Alternate History Realism And Novel-Writing

Alternate History Realism And Novel-Writing

I grew up on the post-WW2  adventure movies, books, comics, etc.  I also read WW2 history.  The fiction was more fun.  The real world of WW2 and its aftermath is a world of the power of mass, of attrition.  The world essentially bludgeoned the Axis to death with vast numbers of machines and a lot of Soviet blood.  95% of the fictional focus on spy rings, secret agents, super-science weapons, black ops … was pure fantasy and most of the remainder didn’t matter much outside the specialist literature.  Even if the rocket planes and the other junk work, the numbers just don’t add up.

-Scott Palter

If you want to get a good flame war going on an alternate history forum, you just need to raise the question of Operation Sealion, Adolf Hitler’s plan to invade Britain in 1940. It has a fair claim to being the most heavily debated point of divergence in the alternate history community, not least because – on paper – it offers Hitler the chance to defeat the British and secure his western border before invading Russia. However, that chance exists only on paper. One does not have to be a pedantic nit-picker to realise that the odds of Hitler succeeding if he launched the invasion were actually very low. In order to win, Hitler would have to do the equivalent of rolling a dice six times and getting the same number every time. His decision to cancel the invasion was actually the right choice for him to make.

This does not, of course, make for good fiction. A novelist who wishes to explore a Britain dominated by Germany may be perfectly aware that Operation Sealion was a nonstarter, but he has no obligation to refrain from writing a book set in a Nazi-occupied Britain. The purists may argue that such a Britain could never have happened, unless the Nazis had the help of Alien Space Bats (for example, the 1950s Britain depicted in Doctor Who: Exodus), but this does not make the book bad fiction. The book’s setting may be impossible, yet this does not mean that exploring the world and the people caught up in it is inherently a bad thing.

There has always been, I feel, a gulf between novelists who write to entertain and timeline realists who insist that points of divergence, and the consequences of a changed POD, must be as realistic as possible. The former wants to draw in the readers by making the story as exciting as possible, by pitting their characters against their enemies in a very different world or simply exploring the brave new (alternate) world. Alternate history novels are often, at base, genre novels set in alternate worlds, drawing in readers who like the genre in question and are willing to accept or overlook the alternate history aspects. This is very true of entry-level alternate history books: Harry Turtledove’s WorldWar series combines aspects of science fiction as well as military fiction, while his The Two Georges is a detective story set in an alternate world. They also have the advantage that one does not have to know much about real history to enjoy the novels.

A novelist will choose his scenarios based on what is best for the story. A realist does not have that option. He may argue that the idea of Hitler refusing to declare war on the United States in 1941, after Pearl Harbour, is inherently unrealistic, and the idea of him declaring war on Japan instead is so absurd that it doesn’t require any further discussion. This works well, when it comes to developing a timeline such as the ones published by Sealion Press, but is often much less exciting than a novel (although they can serve as a setting for a novel, such as The Marsh War, which is based on The Moscow Option) and they do not always attract readers who are not already interested in alternate history. The novelist, on the other hand, will often go with the more exciting option of Hitler not declaring war, which would change World War II beyond recognition.

Much of this, I suspect, comes from the thrill of imagining very different worlds. A world in which the Confederate States of America makes its independence stick and does just fine afterwards may be unrealistic, and I would argue that yes it is, but it would also change the face of the world. A world in which Imperial Germany wins the First World War in 1914 will be very different from OTL, or a world in which Germany wins in 1918. These worlds would present very different challenges to the inhabitants, and create grounds for stories that might be unrealistic but are very exciting. An Imperial Germany that won in 1914 would be confident enough to pick a fight with the United States, or try to invade Britain, while Germany that barely scraped a victory in 1918 would be much less inclined to cause trouble, not least because most of the problems of OTL would still exist and could no longer be blamed on the OTL scapegoats.

