Second Chance

Chapter Twenty-Five: Culture Shock

Diogenes Club

London, United Kingdom

2^nd September 1940

The Diogenes Club, Somerville knew, had been founded as a semi-serious joke by a man in 1920, apparently with the wholehearted support of the young Winston Churchill. Silence was golden within the club; anyone who spoke outside the Speaking Room would be evicted. Multiple offences would see the culprit barred from the club for life. Somerville had been astonished – and then delighted – to learn that it still existed in the brave new world.

He touched his mobile phone that hung by his belt. His minder had explained that it used a special government-issue SIM card, one that automatically encrypted his words so eavesdroppers could not intercept what he said. Long words like ‘quantum encryption’ and ‘limited array signals’ had slipped past Somerville’s comprehension; it was enough to know that he could be reached any time by anyone with his number.

I hate this fucking thing, he thought. The Royal Navy had suffered, badly, from the Admiralty trying to direct operations at long distance; the Goeben fiasco had been caused by the commanding officer being given several different sets of contradictory orders. Now… he wasn’t certain that even Admiral Turtledove, a man he had come to respect, had any freedom to set his own orders. Didn’t the modern world understand that the man on the spot knew what was happening with far more understanding than men in distant offices?

The car drew up in the small parking lot and Somerville climbed out, waving his minder goodbye. “I’ll be back for you as soon as you call,” the minder said, and drove off. He’d wanted to accompany Somerville, but the Admiral had insisted – quite firmly – on going alone.

He stepped into the lobby and was greeted by a statue of a portly man; the impressively stout – and non-existent – Mycroft Holmes. Behind the old statue, which had been new the last time Somerville had entered the club, a second statue, of Lord Mycroft, had been added. Apart from the second statue, the club was exactly as he remembered it; neat and tastefully decorated.

An old man creaked up to him. He was dressed in the neat dark uniform of the club. Somerville found his eyes following the sharp cheekbones; could it really be…?

The man held out a small computer. LORD LINLITHGOW IS IN THE SPEAKING ROOM, the screen read. Somerville nodded politely and followed the man through corridors that had been unchanged in eighty years. They passed through a corridor displaying pictures of famous club members; Churchill, Jellicoe… and his blood ran cold as he saw an older version of himself, dressed in the uniform of a full Admiral. His promotion to Admiral had come later; Hanover had promoted him only a month ago.

He smiled suddenly as he saw a picture draped in black. Few people remembered that Kaiser Wilhelm had once been a member. Club rules forbade removing a picture, so when the Great War had broken out, his photograph had been covered in black. Lost in his thoughts, he was led into the Speaking Room and through an airlock far more complex than the hatch of a submarine.

“In here, sir,” the man said. “It’s a pleasure to see you again, Admiral.”

“Wilkins?” Somerville asked. The old man had been a young apprentice to the head butler, the feared Barker.

“Yes, sir,” Wilkins said. “Lord Linlithgow is inside, waiting.”

“I hope to talk to you later,” Somerville said, suddenly uncertain of his ground. What did one say to a boy who’d lived his entire life in the space of a second? Wilkins had been a young child, nervous and sickly, and now he was a confident man, clearly every bit as much the master of the club as Barker had been. A thought struck him. “What happened to Barker?”

“He retired in 1970,” Wilkins said. “He died the year afterwards; we all attended his funeral and the club had a day of mourning.”

“How apt,” Somerville said, and shook Wilkins’ hand, before entering the speaking room. It had changed little; the only addition was a series of small partitioned rooms added to one end of the living room.

“Somerville,” Lord Linlithgow said. “I trust that you had a pleasant journey?”

The dignified viceroy sounded sour. Somerville didn’t blame him; Linlithgow had confidently stated that the Raj would last until 1980, learning that it would not have lasted past 1947 – and that it would now not last past 1941 – had been a shock.

