As a rather avid fan of alternate history, one scenario that once sprang to mind was a Fascist Britain. I basically put finger to key and started writing a meandering tale out of boredom and curiousity as to see where I could take it. Not the most well written of my stuff I'll admit, I largely made it up as I went along to see what I could do with the idea. Let me know how you feel about it in terms of writing and story of this dystopia, contains violence and swearing as well as racial terms. Not really complete at all, just posting for reactions and constructive criticism. Enjoy!
Royal Albert Hall, London, April 1952:
The Hall was packed, every seat full and many sitting along the spaces on the stairs. Not technically allowed but on such an occasion, certain rules could be bent. It was, after all, close to the twentieth anniversary of the Revolution and celebrations were being planned throughout the Empire. It would be a celebration of twenty years of the success of Fascism against the evils of Communism and the moribund ideals of Democracy. And who better to lead the way in celebrations than Alfred Strike, the Lord Protector of the British Empire?
The crowd in the seats were all facing towards one direction, towards the stage. People standing in the galleries were craning their necks while the television cameras in the arena were itching to start rolling. The speech that would celebrate twenty years of Albion rule would truly be a landmark in television history, considering the youth of the media that is. Only one person amongst the crowd wasn’t looking forward to seeing Strike like everyone else. Her name was Catherine Humphries and she was here to here to bury Albert Strike, not to praise him.
The throngs of people in the Albert Hall represented the majority of those in the Empire. Prosperous, happy and allowing themselves to be subjected to the rules of the Albion Movement. But Catherine was part of the minority that loathed Strike and the Albion Movement, her brother and father had died protesting against the occupation of Ireland and now Strike would die to avenge them. Catherine knew that she would die straight after her act but so long as Strike was dead, it would be worth it.
Catherine gripped the gun in her coat pocket fiercely, not wanting it to be knocked out as she jostled the crowd to get to the edge of the arena, wanting the best view possible to fire the gun. She had to give a guard a ‘special favour’ in order to get inside without being searched but it had been worth it. Catherine would wait until the epoch of Strike’s speech and then fire the gun, wanting to let the World see the Fascist Leader die in his greatest moment of glory.
Catherine apparently didn’t have too long too wait, the crowd roared with delight when the lights dimmed and the stage lit up. The noise reached to a deafening scale when Alfred Strike himself appeared on the stage. He was tall, reaching above six foot, he was bulky but from muscles rather than fat. He had overly large hands that put a person in mind of large clamps that could crush anything at will. His face was harsh, fitted with a thick moustache and large pale blue eyes. His hair was cut in a military fashion though it was starting to become noticeable that Strike had a receding hairline. His clothes were a military uniform, Strike took the fact he was Commander-in-Chief of the British Imperial Forces very seriously though he had forgone his usual incredible amount of medals except for five. One for each War fought under his control of the Empire.
When he reached the podium, Strike had to pause as the cheers from the crowd had reached epic levels. He raised his arms in to order to lessen the noise somewhat and the crowd subsided their cascade of noise “My people!” Strike called out only to be drowned out the crowd’s cheers. He allowed himself a smile as the noise became overwhelming and leaned back a few inches, basking in their ovation.
Finally however, Strike raised his right hand in a gesture of silence and the crowd subsided, waiting to hear the great man speak “My people!” Strike repeated “I stand before you today not only the Lord Protector of the British Empire but as proof that the British people cannot be defeated!” This was answered by rousing cheers.
Strike gripped the sides of the podium, getting into full swing now “Five Wars in twenty years is the price we have had to pay to keep our power and prestige. To that end we have seen off threats from the great evil of Communism, the betrayal of our former Allies and the corrupt leaders of Democratic nations who feared our strength.” The crowd roared with bloodlust at this, those wars had cost Britain dear but they had still triumphed.
Strike paused to let the crowd’s cheers be caught on camera before continuing “And despite the best efforts of our greatest enemies, Britain stands tall and proud above all nations. The Russian have been defeated, forced to lick their wounds, our enemies in Europe vanquished and the Americans skulking behind their fortress Ocean, fearing our wrath!” Strike gave another smile, this one in triumph.
“And now my people, Britain stands on the threshold of further greatness. From the dark recesses of Africa to the Caribbean, we are supreme, supported by our true Allies from Spain and Italy, we shall take hold of this new age and together with you, the Albion movement shall live to see a thousand years of prosperity and power! We shall not bow down to those who have tried to destroy us! We shall reign supreme!”
The last sentence was almost drowned out with the roar of the people in the Hall while Catherine gripped her gun. The time was almost here. She looked up while Strike flung up his hand in a rhetoric flourish “And though the path may be fraught with danger for us, I shall stand alongside with you, my people and together, we shall see that the Golden Shores shall remain safe, strong, powerful and prosperous until the end of days!”
“Now!” Catherine thought and steadily pulled the gun from her pocket, her face still expressionless as she prepared herself for death… When a strong hand gripped her shoulder and a gruff voice whispered “That’s enough for now lass.” A second hand grabbed her wrist that held the gun while a third held a cloth over her mouth. The sickly smell overcame Catherine, making her lose consciousness
And as Catherine was carried away into a dark entrance to the corridors of Albert Hall, not one single person paid attention. After all, it did not pay to cross the Yardmen.
An hour later and Strike was in a large room at the back of the Albert Hall enjoying a brandy and a quiet moment to himself. The speech had been a tremendous success and the crowd had been beside themselves with excitement. It was a great start to the proposed celebrations for the Revolution’s twentieth anniversary. Televisions had been selling widely throughout the Empire and it was only a matter of time before there would be one in every household, although the Dominions would surely take longer…
Strike finished his drink and set it down on the table in front of him, the room had been converted from two dressing rooms into one, reserved for those organising political rallies, such as this one. Strike had made it imperative that the Albion movement always received the attention it deserved in all forms of media. And with television on the rise, this was all the simpler. He glanced down to a copy of The Times which lay on the table, noting the headline regarding the upcoming anniversary of the Revolution. A sub-article dealt with the Soviet Union’s further attempts at rebuilding Moscow despite the radiation affects.
Strike mused over that and smiled, two bombs had secured two Wars for the Empire and although the Americans were apparently quickly catching up on number and it wouldn’t be long before they’d overtaken the British completely. It didn’t worry Strike too much however, with their bases in the Bahamas and Jamaica along with America having no sure way to strike the Empire itself aside from the holdings in the Caribbean, it would matter little. All that was needed was that the enemies of the state and the Albion Movement to acknowledge that the Empire was too strong to go up against, especially with its allies (Although France still being a democracy, albeit an authoritarian one, was one thing Strike found something abhorrent).
A sudden knock at his door made Strike come out of his thoughts however and he placed the newspaper on the table, calling out “Enter.” As he did so, also removing his reading glasses.