This also exists at the tactical level. A realist will argue that Operation Sealion is flatly unrealistic. A novelist, particularly a military-fiction novelist, would ignore that and explore what would happen if the Nazis tried anyway. A realist might argue that a British victory in North Africa in 1940 was unlikely, but – again – a novelist would dismiss that and use it as the basis for a story. And why should he not? A spy novel following the intrigue in Vichy-ruled French North Africa after the British conquer Libya and are now massing on the French border would be very exciting, even if it wasn’t realistic.

The realist cannot afford to overlook details the novelist can pretend don’t exist, such as a bridge leading out of Washington DC that the Confederates somehow forgot to take during their attack on the city. A novelist can wave his hands and declare “Hitler took Britain in 1940;” a realist cannot do anything of the sort. A novelist can depict military units performing operations that are completely impossible, in the real world, and get away with it in most cases. I suspect more people would have overlooked American troops performing impossible marches in Stars and Stripes Forever if the rest of the book had held up a little better. A nit-picker might argue that the American tanks of an alternate-1944 will be very different to the ones depicted, but again the novelist won’t care; the realist, by contrast, will try to find ways to justify alternate tank development.

That said, the demands of a novel are often very different from the demands of a realistic timeline. At base, the Second World War was a contest of economics and the Allies (certainly after 1941) severely outweighed the Axis. It is simplistic to say that America outmatched Japan on a scale of nine-to-one, not least because as this doesn’t include superior American technology and training, but is effectively true. A novel often needs to overlook such grim economic realities to ensure a certain degree of tension, perhaps even help us to root for the underdog. I have a theory this accounts for some of the more controversial aspects of our community – the Lost Cause myth suggests the CSA was the underdog, even though this was not remotely true, and there are people who support the underdog without realising that just because someone is the underdog doesn’t make them the good guys.

There is, of course, a more controversial problem. Alternate history requires the author to use characters that are based on real people, either as POV characters (Robert E. Lee in The Guns of the South, Vyacheslav Molotov in WorldWar) or side characters encountered by the main characters (General Grant in How Few Remain, Otto Skorzeny in WorldWar), and it can be difficult to depict those characters in a manner that pleases everyone or even anyone. How would such a character react in a very different situation, or if they grew up in a very different world? The realist can depict such controversial characters as bad, without any need to present them as decent people even in their own minds, but the novelist does not have such freedom. If he is using a historical character’s POV, he must present the character as he would have been – or as close to that as possible – which raises uncomfortable questions if that character is meant to be the hero. If he is using the historic character as window dressing, the main character is unlikely to see him as we would see him. It is vanishingly unlikely, for example, that a young German officer attached to Adolf Hitler would see him as a genocidal monster – and if he did, it would raise the question of why he didn’t execute Hitler on the spot. A decent novelist would devise the story to allow the hero to eventually realise that the historic character is a monster, but this is difficult to do properly. It is far too easy for someone to accuse the author of whitewashing very real atrocities and the monsters who committed them. It is also possible to be far too simplistic – for example, Robert E. Lee in Leather Pants or MacArthur the Death Eater – purely to suit the demands of the story.

This can even be true of an entire society. It is unrealistic to expect the Germans of an alternate 1950s to know the details of each and every Nazi war crime, let alone feel shock and disgust; it grows worse as the years go on and the Nazis brainwash successive generations to believe that the crimes never took place or that they were somehow justified. A person born and raised in such a society will not question what has been taught, at least at first; it was relatively rare, for example, for Southerners to oppose slavery even when it was very clearly not in their interests, something that will only get worse if the South has fought and won a war to preserve slavery. A novelist must present a character slowly coming to understand that his society is not perfect, which can be very difficult (and also lead to controversy). He must also push technological development to absurd levels – Conrad Stargard or Schooled in Magic; unrealistic, from a real world point of view, but a very common demand for a tech uplift-themed novel.

