Timeline Thursday: Hockey Zombies From Outer Space

So when I commented on Facebook the other day that I was alerted to the Blackhawks' Stanley Cup victory by the fireworks going off in my neighborhood my friend Jen challenged me to "write a short story about the day the hawks won like turn it into an alternate history story mixed with sic fi and zombies". At first I laughed it off until my mind actually started working on that very idea. It inspired me to write this short story and reboot the Timeline Thursday series. So enjoy and apologies ahead of time for the completely misleading title...

You've ever heard of Enrico Fermi?

Seriously? What do they teach you kids in college. Nevermind. Fermi was a scientist. Worked on the bomb in the 1940s. The bomb. One of the smartest people in the world Fermi was and one day he asked where are all the damn aliens were at? The galaxy as old as it is you think we would have heard from them by now. Now all we have to do is look outside to answer his question.

Yes I'm saying aliens caused this. You really think everything happening  right now was done by humans? Don't believe everything you read on the Internet, not that we have that anymore to worry about anymore.

Yeah I heard that one too. Tell you the truth I thought at first it was some biological weapon that got loose before I got tapped to head the Project. It all began when they noticed something in the Oort Cloud...um the Oort Cloud is this sphere surrounding the Solar System full of comets and...

So you know about the Oort Cloud but not Enrico Fermi? Fine, whatever, back to the story. So this thing that shouldn't be moving broke its orbit and started heading toward Earth. I remember the exact day they discovered it too. That was the day the Blackhawks won the Stanley Cup in 2015. I wonder if Duncan Keith got picked up in any of the sweeps. Be a real shame to lose him.

Sorry, anywho, no one knew what to make of it. It looked like an asteroid but when we took a closer look we saw...things on it.

Hard to describe really. Like dead trees with branches reaching for the stars. We kept prying eyes away from it and most of the other governments were on board. We just kept it in our sights and prepared for the worst and then...it stopped. For a few years it just sat there orbiting the sun near Jupiter, minding its own business until...

Exactly, the meteor showers. Nice catch, maybe there is hope for you here after all.

I'll get to that, this is more important. When all those surprise meteor showers were reported around the world we knew we screwed up, but we didn't know how truly fucked we were. It was slow at first. Increase in missing persons, food shortages, seemingly random acts of violence, towns waking up discovering they were covered in yellow dust...

Spore is perhaps a better name. They are actually microscopic creatures that enter the host and take over the higher functions. They force to victim to gorge themselves to give them the nutrients they need to start replicating. Then the growths begin so they can store more of themselves before going poof and use to winds to spread a new generation of spore babies to other hosts. Of course, sometimes they use the direct approach. Scratching and biting. I'm sure you had you share of that, huh?

Sorry to hear that, but what you did was a mercy. Whoever they were was long gone before they tried to do that.

Of course, it doesn't help, but what else is there to say at this point? Empathy is what makes us human and we aren't fighting anything human. We think that thing up there is actually a probe. Something left here by someone very old and very powerful to watch us and wait for the time when it had to kill us. That thing is the answer to Fermi's paradox. We haven't found any aliens yet because someone kills them off before they even get a chance to say hello.

Fight? How do we fight something we can't even reach? Kid, look around you, the fight is over. We lost. Don't let these guns and tall walls deceive you. This is the sinking of the Titanic after everyone has been ordered to abandon ship and the rich are the first in line for the lifeboats.

I agree, that is bullshit, but I rather save some than let everyone die. That is the Project's stated purpose anyway. We are building the ark to survive the flood and we are taking two of every dirty politician, trust fund brat, Wall Street scumbag, Hollywood whores and every other kind of our "betters" we can find. All putting their faith into something that no one has figured out a good name for yet.

Now you are asking the right questions. I am not sure what everyone else around the world is doing right now to survive, but you can bet your ass everyone from the highest plutocrat to the lowliest peasant is trying to stave off the darkness. I heard the Poles actually shot a rocket into space with frozen embryos on board. Hah! Apparently they can into space.

Sorry, bad joke. Like I said, we all have our plans, but ours is the only one that is going to work.

Because its my plan. When you were studying liberal arts, I was actually doing something useful with my student loans. I'm not ashamed to admit it, but I am a certified genius and the good old US of A recognized that and gave me a job. Before the Project I was working on the most secret of secret projects. Man, those were the days. Never-ending funding and not a single ethics committee in sight...

Right, I'll just cut to the chase. We are going to resettle in parallel reality where history turned out differently as we know it, preferably one with a developed enough infrastructure to support an influx of temporal refugees.

You're joking? Genocidal aliens and zombies aside, I honestly thought this would be the hardest concept to sell.

Counterfactuals? Never heard of them.

Spare me the explanation. I'm glad you are excited, but let me fill you in on some history not in your books. So there was this guy called Nikola Tesla...

I don't care if you've heard of him, let me finish. These next parts are very important. So Tesla head a strange signal over one of his machines. Crazy Serb thought he was hearing a message from the Martians. Turns out he was actually communicating for the first time in recorded history with someone from an alternate reality. Those who knew the truth covered it up in fear of how people would react.

Don't have too much faith in humanity kid. People can be kind of stupid, especially when they learn their savior or prophet is no where to be found on this other Earth. We found a lot of new toys too. Mostly harmless stuff really. Some of it we even released to the buying public and raked in the cash. Other stuff...well lets just say I know Uncle Sam isn't a saint, but he is certainly not a monster.

Trust me if we thought it would work against the zombies we would unleashed those dogs a long time ago. Anywho, the US government has been studying, communicating and travelling the multiverse now for more than a century. They have pulled what funding they can from groups like NASA and even used the whole UFO conspiracy craze to distract people from the research happening at Area 51. Pretty clever, huh?

Cliche? Everyone is a freaking critic. Well the plan now is to find the right reality that can support us. It can't be some primitive world where we never progressed beyond walking apes. Most of these people haven't even looked at dirt in their lives, much less farm it. It also can't have too many angry natives who decide to dispose of all those illegal immigrants crossing over into their reality. So while we man the barricades here we have been sending teams of soldiers, scientists and historians to find our new home. That's why you were picked up in one of the sweeps.

Isn't it obvious? We need historians in the field so they can learn about these worlds and tell us how they are different. That is important for picking our new home. We need to understand these worlds before we can live on them.

Classical history is good. We just got a report from one team that watched a chariot race where Central Park should have been. If you are lucky, maybe you will even get to go there.

Yep, that is why you are here. You may just be a graduate student, but you seem to know your history. Plus playing soccer all those years kept you in good shape, which is important. Some of these worlds can be pretty dicey and knowing how to run is a plus.

I'm not going to lie. We have lost teams before and probably will lose some more going forward. This is dangerous, but you can save lives this way and more importantly...listen I have been pushing for more recruits, any we can find. We need more teams for what I have planned.

Well for one thing it means I get to save some useful people for a change. For another, if these aliens exist here they can sure as shit exist in these other timelines. We haven't found evidence of them yet, but it is not like we can just commandeer a telescope and take a look. For all we know we could be doing this forever. Abandoning one timeline for another every time the aliens decide the time is right to wipe us out.

No, its not pointless. Remember, I'm a genius. I need more teams travelling farther than ever before. Going to the most distant realms of the multiverse until we are not even sure the people we meet there are still human. We are either going to find a reality where the aliens don't exist or we're going to find someone badder than them. Someone we can deal with to bring those bastards down and maybe even save this Earth. Our Earth.

So kid, what's it going to be? Are you ready to take a trip into the great unknown or are you going to take your chances outside these walls?

Good choice.

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Matt Mitrovich is the founder and editor of Alternate History Weekly Update and a blogger on Amazing Stories. Check out his short fiction. When not writing he works as an attorney, enjoys life with his beautiful wife Alana and prepares for the inevitable zombie apocalypse. You can follow him on Facebook or Twitter.

1814: How Washington Was Saved (Part 2) by William Weber

Wait! Don't forget to check out Part 1.

When the British resumed their advance the next morning, they unexpectedly encountered no harassment from the American militia. Cockburn attempted to convince Ross that the firm hand they had shown over the last few days had finally convinced their pesky adversaries to cease and desist. Ross expressed doubts that they could be so lucky.

The general’s hunch proved to be correct. As they approached Bladensburg in the afternoon, Thornton reported a large American force that he estimated to include several thousand troops, mostly militia, entrenched on Lowdnes Hill off to the right of the road that followed the northern bank of the eastern branch of the Potomac into Bladensburg. Ross ordered his troops to deploy with the Light Brigade anchored on the road, the Second Brigade in the center directly facing the hill, and the Third Brigade covering the right flank. He then called a conference of his brigade commanders and Cockburn.

