. A hostile tribe had attacked hers, and only she and the son in her arms had been able to survive. She was walking, across the mountains, toward another village built by her people. She was making her escape, under the worst possible conditions. She was starving, and her baby was crying. She was almost blinded by the snow, and the wind, and she was so tired she could hardly keep herself upright. But she still went on." Robert paused.

"I see," Mike said. This was not what he had expected. He had no idea how this could have made his friend isolate himself for three days in a row, or how such a dream could have appeared in his mind at all, but Mike was nevertheless fascinated -- especially since Robert seemed more eloquent now than he had ever been. This had nothing to do with beer or baseball, and still Robert kept talking almost without hesitating. Mike wanted to hear more, and the story went on.

"The woman came to a frozen river, and she knew she had to cross it. But when she took the first steps across the ice it wouldn't carry her, and she went through. Luckily the river was still shallow that close to shore, and she held her son up high, so he would be safe from the water. She tried crossing a bit farther away, and the ice held for her there, but her boots and legs were numb with pain. The cold stung her like spears; that was how she imagined it." He lowered his voice. "It was starting to grow dark, and she had been walking all day. She wasn't sure how much longer she could go on. The village should not be far away, and she knew she had to keep walking until she could reach it . . . for her son's sake. She made her way across the mountains slowly, and with every step she could feel part of her life slipping away. But she would not rest, would not stop for even a minute."

Mike swallowed. "Where was this?" He suddenly felt an urge to know.

"It was in the Alps in southern Germany. A long, long time ago. The woman belonged to one of the first tribes to settle that area . . . I don't know how I know that, but in the dream I just knew. So . . . finally, when the sun had set, she spotted the lights from the village in the distance. It was on lower ground than she had travelled that day, and she could see grass through the snow here and there. She stumbled on, and wanted to cry out to the villagers, but she couldn't. She felt like she was close to passing out. But then one of the men from the village, who were patrolling the surrounding hills, saw her coming and rushed to meet her. He helped her reach shelter, where she was brought to a campfire, and then other men came, and women came to help her with her son. They fed him, and saved his life. They tried to give the mother food too . . . but she couldn't eat." A sense of deep sorrow came over Robert as he remembered the scene. "The last thing she saw was a woman standing over her in the flickering light from the fire, holding her baby in her arms, promising that he would be taken care of by the village. Even though the mother could not speak by then, and had not told them her name, they knew where she came from; they recognized her as one of their own. She died that night, and they buried her. But her son was safe."

Mike said nothing. The room was suddenly very quiet; he had never heard his friend speak with such emotion in his voice before, and never seen him so mesmerized, by anything, as he apparently was by this dream.

"I knew . . . somehow I knew that woman was an ancestor of mine. She and her son were the last survivors of her village, and if she hadn't crossed those mountains I wouldn't exist. But she did. . . . Then, when I woke up, I cried. Tears were streaming down my cheeks and I cried for her, and for me. I cried because she was so strong, and I am not. She gave everything, she gave her life to bring her son to safety. I had never been born had it not been for her. And I have never done anything like that, nothing at all. . . . She knew what she had to do, and she did it. But I have never felt what I need to do. Not once. I have just done what everybody else was doing, more or less, but it's not what I should be doing! It doesn't come from inside!" He clenched his teeth and shut his eyes for a moment. How could he expect to make Mike understand? Mike had not felt the intensity of the dream, how real it was. Robert finished his tale slowly.

"I knew she was better than I am. And her son too. He grew up . . . I knew somehow that he grew up and he was strong like her, like them. He lived for his tribe, and he spent his life doing what they all did: hunting, growing crops, protecting their people, bringing up new children and showing them how to survive. They made sure life would go on. He did more things that mattered in one day than I have done in my whole life." Finally, Robert was silent.

Mike was silent too; he felt his friend's sudden conviction, that something was wrong and that Robert needed to fix it. Mike was more surprised by that conviction, where before there had been none, than he was by hearing of this strange dream.

"You . . . what are you going to do?" he asked.

"I don't know for sure. Not right now. But I am going to do something." Robert looked out the window. "For starters, I am not going with you and the others to the club on Friday. That's just one of the things I have spent too much time doing. No, wasted time doing. I think I'll try to find a new girlfriend, a real good one, and stick with her. Yeah. . . . And I'll make my life simpler from now on, and better. I don't know what it will look like in the end, but it won't be anything like this."

Mike nodded. Even though he wasn't really sure how to reply, he felt that Robert's decision was a good one. And that gave him something to think about too.

"Well. . . ." Mike wanted to make a joke, laugh it all away, but at this moment, seeing his friend like this, he couldn't. It wouldn't be right. "I wish you luck, then."

"Thank you," Robert said, still looking out the window. Mike left, and somehow they both knew they would be seeing less and less of each other from now on.



The next morning, after a mostly sleepless night, Robert walked down the stairs from his apartment, opened the door to the street outside, and watched as the sun rose. It was a beautiful morning. The city was quiet, inviting him to go back to bed, but he knew he had much to do. First of all he would get a job, and then he would take it from there. He stepped out in the street and started walking.

Worth the Price

The hero looked around. This part of the ship's deck was empty, deceptively calm, but he knew that the enemy was closing in. A hatch opened, and he fired in that direction; the hatch quickly slammed shut again. He could hear shouts from a building in the harbor, and he realized that guards would soon be on their way to back up the crewmen. He was running out of both time and ammunition, but he was not prepared to give up just yet.

He ran to shelter and glanced at his watch; five minutes left before the bombs he and comrades no longer alive had set up would go off and blow the ship to smithereens. And him with it, should he remain onboard at that time. He looked out over the ship's railing, down at the dark water, but he realized that a jump would not save him from the shockwaves. His chiseled features tightened in grim determination as he reloaded his automatic weapon for a final stand.

Wait, what was that? The sound of rotor blades above startled him, and he was surprised by the speed at which the enemy had brought in reinforcements. But when he looked up a smile crossed his lips; up there in a stolen police helicopter was his good friend William, looking down at him.

"Quick, grab hold of this!" William shouted, rolling out a rope ladder. The hero fired at an enemy soldier who appeared in a doorway, killed him quickly, and then bravely threw himself through the air to grab hold of the ladder. As the pilot steered the helicopter away from the ship the hero looked at his watch, and then, just as they had reached relative safety, the bombs went off. The ship, a majestic Navy cruiser, was transformed into a ball of fire and molten steel.

William helped him climb onboard the helicopter: "I thought you could use some help, Andy!"

"Willie! I thought you were done for!" Andrew Davis said, shaking his friend's hand. William laughed merrily:

"It will take more than a few ZOG lackeys to kill this old rebel! And I'm glad to see you're alive as well. That was a dangerous stunt, Andy! I came as soon as I heard."

"The show must go on," the hero said dramatically, "and our struggle is far from over. They got Michael, Willie. And they got Caithlin too. Their deaths must be avenged."

"You are right. Where should we go now?" William asked, and Andrew looked out into the distance.

"To Texas," he said finally. "That's where the next battle for our freedom will be fought. We will make our enemies wish they never set foot in America!" William nodded, and the helicopter sped off toward the sunset.

The audience applauded, as was the custom even though the actors in the movie could not hear them. They grabbed their soda cans and popcorn and left as the credits started rolling. Brian Cray, his wife, their three children and his father lined up with the rest and headed for the exit.

"That was great, dad!" Brian's eight-year-old son Matthew chimed. "I wanna be a rebel too!"

"You can't be a rebel, stupid," his older sister corrected him. Only two years older, she nevertheless acted like the boy's mother. "There are no rebels."

"Are too!" her brother said, waving an imaginary gun at her.

"No, there aren't!" she insisted. "Dad, tell him!"

"There are no rebels today, Matthew," Brian said, "but the army was founded by them."

"Can I be a soldier then?" Matthew said. "Like grandpa?" He looked at his grandfather, and the old man harrumphed.

"Bah, the army! A bunch of brats with guns. In my days we didn't even have uniforms, and we weren't pampered like they are today. We had to fight for real, but it was nothing like that!" He waved at the credits rolling by. "Andrew Davis blowing up a ship on his own? Right!"

"Didn't you like the movie?" his son's wife asked him, and the old man shook his head.

"It's no good showing kids that, they have no idea what real war is like. What it was like. A gun in one hand and a woman in the other? Hah!"

"It's only a movie," Brian told his father.

"Nothing is ever only a movie, son. Now, Matthew," the old man went on, turning to the young boy, "if you want to learn real warfare you should go to Europe and join the Legions. They are doing real duty. It would do you good."

The boy shone with anticipation and looked at his father. "Can I go to Europe, dad?"

"No, you can't!" Brian said sternly to the boy, with an annoyed sideway glance at his own father. "You'll stay right here, young man. Move along now." He gave his son a gentle push, and the boy ran to join his sisters ahead.

"Don't tell him things like that," Brian warned the old man. "You'll put bad ideas in his head."

"And that movie didn't? I'm telling you, a couple of years in the Legions would do wonders for the boy when he's in his teens. At the very least he won't have time to watch bad attempts at making a hero out of Andrew Davis."

"Andrew Davis was a hero!" Brian's wife insisted, shocked by the old man's irreverence. It was Victory Day after all; the movie release had been timed for it. "He saved Texas! He fought at Denver!"