The door opened and in stepped Alfred’s closest friend and advisor, Emmanuel Goldstein entered. He always put Strike in mind of a goat with his tufts of hair around his ears and wispy goatee that slightly dangled down from his chin. He had a small smile on his face, as if there was always some little joke that only he knew about and no one else knew. He closed the door behind him and nodded at Strike “Great speech Alfie.” He said in his reedy voice “The proles lapped it up as usual. Although while you were doing it, a few messages came through I think you should know about.”
“Oh for Heaven’s sake Manny.” Strike muttered “Must I do everything? Can’t you deal with a few small matters by yourself?”
“Not when one of these matters concerns Italy.” That instantly got Strike’s attention and he sat up, his face preparing for the worst scenario. Goldstein looked serious for a moment before breaking into his smile again “Apparently Mussolini has invited himself for the Revolutionary Anniversary.”
Well, that was certainly the worst case scenario alright. Strike groaned out loud “Oh not that! Can’t we convince him to stay in Italy? Stir up a rebellion in Greece, get the Germans to declare War on him, anything!”
A dry chuckle from Goldstein was the reaction Strike got as the man shook his head “I’m afraid not. I’m afraid we’ll have to put up with him this time.” Strike frowned and shook his head in exasperation but he knew that there was no helping it. Mussolini had been through Strike’s rise to the Stars as a loyal Ally, bore or not, he had earned a seat at the celebrations. After letting Strike digest that bit of news, Goldstein went on “There was also another attempt on your life during the speech.”
Strike’s head shot up, frowning a little “What? Only one?” He asked “The Paddies just aren’t trying anymore are they?”
“Well it was an Irish girl to be sure. We took her in, spouted the usual line on how you killed her family etcetera, etcetera.” Goldstein went on “She slipped one of our guards a happy favour to get a gun in. You want the Yardmen to shoot both?”
“Just the girl, the other can think of what he’s done as he labours in Nairobi. The train tracks there need some extra hands, they always do.” Strike stood up a little slowly, trying not to wince at the pressure he felt in his knees. Old age not being his strong point “Anything else I should know of?”
“Just the usual protests by the Yankee goyim about how insensitive your speech was to attempts to improve relations, the usual nonsense.” Goldstein said, pretending he hadn’t heard the slight intake of breath by Strike as he stood up “Although celebrations for your sixti-” A glare from Strike cut of the man’s words and he gave a sigh before going on “Celebrations for your fifty-fifth birthday are coming along fine although why you don’t want to mix it with the Revolution’s Anniversary is beyond me.”
That last sentence was a lie and both men knew it. Despite his sheer driven pragmatism, Strike had a streak of vanity in him a mile wide and his encroaching age was a very sore point for the Dictator. Taking the line in his stride, Strike went on “My birthday is personal. The Revolution is national. Mixing the two wouldn’t do any good.”
A smirk went across Goldstein’s face at the words “Well it’s going to get celebrated anyway. The proles have started sending you in birthday cards from all over the Empire; we just got a collection of them from Tabora, thanking you for the wonderful labour that’s been helping them grow food in their fields.”
“Got to make the Paddies good for something.” Strike muttered as he picked up The Times and started to read the sport pages “Anything else?”
Goldstein thought for a moment before shaking his head “Nothing really, same old, same old. Just thought I’d let you know about them.” Goldstein paused as he waited for an answer only to realise Strike was too absorbed in the football to care. Giving a sigh of exasperation, he turned around and left the room, giving the door a slam even though he knew it wouldn’t affect Strike and only mildly annoy the guards. Strike carried on reading the paper, the only sound coming from him a slight tut of disappointment at reading that Wolverhampton were definitely going to be relegated at the end of the season.
Blue Mountains, Jamaica, April, 1952:
In the mountains of Jamaica, hidden largely from view of all sorts, Corporal Samuel King leaned back in the guard tower and enjoyed a rolled cigarette as he looked over the small dirt path leading to the Military base hidden from the rest of the World. It was top secret; even he had little idea as to what went on in the inner compounds of the base. He had some general clues from the fact that there were some few white faces, most of them elderly and only just starting to tan. Rumours spread through the guards that they were developing a new type of bomb, even bigger than the one they dropped on Miami.
Taking a drag of his cigarette, Samuel looked over the land, enjoying the beauty of his homeland and the knowledge that this job was putting both his children through a very high quality school, able to keep one’s mouth shut was valuable, especially when he was the best shot in the base itself. A fact he never let anyone forget and as he scanned into the luscious foliage of the mountains, he let a grin cross his face as he raised his rifle, checking the scope on it before walking to the side of the tower, humming tunelessly as he prepared his move. He spat out the stub that remained of his cigarette and looked at that one spot in the forest, confirming what he had seen.
A sudden clunking of boot on wood distracted King slightly as he heard someone climbing up the ladder to the box. Not looking away from the jungle, King was unsurprised when he heard the voice of Sergeant Leon Yoba “Corporal!” Came the larger than life voice “We’ve received reports of movement in the area! I want…”
“I see him plainly Sergeant.” Came the laid back tones of King as he rested his rifle on the side of the tower and started to lean down to take aim through the scope “And Yankee boy ain’t noticed me yet.”
Although he hadn’t looked, King knew Yoba was sticking his head up through the opening into the box with a look of annoyance on his fat face “Don’t be stupid! No Yankee would get in five miles of here! Just be on the look out for…”
Yoba’s words were cut short however when King let loose with a single shot into the trees surrounding the base. The sound of gunfire was interrupted with an anguished scream from the trees and King stood up with a grin of triumph on his face “Right in the rocks too.” He said as he turned to Yoba “Hope one of them didn’t pop.”
There was a moment’s pause as Yoba collected his thoughts and three soldiers from the base ran towards the area where the scream had come from, pulling from the spot a man who was covered in camouflage apart from a spreading red area across his upper legs and groin. As he started to be dragged towards the base for medical attention and interrogation, Yoba finally found enough voice to say “How did you see him?”
“Sergeant, I’m out here twelve hours of every day, a new tree that sprouts overnight is somet’ing that grabs my attention.”
Another scream interrupted the two men as they looked down and saw the spy had collapsed to the ground, the tumble obviously jarring his already agonising situation. The soldiers took no pity on him, dragging him to his feet and roughly handling him as they travelled to the bunkers to meet his sorry fate. Yoba saw from the man’s accent that he was definitely a Yankee, trying to get at the secrets hidden by the Empire on this base. Feeling no sympathy for the man, Yoba spoke out loud “Guess the Yankee’s gonna be our nigger now.”
“And this one gonna be for all those they mistreat in their country.” King stated with some fierceness. He, like most other Jamaicans had heard from the IBC about the blacks being kept down by the white man and how they had encouraged groups like the Ku Klux Klan to keep it that way. For all the crap the Empire had pulled over the years, at least Strike had done a lot to reverse it “I sure as Hell ain’t gonna miss him.”
A shrug from Yoba confirmed his opinion being the same as well “You’ll probably find something extra in your wage packet for this I wouldn’t wonder.” The Sergeant turned and started to climb back down the ladder before giving King a glare “But don’t let it go to your head Corporal.”