Cockburn and Thornton argued for an immediate frontal attack on the hill arguing that the British veterans would have an easy time putting the American militia to flight. “They have no battle experience,” the admiral argued. “They’ve given us enough trouble over the last few days,” Brooke countered by noting, “We also do not know what forces, if any, are on the other side of that hill."  Patterson suggested sending the few scouts they had mounted on horses taken from farms to ride around the hill to answer that question. Ross agreed, adding that he wanted to attack quickly and take Bladensburg by nightfall.

When his scouts returned without seeing any additional American forces, Ross ordered Thornton to advance down the road as quickly as possible and into Bladensburg to secure the bridge over the river. His brigade commanders agreed this might panic the troops on the high ground because it would cut off their escape route to Washington. The Second and Third Brigades would proceed at a more measured pace to the trenches on the hill, some of which contained cannons. Ross ordered his artillerymen equipped with inaccurate Congreve rockets to fire on the hill and into the town to confuse and frighten the Americans. “To victory, gentlemen,” he added.

The American commanders watched the British formation transformed from marching columns to battle lines. “As I expected,” Porter observed. “They are going to attack in strength, counting on their elan and experience to overwhelm our defenses.”  He had assembled some 6,000 troops. Over 3,000 Maryland militia under General Stansbury occupied the Hill’s fortifications supported by some 500 federal troops and sailors under Barney. Another 1,500 District militia commanded by Van Ness held the town. Porter had positioned Minor’s Virginia regiment on the National Road out of Bladensburg to Washington, and stationed 300 amalgamated cavalrymen in reserve on the back side of the hill.

“Do you expect them to hold?” Secretary Armstrong asked. “Yes, we’ll do even better than we did at Bunker Hill,” Porter replied. “They are going to pay a very high price. I know you think regulars will always trump militia, Mr. Secretary, but I plan to prove you wrong.”  “Godspeed,” Armstrong replied as he mounted his horse and joined his escort that headed for the bridge and Washington.

“Gentlemen,” Porter said to his assembled commanders, “Colonel Laval’s cavalry will emerge from the woods on left flank once the British have closed half the distance to the top of the Hill. Remember, that is the signal to return fire.”

He paused a moment, glanced at each of them. “My favorite ancient Greek, Archimedes of Syracuse said, ‘Give me a fulcrum and I shall move the world.’ This hill is our fulcrum, our army is our lever, and today, we will move the world. God bless us, and damn them to hell.”

The battle began as Porter had imagined with the British troops slowly moving in line toward him. He and his entire command were surprised by the Congreve rockets that screamed at them before exploding in the air and on the ground. However, their entrenchments gave the militia physical protection and emotional security, and the British artillerymen lacked enough rounds to sustain their fire for very long.

Porter was more alarmed by the rapid advance of the British units on his right toward the town that threatened to cut him off from the roads to Washington. Fortunately, the enemy troops soon expended their energy. Weakened by the day’s march and the hot humid weather, they faltered when they came under fire from the DC militia inside the brick buildings and makeshift barricades in the street. Van Ness’s insistence on mobilizing his forces before the British arrived had given them the time to train and prepare their defenses. Although it took repeated volleys that consumed most of their ammunition, the effect on the Light Brigade was devastating. They staggered and then retreated in good order, albeit without their regimental commander, Thornton, who fell at the high water mark of their advance among a cluster of his infantry, brought down by cannon and musket fire.

Moments later, Colonel Laval’s composite federal-state cavalry unit charged from the woods on the American left flank. Lieutenant Colonel Brooke halted the Third Brigade and ordered his men to form squares to ward off the attack. As they did so, the American artillery fired on the compact formations just after the American cavalry broke off their charge.

Ross watched his flanks crumble just as the Second Brigade came within musket range of the American center. Barney’s naval guns ripped huge holes in the scarlet lines ascending the hill. Colonel Patterson and most of his aides died in the first few minutes, as did large numbers of British infantry. Yet, the well-trained veterans of the Napoleonic Wars marched steadily forward until their ranks thinned to the point where Commodore Barney ordered, “Board’em!” Maryland militia joined his sailors and marines in charging down the hill. The Second Brigade held for a few minutes and then broke.

Suddenly, defeat for the British turned into disaster. Ross and Cockburn rushed forward on horseback to rally Patterson’s brigade. The admiral fell first when a canon ball sliced through a brace of soldiers that he was alternatively berating and exhorting to hold their ground. While a cheer immediately erupted from the American ranks, an eerie silence fell among the British soldiers who gazed upon the dead naval officer pinned underneath his dead horse. Ross then took two rounds, one in his arm and another in his thigh, and fell from his charger. A platoon quickly created a litter with their muskets and jackets to carry him to the rear.

Brooke assumed command of the British forces and converted a near rout into an orderly retreat to Upper Marlboro where 500 British sailors and marines had remained with the British flotilla after Barney’s gunboats were scuttled. Ross once again found himself at Beanes’s house, now as a patient rather than an as unwanted guest. Beanes advised him that until the bullets could be extracted and damaged blood vessels cauterized, any further movement would probably result in his death. His stretcher-bearers volunteered to stay with their commanding officer as Brooke sent a report to Cochrane and continued the orderly march to Benedict.

At Bladensburg, Porter was determined to hold his position and not pursue the retreating British. He ordered all units to report their casualties, repair their positions, eat supper, and deploy sentries and pickets. He then wrote a short note to the President:

Mr. President,

I have the high honor and privilege to report that the officers and men under my command have soundly defeated a British attack undoubtedly designed to capture the City of Washington. 

I intend to hold this place until such time as the enemy has boarded his ships and withdrawn from the Patuxent River.

Respectfully, 
Brigadier General Moses Porter, 
Commanding Officer, Tenth Military District                  
                               
In the days that followed, Cochrane withdrew his fleet and invasion forces from the Chesapeake and set sail for Jamaica. He sent identical reports by three packet ships to London informing the government of the defeat at Bladensburg; the fate of Cockburn and Ross; his order recalling the Potomac flotilla from its attack on Alexandria; and most importantly, his decision not to attack Baltimore with his depleted forces. The admiral also recommended reconsidering the planned attack on New Orleans that would require a new Army commander and substantial reinforcements.

His report was quickly followed by Governor Prevost’s news of the British defeat on Lake Champlain and the unsuccessful attack on Plattsburg, New York in mid-September. These reversals in North America coincided with increased troubles on the continent, prompting the Duke of Wellington to advise the government to make peace with the Americans. Lord Castlereagh ordered the British delegation at Ghent to drop London’s harsh terms to retain occupied portions of the United States as well as New Orleans, establish an Indian buffer state along the Ohio River, secure navigation rights on the Mississippi, and maintain and enforce the Orders in Council restricting US trade with Europe. The Treaty of Ghent that ended the war and restored the status quo ante bellum, was expeditiously signed on November 1, 1814, and ratified on Christmas Eve by the US Congress, thus ending the War of 1812.

* * *

William Weber is the author of Neither Victor Nor Vanquished: America in the War of 1812 (Potomac Press, 2013).

1814: How Washington Was Saved (Part 1) by William Weber

This year marks the 200th anniversary of the British capture of Washington, DC.  In July 1814, President James Madison chose William Winder, nephew of Maryland Governor Levin Winder, to command the new Tenth Military District created for the defense of Washington and Baltimore.  Winder, captured at the Battle of Stoney Creek in 1813 and recently exchanged, lacked command and combat experience.  Secretary of War Armstrong refused to support Winder after his preferred candidate, Moses Porter, was rejected.  Winder’s dismal performance resulted in the British capture of Washington and the burning of the White House and the Capitol. This alternate history explores what might have happened had Madison chosen Porter.

* * *

 
Brigadier General Moses Porter looked down on his handiwork with satisfaction and sadness. From atop Lowdnes Hill, he saw the red-jacketed bodies of countless British soldiers on the slope below and in the streets of the small village of Bladensburg. The surviving invaders were retreating in good order toward the town of Benedict on the Patuxent River where they had landed just a few days ago. Only scattered elements of the British rearguard could still be seen, covering the retreat of General Robert Ross’s army.

Porter saw few American dead from the patchwork of soldiers, sailors, and militiamen that had defended the hill and town. He suspected more were inside the trenches and brick structures that he had used to create a miniature fortress to stop the British advance on Washington. He expected his brigade commanders would provide him with a preliminary casualty lists before sunset. Some of them were eager to pursue the British. But it was late in the afternoon on 24 August 1814, and Porter was content to send out patrols to keep watch over the enemy as they retreated to their flotilla and moved down river to the Chesapeake Bay.