"Worst slacker I ever saw," the old man went on, unconcerned by the looks of some of the passers-by as they reached the streets outside. "Cheated at cards, too. It surprised me they never put him behind bars. But then, when your father is one of the leaders of the revolution you get all sorts of privileges." Not much of it was true, but he couldn't stand the idolization of Davis in a trilogy of movies, of which they had now been watching part two.

Brian let the matter drop, knowing that a discussion about the war could go on forever. "Anyway," he said quickly before his wife could speak again, "are you coming with us back home?"

"Nah, I think I'll go for a walk." The older man pointed with his cane down the street, where they had watched a parade pass by a few hours ago. "I'll go buy a newspaper. See you in an hour." And with that he said goodbye to his son and his daughter-in-law and went on his way.


Cont. . . .

Cont. . . .


"Andy Davis, a hero! They'll make movies about anything these days," he muttered to himself, buttoning his coat while walking. A slightly chilly September breeze reminded him that the nights would soon be getting colder. "Next thing you know they'll be making movies about Albertans." He walked down the street heading for the town square, his cane beating at the cobblestones; shrapnel in his hip had made the sturdy cane a necessity many years ago. He had no conscious plan for his stroll, but he soon found that his legs were carrying him toward a familiar monument in one end of the square. It towered over him, a man in a general's uniform smiling into the distance. An ocean of flowers had been placed around its base.

"And you," he said to the statue, "you would have liked that movie, wouldn't you? But he was your son. We forgive our sons anything. It's our fathers we cannot forgive. . . ."

Robert Cray did not like being old, but he accepted it as a fact of life. And generally, life had been good to him. His wife had been a wonderful woman, who had given him many loving years before the cancer took her. They had two sons together, Brian and Arthur, who had both gone to Rockwell to study law. Six grandchildren, with one more on the way. He lived in a peaceful town in a peaceful country on a continent that had hopefully seen its last war. That last one had been enough for a while. In Robert's mind the scenes would never rest: the fires, the screams at night, the blood in the snow where White women and children had been massacred when the rebels had been too late to save them.

"Oh, God. . . ." he muttered as he remembered. Even today, so many years later, the screams of the wounded and dying would not be silent. Anything could bring them back; a book, a name, or this monument.

He looked up once again at Thomas Davis, one of the men who had brought on the war when peace would have meant slow death. A captain turned agitator, and then general in an uprising the like of which had never been seen; a man who had led thousands and inspired millions. Robert Cray had been one of the young men who had followed this leader away from Chicago on a march to Minnesota while civilization staggered and fell around them.

Terrorism, depression, riots, martial law, and a plague spanning a continent -- in a few years the gates to hell had been opened and swallowed entire nations. Finally the war had come, a war of races that many had warned of but few had had the courage to imagine. There were many sides and little organization; many factions that were simply forced to work together by the necessity of the moment. In some places the conflicts had been only sporadic, while in others cities had crumbled to dust.

And so, like a giant finally succumbing to the pain of a long illness, the United States had died. . . .

Robert Cray had lived through it all, and he remembered the anger he had felt back then, even as a young boy in the relatively peaceful nineties. Anger at who? The government, mainly, but also at those who had done nothing to stop the slide toward disaster. Those like his father.

"We were the children of cowards," he told himself now. "They saw it all happen, but they did nothing. They went along . . . went along with it all. We had to pick up the bill." He looked down at the ground and tried to recall when he had last seen his parents. Communications had broken down quickly in his native Chicago, and he had had to make a swift decision: follow the man who promised freedom, or go back home to bondage and relative safety. He had chosen freedom, and his decision turned out to be the right one: soon there had been no safety left anywhere.

"You led us through hell," he told the silent statue, looking up again. "And there was no glamor in it. There had been no glamor before that either. 'White Nationalists' we had called ourselves -- 'racists' said the media. I don't remember any high-sounding oaths, or cheerful jokes, like in the movies today. Nobody was itching to die for the cause. We didn't know what would happen; we despaired. We wanted the war, but couldn't imagine what it would be like. Most of the time it looked like we were losing." He thought of the first part of the trilogy about the young Andrew Davis, a movie where White Nationalists had gathered in secret to prepare a revolution. They had all been full of confidence on the screen, and the only doubter had turned out to be a traitor who was killed at the end. The old man shook his head.

"We all had doubts," he told the granite general. "It wasn't just the evil traitors who left. Many good men quit because they couldn't handle the pressure. People on the streets didn't smile at us, didn't nod in secret confidence; that scene about a family hiding Andrew from the police, that's bull. They hated us . . . our own kind did . . . and . . . that was worse than anything else. . . ." A name and a face came back from the recesses of his mind, a young woman who he had loved and been loved by in return. They had been engaged, but she couldn't take the pressure, couldn't handle his fighting for a cause that seemed to be doomed from the start. That was long before any armed conflict had begun. If only they had known!

A young boy and girl passed by, hand in hand, and they smiled at him. Robert smiled back. The boy, seventeen, looked strong and promising in his Sunday suit; the girl was beautiful in her long, sleek dress. Kids from the neighborhood; he knew their parents. They took for granted what had been called "extremism" when Robert was their age, and when they watched the movies or read the novels about those dark, final years they couldn't possibly know, couldn't possibly feel the fear all Whites had felt back then. When a war is long since over and you read about it, when you know how it is going to end, you have already lost the most important ingredient for understanding what it was like: that crippling uncertainty where the future is a black hole about which you know nothing.

That was what had cost them so many before the war started, Robert thought. Not knowing if you would win or lose was a far bigger drawback for recruitment than the anti-White laws. People are, paradoxically, prepared to do anything for a cause they know is going to prevail, but they will do much less for a cause the future of which is uncertain.

"Perhaps that's why you were successful," Robert said to the statue of Thomas Davis. "Not because you were a mean old bastard who chewed grenades for breakfast. Not because your son was a superhero, which he sure wasn't . . . even though he had his good moments, I suppose. But you told us we would win, and you made us believe you. It's all in the presentation, eh, you son of a bitch? How many died under your command? But they died willingly, 'cause they knew they would be remembered as heroes. Because that's what you told them. Well, you had to do it, and you saved us. I don't care for those other leaders much; you were the first, and you showed the results that made the rest follow. So I suppose I should salute you." He brought his cane up, and its handle touched the side of his forehead. He smiled, even as tears threatened to well up in his old eyes. The memories of the dead were still hard to handle.

Robert leaned on his cane again and paused for a while, listening to the sound of laughter and light conversation emanating from a coffee shop not far away. Above him the general was smiling in a way Robert knew had been characteristic, making him wonder who had made this monument. "You made it possible for me to go home and enjoy the dinner my son's wife has prepared today. No one is starving anymore. It's the results that matter, right? I just wish more people could have known it was worth the price; we would have had more people on our side then from the beginning. Well . . . sleep tight, wherever you are."

Heaven must be too calm for a man like General Thomas Davis; he was probably down in hell right now, his son by his side, sending his troops out to destroy some remaining knot of demon resistance. Robert chuckled at the thought, as he left the town square in Jefferson City to join his own son and his family. It was a peaceful evening.

Those stories are absolutely amazing. :)

I love to read them. Who knows, those universes may actually exist.

Good historians like Livius and David Irving use alternative history to make points clear about Real History.

Mining in Sunland


Chapter 1


The mansion, like everything else on the island, was built in a sturdy, practical fashion and was decorated in Gothic style, as befitted an American governor's home in the late 19th century. The garden that led up to it seemed to be taken care of by men who had a passion for their work: Brian Jennings could tell that many of the flowers and plants were imported from Europe, but room had also been set aside for a local flora that he was not able to classify.

"This way, sir," the valet said, and Jennings followed him from the gates up to the main entrance behind tall marble pillars, above them dragons watching the garden from every corner of the roof, their grins predatory. Heavy oak doors swung open and revealed an interior with all the luxuries of modern life: plush, soft carpets, flowing silk curtains covering the windows, paintings of generals and other prominent party members that Jennings only recognized vaguely. He was led upstairs where the valet knocked on a door, opened it and showed him inside. "Mr. Brian Jennings, sir, " the valet announced before he closed the door and disappeared.

"Ah, Mr. Jennings! I am pleased to see you at last. Did you have a pleasant journey?" The voice was rich and friendly, and went well with the man behind the desk: a broad-shouldered, athletic giant with a sparkle in his eyes, dressed in a semi-military grey suit. A panel on his mahogany desk announced him as Governor Edward Stark.

"Yes, thank you." Jennings stepped forward and shook the hand that was offered him, then turned to shake hands with the other two men in the room, who the governor presented as Dexter Cunnington and Thomas Boswell: "Mr. Cunnington and Mr. Boswell represent the local traders; I thought they should be present at this meeting as your visit here affects them. Hopefully," Stark added.

"Yes, let's hope," Jennings said, and took in the three men, all of them middle-aged and hardened by the seasons. All of them wearing a small, five-edged star attached to their ties, and no doubt their cufflinks as well. Look at that, Jennings thought: I'm the only commoner in the room. Then he looked back at Stark, and the governor's discreet smile said he had seen right through the younger man.

"I am sorry I could not meet you myself, but I was busy with paperwork. I hope the hotel is to your liking."

"It is, thank you, sir." Jennings gratefully took an offered seat and placed next to him the briefcase that he had carried ever since he left the ship: his other luggage had been transported directly to his hotel, but he was eager to show his new employer his plans for the mining process.

"So, what do you think of the island so far?" Stark asked, offering Jennings a cigar which he turned down.