Giving a smart salute, King smiled and said “No Sergeant!” As he watched the large man climb down the ladder. Once out of view, King once more leaned back on the side of the guard tower, before lighting up, taking a drag and blowing a smoke ring.
Life was good.
Montgomery, Alabama, USA, April, 1952:
“… So I ask you, my fellow countrymen, when you go to the polls this November, will you be voting for the Government that oversaw the destruction of Miami and the humiliation of bowing to the enemies of Democracy? Or will you stand as one in strength and nominate me as President to lead America through these dark days? Vote M…”
With a grunt of disgust, Lewis Nelson turned the knob of the radio, shutting out the overbearing voice of the Senator straight away. As loath as he was to admit it, Lewis new that the Republicans practically had the election in the bag and it was very well possible that… that man could become the next President. Trying to push the report out of mind, Lewis turned down to his notes, only to be greeted with further bad news. The Negro Fascist League had struck again, this time bombing a police station, injuring three, two of them almost fatally.
Scouring over each scrawled not he had written, Nelson only saw more and more bad news at each turn. He had been sent to Alabama to cover the growing problems from Fascist sponsored terrorist groups and had had been expecting terrible things but as he dug deeper, he went further into despair. Ever since Strike had brought the Caribbean under proper Fascist control, clashes between Britain and the US had occurred constantly until the brief Bahamas War. Brief in that it only took the Fascists five weeks to do to Miami what had taken two years to Moscow.
Rubbing his eyes, Lewis knew why the current President would be seen as the worst as Buchanan but really, did he have a choice? Those bastard Fascists had provoked him into it, sending aid to the Fascist groups in Mexico, a stand had to be made. A ringing at his desk made Nelson jump suddenly until he realised it was his telephone. Grabbing the receiver, he put it to his ear and wearily asked “Nelson here, what’s up?”
The voice on the phone was that of John Gill, Nelson’s guide for around Alabama and a true Southerner “Shit’s hit the fan Lou!”Came the thick and fast drawl of Gill, panic obviously showing even down the phone line “The Godamn Negros shot up a Klan meeting! The whole state’s gonna blow up when they hear this!”
Lewis froze as he heard the words and felt a shiver of terror as he grabbed a notebook lying on the desk and shoved it into his trouser pocket. Even if the World was about to end, this still needed reporting “I’ll be right over.” He said, slamming down the receiver and heading towards the door, hoping he’s make it to the newspaper office before the streets themselves became a battle ground.
London, England, April 1952:
According to some, the rise of the Albion Movement had struck down free thought and speech, destroying the ability of many people to truly speak what was on their mind.
All this was in fact true but it did not pay to say it out loud. Those who had done had vanished from sight, almost certainly to perish building the rail lines in Africa. Smarter and more cautious people knew to simply keep such thoughts in their heads. When it came to the Albion Movement, it was the only real freedom people had left anymore. One such person was Professor Adam Lake, a part time lecturer at various London higher educational institutions and an expert in early twentieth century history.
Or at least, an expert enough to know that all history books written in the last twenty years had come with a definite slant towards Fascism. Just looking through the books before him he could see each and every one would be brought into line with Albion ideology. Gazing around the book shop, Lake was tempted to just this once go for a novel of some kind, just to break the monotony of academic collaboration with the Government. But common sense overrode this idea as well as spy fiction was all the rage now, heroic tales of espionage against the Yankees or Communists. Suppressing a sigh, Lake turned back to the history books and picked one from the shelf at random before noting the title was The Great War 1914-1919 by Horace Johnson, a man Lake knew would bend over and take it from anything if the Albion Movement ordered it.
Scanning through the pages, Lake could see it was the usual, facts littered with lies and bias towards Albion’s ideology. About how it was Britain who had stemmed the tide of German aggression in the west when Russia had collapsed into Revolution. It was the Royal Navy that had finally brought the Germans to submit while the French bowed in thanks and the Americans skulked behind their Ocean, only coming out to demand money from the nations that had fought. It was se desperately predictable and tedious. In twenty years, not one dissenting opinion was allowed to be spoken against the Albion Movement’s view of British history and it was stifling.
Putting the book back on the shelf, Lake looked back through the book shop, fairly empty with it being a weekday and all. Never mind the fact that most people were gearing themselves up to celebrate the Revolution’s Anniversary in a few weeks time, say what you want about the Albion Movement, at least they could put on a decent enough show to keep the plebs happy.
Lake checked his watch and noted the time; he needed to catch a bus to get home in time for the football match. A shame about Wolverhampton really but at least there was a few matches to go before the season ended. Entertainment value if nothing else. Not even bothering to look around the shop once more, Lake went for the exit, keeping his thoughts about history to himself, where they were safe.
U.K Embassy, Washington DC:
What were the finer parts of life? For David Richardson, they were a comfortable chair, a fine cigar and a good glass of brandy. He was currently enjoying all three and a delicious fourth, the US Secretary of State ranting before him, almost frothing at the mouth as he went into a rage over the riots in the south. Richardson watched with mild amusement as the man finished, his face scarlet with anger “… Guns came from somewhere! You Godamn Fascists did all this! You supplied those niggers in the south so American blood would be spilt and get a rebellion going! Don’t you dare try to deny it!”
Richardson was rather unimpressed by the rant, he had been there when the Albion Movement had stormed Parliament and Churchill was cut down by a hail of bullets, defying his former friend with his last breath. The Secretary’s speech was one born of impotence, nothing new and nothing would come from it, especially since the man would be out of office in less than a year. Taking a puff of his cigar, a Cuban for an extra insult “My dear fellow,” He said in his calm and educated tone “Do you honestly think we’d try and stir up trouble after the Bahamas War? The Empire gained what it had wanted; this uprising is simply down to your ill thought out attitude to your black population. If you simply adjusted your attitudes a little…”
“Adjusted our attitudes?!” Came the furious response, spit practically spewing from his mouth “You encourage the blacks to rebel and kill white folk and you lecture me on changing attitudes?!”
Letting the Secretary of State have another outburst, Richardson took a sip of his brandy before talking “I honestly have no idea what you’re talking about.” He lied “The Empire has not, nor is supplying any groups rebelling against US authority. Your own culture, aimed towards empowering the common plebeian even at the expense of the power of the state is at fault. If it is truly your wish to end the chaos then introduce legislation to bring in greater gun control and thus lower the tensions. Can’t be much fighting without weapons now can there?”
The outrage that crossed the man’s face was delicious to Richardson’s mind; both knew the Americans couldn’t afford another War against the Empire, not after such a catastrophic defeat from their last encounter. And with no proof about any sort of connections between the Empire and the rioting blacks in the south, absolutely nothing could be done. Richardson took another sip of his brandy before continuing “If you have nothing else besides baseless accusations, I must ask you to leave without fuss and keeping in mind you are on British sovereign soil.”