The novelist also must try to work towards a relatively happy ending. The realist may study a timeline and conclude the bad guys are going to win, at least for the moment. The novelist has a certain obligation to make sure the good guys come out ahead. The Draka series is surprising, at least in part, because the bad guys win; their victory is, in many ways, the exact opposite of the novels in which the good guys win but there is some trace of the bad guys left to rebuild if left alone. The fact that Stirling portrayed his Draka POV characters as ‘good guys caught in a bad system’ only adds to the shock; they do not make any attempt to reform their society and indeed, if they tried, they would likely not succeed. The hints of reform at the end of The Stone Dogs are gone by the time of Drakon.

This owes much to our modern day perceptions. The concept of Robert E. Lee turning into an ardent abolitionist seems absurd, and given that Lee was a slave owner I would say it really is absurd, but it serves a useful purpose if the novelist wishes us to accept Lee as one of the good guys. The days in which slavery was regarded as a net good for everyone are long gone and good riddance; it is difficult, if not impossible, for us to accept a slaveowner as a hero. The controversy surrounding The Guns of the Southowes much to Turtledove’s need to present Lee, and Southerners in general, as better than the time-travelling Afrikaners. It works fine, from a novelist point of view, but much less for a realist.

Of course, the historical Lee had no way to know how his descendants, and those of his people, would judge him. Even when someone asserts that they would not have made poor choices in an alternate world – Oswald Mosley, for example, insisted he would not have collaborated with the Germans if they had successfully invaded Britain, but he made those assertions in his autobiography, which was published in 1968 and later repeated in a letter to Kenneth Macksey (who wrote Invasion). Was he telling the truth, or writing with the benefit of hindsight, in the certain knowledge the Germans not only did not launch the invasion, but lost the war? We have no way to know.

I am both a novelist and a timeline writer. I enjoy parsing out what might have happened if something had gone differently, and working out how the ripples of change spread across the entire world. I also enjoy creating worlds for my stories that are not, in my opinion, wholly realistic. Nor do they have to be. A reader who complains the setting is unrealistic is a reader who is essentially missing the point – the idea is to have a world to explore, not one worked out in every detail. It is quite possible that the destruction of the British Army at Dunkirk in 1940 would not have been that serious, in the greater scheme of things, but a novelist would use it to help streamline the invasion of Britain in his novel. Realism comes second to excitement; I will happily admit that I once advised an author to hand wave details rather than plot them out because someone would try to tie him down, rather than accept the world they were being shown and go from there.

There is, I feel, an interesting conflict between novelists and realists in the alternate history committee. Personally, I consider this to be futile – and dangerous. Most alternate historians entered the community through reading alternate history novels and going from there; my first alternate history novel was Tilting The Balance, followed rapidly by Hitler Has Won, neither of which are noted for strict realism. By contrast, many realistic timelines can be dry and unexciting to the casual reader; For Want of a Nail: If Burgoyne Had Won at Saratoga is a remarkable piece of work, and is rarely challenged as one of the more extraordinary contributions to alternate history, but it is also more of an alternate history textbook rather than a novel.

Realism is important. But so too are the demands of a novel.

And you know what? Real history is unrealistic.

Snippet – Conquistadors (Stand-Alone Cross-Time Invasion)

Prologue, Timeline A (Protectorate Homeworld)

“And so, the final preparations have been completed,” Captain-General James Montrose said. The holographic projection couldn’t hide the anticipation – and impatience – in his voice, his determination to get on with the operation before politics shifted and he was, perhaps, removed from his post. “The 6^th Protectorate Expeditionary Division awaits your command.”

Protector Julianne Rigby, one of the Triumvirs of the Protectorate, studied him thoughtfully. Montrose was a man on the make, a man of burning ambition, a man who felt he had something to prove … a man whose hopes and dreams might carry him to the Inner Circle itself, where she sat, or sending him crashing and burning into nothingness. He was tall and handsome, wearing a uniform tailored to make him look both dashing and imposing … he’d had it put around, more than once, that his looks owed nothing to cosmetic surgery or gene-splice techniques. His dark hair was cut in a manner that recalled Alexander the Great, barely within regulations, something Julianne couldn’t help finding both amusing and worrying. Alexander had conquered most of the known world, true, but he hadn’t known how to keep it. His empire had barely lasted longer than himself.