Frankly, Porter was more surprised than pleased by his victory. Only two months ago President James Madison had given him commend of the newly created Tenth Military District encompassing both Baltimore and Washington. Secretary of War John Armstrong, like Porter a veteran of the Revolutionary War, had advocated his appointment. The new district was being carved out of the Fifth Military District headquartered in Norfolk that Porter had taken command of that spring.

Armstrong argued that experience was the most important qualification for command, and Porter had plenty. He had fought in numerous battles in the Revolutionary War, survived St. Clair’s disaster in 1791, and accompanied “Mad” Anthony Wayne to Fallen Timbers three years later. In the current war, Porter had seen action in New York and Upper Canada, and gained considerable experience building defenses in New Orleans, New England, and Norfolk. Porter’s frequent use of profanity, which had earned him the nickname “Old Blow Hard,” was also an asset the Secretary of War admired especially in this case given the squabbling over who should defend the city. He was the perfect man for the job.

Porter immediately reached out to the prominent political and military officials in the area on whom he would depend for manpower, largely militia, and materiel. He met with Maryland’s Federalist Governor Levin Winder in Annapolis and Senator Samuel Smith, the ersatz warlord of Baltimore. The governor, who had lost his son, Colonel William Winder, at the battle of Stoney Creek in Upper Canada a year ago, was eager to help. Smith was also willing to cooperate as long as Porter did not meddle with his defenses around Baltimore.

At the federal level, Porter consulted with Secretary of the Navy William Jones, and Commodore Joshua Barney, who commanded the Chesapeake Bay Flotilla of gunboats. Porter also showed deference to the commanding officer of the District of Columbia’s militia, Major General John P. Van Ness, convincing Armstrong to pay for the activation of one of the city’s two brigades.

As an engineer and artillery officer, Porter’s concept of operations was grounded in geography. To defend Washington and Baltimore with a small contingent of regular forces and thousands of local militiamen, he needed to station a sizeable reserve force between those two cities that he could deploy in response to a British attack. He assumed that Admiral Cockburn, whose ships and troops had raided towns up and down the Bay, would use the waterways to get as close as possible for the nation’s capital. That favored the Patuxent River. The Potomac River featured both the dangerous Kettle Bottom shoals and Fort Washington that could engage ships attempting to ascend the river.

Relying on Van Ness’s counsel, Porter seized on the village of Bladensburg with its 1,500 souls as the location for his strategic reserve. The small town sat astride the National Road with a bridge crossing the eastern branch of the Potomac River that was also fordable at that point. Downstream, two other bridges led to Washington that he would order burned if the British advanced toward them. Composed of brick dwellings next to a prominent rise, Lowdnes Hill, Bladensburg was well situated and suited to being fortified as a garrison. Van Ness’s troops dug trenches and artillery positions on the hill and around the village. They also cleared trees and brush from the facing slopes of nearby hills to deprive British troops of cover. Porter named the strong point Fort Winder in honor of the governor’s son.

He convinced Barney that some of the guns from his flotilla, now trapped up the Patuxent River, were more likely to see action at Fort Winder. Barney agreed and had his officers and seamen move the flotilla’s armaments to the fort.

Porter also knew that a good defense needed a modicum of offensive capability to harass the British forces. He designated three regiments to train in that capacity: Colonel George Magruder’s 1st District Regiment from Washington, Lieutenant Colonel Joseph Sterett’s 5th Regiment of Baltimore Volunteers, and Colonel George Minor’s regiment from Northern Virginia. All three fell in at Fort Winder to ensure that they were properly equipped, provisioned, and drilled, while becoming familiar with the local terrain. They identified numerous points on the roads where advancing British troops could be harassed and ambushed. In the hot and humid August weather, the British carrying heavy packs would be wearied and annoyed at the constant sniping Porter had planned for them.

Porter also improved Fort Washington guarding the approach up the Potomac, and convinced Virginia Governor James Barbour to help fortify the waterfront in Alexandria. Although part of the federal district, Alexandria’s defense was inseparable from the surrounding counties in Virginia. To sweeten the deal, Porter again relied on Armstrong’s patronage to deliver the necessary materials and funding, and he convinced Secretary Jones to shift some of his officers, seamen, and guns to bolster the defense of the Potomac.

It was not until mid-August that everything and everyone was in place and ready to execute Porter’s strategy. And that proved to be perfect timing. On August 16 a British flotilla commanded by Admiral Alexander Cochrane moved up the Patuxent and three days later landed a force of some 4,500 soldiers and sailors at Benedict. The leaders of the expedition, Major General Robert Ross and Admiral Cockburn, gave them a day to recover from the long sea voyage before setting out after Barney’s fleet.

Ross arranged his forces into three brigades. Colonel William Thornton commanded a Light Brigade, including the Eighty-Fifth Light Brigade; the light companies of his other regiments, and the Colonial Marines—freed slaves who volunteered to serve the Crown—at the head of his column. The Second Brigade, under Colonel Arthur Brooke, included the Fourth and Forty-Fourth infantry regiments. The Third Brigade led by Lieutenant Colonel William Patterson consisted of a battalion of Fusiliers and a battalion of Royal Marines. Ross’s force also included small numbers of artillerymen, engineers, and teamsters, as well as 100 sailors.  

On the morning of the August 20, the British marched out of Benedict on the road to Nottingham, with Cockburn commanding a flotilla of boats moving upriver on their right flank. Porter gave Sterret’s troops the honor of drawing first blood. A company of the Fifth Regiment fired three volleys at the column’s rear guard and then marched to their next position. The direction and the brevity of the attack surprised the British, whose flankers had not detected the enemy.

As the British stopped for rest at mid-morning, another company of the Fifth directed several volleys at the light infantry guarding their left flank before disappearing into the surrounding forest. They repeated this harassment late in the afternoon when Sterett’s men sent several musket volleys toward the advance guard, while a company of Minor’s Virginians began sniping at the British flotilla from the northern bank of the Patuxent. Sterett gave the British one more scare just after sunset, prompting Ross to muster his troops to fend off an attack that never came.

These iterative attacks continued over the next two days with a third company from Magruder’s District regiment taking part. When Cockburn and Ross reached Pig’s Point on the morning of August 22, Barney’s sailors scuttled their vessels in a series of deafening explosions. Simultaneously, Minor’s company opened up from the northern side of the river while Marguder’s militiamen fired several volleys before conducting an orderly withdrawal. The British, in keeping with Cockburn’s longstanding policy in the Bay, responded by burning and plundering every town and homestead they encountered.

This skirmishing put the British in a particularly foul mood by the time they reached the nearly deserted town of Upper Marlboro that afternoon. When the British light infantry vanguard quickly searched and secured the town before the main force entered, found several wounded American soldiers in the home of Dr. William Beanes, the town’s most prominent citizen. They dragged the wounded from his house and placed him under arrest. When Ross and Cockburn arrived, Beanes’ quickly offered to let the British officers use his home as their headquarters, in return for the safety of his town and the American wounded. His Scottish accent and Federalist political views persuaded them to graciously accept his hospitality. Nevertheless, several of the American prisoners died that evening, almost certainly from their wounds, but word spread to the American forces that some had been executed.
        
That evening, Ross and Cockburn received a message from the British fleet commander, Admiral Cochrane, advising them to return to Benedict. Having achieved their initial objective, he cautioned them against taking further risks by marching inland. He wanted them to return to the fleet for an attack on Baltimore. Cockburn had little trouble persuading Ross to press on to Washington. The general was infuriated by the sniping that had inflicted some three dozen casualties on his troops and, by delaying his advance, had contributed to more cases of heat exhaustion and fatigue. He wanted to defeat the Americans in battle, expecting they would be forced to stand and fight once his expedition neared Washington. That opportunity soon presented itself.

Check Out Part 2...

* * *

William Weber is the author of Neither Victor Nor Vanquished: America in the War of 1812 (Potomac Press, 2013).

Travaillis Republique Democratique Never Existed by Sean Sherman

Entry for the DBWI Writing Contest.

Thread Archive: iip.alternate-history.usa/trd_never_existed

October 6, 2012 12:34pm AmazingBill

The sixtieth anniversary of the fall of the Travaillis Republique Democratique is apparoaching.  Given the vast destruction across western/central Europe because of them, I want to create an ALT where the TRD never exisited.

What would be some good deviation points that would keep the French from turning to communism?

October 6, 2012 1:08pm TsarYuri

The French could have allied with the Russians instead of the Austrians in the 1926.  Russia would have been a better ally for the French and they could have split Europe between them.  The Russians could have fought the Turks and Habsburgs and the French could have conquered Italy and the Germanic states.