"Well, it is . . . nice, and big," Jennings said, and Stark nodded and brought out whiskey instead.

"Yes, a very nice place: the trees are green and the fishing is great, and the children like it. But we've been out here for six years and the only ones who are making a decent profit are the hookers." He chuckled. "Don't look so shocked, Mr. Jennings, we are not always very formal out here. Dexter, will you explain the situation to our guest?"

"My pleasure." Dexter Cunnington cleared his throat and leaned forward in his armchair to take an offered glass of whiskey. "As the governor said, Sunland was finally cleared from its natives six years ago, when we transported them to the Chinese mainland. After that we proceeded to build a standard colony, and it was the party's intention that the island would be a self-supportive community of forty thousand within fifteen years, at the turn of the century. However, less than a quarter of that number live here now, as we have run into some difficulties."

"What kind of difficulties?" Jennings asked, accepting a glass.

"First of all, it seems people are more eager to settle down in our southern colonies. South of North America, that is. You have been to Panama, I understand?"

"Yes, Cuba and then Panama, to assist at new mining sites. They are called Merideen and Wellington now."

"So you speak Spanish?"

"Spanish? No," Jennings replied. "It's all been cleared, only Americans that far north."

"Ah," the trader nodded. "It seems I have been away from the world longer than I thought. Well, since you have lived there you know it's good land for farming and the like, and it's closer to home for our settlers. That's the first problem for us out here, which also leads to the second problem, namely that it's damn near impossible to make the party invest in this island. We need prospectors of many kinds, but what with the military operations and everything, things have more or less been laid on ice for a while. Yes?" he added, sensing that Jennings had a question.

"Um, forgive me, but don't your corporations. . . ." he hesitated for a moment, and Cunnington filled in:

". . . .have their own people, their own equipment? Of course, but they are busy. And you need to understand, Mr. Jennings, that modern business has to adapt to certain arrangements. The state has deemed it fit to supply certain necessities for the main corporations, to prod them in certain directions, and that creates the side effect that if you would invest in said necessities yourself, you would be at a disadvantage compared to your competitors."

"Damn impractical, if you ask me," Boswell filled in, tugging absent-mindedly at his brown whiskers. "We'd be better off if nobody was favored, everybody left to care for what they need on their own. Things'd move a lot faster."

"Maybe you're right, Thomas," Stark replied, "but let's not have that discussion again." Turning to Jennings, "To put it shortly, you and the men you've brought are more than welcome here. The mineral searchers we had pointed us in the right direction, but we need your expertise to get the mining started. I hear you're the best, or at least one of them."

"I don't know about that," Jennings said modestly. "I have studied the new techniques in California, spent a year east of Angel City with Dr. Tennyson. He is the leading voice in the field of mineral engineering. In fact, he is the one you'd want if you want the best, but I will do what I can."

"That's all we ask," the governor said. "No, now that I think of it, we really ask for success. Sunland needs to get a jumpstart right now."

"I understand. Why do you call it Sunland, if I may ask?" The sky had been clouded as Jennings arrived, not particularly sunny.

"I think it was Captain Ashley's idea, the man who discovered the island. East of the Eurasian landmass, where the sun rises, you understand? He was British. The natives used to call it Taiwan, whatever that means." He paused, then, "Have you ever seen any raceless, Jennings?"

The younger man found the question curious. "I saw some Negro in a circus once. . . ."

Stark nodded. "Well, what we have here are Chinese, a world apart from the Negro. Not really savages, but strange enough fellows. You won't find any of them on the island -- it's cleared and ready -- but I might arrange for you to come with us to a meeting with them some day."

Jennings was intrigued, though a little disturbed, by this information. "You, you have contacts with them, then?"

"Sometimes. The British even used to trade with them, back in the old days. But we negotiate with them about land, them and the Japanese. You see, there was a time when England had plans to help the raceless modernize, so they could sell them manufactured goods and the like, and so they allowed them to stay on a few islands that we want. But we'll get those, and then the mainland." He smiled. "You'd better take a look at the Chinese while there's still a chance."

Chapter 2


Jennings looked up at a hot summer sun, glad there was some shade to be found near a cluster of trees on a small hill. Below him a team of forty men were busy erecting buildings and digging a road. The worksite was located next to a small mountain, which according to his calculations and hopes should yield a decent harvest of minerals for years to come. Dynamite had already been used to blast open small tunnels in a number of locations, to provide samples of what the mountain had to offer.

He studied his map again, making small-talk with the stout foreman who had come with him on the ship. This region, close to the colony, was rocky and in many places difficult to cross, so they would have to dig new roads, which was what the team of laborers was currently busy doing. Jennings was eager to have it all done so the real exploration could start.

The sound of horses came from the distance, and Jennings looked up from his map to see a horsecart turning a corner, heading for the digging site. He imagined it would be Cunnington or the governor come to find out how the work was progressing, and was surprised to see the driver help a young woman down the short steps as the cart came to a halt. Her chestnut-brown hair fell in neatly arranged curls over her slender shoulders, and the beauty of her petite frame was enhanced by a light blue dress and matching hat. She opened up an umbrella and waved to him as he approached her, handing the map to the foreman.

"Mrs. Stark, welcome! I am surprised to see you here," he greeted her. Marilyn Stark smiled at him and spun the umbrella slowly between her fingers.

"Charmed, I'm sure. I wanted to see how you were doing out here all alone, Mr. Jennings. Rumor has it these hills are full of wolves, and worse. I was worrying." Her eyes twinkled as he kissed her gloved hand.

"There is no need to worry, I am quite safe here. As you can tell I am hardly alone," he replied, nevertheless grateful for her company: she was of an age with him, many years younger than her husband, and a welcome interruption on any workday.

"Well, that is good to hear. But I also wanted to bring you a message from my husband; he was going to send it with one of his brutish soldiers, but I thought you might want to ride with me and talk for a while."

"Ride where?" he asked, and she smiled.

"Why, to the port! You see, there are going to be negotiations with the Chinamen, and Edward says you have never seen any raceless before. He was hoping you would like to come along. And I was hoping the same." She looked up at him expectantly, her eyes intelligent, her smile demure, and suddenly a voice inside him warned of danger. There was only one possible answer:

"Of course. Let me just get my coat."

Once in the cart on their way to Adelaide, the main town in the colony, Marilyn questioned him on his travels in the Caribbean, and he found himself eager to hold her interest.

"And you have been to Washington City too, I hear?" she asked.

"Yes, a few times," he replied, wondering how it was that every inhabitant of this island knew everything about him. Information about the newcomer travelled quickly, it seemed. "My uncle is a senator, and I have visited him on occasion."

"That is so exciting! What is it like?" Marilyn asked, moving imperceptibly closer to him.

Brian thought for a moment. "Well, it is different. Very imposing, with all the buildings . . . the architecture. You get the feeling, sometimes, that it is the center of the world." He remembered the heavy gothic and Roman buildings, the gargoyles keeping watch from the rooftops, the tall valves and the gates and the monuments over the heroes of the empire, from Washington and onward. Nowhere on earth had he felt so small, and as they entered the town and passed by the Ashley's Club for Gentlemen, strictly for party members only, he lamented the fact that he was merely a commoner.

Ah, but isn't your uncle a party member, and don't you have a bright future? he asked himself. Don't you have the chance to excel in your field, with your talent and with the new sciences you have studied so early in their making, so that you may one day apply for membership and have a fair chance of obtaining it? Isn't that why you sought work so far out in the empire, in the hope of striking gold so to speak, and have fortune and fame come your way? Perhaps this colony is the answer: perhaps, because of your findings, it will be the next Alaska, though without the penal colony.

The thought warmed him, and he smiled. Marilyn interpreted the smile as a sign the polite man was finally lowering his defenses, and their knees touched briefly. Her subtle perfume made him lose his line of thought. "It is so nice to have a man of the world to talk to, and a man of my own age," the young woman said. "Brian -- can I call you Brian? And you must call me Marilyn."

"Well . . . of course," he replied, surprised.

"Good! Brian, I enjoy going on these sea trips when the weather is fair like today, but I enjoy it especially now that you will be with us. Perhaps afterward you will accept an invitation to dine with us at the mansion? Please do!"

Again, there was only one possible answer.

Chapter 3


Shortly after the defeat of the British in 1781 George Washington had reluctantly complied to the urgings of his officers and made himself military dictator, in order to safeguard the spirit of the Revolution. Upon his death eighteen years later his successor, General Williams, had formed the Patriot Party to make the revolutionnary cause of independence forever the cause of governance: his words, "only the strong can be free," became a leading star of the nation.

It was recognized that the party built on Voltaire's ideas but also surpassed them, inventing the perfect method to run state affairs by the merger of the three forms of governance: military, civilian, and democracy. Now the governors and senators assumed responsibility for the armed forces necessary for defense and expansion, thereby gaining a rough warrior spirit often lacking in civilians. Full democracy was recognized as a folly, while power would neither be left in the hands of one man alone: instead the party would see to the weaning and education of the country's leaders, accepting only the best and most successful members of society among its ranks. The Patriot Party became an oligarchy of the elite.

Brian Jennings thought of this as he looked out over the sea from the deck of The Albigensian, the flagship of the small fleet stationed at Adelaide harbor. Behind him the words "Be Strong" were painted in bold letters above the steamship's two main cannons, reminding him of the history and philosophy of the empire: that only through strength can you be free, and only by constant expansion and innovation can you remain strong in a world of conquerors. Those who failed to learn that lesson, so it was said, would soon perish from the earth and see all their creations turned to dust.