Her lips twitched. A man like Montrose would be a threat, under other circumstances. He was charismatic, capable, and experienced, having cut his teeth fighting primals and teaching degenerates the error of their ways. The Protectorate prided itself on being a meritocracy, and an ambitious man could rise far even if he started with nothing, but there were limits. No one man could be allowed to put himself above the rest, even in name. They were lucky, she supposed, that they could send him to fight in other timelines. He would have a chance to earn his spurs, and develop the skills he needed to rise even higher, and the Protectorate itself would benefit. And if he lost …

“We will be in touch,” Protector Horace Jarvis said. “Your orders will arrive shortly.”

He tapped a command. Montrose’s image vanished, leaving the three triumvirs alone.

“I don’t trust him,” Jarvis said, curtly. “He’s too ambitious.”

“There’s no such thing,” Protector John Hotham said, calmly. “We need a man like him on the other side.”

Julianne couldn’t disagree, even as Jarvis swung his head towards her. The Crosstime Transpositioner was the Protectorate’s greatest invention – and the Interdimensional Gates a close second – but it had its limits. The 6^th Protectorate Expeditionary Division would be transported to another world, through one of the ‘soft places’ the scientists had charted over the last year, then … the division would be on its own until a second division could be rotated through the dimensions, or a pair of gates set up to allow instant travel between the two. Montrose would be on his own, without any supervision. There were agents in his staff, of course, with instructions to ensure he didn’t exceed his orders too broadly, but it was impossible to prepare for every possible contingency. A man like Montrose would have no trouble arranging matters so he didn’t violate the letter of the law, no matter what he did to the spirit.

Her eyes hardened. The Protectorate had discovered and colonised four timelines so far: one seemingly devoid of human life, one shattered by a disease that had seemingly come out of nowhere, and two dominated by empires that had reached a certain point and stagnated. They had never developed anything more advanced than wind and sail technology, with gunpowder remaining little more than a curiosity rather than a weapon of war, and they hadn’t posed any challenge when the first expeditionary forces had arrived. The occupants of the disease-ridden timeline had actually been glad to see the invaders, something that still amused the occupation authority. They were very loyal, far more than any degenerates or primals from the home timeline. They might even be qualified for full citizenship in a century or two.

“We are the only timeline that has developed technology,” Hotham said, echoing her thoughts. The researchers believed the Protectorate was effectively unique. Their explorations of other timelines tended to back the theory up. “There are limits to how far Montrose can go.”

“If he builds an empire, it will be difficult to dislodge him,” Jarvis countered. “Legally …”

He let the word hang in the air. Julianne saw his point. The Protectorate offered vast rewards to the men who conquered new worlds, from lands and titles to real power that could be passed down to their descendents. Montrose would be in a very strong position if he claimed the entire world for himself, and his senior officers, and trying to dispose him would be disastrous unless there was very clear proof of mismanagement or treason. Montrose had his supporters, amongst the Outer Council, and they would unite against the triumvirs if they thought they were treating their hero unfairly. And others, who had little love or concern for Montrose personally, would back him for fear of setting a ghastly precedent that could – would – come back to bite them.

“If he occupies yet another low-tech world, if he claims it all for himself, it is not a major problem,” Hotham said. “By the time his conquest is thoroughly developed, he will be dead.”

“Unless he encounters a high-tech world,” Jarvis said. “It could happen.”

Julianne wasn’t inclined to believe it. The chain of events that had led to the industrial revolution of the 1600s – the overthrow of King Charles, the rise of the Protectorate, the development of steam-powered technology – were so unlikely she might as well have rolled a dice six times and gotten the same number every time. It might be possible, but it was vanishingly unlikely. The mindset one needed to develop practical technology was rare, apparently. Timelines held in the thrall of empires, or superstition, were unlikely to make any real progress. Even in the original timeline, it had been hard for the Franco-Spanish and later the Russians to realise they had to innovate or die.