Taking a puff of his cigar, Richardson barely even bothered to watch the Secretary of State storm out of the room, slamming the study door behind him. Taking note that the man had gone with the slamming of the door, Richardson turned his gaze to the small table beside his chair and the newspaper he had been reading before he had been so rudely interrupted, the latest edition of the New York Times. Richardson picked up the paper and read the final few sentences, written by a reporter called Lewis Nelson.
“… As the National Guard has been called in, the Negro population continues to rampage throughout Alabama. The siege Montgomery is currently experiencing appears to have no end under the current circumstances. Violence has reportedly taken the lives of three thousand white people already with casualties mounting. It is currently unknown just what the outcome will be but the outcome promises to be bloody.”
Richardson smirked and took another sip of his brandy. Life was good indeed.
D. C. Thompson & Co. Aberdeen, Scotland, April 1952:
As a critical eye was cast over him, Daniel felt a sweat break out on his forehead. This was it, make or break the path of his entire career depended on this decision. With a silent prayer as the man opposite started to speak, Daniel felt his hopes lift and then come crashing down as he heard “Sorry Daniel m’boy but I don’t we can sell it.”
The shock must have obviously shown on Daniel’s face as Michael Wallace, the editor went on “It’s too American to be frank. We don’t have a market for these ‘Superheroes’ no one in the Empire is going to be interested.”
An objection started to leap from Daniel’s throat as he tried to make himself clear “But all the characters are from the Empire! They just aren’t copies of other characters; I’ve done my research on this Mr. Wallace! Look, we’ve got action, plenty of opportunities to expand the story and we’ll be going into an untapped market! Just let me have a twelve issue run to test the waters, that’s all I’m asking!”
A mere shake of the head was Daniel’s only answer as Wallace went on “We just can’t accept it Daniel. There isn’t a market for those types of comics. You’ve seen all those by the Yankees, Colonel America or whatever fighting ‘the evil Fascists’. It’s just too political and we can’t go into all that, Thompson’s isn’t that sort of publisher. Straight action or comedy is what we’re aiming for. We’re not going to get involved in anything deeper than that.”
Daniel’s shoulders slumped down with the rest of his body into the chair before the desk. The small office he was in was the office of the editor of Anglo Comics, the foremost comic action comic in Britain. Although the office was decorated with original prints of some of Daniel’s own work, his depression drove his past accomplishments from his mind. He had been so sure this idea would be accepted, the superhero genre had been neglected in his eyes and had hoped to make a major break through in that area. But as always, it all came down to bloody politics limiting what he could do with his work.
Looking at Daniel with some sympathy, Wallace got up from his side of the desk and walked around to the young man, giving him a reassuring pat on the shoulder “Ah don’t worry about it lad, everyone gets at least one idea rejected in their careers. There’s a new opportunity I’ve got in mind just for you. A new African adventure story, frontier excitement and all that, I want you to be the main artist on this. How’s that sound?”
With a small nod, Daniel accepted the offer. Maybe in five years or so, his opportunity would come to out his idea to paper but for now, he was left with more than a little bitterness towards the way things had turned out, saving a curse towards the Albion Government for blocking his vision.
Silently of course. He was bitter, not stupid.
Imperial Office, Whitehall, London, April 1952:
The office was without grand decoration, bare and with hardly any personal touches at all aside from one single black and white photo of a middle aged man, wearing thin spectacles and a wire moustache with a business suit pressed to razor thin quality. Beside the man in the picture was a teenaged girl who was almost the polar opposite of the man. Blonde hair past her shoulders, a bright blue dress and a laughing smile showing perfect teeth. Only that photo showed any sort of Human value to the room, the rest could have easily been used by a robot.
It was empty at the moment, silent as the neat office stood perfectly still. A peace that was broken when the door opened suddenly and in walked the man in the picture, as neat and stern looking as he was in the photo. He practically marched as opposed to walked to his desk and sat down, each move clinical and efficient. Not one single muscle was wasted in its effort, all thought out and made to get from point A to B with the least amount of effort. After sitting down at the desk, he reached over and edged the photo ever so slightly, making it face completely towards him as opposed to an angle.
For just over a minute, he sat in the wooden chair completely still, waiting for the man coming in to meet him. He waited only for a brief time as a rap on his door broke the silence along with the man’s thin, high pitched voice calling out “Enter.”
The door once more opened and in walked a Japanese man, thin, short and dressed in an equally immaculate business suit to the man at the desk. Although he was clean shaven and smiling fairly benevolently, a contrast to the stern faced man opposite “Mr. Yagami, a pleasure to see you again, please have a seat.” He said to the Japanese man, motioning towards the seat on the other side of the desk.
“Thank you Mr. Summers.” Yagami said, his voice soft and English superb, with only the faintest trace of an accent in it “I apologise for coming so late in the day, the message from my Government only just arrived a little while ago. I understand you were just leaving?”
For a moment, a ghost of a smirk crossed Summers’ face. He knew all about bureaucratic tendencies alright. Going on, he said “Do not worry about that Mr. Yagami, please tell me your business here.”
Yagami paused for a second, looking somewhat nervous before taking the plunge “As we both know Mr Summers, the situation in Indo-China has become most… untenable. The Japanese Empire can not sit back and allow the persecution of a fellow Asian people by the French. After much negotiation on behalf of the Indo…”
With a raised hand Summers suddenly cut off Yagami’s speech as he spoke “What you are asking is whether or not the British Empire will intervene in any conflict between the Japanese Empire and France am I right?”
Yagami did a slight double take at that, his surprise clear “I… yes you are. The need to strike is upon us Mr. Summers. My Government is by no means asking for permission, that I want to make clear, we merely want to know your position on any conflict between our nations.”
Giving a little sigh, Summers felt annoyance build up inside him, surely this could have been asked over a telephone or in the morning? The Japanese had been in China for almost two decades now; another night could hardly have done much harm “As I have discussed with the Lord Protector on various occasions Mr. Yagami, the British has had no interests in Asia since the Revolution. Our responsibilities there are non existent. We are Allies with France in Europe because of the Soviet threat and neutral everywhere else, including Indo-China.”
The answer was something of a pleasant surprise to Yagami. The Soviet War had muddied the waters when it came to Alliances as the coalition had been desperately hammered together before falling apart after the nuclear bomb struck Moscow. There was one other issue however “And what of the nuclear threat?”
A good question, it had been an Allied effort to bring about a nuclear bomb. Britain had been the main funder and drive behind it true but the Allied nations had played a part together to create the ultimate weapon. An answer prepared, Summers said smoothly “The French Republic does not at this time have access to its own nuclear stock and neither we nor our Allies grant them for a colonial dispute. Is that all Mr. Yagami?”
The smile on the Japanese Ambassador’s face was short but threatened to split his head in two. Rising from his seat, he gave Summers a brief bow “I shall contact my Government with this news straight away Mr. Summers. I thank you for your time.”