The American Empire would never turn to dust.

"Isn't it lovely?" Marilyn Stark said, holding his arm. "The oceans are so wild, so . . . exciting. Don't you think?"

"Yes, quite," Jennings replied. He had promised the governor to keep an eye on his wife while she was on deck, as the governor and his officers were busy preparing the coming meeting with the Chinese mandarin. Chinese pirates had fallen upon American fishermen, for the third time this year, and despite frequent urgings the Middle Kingdom had failed to take care of the threat. The Patriot Party at Sunland had now decided to wipe out the pirate fleet -- for it was a fleet, and a dangerous one -- on their own, by the patrolling of Chinese coasts in search of secret ports. The nearby British colony at Hong Kong had offered to assist, and so their governor was onboard The Albigensian today as well.

"Mrs. Stark," Jennings said to the young woman beside him, "may I ask you a question of a private nature?"

"Why, of course," she smiled at him. "What is it you want to ask?"

"I was just wondering how a woman such as yourself have found herself out here. The governor told me you had not met each other when he assumed responsibility for the colony."

"Oh, you see, I followed my father here from Haven. Your ship stopped there for supplies, no doubt? Father was working for Mr. Boswell's company, in accounting; I was his only child, and my mother died when I was little. Then two years ago Father fell ill . . . and he never recovered. I was left alone." Her gaze was far away for a moment, lost in the memory. Then she turned to Jennings again: "However, the governor was kind enough to take care of me, and he proposed last year. I was happy to accept."

"I see." Then it made some more sense, Brian thought: why they had not had any children yet, and why Marilyn seemed, sometimes, to grow weary of her husband. But he had no more time to think of the matter before a Chinese ship was sighted, and a signal brought the party dignitaries on deck.

"There it is, Mr. Jennings," Stark said, as his wife left the engineer to stand by her husband. He had put on his most formal attire for the occasion, a white uniform showing him to be a colonel of the 2nd grade; the lowest rank required for a governor, but a high rank for any 42-year-old. "The first alien ship for you. It looks curious, what?"

Jennings nodded; the Chinese junk did indeed look odd, and he couldn't take his eyes off it as they approached.

The Chinese themselves turned out to be both a disappointment and a surprise. To his dismay they lacked bright yellow skin and teeth like sugar bits, but on the other hand nothing could have quite prepared him for the feeling of standing so close to a whole group of the raceless, with little in between for protection.

He eyed them with badly hidden curiosity. They were dressed in flowing, multi-colored robes, and some of them wore decorated sheaths protecting their long nails. They did indeed have slanted eyes, though you could still see their dark pupils. In a show of generosity Governor Stark had offered them to partake in a dinner of steak and turkey, which they had declined, and now they were sitting uneasily at the other side of a negotiation table, watching the Americans watching them.

The interpreter, a young British clerk, spoke: "Sir, the emperor's envoy, his exalted grace Mandarin Yu, bids you to explain again how it is we are certain the attacks were carried out by Chinese pirates, and not Occidental ones." The clerk was obviously strained to form the right words, but he carried out his job competently. Aside from Jennings, the Chinese and the guards he was the only man in the room who did not wear a party needle: the British Governor Bartlett of Hong Kong wore the lion of the British crown, and Jennings remembered that in the many wars of Europe the American States had always favored the side closest to its own worldview, so that now the philosophy of Patriotism was accepted as the guiding principle of civilized governance everywhere. If there had also been a representative from French Indo-China in the room, he would no doubt have worn a lily attached to his tie or buttonhole.

Marilyn Stark was not present at the negotiations, and suddenly Brian Jennings envied her, for the presence of so many raceless in the room -- five of them -- made him uncomfortable. Nevertheless he realized it was an honor to be given the chance to witness the meeting.

The governor was slightly annoyed. "We have already told him there were plenty of witnesses on the first two occasions, and the third was carried out in the same manner and in the same area as those first two attacks. And there is no such thing as Western pirates. Tell him that we have been patient thus far, but our patience has a limit." He drank from a cup of tea on the table as the Englishman translated.

"The mandarin says . . . he says no Chinese pirates would be able to venture that far into our waters without detection, for the emperor's fleet is everywhere. He also says that they will take care of the problem and we need not worry."

"That's what they said last time!" Cunnington retorted, annoyed by the stale air in the room and the smell of the aliens. As main trader and owner of one of the sunk fishing boats, he had naturally been invited to the meeting, and Boswell had come along as well in order to keep an eye on his competitor and because he was curious. He had been allowed to do so since it was always good to appear with a large delegation before the Chinese, and because everybody liked Boswell.

"True, he did," Edward Stark agreed. To the translator he said, "Tell the mandarin we will go after the pirates on our own all the same. If they wish to assist us they may do so, but we will not wait for them to be ready. He would be wise to provide us with the maps we have asked for, so that we will not destroy any legal ports by accident. We are only looking for the pirates' nest. This time."

"Mr. Stark, if I may offer an opinion," Governor Bartlett said, clearing his throat. "It may not be to our advantage to anger the mandarin at this point, as his assistance could indeed speed up the search most efficiently. Also, some of our colonies on the coast are poorly defended for the moment, I'm afraid, at least considering the size of the pirates we are dealing with. This is why it might be a good idea to make use of the mandarin's aid in locating the pirate nest from the landside, and then strike when his sources tell us the bulk of their fleet is gathered in one place. That way we limit the risk of repercussions." He adjusted his glasses and looked at the mandarin, then back to the Americans again.

"That is not going to happen," Stark said.

"It is the firm opinion of the British Empire that. . . ."

"No matter," Stark interrupted calmly, knowing that he represented a hundred million Americans who were the world. "It is the opinion of the American States that this matter be dealt with swiftly. The mandarin and his delegation are obviously stalling, as always. Whether or not you have made the required arrangements for your outposts on the coast is not of our concern, but all the same I promise you we will deal these pirates such a blow that they will never be able to threaten either your interests, or ours, ever again."

A short break in the negotiations was declared soon thereafter, and Jennings was grateful to follow the other Americans to the fore of the ship's deck, while the British governor was talking with his aides in private.

"Well, what do you think?" Stark asked the engineer, lighting a cigar.

"About the Chinese?"

"Them, and the negotiations."

"It is rather tedious, isn't it? I mean . . . well, I'm not used to diplomacy, but it seems we are using up more time for the discussions than what should be necessary."

Boswell chuckled at that. "Right you are, lad! If it were up to the Chinese we would still be eating prawns and discussing what color the tablecloth should be. You have to be firm with the heathen, always."

"And with the British," Dexter Cunnington nodded. "I don't give much for their governor, he seems to be in over his head out here."

"I agree," Stark said. "And yet we must deal with them, for the time being, as the party still has not committed enough manpower to our corner of the world." The traders grumbled.

"How is it that the British clerk speaks Chinese?" Jennings asked. "He has not lived among them, has he?"

"No," Stark replied, "the Chinese live among the British, not the other way around. They keep them as servants in Hong Kong."

"They do?" Jennings was surprised. "Isn't that against the law?"

"Against our law, yes, not theirs. Not yet anyway, although it is certainly frowned upon by many. The British have been around the raceless far longer than we have, and they have grown comfortable relying upon them for cheap manual labor. A mistake we have not made, as it would be a crime against independence. You notice," he continued, "how they even keep the alien names for their colonies: Hong Kong, Singapore and so forth. They would have seen no reason why Sunland and Haven should not have remained 'Taiwan' and 'Hawaii.' Even after all this time they still have a lot to learn from us. Sometimes we have more in common with the Prussians and Russia."

"But . . . then why did we fight side by side with Britain against Prusso-Austria?" Jennings was confused.

"Correction, it was only Prussia. They had not merged with Austria yet. And at the time the British Patriot Party had just been formed, with our help, while the Prussians remained monarchists. Today, if another war would break out . . . who can say?" He looked out over the Pacific Ocean, then turned to the young engineer again. "But one thing is certain: some time in the future Hong Kong will also be ours, and cleared, and colonized. Either through purchase or other means."

He said it with a calm finality. Jennings did not doubt for a moment that it was true.

When the others went back below Jennings stayed on deck with Marilyn. They took a walk along the railing, and the small woman raised her umbrella to protect her from the sun.

"Brian," she began, "do these political dealings intrigue you?"

"Not as much as they do Cunnington and Boswell," he admitted, and she smiled.

"Those two love to be where deals are made. But I admire your work more. You build something, something tangible." He thanked her, and she went on. "Perhaps you would let me visit you out there in the wild every now and then, and bring something for you to eat? I know you already have company, but I do not, not always. My husband is very busy with his work, running the colony and all. Very busy." The last she said looking directly at him. "Of course," she added when he hesitated, "noone would like to cause unwarranted gossiping among the servants, but we need not worry about that. A driver is very loyal to the woman who runs the household which employs him, if the woman is strong enough. Do you think I am strong enough, Brian?"

"I think you are," he said.

Chapter 4


Five months later Brian Jennings was sipping from a cocktail in the garden behind the governor's mansion. Dinner guests were milling around, and many were congratulating him on his successful work for the colony. "Damn good job," Cunnington had said, "I think you've given this island the boost we needed to place it on the map, what?" There had been a toast for him at the dinner, and he had felt both embarrassed and proud.