“I suppose it was an interesting journey,” Somerville conceded. “I have been slated to command the Mediterranean Fleet, again. Our ships are tougher than theirs.”

“And they were the subject of this meeting,” Linlithgow said. “I dare say that you had hoped that this was all a practical joke?”

Somerville nodded. “Your Excellency, I feared that the Germans had invaded Britain when we lost contact, but when…”

“I am not certain that that would not have been preferable,” Linlithgow interrupted. “I have been busy, the past week, exploring the brave new world.” He spat once. “What sort of world is it where the Empire no longer exists, where we suck up to the Americans and where we give away jewels like Hong Kong?”

“A very different one,” Somerville said. “Things will be different, this time around.”

“Will they?” Linlithgow asked. “Look at their histories; India will be sundered into three components, South Africa will grant self-determination to niggers, and look how they bring Africa into a collapse. Colonists who have risked their lives in pursuit of the white man’s burden abandoned to the mercies of savages who know nothing about how to make a country grow. Hong Kong will be ruthlessly purged by China in 2010; far too much democracy for them. Even America will stagger under attacks by ragged sand-niggers. What sort of world is it for us?”

“The future?” Somerville suggested. “We have begun work on integrating the former French colonies into a trading empire that will be stronger than the old empire, we have begun to offer the Indians a chance to…”

“Destroy themselves,” Linlithgow snapped. “There are far more factions within India than the ones invited to the Imperial Conference Pah! What about the Sikhs, or the Jain, or the different groups within the princely states? This is going to be a complete disaster, I know it, but do they listen to the man with the most experience? Of course not!

“And what about your people? Will the ordinary seamen fit in here? How many incidents have we had already; men clashing with wogs and niggers, who seem to think that they have a right to live here? What about the army; will General Wavell’s men he happy living here? What can they do? How many skills do they have? Many of them have lost wives and sweethearts – and then they’re coming home to a Britain that has no use for them!”

“I understand your point,” Somerville said carefully. A servant arrived with a tray of bone china teacups and a pot of tea. The servant was Indian; he departed as silently as he arrived, after pouring the tea for the two men. “Still, what can we do about it?”

“The Monarch no longer holds the respect of his people or the government,” Linlithgow said. “I have read the histories of King Charles; stupid life, stupid wife and stupid second marriage. The heir shows promise, but has publicly threatened to leave; the second in line disgraced the country by wearing a Nazi armband! That fool Hanover is running the country, and taking us down the path to ruin!”

Somerville sipped his tea. It was as fine as he remembered. “Unfortunately, this is not a cheap novel, with a handful of people moving in time,” he said. “This is an entire nation; the effects are profound. Already, we have forced the Germans from North Africa; we are in a position to affect the entire history of the continent for the better.”

“Indeed,” Linlithgow said. “I have spent the week examining the histories and consulting with… people. I do not intend to return to India; I imagine that Hanover will appoint some kind of… commissioner or Governor-General to oversee the transition to independence. Of course, with a possible threat from Japan, they will have to defend the nation; there is no way that an independent India can gain control of its army in time to protect the nation, should the Japanese attack. I have been talking to Prime Minister Menzies, of Australia; they are terrified at the possibility of a Japanese invasion, particularly with the revolts on the Dutch East Indies.”

Somerville nodded. The Dutch Government-In-Exile had vanished along with Britain, and they had left the East Indies up for grabs. Already, local factions were advancing their claims, the Japanese were moving in for the kill, and Menzies was demanding a pre-emptive occupation. The Japanese conquest – there really was no other term – of French Indochina, despite American protests, placed them far too close to Singapore for comfort. Fortunately, General Percival had been removed, along with a large number of Japanese spies.

“I have also been talking to Prime Minister Smuts,” he continued. “He was less than happy to know the future of South Africa, despite the delegation of niggers from here that went to see him. He was in fact looking for new immigrants, and I suggested that he might offer good terms to our Contemporary personnel, as is my duty as the senior surviving person.”