October 6, 2012 2:15pm Z-Bert

TsarYuri, there is no way the Russians could have fought both the Turkish and Habsburg Empires.  They had almost a dozen wars with just the Ottomans and couldn't take Constantinople.  They couldn't get any real help from France because the French would be two busy fighting everyone else.

A better divergence point would be for the French to win the Battle of the Ruhr in 1925.  That would have kept the Anglo-German army out of France and then they could have negotiated some sort of peace treaty where everyone went back to their original borders to stop the war.  That peace treaty would not destory France and would not have made them go into revolution.

A stronger German Confederation with British allies would then exist to keep the peace in Europe.

October 6, 2012 2:28pm TsarYuri

The Russians could have beat both of them.  They were modernizing their army after the war with Japan.  The Ottoman Empire was collapsing and the Austrian Emprie had lots of Slavs that would rise up against their oppressors if Russia came to their aid.  Besides the French couldn't win the Battle of the Ruhr they were outnumbered and the new German tanks gave them an edge, especially with von Richtofen in command of the Stahl Brigade.

October 6, 2012 3:11pm Mr_01011000

How about going further back.  If the French had given more assistance to the Confederates in the American Civil War they might have allowed for a Confederate victory and allowed France to keep the Mexican Empire.  France would have been so busy managing their overseas territory that they would not have had the resources to even think about conquering Europe.

France could have done all sorts of things to help the south win the war and destabilize North American politics to their advantage.  But I guess the British might have gotten upset with French intervention and would have started to give support to the US.

October 6, 2012 3:13pm Z-Bert

If the Russians were so tough why didn't they do better in the REAL war?  Their army of half-a-million men got bogged down for months by 80,000 Austrians at Przemy?l then instead of waiting until spring Dimitriev tried to cross the Carpathians during the winter!

Then Admiral Kolchak didn't coordinate his naval attacks on the Turks with the Bulgarian army.  A coordinated attack might have had some chance of breaking the Turkish defenses but that didn't happen in the real General War.  Changing some of the allies around won't make the Russian leaders any smarter.

And don't even get me started on how overrated  Richtofen is.

October 6, 2012 4:30pm TsarYuri

Play nice Bert.  There ware a lot of ways could have worked out differently – different armies faceing off against each other in differnet battlefields.  Some good French officers advising the Russians.

October 6, 2012 5:17pm guest_0013504

I LIKE CUPCAKES!  CHOCOLATE ARE THE BEST!

October 6, 2012 5:33pm AmazingBill

Wow!  Haven't been able to check the forum since my lunch break.   Thanks for all the responses!  (most of the responseses anyway...  I wish they would require registration to post to forums)

Mr_01011000, I do like the idea of France getting involved in North American politics and shaking things up.  Not sure if that is exactly what I want – but I'll have to use it for something else at some point.

What I want to do is to creat a time-line with a strong Europe; economically and militarily.  Somthing more powerful than the United States.  But I'd like to do it without directly interfering with the events in the western hemisphere.  I don't want Europe to be more powerful because it took something away from America, but becuase they built something better.

I want to explore what would have happened the last sixty years if Europe became a stronger, more peaceful place.  Saving millions of lives, and their millions of offspring, and reducing the threat of a global nuclear war.  Not really a utopia, but a world that has a better chance for humanity to continue on its journey.

October 7, 2012 1:44am GeneralAdmission

One way to give the French side a victory in the General War would be to keep the British and Russians from being willing to work together.  If the Russians got involved in the Third Anglo-Afghan war, trying to give the Russians a base of operations on India's frontier, the British would not be happy.

When the General War breaks out the long-term dislike the English have for the French would not be as strong as the active fear they would have of the Russians gaining more power and even seizing the straights.  The British would have to accept that either France or Russia would dominate the continent no matter what they did.  Given the relatively peaceful coexistance the British and French colonies had during the 19th century compared to the more stressful British-Russian borderslands, the British could easily have picked a different side.

October 7, 2012 7:09am Napoleon2001

How about this if you don't want communism ---- kill off Marx before he publishes Das Kapital.  The First International would still continue but would possibly be dominated by Bakunin's faction.  There are a number of other threads discusisng variations on communisim, anarcho-syndicalism, and other forms of socialism – iip.alternate-history.usa/alternate_socialism

Even if the government of France collapsed and fell to socialism after the General War a less severe form of socialim may not have led to the terrors of the purges and the Red War.

October 7, 2012 9:26am Z-Bert

“...a less severe form of socialism...”

Ha!  No such thing.

October 7, 2012 12:13pm AmazingBill

Thanks for the great ideas Napoleon and General.  The no-Marx idea could be interesting.  A lot more subtle than a change in the outcome of a war or major battle.   I'll check out that link and see if anything inspire me.

Keeping the British out of the General War would be a great way to change the outcome without some crazy deviation in the war itself.

October 8, 2012 5:03am guest_0014077

a good idea might be for the germans to win the frano-prussian war.  If they won it they would have been able to unify germany into one nation early and have a much bigger industry.  The french maybe not have enough men at battle of gravelotte and prussians use better tactics they win and gain momentum to win the war.

October 8, 2012 9:38am Z-Bert

There is no way the Germans could have possibly won the Franco-Prussian War.  The French were too well trained an organized.  Maybe Yuri could loan you some crack Russian troops to help out. :)

October 9, 2012 1:03pm guest_0014092

Richtofen was a very good tank commander.  One thing a tank commander needs is a good pair of sunglasses.  There are great ones available at iip.greatshadedeals.rus/IZ34939482890002

October 9, 2012 5:44pm AmazingBill

Thanks everyone.  I've decieded on what I'll be doing for the timeline.  While a Bakunin-France seemed interesting I don't think it would have given me what I want.  I'll be using a variation of the idea to keep the UK out of the General War.  I'll be making some changes to the politics in the Austrian Empire, make Emperor Francis a bit more liberal.

In either case, once the French have control of the Ruhr Valley they can really gear up their industry.  No socialist revolution.  No second war.  A more unified Europe would then be on a good footing to stay ahead of America and change the balance of power in the modern world.

Thanks for the ideas everyone!

October 10, 2012 12:56am GeneralAdmission

Great choice :)   Can't wait to see what you do.

***END THREAD***

* * *

Sean Sherman has been a fan of alternate timelines ever since seeing Spock with a goatee.  By day he is a CPA, at night he explores the multiverse and shares his findings over at his blog, Other Times.

Double-Blind What If Writing Contest

We are only a little more than a month away from The Update's 2 year anniversary. Yay!!! To celebrate I am finally announcing the contest many have been bugging me about. Yes, that's right, it is the DOUBLE-BLIND WHAT IF WRITING CONTEST.

Simply put, double-blind what ifs (DBWIs) are alternate histories within an alternate history. You can get a more detailed description over at the AH.com Wiki or check out my article on them at Amazing Stories. So what do I want from you? Be creative. Write an essay about how alternate history might develop in a world where the Confederacy won the Civil War. Write a story about two historians debating what ifs in a universe where the Persian Empire conquered ancient Greece. Review an OTL historical fiction novel, but as a reviewer from a completely different timeline altogether. All of those ideas and more are acceptable. Use your imagination!

Here are the rules:

• Submissions should be between 500 to 7000 words. We are open to accepting submissions over 7000, but they may be split into separate parts if possible.
• We are accepting submissions for three categories: fiction (original stories written by you), non-fiction (counterfactual essays) and reviews (books, film, television, etc.) based on the theme.
• Multiple submissions are acceptable, but only one per category.
• Submission period begins today and posting begins June 5. The submission period ends on June 28th.
• All submissions must be sent by email with "DBWI Writing Contest" in the subject line.
• All submissions must meet the theme for the contest but we will not stop accepting articles for the month of June outside the theme, but publication may be postponed for contest submissions.
• All other rules regarding contributing to The Update remain in effect.

There will be a winner selected from each category based on the name of page views each submission generates. The winner from each category will receive a $10 prize. Yes you read that right. The Update is finally paying for submissions, as promised.

WARNING: Any suspected cheating will immediately disqualify the contributor and there will be no appeals.  You are still encouraged to promote your work through your own blogs, websites and social media.

If you any questions email me at ahwupdate at gmail dot com. Please also feel free to share this announcement across Facebook and Twitter. Good luck everyone.

* * *

Matt Mitrovich is the founder and editor of Alternate History Weekly Update, a blogger on Amazing Stories and a volunteer editor for Alt Hist magazine. His fiction can be found at Echelon Press, Jake's Monthly and The Were-Traveler. When not writing he works as an attorney, enjoys life with his beautiful wife Alana and prepares for the inevitable zombie apocalypse. You can follow him on Facebook or Twitter.