The mining enterprise turned out to have much more profitable prospects than what had first been hoped for, and it would provide well-needed jobs for the colony. Its investors were Cunnington & Sons and the governor himself, who would now stand to profit admirably, but it also meant growth and therefore opportunities for all Sunland dwellers. "It is not enough to feed forty thousand," Jennings had said, to which Cunnington had replied, "No, but it is enough to make the party open its eyes to our demands, and that will go a long way. The island can feed forty thousand, if they will only find their way here."

I hope they will, Jennings thought.

"Mr. Jennings, come hither!" a friendly voice called now; Boswell was waving to him from a gathering of the most influential traders. "We would like to hear the opinion of our chief engineer."

"Certainly. On what?" Jennings approached them.

"On politics, of course! Same old, same old. Have you read the newspapers from Haven? That bastard Senator Akins has suggested raising the income tax! Have you heard of something so absurd, what? General Williams said it was never to rise above ten percent, so ten percent is where it stays." They all nodded.

"He is only a senator though," Tweed, a younger trader chimed in, "and he may be influential, but the Senate is still only an advisory body, never forget that. And he'll never be part of the High Council no matter how much he wishes it so."

"Well, if he does get in, then I suggest mob rule and a hanging!" They all promised to lend a hand.

"Right, that was taken care of quick enough," Boswell went on cheerfully. "But then there's the matter of vitality, what? Seems there's been another round of editorials about it in Washington."

"Didn't you talk of vitality earlier, Martin? What do you say?" Tweed turned to Martin Long, a burly man with a thick beard.

"I say the party needs vitalization, yes. One way could be through what Senator Shannon has suggested, that we'd have two sides in the party taking turns to be in power two years each. Then the following four years would go to the side that wins a general election among the commoners, who will reward the factions in accordance with their performances."

"Sounds like a recipe for civil war!" Tweed laughed. "Or the factions would just agree not to change so much when it's their turn, since they will soon find themselves on the receiving end of the stick."

"Well, that's all hypothetical anyway, since it's against the directives of General Williams," a fourth trader said, whose name Jennings had forgotten. "But perhaps some way of seeking the commoners' counsel would be in order sometimes. Perhaps . . . picking a few souls at random every now and then, hear what opinions they have?" He chuckled. "What do you say, Mr. Jennings?"

They all turned to look at Jennings who clenched his jaw, hating the attention.

At that moment Marilyn swept up to them, and took him by the arm. "There you are!" she said, and to the traders, "You mustn't keep our chief engineer all to yourselves. I wish to have a word with him. Mr. Jennings, have I shown you my roses?"

He put down his glass on a nearby table and they walked away, out into the vast garden.

"Thank you," Jennings said.

"I thought you might need to get away for a while." She led him through an opening in a tall hedge, toward an arrangement of bright, red roses. "What do you think of these? I have tended to them myself, learned how to make use of the climate out here."

"They are beautiful," he said quietly, looking at her.

She moved closer to him. Their hands touched.

"Brian. . . ." she said, lowering her gaze.

"Marilyn, I am leaving."

She gasped and looked up at him. "You . . . leaving? What for? You cannot leave! You . . . you're the chief engineer!"

"My work here is finished. I have taught the men what to do, the enterprise can go on without me now. I have done what I was hired for, and there is no reason for me to stay. I . . . am sorry," he went on. "I don't want to leave you here."

"Then don't. Stay! Or let me come with you."

For a moment he said nothing, stunned by her straightforwardness. For the past few months they had met often, and come to have feelings for each other, yet taken great care not to show what they felt in public. His longing for her sometimes pained him intensely, and he had suspected, had hoped, she felt the same. Now it was confirmed.

She had a legal right to a divorce. Theoretically. And if they went east and never ventured out into the Pacific again they might even escape her husband's wrath. But did he want to betray a man who had trusted him?

"Marilyn, we can't. You are married, and. . . ."

"I can get a divorce."

"Yes, but then you have to talk to your husband. You cannot run away with me." He held her hands, pulled her close. Her eyes shone with the light of the moon. "You must think of his reputation, you owe him that. I owe him that. Do not let it be said that his wife ran away with an employee."

She let go of his hands, shook her head slowly. "Don't you want me? I want you, Brian. I want to go with you away from this island, back home. Please take me there." Her eyes pleaded with him, and his heart ached.

He looked away. She stood still for a moment, and then the many layers of skirts under her dress rustled like soft leaves in the wind, when she hurried away into the dark.

When Jennings came back to the mansion he was met by Edward Stark, who was drinking slowly from a glass of brandy, watching him. "Mr. Jennings, I have been looking for you," he said in a polite voice, but his eyes were thoughtful. "Come, have a drink with me."

Jennings gratefully accepted a glass and drank from it, a little more than he had planned to. The governor led him inside the house, through a crowd of guests who had gathered in the main salon, chatting and laughing loudly.

"I have thought of your future," the older man said. "You will be leaving us soon, won't you?"

"Yes." Jennings nodded. "I only have a few things left to take care of. I'll be leaving with the next boat."

"It's a shame, we have grown accustomed to having you here. I know my wife is fond of your company." Jennings felt his cheeks redden slightly, but the governor went on: "But all good things must come to an end, don't they? I would like to thank you again for your work here. I truly believe America has a grand future in Asia, and this island is our stepping stone like Hong Kong could have been Britain's. We only needed that boost to our economy, which you have given us."

"I am glad I could be of help," Jennings replied.

"You have been, and now I would like to help you." They stopped and turned to face each other. "Your uncle is a senator, isn't he?"

"He is, sir," Jennings said, wondering where this was leading.

"So he is a party member. He would vouch for you should you ever apply for membership, wouldn't he?"

"Perhaps he would . . . yes," the engineer replied, surprised. "But . . . that would not be any time soon. I mean, if I wanted to be a member that would be years into the future, after a lot of hard work."

"And I have no doubt you could do it, and better than most. I have seen you at work. But you would need at least one more sponsor, someone high up. A lot of people are applying for membership these days, too many, and the party is raising the bar."

"It is?"

"Oh yes," Stark assured him. "But if you excel in your special line of work, which is important to us, you would find much less obstacles in your way to membership with a senator as your sponsor . . . and a governor."

For the second time this evening, Jennings monentarily felt himself at a loss for words. Joining the party was a life-long dream, the membership opening doors to new opportunities, new status. He would be part of the force which steered America on its course, part of history. He had always felt a sting of bitterness at the thought of how his father had been content to live his life as a mere teacher, while his uncle had worked hard to find wealth, join the party and buy his way into the Senate. Jennings wanted his uncle's kind of life.

"Sir, I don't know what to say."

"Don't worry, you'll think of something before you leave," Stark chuckled. Then his smile vanished slowly. "You know, Jennings, we all have to make choices in our lives. And we all have dreams. We just have to make sure we make the right choices, so we fulfill the dreams that are within our reach. And leave the rest behind us. You understand?"

"Yes . . . I understand." He wondered if the governor suspected anything, and then, suddenly, he was sure of it and cursed himself for being so careless. And yet, the older man could have crushed him in any number of ways, still could, but had chosen not to. Because of the service Jennings had done to his island. "Thank you."

They left each other, and for a while each was lost in his own thoughts.

Chapter 5


Thomas Boswell's office was located at the top floor of a noisy factory in Adelaide Harbor. It was not as spacious as Jennings would have expected, but comfortable, with large windows overlooking the streets in two directions.

"Welcome, welcome!" Boswell said, rising from behind a desk cluttered with documents. "Come to say goodbye, have you?"

"Yes." Jennings shook the older man's hand. "The ship is leaving within the hour."

"Well, it's a bloody shame, we're fond of you here. Your mine and my factory are what is keeping the colony afloat, what?"

"Cunnington might have something to object to that," Jennings smiled.

"Details, details! He deals with ships and unholy business deals that will get him in trouble when he stands before the Pearly Gates. You and I, we create something lasting. I'm surprised he decided to invest in your project, though I'm glad he did."

"I think the governor encouraged him."

"Yes, yes, he can be very persuasive. Is the governor coming to the harbor to wave you off? Would you like something to drink, by the way?"

"No, thank you. No, he is busy, but I said goodbye to him earlier."

"Yes, always busy, that man. Like me. Damn fine man, too. Did you know his wife died in childbed three years ago?"

"She did?" Jennings was surprised.

"Yes. Noone really talks about it, out of respect for him. He loved Anna more than anything, and when he lost her and the baby we didn't think he would be able to go on. Had some rough times, he did. But you have seen him now; I think Marilyn has done wonders for him. She is a marvellous girl, don't you think? Her father used to work for me, you know."

"She is," was all Jennings could say.

The sun stood high in the sky as he left the factory, taking one last look at the growing town which he knew he would never visit again. Whatever destiny the future held in store for Sunland he would only watch it from afar.

The ship was a giant merchantman, one of the proud ocean travellers that had helped make the American States the world's leading economic power. When Jennings was almost onboard a horsecart came rushing down the street, and he recognized it as belonging to the governor. As soon as it came to a halt Marilyn Stark opened the door, walking toward him with hurried steps.

"Marilyn," he greeted her. She was beautiful in a green dress, her long curls perfect, but pain was visible in her eyes.

"Brian, are you really leaving?" She stopped close to him, and he could smell the sweetness of her perfume, a scent he would always associate with her.

"Yes. You know I am."

"Please, Brian, take me with you! We could be happy together. I could make you happy, you know I could."