Somerville narrowed his eyes. He supposed that Linlithgow was correct – with the possible exception of Lord Lothian he was the senior British government official – but he seemed to be moving far too quickly for Somerville’s tastes.

“Not all of them will want to move to South Africa,” he said finally. “They’ll want to go home…”

“And with the exception of places like this, how much of home is left?” Linlithgow asked. “So far, how many of them will be offered a home in this… pathetic excuse for Britain?” He smiled. “Menzies was also interested in recruiting army soldiers, even common infantry, and is calling his regiments home. General Wavell wasn’t happy, but the newcomers don’t mind; and they are confident that they can hold North Africa.”

Somerville shook his head. “I’m supposed to be going back there myself,” he said. “What else can we do?”

Linlithgow shrugged. “We have to adapt to the new world order,” he said. “If that means moving to South Africa, along with all the Italian prisoners we took in North Africa, then we go there.” He smiled. “Even if the commoners don’t want to go, we’ll take them anyway; they are all we have to bargain with. Perhaps… perhaps we can build a new England in the heart of Africa.”

Foreign Office

Whitehall, United Kingdom

2^nd September 1940

Like everyone else on Britain when the Transition happened, the Swedish Ambassador had vanished into the mists of time. To add to the general confusion, the 2015 Ambassador had been in transit back to Sweden when the Transition happened and his aircraft had not been picked up by whatever force had knocked Britain back in time. The cables that linked Sweden with Britain, of course, had been cut, and so the Swedes had only the rumours from Germany as a source of information. The grim suspicion that Britain had been invaded persisted until missiles started slamming into Kiel, in full view of Swedish observers.

Finally, the truth made its way up to Sweden, passing from Ireland to Spain, and then transported across Germany in a diplomatic bag. The Swedes, aware of the Altmark Incident, had been astonished, but the rubble of Kiel and the reports of massive u-boat losses had convinced at least some of them to send a mission back to Britain via Ireland. Fortunately, the Germans were still respecting the neutrality of the Swedes – and so were the future British. The paranoia of the Nazi Regime had increased a thousand-fold – they had purged their own army ruthlessly – but they were still respectful of neutrality.

Ambassador Christiansen was shown into the Foreign Office with a feeling of unreality. The quick meeting with a handful of Scandinavians in London – a city that had been vastly changed from how he remembered it – had been shocking, and the tour of ‘Little Sweden’ had been astonishing. He’d been delighted to learn that his nation would remain out of the war, but the treatment of Italy and Poland suggested that nothing could be counted on any more. He felt the shame of learning that his nation had done nothing to help the Finns during the second war with Russia, and the shame of helplessness when he learnt that the Swedes had walked a tight line between NATO and the Warsaw Pact.

“A pleasure to meet you,” the new Foreign Secretary said. Christiansen had once advantage; he’d never met Eden, who’d held the post before Britain… vanished. “We hope that we will have good relations with your country.”

It was standard diplomatic-speak, carefully organised to avoid offending anyone. Christiansen found it depressing; he hoped that Sweden would benefit from any relations with the future British.

“I hope so too,” he said finally, taking the offered seat. “I must ask your permission to speak bluntly.”

“Of course,” McLachlan said. He smiled. “Blunt speaking will make a change, of course.”

“Your arrival has disrupted events, even according to your own histories,” Christiansen said. “In Germany, they have purged the army and forced most of the Poles into brutal slavery. In Finland, a growing Soviet army is building outside their borders, preparing to launch a second invasion.”

“Makes sense, I suppose,” McLachlan mused. “They would be eager to avoid Finland seeking revenge for the Winter War.”

“That is intolerable,” Christiansen said. “The Finns are already preparing to resist, but they cannot hold out for long. We believe, from our… ah, agents in Moscow, that the Soviets intend to move onto us afterwards, or that the Germans will. We will resist, but they have so much more power than we do.”