“Or he could run into something that could kill him,” Hotham said. His mockery was carefully hidden, but not carefully enough. It was no accident. “He has his orders in that case.”

“And we know he’s loyal,” Julianne added.

She studied the display thoughtfully. The researchers had done their best, but there was no way to determine anything about the new timeline until someone actually jumped in and took a look. The basic theory suggested they couldn’t access a timeline too close to their own, certainly not one identical in every detail save one, yet no one had been able to figure out how to find the point of divergence from outside. It was possible there was a timeline in which the Roman Empire had developed technology nearly a thousand years before the Protectorate, or even one in which the dinosaurs had grown into intelligent beings rather than being wiped out by an asteroid strike. Or something completely inexplicable …

“He has his orders,” Hotham repeated. It was true. If Montrose ran into something he couldn’t handle, he had strict instructions to blow up his base and everything else. The destruction of an Crosstime Transpositioner, in theory, would be detectable, warning the Protectorate that there was a threat on the far side of the interdimensional walls. “Now … do we clear him to proceed or not?”

Julianne kept her face carefully blank as Jarvis glowered at Hotham. The two men were polar opposites – one willing to take risks, the other too conservative to gamble everything on one throw of the dice – and the Outer Council had elected her, in part, to ensure the two men could never be deadlocked and throw the entire government into paralysis. It was her job to propose a compromise, and yet nothing she could reasonably offer one man would satisfy the other.

“We assigned units to his command, did we not?”

“Of course,” Jarvis said, carefully. He knew she was playing dumb. He just didn’t know why. “He is the force’s commander, is he not?”

Julianne keyed her console, bringing up the 6^th Protectorate Expeditionary Division’s Table of Organisation. “We originally intended to assign additional logistic support,” she said, tapping the listing. “If Montrose found another primal world, the only thing limiting his reach would be local logistics. By the time we re-established contact, he could have the entire world.”

She met his eyes. “If we withhold two of the planned logistics formations, it would limit his reach, would it not?”

“A fitting compromise,” Jarvis said. “Sir John?”

Hotham nodded, curtly. Julianne suspected he wasn’t entirely pleased with the agreement, but he was too old a hand to think there was any point in arguing now. Crippling Montrose would be dangerous, if he ran into a peer power, yet all the researchers agreed that was unlikely. He should have no difficulty securing a lodgement and waiting for reinforcements, if the natives proved troublesome. The PEF was loaded for bear – or dinosaurs, her mind whispered – and had enough firepower, as well as supplies, to hold its ground against all anticipated threats. And if he did run into a peer power, he could at least talk to them …

“We can also expedite the second expeditionary force,” Jarvis added. “Once we have a solid lock on the other timeline, we can make sure Montrose is no longer alone.”

“Good thinking,” Julianne agreed. The sooner they added Timeline F to their conquests, the better. Their team as triumvirs would be over soon and they wanted – needed – something that would ensure their names went down in history. “Shall we proceed?”

She felt a twinge of doubt as the two men tapped their consoles. There really was no way to be sure what was waiting, on the other side of the interdimensional wall. The odds of meeting a real threat were unlikely – no one had tried to invade the Protectorate yet – but they couldn’t be dismissed entirely. There’d been no way to avoid giving Montrose considerable freedom to act as he saw fit, and yet … it might not be enough. If only there was a way to covertly recon other timelines …

We make do with what we have, she told herself, firmly. And the odds are very much in our favour.