"I know, but what about your husband?" He did not like to see her like this; she looked lost, like a shipwrecked soul, and he held her shoulders gently to give her comfort.

"I will divorce him, he will understand. I will write letters and explain. Please, if I have a future it is with you, not here." Her eyes and lips pleaded with him, and for a brief moment he allowed himself the luxury of imagining what it would be like: mere moments later they could be onboard, and within a year they could be husband and wife. . . .

He took in the beauty of her features, imprinting them in his memory forever. He would not see her again.

"I cannot. You cannot. You have duties, not only to yourself but to others. And so do I. No matter how hard it may feel sometimes, our own happiness has to stand back for that which is more important." His words sounded hollow in his own ears, but he knew them to be true. "Marilyn, I am sorry. I can't take you with me."

She cried softly, pleaded with him, and he hugged her gently and then stepped onboard. As the ship sailed away he did not look back.

For the length of his journey, to Haven and then to California, Brian Jennings thought of Marilyn, and of the island he had left behind. He wondered if he had made the right decision, and repeated that last moment in the harbor over and over in his mind. But in the end, after many hours of soul-searching, he knew his decision had been the right one: whatever desires he had must not be allowed to lead him astray. Aside from the honor involved, his and that of Marilyn and Edward Stark, there was also the colony to think of: a colony with boundless potential, that needed the right governance now and in the coming years, if America was to stand strong in Asia and take over the reins from the weaker convictions of the British Empire. The decision he had made was not only for his own benefit or even for those he left behind at Sunland, but for his people.

It was not the greatest contribution that had ever been made, he knew that. But every man had to do what he could, and this time Brian Jennings had done his part. And so headed for home.


~FIN~

Very interesting, Fredrik. Quite the furtive imagination you have, indeed. I particularly enjoyed this Russian scenario. Pray tell, where/who did the Tsar's force strike first? Did the South already lay prostrate prior to this perfidious act upon our Republic?

Those links, suffice it to say, certainly have some rather "unique" authors. For example:

Stalin's in Chicago
©1996 By Marty Busse


This rather tacky tourist trap showcases life in Chicago during the mayoral term of Joseph Stalin. (1930-1953.) Many of the famed events from Stalin's mayoralty are shown here, as well as reconstructions of what might have happened. The Cermak murder is recreated in especially nasty detail, with Stalin's henchman Frank "The Enforcer" Nitti portrayed as the killer, instead of the Democratic Party underlings Stalin showed as guilty.

There is also a fascinating, though still tacky, audioanimatonic exhibit on Mayor Stalin's life. Everything is there: his upbringing in Gori, Georgia, his years as a revolutionary, the Revolution, Lenin's murder at the hands of Fanny Kaplan, the subsequent political struggle, which led to the SRs and Bolsheviks forming a coalition government, Stalin's exile (along with other Bolsheviks, most famously his rival who became an actor, Leon Trotsky), and Stalin's subsequent creation of the Midwestern Labor Party during the 1930s, and his rise to Mayor. Some of the famous moments of Stalin's mayoralty are also shown: the big construction projects, of course, as well as Stalin's refusal of permission to hold the Democratic Naitonal Convention in his city. WWII has a high place here: Stalin's appointment as economic supervisor for the greater Chicago region, and his successes (and failures) there are shown. The picture of Stalin and Hitler (during Hitler's 1938 visit to Chicago to drum up support for the idea of collective security against the Bolshevik menace) is still striking: it's almost as if the two men were destined to come together in a political alliance.

Of course, what really draws the attention of this museum are the "atrocities" of Mayor Stalin's term in office. He is completely blamed for the Cermak murder, although, as everyone knows. there is no real evidence connecting him to this tragedy. The purges of Chicago's gangster population that the police conducted during the late '30s are represented as excessive and misdirected: according to the exhibit, Stalin really put most of the former Capone mob to work for him. The owners of this smear factory even claim that the Capone trial was fixed-that it was a "show trial," and that prosecutor Ness was allowed to bring in all sorts of illegal evidence. Even if this is true, who cares? Everyone knows Capone was a crook, and he got what he deserved.

The wreckers who own this joint are especially fond of Daley's "secret speech" denouncing Stalin's "excesses" as mayor. This two faced Judas is shown, believe it or not, in a positive light. None of his failures (such as the 1968 convention, or the 1979 blizzard) are shown here. Daley's death of heart attack in 1980 is represented as murder, and the drive by shootins in which his sons died are, according to this place's version of history, part of some plot by Stalin's former henchmen.

After seeing this exhibit, it is obvious to me that Stalin's Chicago deserves to be torn down. And, if it was in Chicago, I have no doubt it would be. Mayor Vrdolyak would not allow such a smear on the reputation of a great man to be displayed. However, it is in Gary, Indiana, at least until the Gary authorities show some sense and close it down. Mayor Stalin left Gary alone during his incorporation drive of the 1950s, when many Chicago suburbs were annexed into the city: this was one of his few mistakes, and it isn't shown in this museum of wrecking. Perhaps Mayor Vrdolyak should correct this oversight


I suppose I'll have to be happy with the Christian, autocratic rule of the Tsar, than, well, comrade Stalin runnin' booze & pimpin' broads. lol...

Many thanks to Fredrik Haerne for his excellent story! If only... :)

Here is another great one.

Gray April


by Philip Holthoff

It was in the spring of 2003. It should have been our finest hour. Instead it has become one of our greatest mysteries.

It was to be a day of firsts for our great nation. Tens of thousands of our citizens lined the shores of Gulfport and Biloxi to gaze out to sea at our newest wonder, Gray April, as she remained motionless almost a mile off the coast.

We led the world in submarine technology. The Gray April was the first nuclear submarine in the world to utilize a form of underwater jet propulsion using nuclear-heated steam and water. As a result Gray April was the fastest submarine in the world, reaching an underwater cruising speed of 45 knots. Her unique propulsion was also quieter than the old metal propeller system, making her almost impossible to track by sonar.

She was a beauty. A sleek four hundred foot long vessel painted in traditional gray with gold battle stripes on the conning tower above and below the large painted flag.

And it was to be a great day for me. For the past five years I had been employed by the Raphael Simms Advanced Institute for Naval Research (RASAINAR). My job was the development of an advanced ‘killer satellite’ designed to generate an intense electromagnetic field that would short circuit all enemy satellites attempting to spy on our naval bases. The satellite also had specially-hardened circuitry that would allow it to send us encrypted images of the earth’s surface so that our surveillance operations would continue unimpaired -- pictures so detailed that a newspaper could be read through a window shown in the images. It would give us the edge against our traditional rival. The new weapon was to be launched that day -- and from the Gray April herself. She was destined to be the first submarine to launch a satellite into earth orbit while out at sea. It was truly a day for celebration.

We were delayed about an hour waiting for the President’s helicopter to land. By that time, cloud cover had moved in. However, all systems were still ‘go’ and the satellite was launched from one of Gray April’s ballistic missile tubes. It roared into the July skies, trailing a large streamer of orange flame as the crowd roared its approval and the band struck up the national anthem.

We are not sure what happened then. Somehow the satellite malfunctioned and switched on its electro-magnetic reactor just as it entered a cloud bank. All the computer consoles on the Gray April went haywire, as did our land-based tracking systems. When we finally restored them, twelve hours later, we couldn’t find the satellite. It was supposed to be in low earth orbit, but we could not locate it anywhere. We were put on full military alert and ordered to sea to try to aid in the recovery attempt in case it had fallen there.

But then, a full 24 hours from its launch, the satellite began to send communication images back. We still couldn’t locate it -- but the damn thing was sending us pictures!

At first we noticed nothing odd about the pictures. They were detailed sequential pictures of the earth’s surface, showing us whatever area we chose, clear and in perfect focus, coming through exactly as the designers of the system intended. Then, we began to notice... differences. The earth the satellite was showing us was not our earth.

Our scientists were at a loss. Some speculated that since the satellite malfunctioned and turned on its electromagnetic reactor in a storm, perhaps the storm “multiplied” the effect and somehow sent the satellite into another space/time continuum -- an alternate universe.

The “earth” we saw existed in the same time frame as ours, but somehow history and politics had taken a bizarre turn. The satellite functioned for six months before falling silent, even though it had been designed to function for twelve years. All information we received was classified, with the public being told that the satellite reached earth orbit and fulfilled its mission. They were never told otherwise.

This “alternative earth, if that is what it was, astounded and shocked us. It was a world in which the United States had won the Battle of Gettysburg, thus preventing Britain and France from recognizing the independence of the Confederate States. A world in which the United States went on to become a global power -- and the South was conquered, occupied, and reduced to a backwater province. A world in which Yankee Imperialism eventually reached gigantic proportions without a strong Confederacy to act as a counter-balance. A world in which the United States made it to the Moon first -- instead of our joint British and Southern expedition. Thus the Stars and Stripes, and not the Union Jack and the Confederate flag, were on the Moon. A world in which American states lost all their power and the central government ran amok over the rights of its citizens. A world in which judges ruled as tyrants and demanded “integration” of our schools and our society with the descendents of African slaves.

It was clear to those of us who saw this horror-world unfold before our eyes that, without a powerful independent Confederate States of America, the corrupt leaders of the United States became mad with power. They invaded or interfered in the affairs of one nation after another until the world was poised on the brink of nuclear destruction.

Our historians speculated that the Yankee abolitionist legacy somehow mutated into some sort of egalitarian creed, almost a religion, after the Union victory. The US imposed this creed, which they called ‘democracy,’ on others by force on a global scale.