The Strange Death of Sokullu Mehmed Pasha

Guest post Matthew W. Quinn.

From A New Look at Sokullu Mehmed Pasha, published at Miskatonic University.

The consensus of historians on the assassination of Grand Vizier Sokullu Mehmed Pasha on October 11, 1579 AD (or 20 Sha'ban 987 AH in the Islamic reckoning) is fairly well-known in our field. The Ottoman Sultan Murad III, alienated from the vizier who had served his father and grandfather so long and ably by his mother Narbanu Sultan and Venetian-born wife Safiye Sultan, took steps to reduce the vizier's influence on government. The vizier's allies were sent to faraway positions or assassinated. Ultimately, a mentally-unstable dervish talked his way into the vizier's office and stabbed him. This kind of intrigue was fairly common in the Ottoman Empire, especially during the period known as the Sultanate of Women.

However, some recent discoveries by Miskatonic University researchers of documents thought lost forever during the civil unrest that wracked Constantinople when the Janissaries were suppressed has shed new light on the circumstances of the vizier's assassination and an incident that took place in 1571.

These documents paint a far more sinister picture of the vizier. They include accusations of dealings with agents of Safavid Persia, with whom the vizier had counseled peace as opposed to the usual border wars, and even black magic. The documents accuse the vizier of, under the influence of an agent of Persian Shah Tahmasp I, acquiring a book of black magic from an Armenian merchant who had visited the long-vacant shrine of a corrupted Sufi order that had been destroyed by Turkish nomads not long before. The use of this book resulted in an incident in Constantinople that killed dozens of Ottoman soldiers, destroyed one war galley and forced the scuttling of a second, and caused significant damage to the Bayezit II mosque.

These accusations against Sokullu are not new, but have been long dismissed as the slanders from his political enemies. However, the mosque was damaged somehow, necessitating repairs by the famed Ottoman architect Mimar Sinan in 1573 and 1574. Furthermore, it is often said that converts make the best zealots. Safiye Sultan was a Catholic before she became a Muslim, while the most recent evidence suggests Narbanu was an Orthodox Greek from Corfu before her conversion. If Sokullu was involved in the dark arts, or was widely believed so, this could have provoked the ire of the Imperial women. They would not wish one so tainted to continue virtually ruling the Ottoman Empire in place of their son and husband. And the dervish orders might be willing to provide an assassin to dispose of the vizier, especially given his (tangential) connection to a Sufi order that had become warped by dark forces.

Of course, this is all just speculation. The documents describe how the soldiers killed in the incident were buried in a mass grave outside Constantinople that was given special attention by Muslim imams, Orthodox Christian priests, and even a Jewish rabbi, while the materials used by Sokullu in the incident were confiscated, burned, and abandoned in Persia. Should this mass grave or the dumping site be found, it would lend credence to the incident described in the documents.

So just why was the Grand Vizier assassinated, and is the author's theory about dark powers manifesting in Constantinople actually true? Read "The Beast of the Bosporus" on Amazon.com or on Smashwords to find out!

The Future of Submitting to The Update

Short post today. I hate to end the week with some house-keeping, but it needs to be done.

First the bad news: I am sad to announce the steampunk writing contest is cancelled. Despite the good showing we had for last month's contest, I have yet to receive any submissions for this new contest. Perhaps blame rests on me for not promoting it well enough or the format of monthly contests just isn't feasible over the long term.  For the sake of not wasting anyone's time I will be cancelling it and suspending future writing contests until I can come up with a better system.

Now the good news: In the very near future I will be paying for original fiction. I am starting to see some results from advertisements so to encourage more original fiction on this site I am going to start offering authors monetary compensation. Now don't think you quit your job and write for the Update for the rest of your life. I am probably going to start off with a flat rate of $5 to $10 and allowing the author to have full reprint rights once the story is posted.. I haven't decided yet, but keep an eye on the Submissions page since it will be getting an overhaul.

So again sorry for cancelling the steampunk contest, but I hope you will enjoy the new policy changes I am making for submissions.

* * *

Matt Mitrovich is the founder and editor of Alternate History Weekly Update, a blogger on Amazing Stories and a volunteer editor for Alt Hist magazine. His fiction can be found at Echelon Press, Jake's Monthly and The Were-Traveler. When not writing he works as an attorney, enjoys life with his beautiful wife Alana and prepares for the inevitable zombie apocalypse. You can follow him on Facebook or Twitter.

The More Things Change: A Tale of the Aether Age by Grant Gardiner

The 1920s. A new town full of gambling saloons, far from the nearest zeppelin freight way. In the region that was once known as ‘Nevada’.

The thundering beat of hooves broke into messy disarray as he hauled up in front of the State of the Union saloon. By the time Shotgun had cantered to a halt the sheriff was out of the saddle, on the ground and tying the colt off on the veranda handrail. “This had better be good, Mister Burnham.” He swept around the black sedan his depu... associates used to get around town, then he started taking the steps two at a time. “It’s the Lord’s Day. And my little girl’s fifteenth birthday. If this ain’t worthy of the sheriff’s presence I’ll be mighty unhappy.”

Standing at the saloon’s front door was ‘Mister Burnham’ and his offsider ‘Mister Cerano’. Both were built like brick outhouses but clad in pinstriped black with matching gray fedoras. Apparently because that’s how Chicago manufactured its ‘accountancy officials’.

“Yeah, sheriff,” replied Burnham as the Texan reached the top of the stairs. “It’s a proper mess in there. And you told us we weren’t supposed to, you know, take things into our own hands no more, so...”

The sheriff halted just outside the doorway to look at the gangster. The shrug the hulking mobster gave was pitiful but the Tommy guns both ‘accountancy officials’ carried were anything but. “You did the right thing, Mister Burnham.” He took one more worried look at the submachine gun in the huge catcher’s mitt Burnham called his hand. “You did the right thing.”

There was a riot of yelling, crashing and cussing pouring out of the saloon. It was punctuated with a steady beat of smashing bottles. But no firearm discharges. Which meant, by city law, they couldn’t just haul them down to lockup for the night.

The sheriff growled as he looked in on the carnage. It didn’t make things any better that he was actually needed this time. “Is Mister Wong safe?”

The gangster nodded.

“Is he pressing charges?”

There was a pause and the sheriff tore his eyes away from the still developing crime scene. Burnham was looking at him, one eyebrow cocked high. “What you reckon Mister Wong is doing?”

The sheriff grunted. Of course Mister Wong was pressing charges. Not pressing charges would only save the sheriff’s time. And who cared about the sheriff’s time?

The middle aged Texan nodded and dragged his open duster back from the vintage Peacemakers holstered at his waist. Behind him the two gangsters cocked their Thompsons then followed in his wake as he pushed through the swinging doors and into the saloon...

•••

“You’re a damn liar, you Hollywoodland stooge. From a nation of liars.” The diminutive little flapper in the tassled dress stood to her feet. “A no good phony- -“ She heaved a bottle the length of the saloon. “From amongst a herd of no good phonies!”

The bottle shattered against the piano, spraying gin and glass everywhere. “Ha hah!” cried the ruffled but sharply dressed gent taking shelter behind it. He straightened in triumph, reefing his now ruined green cravat from his once expensive gray suit to hold it high in victory. “So you admit that the great nation of CaliModerna is, indeed, a nation.”

He ducked with a squawk as several more bottle rained down upon his position.

“It’s sarcasm, you ninny!” yelled the infuriated flapper as she picked up another bottle. “California isn’t a country. No matter what you name it.” She threw the tiny gin bottle with next to no accuracy. “Just cause a propaganda film says you’re a country, don’t make it so!”

A tall but paunchy gentleman was sheltering behind some tables in another quarter of the saloon. He was dressed like a southern landowner, his crushed top hat in one hand and monocle hanging from his waistcoat. But he too picked up a bottle and launched it in the direction of the bar the flapper ducked behind. “My de’ar, your hypocrisy is unbecoming.” The bottle shattered across the bar to get a squeal from the flapper. He smiled wickedly. “If anyone should be silent about propaganda it’s residents of the state that claims to rule the so-called U-nited States of A-meri-ca.” He cackled with delight. “Even an unso-phis-ticated New Yor’k hussey like you should know that recent history proves thinking you run the continent don’t make it so.”

A chair leg rotored past the startled southerner, sending him back behind cover. “Better them then you,” called a French voice. It’s owner stood up from behind a beer barrel in the corner. He was dressed in cowboy denims and boots but wore a leather flight jacket, flying cap tucked into his back pocket. “New York is better than New Confederacy any day.” And the cowboy launched another chair leg.