Chapter One: Castle Treathwick, Spanish Wildlands, Timeline A

Captain-General James Montrose kept his thoughts under tight control as he walked through Castle Treathwick, inspecting the giant fortress one final time before the jump. The sheer size of the fortress was staggering – it truly was a castle, if not a design the original Lord Treathwick would recognise – and yet he was uneasily aware it might not be enough to cope with whatever the PEF found on the far side. There was no way to know what was on the far side. They were loaded for bear, based on what they knew from previous crosstime transits, but there was always a chance – however slight – that they would run into something really dangerous, perhaps even disastrous. Or fatal to his ambitions. To him, they were one and the same.

He was a tall dark-haired man, skin tanned from service in the primal regions of a world that largely, if not completely, belonged to the Protectorate. He was young for his role, barely in his forties; he knew, without false modesty, that he wouldn’t have been selected for the post without both consummate ability and careful politicking. It had taken two years, from the moment the crosstime researchers had zeroed in on another soft place allowing interdimensional transit, to ensure he was appointed commander and he had no intention of wasting it. The rewards would be vast, even if they encountered yet another world of primals who’d committed civilisation-wide suicide by stagnating. He’d be the first governor-general, able to parcel out lands and locals to his superiors; he’d be able to build a power base that might take him to the Inner Council itself. If he managed to take a seat before he turned sixty, he would set a new record. And it would silence, once and for all, the fools who whispered darkly about his bloodline. They would be forced to admit, at least to themselves, that he had done well.

The thought made him smile as he walked from section to section, speaking briefly with his regimental and aerospace commanders before sharing a few words with the men and women under his command. He wasn’t fool enough to believe they’d give him their all if they didn’t like and trust him personally, certainly when they were a long way from home. He’d had commanders who should have fallen foul of the Protectorate’s distaste for nepotism a long time ago, commanders who issued orders from the rear instead of leading their troops into battle. They had never quite known what was happening, and if they hadn’t been able to call on aerospace and orbital assets the primals would have given their troops a very hard time indeed. They might be primitive beyond words – it was popularly believed the primals couldn’t even speak, even though that was very far from true – but they weren’t stupid. A commander who underestimated them would get a black eye – and far too many of his men killed. James understood that, sometimes, men had to be sacrificed, but getting them killed for nothing was worse than pointless. Their friends and families would bear a grudge until the very end of time.

He put the thought aside as he surveyed the row of Cromwell tanks, ready to burst out onto the new world and take it by the throat. They represented enough firepower to daunt anyone, even a peer power, although James was honest enough to admit the primals were rarely intimidated for long. They had little choice but to fight, unless they wanted to join the Protectorate or simply cut their own throats. Who knew how the locals would react? Some had joined up at once, welcoming the intruders; others had fought, even though resistance had been pointless as well as futile. The videos of men on horseback charging tanks had been quite amusing, in a way, as wasteful as it was. They’d been brave, brave enough to join the PEF, but they’d been blown away effortlessly. And the shock had been so intense the remainder of the primals had simply surrendered, rather than adapting their tactics to give the invaders a very hard time.

James nodded to himself as he turned away and started the long walk back to the command centre. The man who had led the expedition to Timeline C was now wealthy and powerful beyond the dreams of avarice, with a seat waiting for him on the Inner Council if he chose to take it. James suspected, reading between the lines, that the older man – no fool – preferred to work in the shadows, rather than take control openly. It was tradition that, after serving a term on the Inner Council, a man would step into retirement to allow younger men to take his place. James knew he couldn’t abide it, at least not while he was young and energetic, and he suspected his predecessor felt the same way too. Glory and fame were important, but power was all that really mattered.

He stepped into the command centre and looked around, eyes flickering from console to console. Castle Treathwick was practically a closed environment in its own right, as isolated from the rest of the world as one of the giant orbital battlestations overhead. They were buttoned down as tightly as possible, just in case. They’d already encountered one timeline infected with something deadly – thankfully, modern medicine laughed at primal diseases – and there was always the risk of discovering something worse, something that might threaten the fortress and its garrison. James thought some of the planners had been drinking illicit substances, when they drew up contingency plans for scenarios no sane mind would contemplate, but there was no point in arguing with them. In theory, anything was possible. And besides, his enemies would use his doubts against him.