“That is… unfortunate,” McLachlan said, after a moment. “You do realise, of course, that as a supplier of strategic materials to the Germans, you are not top of the list for our help?”

Christiansen nodded. “The choice, Mr McLachlan, is to either send them the materials, or they will take them. We are already getting an influx of refugees from Norway as the Germans exterminate the core of the resistance movement there, using knowledge that you allowed them to take.”

“I sympathise with your plight,” McLachlan said finally. “I will have to consult with the Prime Minister, but I feel that there is very little we can do to support you. We do not have enough arms for our current… commitments, and even if we did we would be unable to send them to you. The Germans will insist on inspecting any ships we sent to you, and discovering weapons might just provoke the attack you fear.

“Finland is an even more troublesome problem,” he continued. “Even more so than yourself, we would have difficulties in supplying them with anything. There are some possibilities, but the Germans would know what we were doing, and then they would come for you.”

Christiansen felt his face fall. “There is nothing you can do?”

“Nothing, I think,” McLachlan said. “I can have the Oversight Committee look into it, but the blunt truth of the matter is that we are not at war with the Soviet Union. Even with our advanced weapons, we would have difficulties in fighting both enemies at the same time.”

He coughed. “I need, however, to ask you for a favour. A particularly stupid reporter would like to interview Herr Hitler. Would it be possible for you to make contact with the Germans and arrange safe-conduct?”

“I will of course try,” Christiansen said. “I don’t know how the Germans would react.”

“If we’re lucky, they’ll say no,” McLachlan muttered. “I’m sorry about being unable to help out.”

Unbeknownst to any of the Swedish delegation, one of the military attachés who’d accompanied Christiansen had been working for the Abwehr for several years. His position had never been unmasked and he’d supplied the Germans with considerable amounts of data, before manoeuvring for the position in the embassy in Britain. He’d been refused the first position, but with the disappearance of the original Ambassador and his staff, he’d been permitted to go as a roving assistant to the Ambassador. As it happened, the Swedish Government had instructed him to gather as much information on the future military as he could – in hopes of joint operations – and he was delighted. There would be no protests to reveal his… other masters.

Absently, he wandered though London, watching carefully as he passed streets that glowed with power. Even the poor had better homes than the poor in Sweden, equipped with televisions and radios and home cookers. He stopped at a street kitchen and was given something called a kebab to eat; it was hot and spicy, but quite tasty. The blending of the different sauces gave it quite a kick.

Thus refreshed, he wandered into the local library, and started his investigations. The librarian was quite helpful and he studied the war – World War Two – with care. He chuckled; all the priceless information and she’d put it on display!

“Everyone wants to know what happened these days,” she explained, when he asked. “The Guild of Historians is tickled pink.”

“Indeed,” he said gravely, and wandered away from the World War section, moving into the military section. There was a small guide to the Swedish Armed Forces of 2015; the Swedes were apparently heavy contributors to something called EUROFOR after a nasty terrorist incident. He read about immigration, and of Islamic pressure, and shuddered, making notes for his Government.

All the section on nuclear science had been removed, a wise precaution. The librarian explained that the Government had been quite firm on the issue; there were too many foreigners wandering around and there was no point in putting temptation in their way. Instead, he researched the current armed forces; discovering that there were only three fast-jet fighter bases was astonishing, even through he supposed that the RAF could operate from other bases if necessary. There was so much data that he was overwhelmed; he made copies and scribbled away in his notebook, wondering how either of his masters would use the information. Finally, as it was getting dark, he left the library and wandered back to the embassy.

“Hey, you,” a man called. He turned around and ducked as a fist shot towards his face, slamming him to the ground. The man kicked him as he fell, before snatching up his wallet and running away. Lying on the ground, gasping in pain, darkness came for him. By the time the police found his body, it was too late; he had already slipped into a coma.