“Yeah!” agreed the flapper, standing as the dark-skinned cowboy launched his last chair leg and a bottle at the Confederate. “He’s right. You could do a lot worse than us. If you’d only- -”

She ducked just in time to avoid a new delivery from the Californian, but in the background the cowboy began laughing uproariously. His latest bottle had caught the southerner’s top hat and sent it skittling. It’s owner, now covered in gin, retreated to a better defensive position while the cowboy cackled and slapped his knee. Then he stopped, spying someone cowering under a table on the other side of the room.

He pointed out the stranger as the latest salvo from the bar sailed past towards the piano. “Hey you. You never declared yourself. Where you from, son?”

Wide-eyed, the stranger held his hands up. “You can leave me out of this. I’m not American, I’m Canadian.”

“Canadian!?!” A stocky, older woman in a weathered poncho stood up behind the flapper’s bar. Her face was a picture of rage. “You said you were from Seattle.”

“Yeah, that’s what I said. I’m Canadian.”

The old woman swept back her wide brimmed hat to let it dangle by the cord around her neck. She completely ignored the bottle that sailed past her head to smash on the wall behind the bar. Instead, she only had dagger-eyes for the neutral-wannabe from Seattle.

A pointed finger slowly rose towards him with the gravitas of an oracle’s threat. “You... are American.”

The ‘American’ cringed as another bottle landed in his general vicinity. “No I’m not. I’m a citizen of the British Empire. And there’s nothing you can do about it.”

The old woman’s face went a deep crimson. “No. You’re. Not!” She turned to grab several bottles from the back of the bar. Then, with no regard to her own safety, she stood free of all protection, laying down glassware cover-fire on the hapless British-American. “You are American!” she bellowed. “You. Are. American!”

Seeing the American/Canadian suffering under the withering fire, the cowboy started laughing again in deep guffaws. He slapped his thigh several times, really getting into the comedy- -

Then stopped. The bottles were no longer flying...

His eyes panned right to see the old woman now pointing at him.

“You’re just as bad,” scowled the stocky, hard faced poncho wearer. “You’re worse, you so-called Mississippian.” She pointed again. “You think you’re French!”

The cowboy dived back behind cover as a chorus of ‘hear hears’ from across the room preceded a fresh storm of weaponised alcohol vessels, even the Canadian/American getting in on the act...

•••

From his viewing platform two steps above the carnage the goatee-stroking sheriff shook his head. He drew a Peacemaker and pointed it at the ceiling.

BLAM!BLAM!

•••

Silence reigned over the bar.

The sheriff stepped forward, spurs clinking loudly in the silence. “For the sake of full disclosure,” he drawled, “my associates here are from Chicago. That means they’re nationals of the MidWest Commonwealth.” He gestured behind to Burnham and Cerano who stepped forward, Tommy guns raised from their hips. “Y’all have a problem with them?”

The room was transfixed by the stubby submachine guns.

The sheriff left the gangsters near the doorway, slowly stepping down onto the landing that ran around the main room of the saloon. “What about me then? Anyone offended by my nationality? Cause I ain’t from around here either.”

There was silence as the sheriff pulled up at the top of the two steps leading down to the saloon floor. He scowled at the sea of broken furniture and the glass carnage that spread across the trashed establishment. He reached down to his belt, unclipped his star and held it up for all to see. “This here makes me the Law in these parts. And the Law is from Texas.” He lowered the star and glared at his scattered, bashful audience.

“Any objections to the Lone Star republic?”

There was utter silence.

“Good. Now let’s find out how this whole mess got started, shall we?”

•••

The sheriff had long since resigned himself to the idea that his duty in this town was not to its people. He was hired to protect the businesses of this quickly sprawling warren of saloons and gambling dens and anything else was his own side project. However, only being held to ‘commercial realities’ didn’t make his job any easier.

It took a good quarter hour to calm Mister Wong enough to get his version of the story. A full fifteen minutes. And in the end it wasn’t much of a story anyway: the details were missing but everyone was playing cards, someone apparently went in big – or lost the pot or their shirt or something – and the result was bad tempers and hurt feelings. Enough bad tempers and feelings to re-enact the Great War in the middle of the saloon.

Having performed his commercial duty – reassuring Mister Wong that compensation was forthcoming – the sheriff hurried out of the Union’s back room to get back to the saloon floor. He had been occupied for fifteen minutes. Fifteen minutes in which his associates were left to their own mob-sourced devices. With nothing more than the vague, ill-conceived and now deeply regretted instructions to “Sort out this lot and... Tarnation, I don’t know. Get these fools squared away. Take their statements or something.”

Bursting through the swinging doors the sheriff stopped to find... a quiet and orderly crime scene. All of the suspects were tied to chairs that had been arrayed in a big circle covering the main floor. Most of the wrecked furniture and glass had been swept over to the piano while Mister Cerano held point in the middle of the circle with his Tommy gun, casually scanning each of his wards like a well practised jail warden. Mister Burnham walked towards the sheriff with a pencil in one hand, notepad in the other. Tongue between his teeth, he made a final note and nodded with satisfaction. Then he flipped over the pages and handed the pad to the sheriff.

The sheriff took the notepad and examined the top, scrawl-covered page. “What’s this?”

“Their statements,” replied Burnham. “One page per perp. Dunno what usually goes into a statement so’s I figured I’d just ask ‘em what I thought would be, you know... relevant.”

The sheriff looked at the blank faced mobster and blinked twice. Then he had a closer look at the collection of documents.

Running his finger down the first rap sheet he grunted his surprise. The report was not what he expected. It was actually quite good. Very good. A thorough run down of every suspect, a brief description of what they looked like, their occupation, what they were doing when the brawl erupted and their personal details. He nodded slowly as he continued his perusal. “This is quite the report, Mister Burnham. Quite the report indeed.”

The big brute sniffed and looked at his feet. “Ain’t no need to pay your respects.” He stuck the pencil behind his ear, then reached over to a table to pick up his Tommy gun. “It’s a new fangled scientific world,” he shrugged as he hefted the submachine gun onto his shoulder. “Even an everyday mug like meself has to know his letters these days.” There was a shy pause. “But you can pay respects if you want.”

The sheriff continued skimming the document taking in all the details. “I can be quick to step forward, Mister Burnham. So I’m gonna be just as quick to step back. I apologise for lettin’ your other employment make me overlook your skillset and promise that in future- -” The sheriff’s finger reached the bottom of the page and the entry for ‘Nationality.’ It was heavily underlined. He flipped through a few pages and noted the entry for each suspect. The sheriff swore, let the notepad drop back and began rubbing his eyes. “What was Wong thinking? He should have known this was going to happen.”

“You saw the nationality thing?” asked proud Burnham, the useful gangster. “I thought you might wanna see that.  I thought it explained a few things.”

The sheriff nodded drily at the lettered gangster then threw the notepad onto the counter beside him. “Indeed,” he grumbled, then looked over the circle of former fellow citizens and shook his head. “Damn bless-ed politics is gonna be the end o’ me...”

The weathered Texan dug his thumbs into his gun holsters, chewed his bottom lip for a few seconds, then paced slowly towards the silent circle. He nodded at Mister Cereno who nodded back and stepped away to give him the floor.

The sheriff reached the middle of the circle and stopped. He began to turn, idly staring down anyone game enough to meet his eyes. He twitched his big moustache back and forth as he considered every one of them in turn.

Tying them to chairs was a bit extreme, but he had to admit it did engender a conducive interrogation environment. No doubt a trick his associates picked up back in Chicago...

His eyes came to rest on the sharply dressed man in the expensive but torn gray suit. He was the one Mister Burnham’s report had dubbed ‘Tuxedo Stooge’. The one from California. The sheriff knew enough about the picture business to recognise the man’s face. Couldn’t tell you who he was, but there was a good chance his little girl had an irrational crush on the quivering mess that cowered before him. Him and his ridiculously thin moustache.

“Well?” the sheriff demanded, scratching at the thick goatee that squared off his own chin. “The saloon you people have been destroying is an institution in these here parts. That makes it expensive. Worth a lot to a lot of people.” He stepped forward to look down at the quickly wilting thespian. “So the question I want answered is this: Who’s responsible for this mess?”

“Well it isn’t me,” whined the Californian. Without taking his eyes off the sheriff he tried to point, only to realise his hands were tied behind his back. There was a wide-eyed pause, then he pecked his nose in the direction of the flapper on the opposite side of the circle. “Ask her. She’s the one doing all the screaming.”

“Screaming!?! Why you no good, lyin- -”

The sheriff turned with a glare. The New Yorker’s mouth quickly snapped shut and she looked away.
The sheriff straightened and paced toward her. “From what my associate has noted, you were winning the pot, so you had the most to lose after a bad hand. Did you start the fight?”