Giving a small wave to Yagami as he quickly left to give the news, Summers rose from his seat in a bid to get home fast. He had promised his daughter a night at the theatre tonight and he would not let anything else block him, War or not. He had the presence of mind to write down a brief note to be sent to Strike straight away but other than that, his mind went back to spending time with his daughter the moment he handed the note to a clerk on his way out.
This Earth, This Realm, This England
Royal Albert Hall, London, April 1952:
The Hall was packed, every seat full and many sitting along the spaces on the stairs. Not technically allowed but on such an occasion, certain rules could be bent. It was, after all, close to the twentieth anniversary of the Revolution and celebrations were being planned throughout the Empire. It would be a celebration of twenty years of the success of Fascism against the evils of Communism and the moribund ideals of Democracy. And who better to lead the way in celebrations than Alfred Strike, the Lord Protector of the British Empire?
The crowd in the seats were all facing towards one direction, towards the stage. People standing in the galleries were craning their necks while the television cameras in the arena were itching to start rolling. The speech that would celebrate twenty years of Albion rule would truly be a landmark in television history, considering the youth of the media that is. Only one person amongst the crowd wasn’t looking forward to seeing Strike like everyone else. Her name was Catherine Humphries and she was here to here to bury Albert Strike, not to praise him.
The throngs of people in the Albert Hall represented the majority of those in the Empire. Prosperous, happy and allowing themselves to be subjected to the rules of the Albion Movement. But Catherine was part of the minority that loathed Strike and the Albion Movement, her brother and father had died protesting against the occupation of Ireland and now Strike would die to avenge them. Catherine knew that she would die straight after her act but so long as Strike was dead, it would be worth it.
Catherine gripped the gun in her coat pocket fiercely, not wanting it to be knocked out as she jostled the crowd to get to the edge of the arena, wanting the best view possible to fire the gun. She had to give a guard a ‘special favour’ in order to get inside without being searched but it had been worth it. Catherine would wait until the epoch of Strike’s speech and then fire the gun, wanting to let the World see the Fascist Leader die in his greatest moment of glory.
Catherine apparently didn’t have too long too wait, the crowd roared with delight when the lights dimmed and the stage lit up. The noise reached to a deafening scale when Alfred Strike himself appeared on the stage. He was tall, reaching above six foot, he was bulky but from muscles rather than fat. He had overly large hands that put a person in mind of large clamps that could crush anything at will. His face was harsh, fitted with a thick moustache and large pale blue eyes. His hair was cut in a military fashion though it was starting to become noticeable that Strike had a receding hairline. His clothes were a military uniform, Strike took the fact he was Commander-in-Chief of the British Imperial Forces very seriously though he had forgone his usual incredible amount of medals except for five. One for each War fought under his control of the Empire.
When he reached the podium, Strike had to pause as the cheers from the crowd had reached epic levels. He raised his arms in to order to lessen the noise somewhat and the crowd subsided their cascade of noise “My people!” Strike called out only to be drowned out the crowd’s cheers. He allowed himself a smile as the noise became overwhelming and leaned back a few inches, basking in their ovation.
Finally however, Strike raised his right hand in a gesture of silence and the crowd subsided, waiting to hear the great man speak “My people!” Strike repeated “I stand before you today not only the Lord Protector of the British Empire but as proof that the British people cannot be defeated!” This was answered by rousing cheers.
Strike gripped the sides of the podium, getting into full swing now “Five Wars in twenty years is the price we have had to pay to keep our power and prestige. To that end we have seen off threats from the great evil of Communism, the betrayal of our former Allies and the corrupt leaders of Democratic nations who feared our strength.” The crowd roared with bloodlust at this, those wars had cost Britain dear but they had still triumphed.
Strike paused to let the crowd’s cheers be caught on camera before continuing “And despite the best efforts of our greatest enemies, Britain stands tall and proud above all nations. The Russian have been defeated, forced to lick their wounds, our enemies in Europe vanquished and the Americans skulking behind their fortress Ocean, fearing our wrath!” Strike gave another smile, this one in triumph.
“And now my people, Britain stands on the threshold of further greatness. From the dark recesses of Africa to the Caribbean, we are supreme, supported by our true Allies from Spain and Italy, we shall take hold of this new age and together with you, the Albion movement shall live to see a thousand years of prosperity and power! We shall not bow down to those who have tried to destroy us! We shall reign supreme!”
The last sentence was almost drowned out with the roar of the people in the Hall while Catherine gripped her gun. The time was almost here. She looked up while Strike flung up his hand in a rhetoric flourish “And though the path may be fraught with danger for us, I shall stand alongside with you, my people and together, we shall see that the Golden Shores shall remain safe, strong, powerful and prosperous until the end of days!”
“Now!” Catherine thought and steadily pulled the gun from her pocket, her face still expressionless as she prepared herself for death… When a strong hand gripped her shoulder and a gruff voice whispered “That’s enough for now lass.” A second hand grabbed her wrist that held the gun while a third held a cloth over her mouth. The sickly smell overcame Catherine, making her lose consciousness
And as Catherine was carried away into a dark entrance to the corridors of Albert Hall, not one single person paid attention. After all, it did not pay to cross the Yardmen.
XxX
An hour later and Strike was in a large room at the back of the Albert Hall enjoying a brandy and a quiet moment to himself. The speech had been a tremendous success and the crowd had been beside themselves with excitement. It was a great start to the proposed celebrations for the Revolution’s twentieth anniversary. Televisions had been selling widely throughout the Empire and it was only a matter of time before there would be one in every household, although the Dominions would surely take longer…
Strike finished his drink and set it down on the table in front of him, the room had been converted from two dressing rooms into one, reserved for those organising political rallies, such as this one. Strike had made it imperative that the Albion movement always received the attention it deserved in all forms of media. And with television on the rise, this was all the simpler. He glanced down to a copy of The Times which lay on the table, noting the headline regarding the upcoming anniversary of the Revolution. A sub-article dealt with the Soviet Union’s further attempts at rebuilding Moscow despite the radiation affects.
Strike mused over that and smiled, two bombs had secured two Wars for the Empire and although the Americans were apparently quickly catching up on number and it wouldn’t be long before they’d overtaken the British completely. It didn’t worry Strike too much however, with their bases in the Bahamas and Jamaica along with America having no sure way to strike the Empire itself aside from the holdings in the Caribbean, it would matter little. All that was needed was that the enemies of the state and the Albion Movement to acknowledge that the Empire was too strong to go up against, especially with its allies (Although France still being a democracy, albeit an authoritarian one, was one thing Strike found something abhorrent).
A sudden knock at his door made Strike come out of his thoughts however and he placed the newspaper on the table, calling out “Enter.” As he did so, also removing his reading glasses.
The door opened and in stepped Alfred’s closest friend and advisor, Emmanuel Goldstein entered. He always put Strike in mind of a goat with his tufts of hair around his ears and wispy goatee that slightly dangled down from his chin. He had a small smile on his face, as if there was always some little joke that only he knew about and no one else knew. He closed the door behind him and nodded at Strike “Great speech Alfie.” He said in his reedy voice “The proles lapped it up as usual. Although while you were doing it, a few messages came through I think you should know about.”