We also found that the world was populated with, at least in many cases, the exact same people who lived in our reality -- with sometimes bizarre and humorous results.

Thus a charlatan like Bill Clinton became President in the horror-world -- whereas in ours he was in prison for rape. Some fellow named George W. Bush was the current President there, and we had difficulty locating his counterpart in reality, almost negating our theory of exact doubles in this counter-earth. Then someone found a newspaper clipping showing that our Bush, in reality, was killed five years ago in a drunken brawl in an obscure Texas bar. Their Bush, so corrupt that he had sold himself to an alien group from the Middle East, had invaded Iraq and was making threats to various other nations in that region, spilling our blood and impoverishing our people.

The President has been in a foul mood since we located his double. I don't think he liked the idea that their David Duke was in prison for alleged mail fraud -- whereas our David Duke is President of the Confederate States.

President Duke is of the opinion that in the horror-world, good men -- Southern patriots and White racialists -- would be persecuted by the Federal Government, since the US had stripped away all states’ rights and constitutional protections in their victory over the CSA. The President explained that, in such a system, based on ‘democratic’ egalitarianism, corruption would reign supreme and elections would soon be dominated by money. Opponents would be denied Constitutional protections and possibly be jailed or framed by the central government. An inverted morality would reign supreme; principled people would disdain public office; while men devoid of character would ascend to the highest positions in the land, easily manipulated by alien groups proffering cash and favorable media coverage.

That horror-world would be our world if we had not won at Gettysburg and thereby secured our independence. Who among us could have imagined the horrible consequences that would have followed had our great-great grandfathers had not given their all for our nation?

Some questions remain. Should we tell the public what we have learned about the world that might have been? Are they ready for that knowledge? Would publishing our findings help our nation avoid the kind of horrible tragedies that we witnessed on our screens?

And I ask: In what sense does that nightmare world really exist? Are those millions of White children really suffering -- as we saw them suffering? If so, what, if anything, can we do about it? Can we get a message through to them, somehow? Some nights I cannot sleep; my soul cries out for the answer.

http://www.nationalvanguard.org/story.php?id=476

Those stories are absolutely amazing. :)

I love to read them. Who knows, those universes may actually exist.

Good historians like Livius and David Irving use alternative history to make points clear about Real History.

Just curious. What David Irving works do you have in mind?

Very interesting, Fredrik. Quite the furtive imagination you have, indeed. I particularly enjoyed this Russian scenario. Pray tell, where/who did the Tsar's force strike first? Did the South already lay prostrate prior to this perfidious act upon our Republic?

Yes, the most positive remarks seem to go to the Russian scenario. It was the one I made the most proud, the most self-confident and imperial; I couldn't make every story like that, or they would look too similar. (though I'd like to!)

They first attacked the South, destroying the Union armies there, was my idea; these would have little help from the locals.

Funnily, noone either at VNN or otherwise has commented on the lack of technological progress in that story. I suppose people think that hey, that world is still much better, and a 19th century stretched out a bit ain't such a bad place to live in.

As for the story about Cathar Gnosticism, I could have made that one much lighter and much more heroic-sounding if I had made it from the perspective of a Cathar, and not their enemies on a gloomy night. But I wanted some variation.

Yes, those links provide some interesting scenarios! There's one Halloween special where Cthulhu activity on campuses is way down, and a spokesman for the campus radicals argues that not every torn-off limb can be attributed to Cthulhuists. :)

There's also a good story there somewhere about the "Drakkar." Apparently that's a series of books, and the story is a review of them.


Many thanks to Fredrik Haerne for his excellent story! If only... :)

Here is another great one.

Wow, yes indeed a great one. Again, if only. . . . But I think less than a century remains before we have a world similar to that one.

More stories to come, but not all of them will be of positive worlds! That'd be too much fun, and we can't have that, can we?

David Irving writes somewhere that if the British Emire would have allied with Germany instead of fighting it, it would still be intact. But I don't know where he wrote it.

I read somewhere on the internet that Russia sided with the Union and Britain/France sympathized with the Confederates, and the effect was neutrality for the european superpowers. Had Russia sided with the Confederates too (as would have been in their strategic interest) it is likely there would have been an open war. Alaska was still Russian then. But I don't see the Russians invade the USA on their own the 1860s. The only eastern port Vladivostok was founded in 1860 and the transsiberian railroad was completed after 1905.
But I don't doubt the Royal Navy would have given the Russian infantry free transport in case of a war.
It was just the fickle opinion of the Russian czar that caused the South to lose.

A victory of the South that way would probably have resulted in a small Union minus the Pacific coast (to Russia) and the carving off of southern states to the Confederates and northern to the British.

September 27, 2004 issue
Copyright © 2004 The American Conservative


Heil to the Chief


The Plot Against America, Philip Roth, Houghton Mifflin, 400 pages


By Bill Kauffman

Philip Roth’s The Plot Against America is the novel that a neoconservative would write, if a neoconservative could write a novel.

In 1940, as in 2004, voters faced a choiceless presidential election between pro-war interventionists, with a noble antiwar socialist (Norman Thomas then, Ralph Nader now) the best man in the field.

In Roth’s what-if world, we the people have an actual choice in 1940. Instead of a third term for President Franklin D. Roosevelt, America Firster Charles Lindbergh is elected president, whereupon all hell breaks loose—which is to say America is at peace, a condition never again to be permitted, apparently, in the United States of Armaments. The horrific consequences of electing an antiwar Midwesterner are seen through the eyes of young Philip Roth, son of an insurance agent, and his Jewish family in Newark, New Jersey.

In our world, Wall Street operatives steered the 1940 GOP nomination to the hawkish utilities executive Wendell Willkie, as Gore Vidal describes with wit, artistry, and panache in The Golden Age (2000). That novel also pivots on the 1940 election, although Vidal regards Lindbergh as “the true white knight through and through,” and “the best that we are ever apt to produce in the hero line, American style.”

Vidal is a proprietary patriot, utterly comfortable with our history because it is his history. Roth is ill at ease in the American past; his research seems to have consisted of a quick flip through the courtier histories of James MacGregor Burns and Arthur Schlesinger. He bristles with contempt for the benighted denizens of “the working-class heartland of isolationist America”—that is, mothers and fathers who would rather not send their boys to die in foreign wars. Their parochial and pacific instincts point the way to a Middle American fascism.

Roth writes in sodden cliches: for instance, FDR “inspired millions of ordinary families like ours to remain hopeful in the midst of hardship.” This is Time-Life prose. There is not a felicitous sentence in this book; nor is there a spark of wit or a single subversive thought. The literary critics of the Department of Homeland Security will pronounce it fit for best-sellerdom.

Charles A. Lindbergh was a classic product of Upper Midwest populism. His congressman father, a fierce foe of U.S. involvement in World War I, was dubbed the “Gopher Bolshevik” by the New York Times. Lindbergh is easily understood in a Minnesota tradition that stretches from the Gopher Bolshevik and Sen. Henrik Shipstead through Bob Dylan and Eugene McCarthy. He was no more a Nazi than FDR was.

But not since the Spanish-American War have honorable Americans been permitted to criticize a war without being slandered as traitorous lackeys for the enemy. Just as Eugene V. Debs was calumnied as a Kaiser-lover and Martin Luther King Jr. as a communist, so must Charles Lindbergh be a crypto-Nazi. Given the current climate, Roth’s book is especially odious. Or perhaps The Plot Against America is meant to serve as the writing sample in Roth’s application for a speechwriter job in the Bush administration.

The Plot Against America is the sort of novel a bootlicking author might write to curry favor with a totalitarian government. The author puts a fictive gloss over the officially sanctioned history. Thank God things happened as they did! The alternative to the regime was madness, chaos, murder. Dissenters must be demonized, so Roth saddles his America First villains with positions exactly opposite those they actually took.

The America First Committee was the largest (800,000 members) antiwar organization in U.S. history. Its members ranged from patricians to populists, from Main Street Republicans to prairie socialists. John F. Kennedy was a donor; his future brother-in-law Sargent Shriver was a founder, as were Gerald Ford, Potter Stewart, and Kingman Brewster. Many of the finest writers in America sympathized with (or joined) America First—Sinclair Lewis, Edmund Wilson, Robinson Jeffers, e.e. cummings, and William Saroyan—while the leading pro-war authors were such toadies as Archibald MacLeish (or macarchibald maclapdog macleish, as cummings called him). Aviator Lindbergh was the AFC’s most popular speaker, though he never formally joined the committee.

The antiwar movement of 1940-41 was essentially libertarian: in favor of peace and civil liberties, opposed to conscription. Rather than accept this complexity, Roth opts for inversion: his isolationists are the party of repression and conscription, while his warhawks are the party of liberty. War is Peace. Freedom is Slavery.

And so Montana Senator Burton K. Wheeler, running mate of “Fighting Bob” La Follette on the 1924 Progressive Party ticket and an early supporter of the New Deal who went into opposition over FDR’s attempt to pack the Supreme Court, emerges as Lindbergh’s wicked vice president, a despoiler of the Constitution and declarer of martial law. Never mind that the real Burton K. Wheeler was an anti-draft, antiwar, anti-big business defender of civil liberties: in Roth’s world, this great American—a “brilliant, incorruptible, courageous man,” in La Follette’s glowing tribute—must be depicted as pro-fascist. (The closest thing to a real live fascist in American politics in 1940 was FDR brain-truster Rexford G. Tugwell.) Vice President Wheeler is portrayed as a “combative” snarler whose job is to “attack and revile” foes—a role actually played by Rothian hero Harold Ickes, the FDR hatchetman so memorably described by Clare Boothe Luce as having “the soul of a meat axe and the mind of a commissar.”