“It wasn’t me,” she whined as he drew close. “Talk to the people who were leaving. I was winning and then they all started to leave.” Now she began pecking her nose back at the Californian. “He’s the suspicious one. He was leaving the game. Saying I was rigging the game and everything. Why dontcha go back to being in his grill?”

The sheriff turned back to look at the actor. He was vigorously shaking his head. “I may have been suggesting that I was going to leave but that doesn’t mean I was actually going to. Doesn’t mean anything of the sort. I was staying in the game. Until that crazy dame had lost every single dime.” He tried to lean out around the sheriff to get a line of sight on the flapper. “Then I’d be making you admit the greatness of- -“ He paused, as if waiting for a camera to dolly in for his close-up. “The continent’s Premier Republic— CaliModerna!”

“Oooooo,” wound up the flapper. “I’m gonna snot you, ya- -“

“Silence,” growled the sheriff. He turned back to the actor. “My notes say you were almost out of chips. You were about to be kicked out of the game and lose your only chance for revenge.”

The actor shook his head furiously. “Oh no. I have a line of credit. Just ask Mister Cerano. I have a line of credit from... some people in Chicago. They pay my way here. You just ask.”

The sheriff glanced over at Cerano who shrugged then nodded. “He’s got credit.”

The sheriff sighed. “Then who else was about to lose their shirt? How about you?” He looked at the short stocky woman who was still glaring at the American/Canadian. “You seem to have an axe to grind. You decide to start a fight? My associate believes that you happen to be a zeppelin pilot of some infamy.” He raised his eyebrows. “That was him being polite. In Texas we call you people skypirates. An’ that title carries with it a certain brand of behaviour.”

The stocky skypirate glared back as good as she got. “I answer to the Law the same as you.” She drew to her full, stumpy height. “I answer to the almighty Constitution of the United States of America, the once and future Law of this wayward nation. And it states that I’m well within my rights to protect my interests in my own way, whether on the ground or in the sky.” She scowled. “And I didn’t start no fight. Didn’t start no fight at all. I was the only one hell bent on staying in the game.” She crooked her head in the direction of the flapper. “Me and Miss No Self Respect here.”

“Heeey!” scowled the flapper.

“I wanted to play on. But these here cowards started retreating. Giving up ground. They gave up they did. Threw in the towel and let the ridiculous sequined monster here- -“

“Heeey!”

“- - take all the money. I was staying in and taking what was rightfully mine. Why don’t you ask the cowards? Ask him!” She practically jerked herself out of her seat, pecking at the American/Canadian. “He was the first one to quit. Ask him!”

The sheriff crossed his arms and looked in ‘his’ direction.

“Wasn’t me,” retorted the subject of the old woman’s scorn.

“Sure it was you,” the skypirate replied. “You’ve got no spine, retreating like that. And it makes perfect sense now. It’s the sort of behaviour I’d expect from someone who crawled back into the enslavement and interference of the King of England. You’re a coward and I’m ashamed to have sat at the same table as ya.”

The proud citizen of the Empire sneered back. “Tell me this, American. Who’s been interfering with your drinking habits – the King of England or American politicians and your beloved and now defunct constitution?” He turned to the sheriff. “I peacefully quit the game because the stakes were no longer friendly.” He looked back at the proud American. “Then I enjoyed a custom legally available to citizens of the civilised world – a drink of beer from the bar!” Once more he turned back to the sheriff. “Just ask the barman.”

The sheriff’s crossed arms clenched tighter. This was getting ridiculous.

A polite but officious cough from behind drew his attention. It was the Confederate. “Excuse me, sah. Like all Confederate gentlemen,” he gave the sheriff a conspiratorial wink, “I appreciate the need to maintain these he’re appearances,” he looked at his bound arms. “But now the preliminaries have been processed I do believe we are avoiding the, uh, elephant in our midst. Forgetting the... other element in the roo’m.” With this he began to not-so-subtly crook his balding head in the direction of the cowboy to his distant right.
The cowboy glared back at him. “Oh, so now you’re being subtle about it, are you?”

The proud Imperial across the circle nodded his head slowly, eyes screwed up in suspicion. “He is French...”
The Confederate, ignoring the cowboy altogether, frowned at the Canadian. “Not exactly the thrust of my argument, sah. There are... other- -“

“What’s wrong with the French?” squawked the flapper.

“They’re French!” cried both the skypirate and Canadian in unison.

The Californian shrugged and nodded, as if conceding the point. “They have a point- -”

“It’s really not what I was saying- -“

“Well I know what you’re saying about me and if there weren’t no sheriff here- -“

“If you hate the French you hate Paris and there ain’t nothing wrong with anything from Paris- -“

“You are all completely missing my point- -“

“Oh, I’m gettin’ your point loud and clear, you- -“

BLAM!BLAM!

In the renewed silence the sheriff glared at as many people as he possibly could. “Silence.” He holstered the Peacemaker again and pointed to the Confederate. “Were you playing cards?”

The Confederate smiled. “Indeed I was, sah. And losing the shirt off my back.” He feigned laughter. “Figuratively speaking, of course.”

The sheriff nodded and pointed to the cowboy. “Well that makes him innocent, then.”

The Confederate scoffed. “What do you mean, ‘It makes him innocent’? How is that a deduction of the... suspects innocence?”

The sheriff folded his arms again. “Cause I know that the fight was started by someone playing cards.” He leaned in closer. “You wouldn’t be playing cards if he was playing cards. So if you were playing, he wasn’t, which makes him innocent.” The sheriff looked to Burnham. “I’m assuming you came to the same conclusion Mister Burnham. That would be why you didn’t tie him up..?”

The Confederate’s neck snapped around to see the cowboy smiling at him with delight, reaching his arms forward to reveal that he was not, in fact, tied to his chair. He was only spectating.

Meanwhile, Burnham nodded his head with pride. So vigorously it almost became a curtsy. “I figured he weren’t responsible. But he was participatin’ so I told him he had to wait around.”

The sheriff nodded his agreement and Burnham practically blushed from the complement. The sheriff turned to the now outraged southerner. “Our mutual friend from Louisiana didn’t start this fight. His participation was just... self defense. Although he certainly didn’t help matters and will be paying his fair share of damages.”

The Confederate couldn’t help taking another look at the cowboy who just grinned back at his still gin-soaked accuser, giving a hopeless shrug. “What else could I do? You were charging right at me.” Then he snorted and guffawed as the southerner went red with rage.

The sheriff growled with impatience. “That still leaves you, sir. And my pool of suspects is getting shallow.”

The Confederate spluttered with rage. “Me? Me!? How dare you, sah. How dare you? Why, if you weren’t a member of law enforcement it would be my place to duel you, sah. How dare you besmirch my honour as a gentleman.”

“That’s right,” chimed in the Californian. “You realise how damaging these baseless accusations can be to someone’s reputation? And some of us have more to lose than others. Some of us are beholden to our reputation.”

“And not much more,” scowled the skypirate.

The Confederate, not hearing, nodded profusely with his newfound ally. “Indeed. At least there is one other gentlemen of honour among this den of scallywags.”

The Californian nodded with finality. “There’s careers at stake and I don’t like the tone of this investigation. Especially without my lawyers present.”

The sheriff tried to control himself in the face of the vigorously nodding Confederate and the defiant poise of the stupidly moustached Californian. But he was very near his limit- -

“Yeees,” scowled the skypirate. “Now I see.” She was looking at the now worried Californian. “You’re avoiding the subject. Diverting, you are. Exactly the sort of behaviour I’d expect from someone so casually flippant with someone elses money. Your use of debt as a crutch should have been my first clue...”

“There is nothing wrong with living in debt. It’s a fundamental plank of the capitalist system and one which the Republic of CaliModerna whole heartedly embraces and- -“

He ground to a halt as his eyes met the horrified visage of his once strong ally, the Confederate.

The Confederate sputtered until he could find his voice. “But, but... That means you’re a...” He shook off his confusion, his face now a picture of affronted indignation. “You, sah, are a Democrat!”

The Californian smiled. “Of course I am.” His face suddenly dropped. “You’re not?”

“No!” was the indignant response.

“Ah-hah!” cried the skypirate. “We have you now. You are guilty! You are the one who has caused this mess!”

“Waitaminute!” exclaimed the flapper. “Bein’ a Democrat don’t make you guilty. In fact it’s the opposite. Only a Republican would have the audacity to illegally rig the game when they were about to lose everything.”

Suddenly the room was filled with indignant voices as everyone argued back and forth. The sheriff began to furiously rub his eyes as the noise rose to a cacophony.