“Oh for Heaven’s sake Manny.” Strike muttered “Must I do everything? Can’t you deal with a few small matters by yourself?”
“Not when one of these matters concerns Italy.” That instantly got Strike’s attention and he sat up, his face preparing for the worst scenario. Goldstein looked serious for a moment before breaking into his smile again “Apparently Mussolini has invited himself for the Revolutionary Anniversary.”
Well, that was certainly the worst case scenario alright. Strike groaned out loud “Oh not that! Can’t we convince him to stay in Italy? Stir up a rebellion in Greece, get the Germans to declare War on him, anything!”
A dry chuckle from Goldstein was the reaction Strike got as the man shook his head “I’m afraid not. I’m afraid we’ll have to put up with him this time.” Strike frowned and shook his head in exasperation but he knew that there was no helping it. Mussolini had been through Strike’s rise to the Stars as a loyal Ally, bore or not, he had earned a seat at the celebrations. After letting Strike digest that bit of news, Goldstein went on “There was also another attempt on your life during the speech.”
Strike’s head shot up, frowning a little “What? Only one?” He asked “The Paddies just aren’t trying anymore are they?”
“Well it was an Irish girl to be sure. We took her in, spouted the usual line on how you killed her family etcetera, etcetera.” Goldstein went on “She slipped one of our guards a happy favour to get a gun in. You want the Yardmen to shoot both?”
“Just the girl, the other can think of what he’s done as he labours in Nairobi. The train tracks there need some extra hands, they always do.” Strike stood up a little slowly, trying not to wince at the pressure he felt in his knees. Old age not being his strong point “Anything else I should know of?”
“Just the usual protests by the Yankee goyim about how insensitive your speech was to attempts to improve relations, the usual nonsense.” Goldstein said, pretending he hadn’t heard the slight intake of breath by Strike as he stood up “Although celebrations for your sixti-” A glare from Strike cut of the man’s words and he gave a sigh before going on “Celebrations for your fifty-fifth birthday are coming along fine although why you don’t want to mix it with the Revolution’s Anniversary is beyond me.”
That last sentence was a lie and both men knew it. Despite his sheer driven pragmatism, Strike had a streak of vanity in him a mile wide and his encroaching age was a very sore point for the Dictator. Taking the line in his stride, Strike went on “My birthday is personal. The Revolution is national. Mixing the two wouldn’t do any good.”
A smirk went across Goldstein’s face at the words “Well it’s going to get celebrated anyway. The proles have started sending you in birthday cards from all over the Empire; we just got a collection of them from Tabora, thanking you for the wonderful labour that’s been helping them grow food in their fields.”
“Got to make the Paddies good for something.” Strike muttered as he picked up The Times and started to read the sport pages “Anything else?”
Goldstein thought for a moment before shaking his head “Nothing really, same old, same old. Just thought I’d let you know about them.” Goldstein paused as he waited for an answer only to realise Strike was too absorbed in the football to care. Giving a sigh of exasperation, he turned around and left the room, giving the door a slam even though he knew it wouldn’t affect Strike and only mildly annoy the guards. Strike carried on reading the paper, the only sound coming from him a slight tut of disappointment at reading that Wolverhampton were definitely going to be relegated at the end of the season.
Blue Mountains, Jamaica, April, 1952:
In the mountains of Jamaica, hidden largely from view of all sorts, Corporal Samuel King leaned back in the guard tower and enjoyed a rolled cigarette as he looked over the small dirt path leading to the Military base hidden from the rest of the World. It was top secret; even he had little idea as to what went on in the inner compounds of the base. He had some general clues from the fact that there were some few white faces, most of them elderly and only just starting to tan. Rumours spread through the guards that they were developing a new type of bomb, even bigger than the one they dropped on Miami.
Taking a drag of his cigarette, Samuel looked over the land, enjoying the beauty of his homeland and the knowledge that this job was putting both his children through a very high quality school, able to keep one’s mouth shut was valuable, especially when he was the best shot in the base itself. A fact he never let anyone forget and as he scanned into the luscious foliage of the mountains, he let a grin cross his face as he raised his rifle, checking the scope on it before walking to the side of the tower, humming tunelessly as he prepared his move. He spat out the stub that remained of his cigarette and looked at that one spot in the forest, confirming what he had seen.
A sudden clunking of boot on wood distracted King slightly as he heard someone climbing up the ladder to the box. Not looking away from the jungle, King was unsurprised when he heard the voice of Sergeant Leon Yoba “Corporal!” Came the larger than life voice “We’ve received reports of movement in the area! I want…”
“I see him plainly Sergeant.” Came the laid back tones of King as he rested his rifle on the side of the tower and started to lean down to take aim through the scope “And Yankee boy ain’t noticed me yet.”
Although he hadn’t looked, King knew Yoba was sticking his head up through the opening into the box with a look of annoyance on his fat face “Don’t be stupid! No Yankee would get in five miles of here! Just be on the look out for…”
Yoba’s words were cut short however when King let loose with a single shot into the trees surrounding the base. The sound of gunfire was interrupted with an anguished scream from the trees and King stood up with a grin of triumph on his face “Right in the rocks too.” He said as he turned to Yoba “Hope one of them didn’t pop.”
There was a moment’s pause as Yoba collected his thoughts and three soldiers from the base ran towards the area where the scream had come from, pulling from the spot a man who was covered in camouflage apart from a spreading red area across his upper legs and groin. As he started to be dragged towards the base for medical attention and interrogation, Yoba finally found enough voice to say “How did you see him?”
“Sergeant, I’m out here twelve hours of every day, a new tree that sprouts overnight is somet’ing that grabs my attention.”
Another scream interrupted the two men as they looked down and saw the spy had collapsed to the ground, the tumble obviously jarring his already agonising situation. The soldiers took no pity on him, dragging him to his feet and roughly handling him as they travelled to the bunkers to meet his sorry fate. Yoba saw from the man’s accent that he was definitely a Yankee, trying to get at the secrets hidden by the Empire on this base. Feeling no sympathy for the man, Yoba spoke out loud “Guess the Yankee’s gonna be our nigger now.”
“And this one gonna be for all those they mistreat in their country.” King stated with some fierceness. He, like most other Jamaicans had heard from the IBC about the blacks being kept down by the white man and how they had encouraged groups like the Ku Klux Klan to keep it that way. For all the crap the Empire had pulled over the years, at least Strike had done a lot to reverse it “I sure as Hell ain’t gonna miss him.”
A shrug from Yoba confirmed his opinion being the same as well “You’ll probably find something extra in your wage packet for this I wouldn’t wonder.” The Sergeant turned and started to climb back down the ladder before giving King a glare “But don’t let it go to your head Corporal.”
Giving a smart salute, King smiled and said “No Sergeant!” As he watched the large man climb down the ladder. Once out of view, King once more leaned back on the side of the guard tower, before lighting up, taking a drag and blowing a smoke ring.