Roth’s Lindbergh is laconic to the point of simplemindedness. The real Lindy was a fine writer who composed his own speeches, but Roth suggests that these were written in Germany. The Lindbergh of The Plot Against America declares, “My intention in running for the presidency is to preserve American democracy by preventing America from taking part in another world war. Your choice is simple. It’s not between Charles A. Lindbergh and Franklin Delano Roosevelt. It’s between Lindbergh and war.” This is an eminently fair summation. But of course the American people were presented no such choice in 1940, nor really in any other quadrennium since World War II except, perhaps, 1972.

The Lindbergh nomination is engineered by North Dakota Sen. Gerald P. Nye, whom Roth dismisses with the lazy adjective “right-wing.” Oh really? In fact, Nye criticized the New Deal from the Left for its timorousness. Nye had made his name as the scourge of the “merchants of death” who profited from the disastrous U.S. entry into the First World War, and he always feared a replay.

Campaigning in “the remotest rural counties,” Lindbergh wins in a landslide, the Republicans take Congress, and the threat of peace, no conscription, and full enjoyment of the Bill of Rights darkens the Rothian sky. To young Philip’s parents, America is good only insofar as it sends its sons to die in foreign lands. The family’s favorite presidents are Wilson and FDR, who shipped more Americans to die overseas than any other chief execs. Unwashed Americans, who live in places like North Dakota or Minnesota or Montana, mean harm to the Roths; their reluctance to send their sons to transatlantic graves is presented as a particularly insidious symptom of anti-Semitism.

In Roth’s flip-flopped universe, President Lindbergh institutes a peacetime draft—which in fact FDR did, over the ardent objections of the isolationists, who argued against conscription on libertarian grounds.

President Lindbergh cozies up to the Nazis while pursuing a domestic policy that might be stamped “Made in Germany.” He is wildly popular, even with “the highly assimilated upper echelon of German Jewish society,” whose cultured members are depicted herein as craven social climbers.

Among the turncoat Jews is Rabbi Lionel Bengelsdorf of Newark, a South Carolina native with a “courtly Southern accent”—always the tip-off to knavery when a mediocrity is at the typewriter. The Rabbi opposes women’s suffrage, not exactly a hot topic in 1940, but then Roth is limning character, don’t you see? The scene in which Rabbi Bengelsdorf vivisects FDR’s Scottie Fala must have been excised by a wise editor.

Lindbergh and Rabbi Bengelsdorf create an Office of American Absorption, whose centerpiece is the “Just Folks” program, under which Jewish youth are shipped out to the “Gentile heartland” to become real Amerrykuns. Philip’s brother spends the summer with a “Kentucky tobacco farmer.” He returns with an accent, respect for farm life, a taste for ham and bacon, and a dose of the fascist clap that Philip Roth imagines lurks everywhere in that darksome forest of fear west of the Hudson. To Roth, a small farm in Kentucky is the perfect training ground for a fascist. Tell it to Wendell Berry, Philip.

“Just Folks” is yet another Roth reversal: FDR’s Civilian Conservation Corps was the actual (if benign) means of rusticating urban boys in the 1930s. In the 1940s, it was urban politicians who tore rural boys from their native ground and sent them to war. The dislocating effects of militarism meant that 15 million Americans lived in a different county in March 1945 than they had in December 1941—and that doesn’t count the 12 million-plus in uniform. A disproportionate number of the displaced, by the way, were from Kentucky. As an anti-hillbilly joke of the time went, America lost three states in the early 1940s: Kentucky and Tennessee had gone to Indiana, and Indiana had gone to hell. But to Roth, the Gentile heartland is hell.

If The Plot Against America sounds like Roth’s savage satire on Jewish paranoia, it is not. For the rural folk eventually run riot as a kind of cornfed, baccy-smokin’ Khmer Rouge.

Under the Office of American Absorption, Metropolitan Life offers Philip’s father a transfer to Danville, Kentucky. He refuses, probably because novelist Roth has no idea how to describe life in a Klan-Nazi hotbed like Kentucky, but it is in resisting relocation that the Roth family attains a certain nobility. “A child of my background had a sixth sense in those days, the geographic sense, the sharp sense of where he lived and who and what surrounded him,” writes Roth. The faces, the voices, the ejaculations (because, after all, this is Philip Roth): these people are Newark, and we are made to understand the enormity of their unmooring. Dislocation exacts a terrible human cost. A pity that Roth does not mind uprooting the hicks he so obviously hates—for war is the most pitiless uprooter of all.

In the real 1940-41, antiwar entertainers were blacklisted for daring to speak their minds. (The case of Lillian Gish was notably disgusting.) In Roth’s world, the pro-war radio gossip Walter Winchell is fired by Jergens Lotion when he denounces President Lindbergh. Winchell then declares his candidacy for president and barnstorms the black heart of America. He is baited and mocked in South Boston, Little Italy, and wherever papist brutes foregather. (In fact, it was America First speakers who were harassed in 1941, heckled by warhawks and denied permits in jingo towns.)

It is here that Roth’s loathing of Catholicism, with its “witchy” nuns and “creepily morticianlike priests,” reaches a fever-swamp pitch. Winchell’s taunting of the antiwar wafer-eaters brings “the Lindbergh grotesquery to the surface.” He is assaulted in South Boston and greeted with chants of “Kike Go Home!” in upstate New York, Pennsylvania, the Midwest—all sewers “notorious for their bigotry.”

Working-class Catholics erupt in anti-Semitic riots in Detroit: “shops were looted and windows broken, Jews trapped outdoors were set upon and beaten, and kerosene-soaked crosses were ignited” on the lawns of Jewish homeowners. Jewish schools are bombed and synagogues trashed in America’s first-ever pogrom. Anti-Jewish riots also break out in Cleveland, Cincinnati, Indianapolis, St. Louis, Buffalo, Pittsburgh, Scranton, Akron, Syracuse—all across the hate-filled heartland, for the “menace of anti-Semitism” stretches “from one end of America to the other.” Our heroes make a mad dash across “rural West Virginia,” where “Ku Klux Klansmen had to be lying in wait for any Jew foolhardy enough to be driving through.” Almost Heaven? Not in this book.

Walter Winchell is killed in Kentucky by “an American Nazi Party assassin working in collaboration with the Ku Klux Klan.” Roth takes an especial scunner to poor Kentucky, his locus of American evil. A Jewish lady from Newark, exiled to Danville, is set upon by a mob of Klansmen, which is to say ordinary Kentuckians; she is beaten and burned to death in the state that provides “a nightmarish vision of America’s anti-Semitic fury.” To add insult to fatal injury, her son, “the smartest kid in our class” in Newark, is “stunted” and mentally “stopped” by his exposure to the aments of Kaintuck.

Coincidentally, I slogged through Roth right after reading three Kentucky novels: Berry’s Watch With Me (1994), James Still’s River of Earth (1940), and The Time of Man (1926) by Elizabeth Madox Roberts. Each is set within a decade or two of 1940. The characters are remarkably unlike Nazis, though perhaps Mr. Roth knows the true heart of Kentucky better than Kentuckians themselves.

The Winchell funeral is the winch that turns the cranks out of office. Lindy disappears in flight, probably a victim of the Nazis who orchestrated the antiwar movement all along. (Just as Saddam Hussein’s hidden bank accounts are enriching today’s peace movement.) Acting President Wheeler declares martial law—quite a trick for a civil libertarian to pull off—anti-Semitic riots stain America red with the blood of Jewish martyrs, till FDR comes out of retirement ... oh, I don’t want to spoil the ending for you. Suffice to say that Roth, in his dotage, displays all the imagination of an assistant censor in the Office of War Information. Franklin D. retakes the White House and promptly gets us into the world war, wherein all those louts from Kentucky either die as fodder or walk tall as members of the Greatest Generation. All’s well that ends well.

This is a repellent novel, bigoted and libelous of the dead, dripping with hatred of rural America, of Catholics, of any Middle American who has ever dared stand against the war machine. All that is left, I suppose, is for the author to collect his Presidential Medal of Freedom.

http://www.amconmag.com/2004_09_27/review.html

1820 — Rothschilds established as the leading bank in Europe. Bankers who allied themselves with the Rothschilds, and those who supported the Masonic order, found themselves well off. Those who didn't had a rough way to go.

1840 — During an attempt at alcohol prohibition, then-attorney Abraham Lincoln states: "Prohibition makes a crime out of things that are not crimes ... A prohibition law strikes a blow at the very principles upon which our government was founded."

1865 — Northern Industrialists win War Between the States. Now have power base over agricultural South, influences westward expansion of U.S, location of railroads. Mary Todd Lincoln prescribed Cannabis for the nervous breakdown she suffered following husband (President) Lincoln's assassination.

1875 — California, in a blatant act of racism, bans Opium smoking by Chinese. Large, well-run opium houses ran out of business, replaced by smaller, less reputable houses. Usage increases.

1876 — Turkish Hashish exhibition at Philadelphia's Centennial Exhibition was most popular. Fairgoers encouraged to return again and again to "enhance" their enjoyment of the fair.

http://www.serendipity.li/wod/nsmith_chron.htm