The Confederate began to shunt his chair across the floor in a bid to get as far away from the Californian as he possibly could. “I will not associate,” he grunted, “With the likes of you- -“ grunt, “My good sah- -“ grunt.

As his chair squeaked and squawked its way across the room and people continued to shout, the flapper noted the Confederate’s progress toward her position and began to shunt her own chair forward. “Well if you’re comin’ over here then I’m goin’ over there cause I don’t want nothin’ to do with- -“

As the two chair tied objectors passed each other crossing the floor the skypirate shuffled closer to the bar in order to make sure she wasn’t further to the other side while the cowboy saw what was happening and presently stood up and wandered over to the bar behind the skypirate.

“What are you doing?” exclaimed the flapper, barely able to look back at him.

He relaxed back against the bar. “I’m a big believer in a government’s responsibility to  stay out of the way of its citizens.”

The flapper gasped in amazement and continued her dog shuffle across to the Californian who was still yelling abuse at the skypirate while the Confederate finally made his way to where the flapper had previously been and began to shuffle around to face the right way. The two gangsters looked at each other then... went in opposite directions, both in shock that the other had not followed their lead. They took their place on either side of the circle and eyed each other suspiciously as everyone began arguing about which side of the room the confused Canadian should cross to- -

“I’ve had enough!” bellowed the sheriff. He stalked across the circle, up the stairs and towards the front door of the saloon.

Burnham looked at him in shock, as the room’s arguments came to an uneven halt. “Where are you goin’, sheriff?”

“I’m going home!”

“But...” The gangster indicated the confused circle of armchair politics-afficiandos staring after the sheriff. “What do we do with them?”

“I’m from Texas,” the sheriff bellowed over his shoulder in the renewed silence. “Do whatever you want to do. I don’t care!” He pushed on the swinging doors. “I really don’t care any more!”

•••

In the following silence the gangsters both looked at each other. Then, along with everyone else in the room, stared at the swinging doors the sheriff had disappeared through. In the distance was the retreating sound of hoof beats.

Burnham looked at Cerano. Cerano shrugged. He nodded and looked around at the circle of people tied to their chairs. His eyes came to rest on the flapper – the one who had been winning the card game. He raised his Tommy gun. “Gimme your wallet.”

To a soundtrack of helpess protests, Burnham moved across the room to rifle through the Confederate’s jacket and ‘politely’ ask for the cowboys ‘spare change’.

* * *

Grant Gardiner is a new author fascinated with the pulp-ier side of life. He writes adventure and gangster noir stories set in an alternate timeline 1920s America of his own creation, one in which the United States is not so united any more. This alternate world he has dubbed The Aether Age and it has allowed him to indulge his obsession with all things pulp, Dieselpunk, superhero, action/adventure, and anything to do with pop culture in the 20s and 30s.

Il Sogno della Patria by Dimas Aditya Hanandito

The seat on the window side of the bus was his deliberate choice. He could sit back and relax, stretch his legs a bit, and let his mind free for several hours. At least that was what he intended. As the rugged Fiat engine began to growl, again he pondered his decision to leave for Milan. How many times had he done that since he slammed his parents’ door shut? He lost count.

Raffaelo was raised an obedient child, a boy with fervent belief on the ideals of Tito. When your father worked in the police force, you were expected to become a role model of the society. Il figlio del maresciallo. Break the law, and you were out of the family. Everybody in the household must be citizens with flawless crime records. In a normal society, he would have no objection to such lifestyle. But in a society where they suppressed your thirst for knowledge, he found out it was extremely difficult to be adherent. He never regretted his decision to beat that insolent Yugoslav student after the conference. Who cares that bastard was the son of an influential statesman back home? Even his father’s fury would not undo those three or four teeth. Until last year, never did he know that being an unquestioning subject of his family and the Republic was simply contrary to his destiny.

It was a cloudy Friday on December. He didn’t know whether his father had announced a country-wide search for him, and could not care less. Giosué had notified him who to contact upon his arrival in Milan, an associate of Pinuzzu with whom he would carry on the mission. This friend had connections with families in Palermo, he said. Connections which would prove to be quite handy in providing supplies necessary for his job, he told.

Unlike him, Giosué might have had better life in the south. At least they were free to read anything they like, wear anything they want, buy anything they need. Sometimes he wondered how life blatantly presented inexplicable peculiarities even by the slightest of differences. He wasn’t envious, merely baffled on how a regime transformed entire families and societies. The Republic had more people, more factories, and more raw materials. By the time they had begun filling their steel factories with workers from all over the country, the majority of Southerners were still fishermen and farmers. By the time they had taken their automobiles of various brands to measure their newly built roads, the Southerners were still on their horse carriages and carts.

It all changed during the last two and a half decades.

He wasn’t born by then, neither did Giosué; they didn’t know much. What he knew from underground newspapers he secretly read was, for example, that Florence used to be the center of fashion industry. Now, the city only served as a major textile producer weaving hundreds of uniforms every day. No design, no taste. Ironically, the city used to house names like Ferragamo, Prada, and Gucci. These days you couldn’t see any of them in the streets of Florence. Nobody would have been able to afford them either. Instead, try Naples or Rome. There, you could find even the most elaborate fashion from many corners of the world.

As he and Giosué were born after the divide, they knew very little what happened before. Giosué was a bit luckier; he got himself some good books. Especially for a son of a bureaucrat like him, access to books in Naples was very easy. At least easier that it was in Florence, Raffaelo thought. Then he remembered when Giosué recounted his experience at some kind of hip restaurant in Naples, but he failed to recall the name. McDavids? McDaniels? Whatever it was, Giosué said the Americans brought it there. It was all about the Americans. As a bureaucrat, Giosué’s father had lot of contacts with Americans. Apparently, his son inherited the trait. Although Raffaelo was never sure about Giosué’s disposition to the Americans, he personally didn’t trust the Americans more than the Yugoslavs.

He and Pinuzzu often disagree on principal issues such as whether free market or central planning was better (Pinuzzu was a great admirer of Marx), but for this matter he was certain Pinuzzu would side with him. The Sicilian had a bitter resentment against the Americans, a hatred brought from the previous generation. Sicilians like Pinuzzu would never forget what the Americans did in Canicattì. The incident fueled the rage of the entire island, and a violent uprising soon ensued. They were well rewarded as the revolt concluded with the Sicilians proclaiming their own state, free from American “guidance” other southern regions received at that time. This year they celebrated their twenty-second anniversary in midst of economic mismanagement and internal strife between the families.

As the bus entered Emilia-Romagna, Alessandra’s oval-shaped face appeared in his mind all of a sudden. There were little features not to be admired from it. Like those soft cheeks, often reddened when she spoke with zeal; and those lips, equally tender as they were eloquent. Her radiant green eyes, reflecting the library of knowledge she had, was what Raffaelo liked the most from the Sardinian girl. The last thing he saw of her was her wind-blown wavy hair on top the slender stature, blond with streaks of black, as she went to board the plane to Cagliari.

To him, Alessandra was an exceptional young woman in many respects. Her mother had concerns of her pursuing higher education and would prefer to get grandchildren, but she continued nevertheless thanks to her father’s support. Her father himself often had quarrels with local PSd’Az members, to the extent that he brandished a shotgun when they remarked how Alessandra would be “a prime Sardinian woman if her brain wasn’t bigger than her breasts”. Shortly after, he sent his only daughter away to Florence to attend a conference participated by students from universities in four peninsular nations with a special delegation from the University of Belgrade.

At the conference, she didn’t disappoint at all. Alessandra dazzled many other students and participants with her intrepid speech about il ricongiungimento, spoken in impeccable Italian. She would go home with pride, presenting her father the “outstanding delegate” award. Raffaelo had never met such an outstanding female like her in his life, and was immediately enthralled by her gracefulness. She shared his dreams of becoming one nation again, along with Giosué and Pinuzzu.

And today would be the day.

* * *

Several hours later, he got off in an esplanade across a colossal, cubical edifice in the heart of Milan. Raffaelo examined the leather briefcase Pinuzzu’s associate gave to him as the latter drove away in his brown Alfa Romeo. Then he checked his watch; just a minute past four-thirty in the afternoon. The others must have been ready by now. He casually crossed the street; his hands firmly gripped the briefcase. He recalled his visit to this place years ago with his family, when they had this little vacation in Milan. The alphabets over the front entrance read “Banca Nazionale dell’Agricoltura”, it hadn’t changed since. Ensuring he had the briefcase with him for the last time, he stepped in.

* * *

Dimas Aditya Hanandito is s junior ucroniador from the Far East currently in his final years of college who sometimes delves into the alternate past out of boredom of the present reality.