Life was good.
Montgomery, Alabama, USA, April, 1952:
“… So I ask you, my fellow countrymen, when you go to the polls this November, will you be voting for the Government that oversaw the destruction of Miami and the humiliation of bowing to the enemies of Democracy? Or will you stand as one in strength and nominate me as President to lead America through these dark days? Vote M…”
With a grunt of disgust, Lewis Nelson turned the knob of the radio, shutting out the overbearing voice of the Senator straight away. As loath as he was to admit it, Lewis new that the Republicans practically had the election in the bag and it was very well possible that… that man could become the next President. Trying to push the report out of mind, Lewis turned down to his notes, only to be greeted with further bad news. The Negro Fascist League had struck again, this time bombing a police station, injuring three, two of them almost fatally.
Scouring over each scrawled not he had written, Nelson only saw more and more bad news at each turn. He had been sent to Alabama to cover the growing problems from Fascist sponsored terrorist groups and had had been expecting terrible things but as he dug deeper, he went further into despair. Ever since Strike had brought the Caribbean under proper Fascist control, clashes between Britain and the US had occurred constantly until the brief Bahamas War. Brief in that it only took the Fascists five weeks to do to Miami what had taken two years to Moscow.
Rubbing his eyes, Lewis knew why the current President would be seen as the worst as Buchanan but really, did he have a choice? Those bastard Fascists had provoked him into it, sending aid to the Fascist groups in Mexico, a stand had to be made. A ringing at his desk made Nelson jump suddenly until he realised it was his telephone. Grabbing the receiver, he put it to his ear and wearily asked “Nelson here, what’s up?”
The voice on the phone was that of John Gill, Nelson’s guide for around Alabama and a true Southerner “Shit’s hit the fan Lou!”Came the thick and fast drawl of Gill, panic obviously showing even down the phone line “The Godamn Negros shot up a Klan meeting! The whole state’s gonna blow up when they hear this!”
Lewis froze as he heard the words and felt a shiver of terror as he grabbed a notebook lying on the desk and shoved it into his trouser pocket. Even if the World was about to end, this still needed reporting “I’ll be right over.” He said, slamming down the receiver and heading towards the door, hoping he’s make it to the newspaper office before the streets themselves became a battle ground.
London, England, April 1952:
According to some, the rise of the Albion Movement had struck down free thought and speech, destroying the ability of many people to truly speak what was on their mind.
All this was in fact true but it did not pay to say it out loud. Those who had done had vanished from sight, almost certainly to perish building the rail lines in Africa. Smarter and more cautious people knew to simply keep such thoughts in their heads. When it came to the Albion Movement, it was the only real freedom people had left anymore. One such person was Professor Adam Lake, a part time lecturer at various London higher educational institutions and an expert in early twentieth century history.
Or at least, an expert enough to know that all history books written in the last twenty years had come with a definite slant towards Fascism. Just looking through the books before him he could see each and every one would be brought into line with Albion ideology. Gazing around the book shop, Lake was tempted to just this once go for a novel of some kind, just to break the monotony of academic collaboration with the Government. But common sense overrode this idea as well as spy fiction was all the rage now, heroic tales of espionage against the Yankees or Communists. Suppressing a sigh, Lake turned back to the history books and picked one from the shelf at random before noting the title was The Great War 1914-1919 by Horace Johnson, a man Lake knew would bend over and take it from anything if the Albion Movement ordered it.
Scanning through the pages, Lake could see it was the usual, facts littered with lies and bias towards Albion’s ideology. About how it was Britain who had stemmed the tide of German aggression in the west when Russia had collapsed into Revolution. It was the Royal Navy that had finally brought the Germans to submit while the French bowed in thanks and the Americans skulked behind their Ocean, only coming out to demand money from the nations that had fought. It was se desperately predictable and tedious. In twenty years, not one dissenting opinion was allowed to be spoken against the Albion Movement’s view of British history and it was stifling.
Putting the book back on the shelf, Lake looked back through the book shop, fairly empty with it being a weekday and all. Never mind the fact that most people were gearing themselves up to celebrate the Revolution’s Anniversary in a few weeks time, say what you want about the Albion Movement, at least they could put on a decent enough show to keep the plebs happy.
Lake checked his watch and noted the time; he needed to catch a bus to get home in time for the football match. A shame about Wolverhampton really but at least there was a few matches to go before the season ended. Entertainment value if nothing else. Not even bothering to look around the shop once more, Lake went for the exit, keeping his thoughts about history to himself, where they were safe.
U.K Embassy, Washington DC:
What were the finer parts of life? For David Richardson, they were a comfortable chair, a fine cigar and a good glass of brandy. He was currently enjoying all three and a delicious fourth, the US Secretary of State ranting before him, almost frothing at the mouth as he went into a rage over the riots in the south. Richardson watched with mild amusement as the man finished, his face scarlet with anger “… Guns came from somewhere! You Godamn Fascists did all this! You supplied those niggers in the south so American blood would be spilt and get a rebellion going! Don’t you dare try to deny it!”
Richardson was rather unimpressed by the rant, he had been there when the Albion Movement had stormed Parliament and Churchill was cut down by a hail of bullets, defying his former friend with his last breath. The Secretary’s speech was one born of impotence, nothing new and nothing would come from it, especially since the man would be out of office in less than a year. Taking a puff of his cigar, a Cuban for an extra insult “My dear fellow,” He said in his calm and educated tone “Do you honestly think we’d try and stir up trouble after the Bahamas War? The Empire gained what it had wanted; this uprising is simply down to your ill thought out attitude to your black population. If you simply adjusted your attitudes a little…”
“Adjusted our attitudes?!” Came the furious response, spit practically spewing from his mouth “You encourage the blacks to rebel and kill white folk and you lecture me on changing attitudes?!”
Letting the Secretary of State have another outburst, Richardson took a sip of his brandy before talking “I honestly have no idea what you’re talking about.” He lied “The Empire has not, nor is supplying any groups rebelling against US authority. Your own culture, aimed towards empowering the common plebeian even at the expense of the power of the state is at fault. If it is truly your wish to end the chaos then introduce legislation to bring in greater gun control and thus lower the tensions. Can’t be much fighting without weapons now can there?”
The outrage that crossed the man’s face was delicious to Richardson’s mind; both knew the Americans couldn’t afford another War against the Empire, not after such a catastrophic defeat from their last encounter. And with no proof about any sort of connections between the Empire and the rioting blacks in the south, absolutely nothing could be done. Richardson took another sip of his brandy before continuing “If you have nothing else besides baseless accusations, I must ask you to leave without fuss and keeping in mind you are on British sovereign soil.”
Taking a puff of his cigar, Richardson barely even bothered to watch the Secretary of State storm out of the room, slamming the study door behind him. Taking note that the man had gone with the slamming of the door, Richardson turned his gaze to the small table beside his chair and the newspaper he had been reading before he had been so rudely interrupted, the latest edition of the New York Times. Richardson picked up the paper and read the final few sentences, written by a reporter called Lewis Nelson.
“… As the National Guard has been called in, the Negro population continues to rampage throughout Alabama. The siege Montgomery is currently experiencing appears to have no end under the current circumstances. Violence has reportedly taken the lives of three thousand white people already with casualties mounting. It is currently unknown just what the outcome will be but the outcome promises to be bloody.”
Richardson smirked and took another sip of his brandy. Life was good indeed.
D. C. Thompson & Co. Aberdeen, Scotland, April 1952:
As a critical eye was cast over him, Daniel felt a sweat break out on his forehead. This was it, make or break the path of his entire career depended on this decision. With a silent prayer as the man opposite started to speak, Daniel felt his hopes lift and then come crashing down as he heard “Sorry Daniel m’boy but I don’t we can sell it.”
The shock must have obviously shown on Daniel’s face as Michael Wallace, the editor went on “It’s too American to be frank. We don’t have a market for these ‘Superheroes’ no one in the Empire is going to be interested.”
An objection started to leap from Daniel’s throat as he tried to make himself clear “But all the characters are from the Empire! They just aren’t copies of other characters; I’ve done my research on this Mr. Wallace! Look, we’ve got action, plenty of opportunities to expand the story and we’ll be going into an untapped market! Just let me have a twelve issue run to test the waters, that’s all I’m asking!”
A mere shake of the head was Daniel’s only answer as Wallace went on “We just can’t accept it Daniel. There isn’t a market for those types of comics. You’ve seen all those by the Yankees, Colonel America or whatever fighting ‘the evil Fascists’. It’s just too political and we can’t go into all that, Thompson’s isn’t that sort of publisher. Straight action or comedy is what we’re aiming for. We’re not going to get involved in anything deeper than that.”
Daniel’s shoulders slumped down with the rest of his body into the chair before the desk. The small office he was in was the office of the editor of Anglo Comics, the foremost comic action comic in Britain. Although the office was decorated with original prints of some of Daniel’s own work, his depression drove his past accomplishments from his mind. He had been so sure this idea would be accepted, the superhero genre had been neglected in his eyes and had hoped to make a major break through in that area. But as always, it all came down to bloody politics limiting what he could do with his work.
Looking at Daniel with some sympathy, Wallace got up from his side of the desk and walked around to the young man, giving him a reassuring pat on the shoulder “Ah don’t worry about it lad, everyone gets at least one idea rejected in their careers. There’s a new opportunity I’ve got in mind just for you. A new African adventure story, frontier excitement and all that, I want you to be the main artist on this. How’s that sound?”
With a small nod, Daniel accepted the offer. Maybe in five years or so, his opportunity would come to out his idea to paper but for now, he was left with more than a little bitterness towards the way things had turned out, saving a curse towards the Albion Government for blocking his vision.
Silently of course. He was bitter, not stupid.
Imperial Office, Whitehall, London, April 1952:
The office was without grand decoration, bare and with hardly any personal touches at all aside from one single black and white photo of a middle aged man, wearing thin spectacles and a wire moustache with a business suit pressed to razor thin quality. Beside the man in the picture was a teenaged girl who was almost the polar opposite of the man. Blonde hair past her shoulders, a bright blue dress and a laughing smile showing perfect teeth. Only that photo showed any sort of Human value to the room, the rest could have easily been used by a robot.
It was empty at the moment, silent as the neat office stood perfectly still. A peace that was broken when the door opened suddenly and in walked the man in the picture, as neat and stern looking as he was in the photo. He practically marched as opposed to walked to his desk and sat down, each move clinical and efficient. Not one single muscle was wasted in its effort, all thought out and made to get from point A to B with the least amount of effort. After sitting down at the desk, he reached over and edged the photo ever so slightly, making it face completely towards him as opposed to an angle.
For just over a minute, he sat in the wooden chair completely still, waiting for the man coming in to meet him. He waited only for a brief time as a rap on his door broke the silence along with the man’s thin, high pitched voice calling out “Enter.”
The door once more opened and in walked a Japanese man, thin, short and dressed in an equally immaculate business suit to the man at the desk. Although he was clean shaven and smiling fairly benevolently, a contrast to the stern faced man opposite “Mr. Yagami, a pleasure to see you again, please have a seat.” He said to the Japanese man, motioning towards the seat on the other side of the desk.
“Thank you Mr. Summers.” Yagami said, his voice soft and English superb, with only the faintest trace of an accent in it “I apologise for coming so late in the day, the message from my Government only just arrived a little while ago. I understand you were just leaving?”
For a moment, a ghost of a smirk crossed Summers’ face. He knew all about bureaucratic tendencies alright. Going on, he said “Do not worry about that Mr. Yagami, please tell me your business here.”
Yagami paused for a second, looking somewhat nervous before taking the plunge “As we both know Mr Summers, the situation in Indo-China has become most… untenable. The Japanese Empire can not sit back and allow the persecution of a fellow Asian people by the French. After much negotiation on behalf of the Indo…”
With a raised hand Summers suddenly cut off Yagami’s speech as he spoke “What you are asking is whether or not the British Empire will intervene in any conflict between the Japanese Empire and France am I right?”
Yagami did a slight double take at that, his surprise clear “I… yes you are. The need to strike is upon us Mr. Summers. My Government is by no means asking for permission, that I want to make clear, we merely want to know your position on any conflict between our nations.”
Giving a little sigh, Summers felt annoyance build up inside him, surely this could have been asked over a telephone or in the morning? The Japanese had been in China for almost two decades now; another night could hardly have done much harm “As I have discussed with the Lord Protector on various occasions Mr. Yagami, the British has had no interests in Asia since the Revolution. Our responsibilities there are non existent. We are Allies with France in Europe because of the Soviet threat and neutral everywhere else, including Indo-China.”
The answer was something of a pleasant surprise to Yagami. The Soviet War had muddied the waters when it came to Alliances as the coalition had been desperately hammered together before falling apart after the nuclear bomb struck Moscow. There was one other issue however “And what of the nuclear threat?”
A good question, it had been an Allied effort to bring about a nuclear bomb. Britain had been the main funder and drive behind it true but the Allied nations had played a part together to create the ultimate weapon. An answer prepared, Summers said smoothly “The French Republic does not at this time have access to its own nuclear stock and neither we nor our Allies grant them for a colonial dispute. Is that all Mr. Yagami?”
The smile on the Japanese Ambassador’s face was short but threatened to split his head in two. Rising from his seat, he gave Summers a brief bow “I shall contact my Government with this news straight away Mr. Summers. I thank you for your time.”
Giving a small wave to Yagami as he quickly left to give the news, Summers rose from his seat in a bid to get home fast. He had promised his daughter a night at the theatre tonight and he would not let anything else block him, War or not. He had the presence of mind to write down a brief note to be sent to Strike straight away but other than that, his mind went back to spending time with his daughter the moment he handed the note to a clerk on his way out.