“Sir,” Doctor Cecelia Archway said. She looked ten years younger than him, with short blonde hair and a face that drew the eye, but he knew better than to underestimate her. Most scientists in the Protectorate were female, a tradition started by the famed Lady Treathwick herself, and no one would have dreamed of questioning it. “The Crosstime Transpositioner has completed the final set of checks. We can rotate into the other dimension in thirty minutes.”

“Good,” James said. It would have been ironic, indeed, if the checks had failed. A technical failure would be bad enough – it would give his enemies more time to plot to have him removed – but a failure to parse out the soft place and plan the transit would be disastrous. Castle Treathwick was a major investment, fully the equal of an orbital battlestation or a deep-space explorer, yet she couldn’t be moved as easily as either. “Any signs of trouble?”

“No, sir,” Cecelia assured him. “We should be able to rotate through the interdimensional barrier without problems. The receptors will just have to deal with the aftermath.”

James nodded, curtly. Castle Treathwick was surrounded by heavy walls and enough firepower to deal with any reasonable threat, from biohazards from Timeline E to primals with actual weaponry. They would see the castle vanish, when the Crosstime Transpositioner was triggered, and be replaced by … whatever was on the other side. The region had never been particularly heavily populated in Timeline A – the Spanish had largely left it to the natives – but that might not be true on the other side. The Inca Empire of Timeline C had established quite a few settlements in the region, and would have gone further if they’d had the tech to make them permanent. Luckily for the invaders, they’d barely progressed past sticks and stones.

“They’ll be able to deal with it,” he assured her. The odds were good the receptor team would have to deal with nothing more dangerous than a patch of desert, perhaps – although it was statistically unlikely – with a handful of nomads thrown in. If worse came to worst, they could always call down orbital bombardment and sterilise the entire area. “We jump as planned.”

The doctor nodded, and hurried back to her duty station. James smiled to himself as he took his seat and studied the main display. There weren’t many military assets – or townships – outside the fortress and the receptor force, something that worked in their favour. There would be no risk of an enemy force getting loose, let alone into the heartland, before it could be contained or simply smashed from orbit. The locals had largely been brushed aside, decades ago, and did their best to stay away from the townships. Some – descendents of Spanish and Mexican intermixing – had even joined the Protectorate, trying to build lives and careers for themselves in a world that didn’t give a damn about the colour of their skin. Others just wanted to remain alone …

General Stuart Essex joined him, looking grim. “Sir, they withheld the 2^nd and 3^rd Logistics Divisions.”

James took the datapad, cursing under his breath. The reason behind the decision was almost painfully transparent. His enemies wanted to make sure he couldn’t stake a claim to the entire world, on the far side, before they sent in reinforcements … and, on paper, there was nothing he could do to object. The public reasoning was simple, and unassailable. On one hand, the logistics units were needed elsewhere; on the other, James had strict orders to establish a foothold first and foremost, rather than haring off to take possession of everything. He had no need, on paper, for the kind of logistics support that could move an entire division from one side of the world to the other. And it was hard to argue otherwise when the demands of the endless war in Central Asia came first.

We should just carpet bomb the entire place, he thought, darkly. The Protectorate saw the entire region as a training ground, giving its soldiers a taste of fighting in an environment where defeat would be nothing more than a minor nuisance, but personally he suspected it was as petty and pointless as landing an entire army division on Mars. There’s no need to play war with the primals when we can put an end to them, once and for all.

He studied the datapad for a moment longer, then looked up. “We’ll cope,” he said, curtly. It wasn’t a major problem. There were ways around it, if they discovered an empty world, and if they didn’t … they might have more serious issues to worry about. Have the logistics officers revise their plans to account for the missing transports.”

Stuart scowled. James kept his expression under tight control. He hadn’t wanted Stuart for his second-in-command, even though the man was – on paper – perfectly qualified. Stuart was well-connected, which meant he’d been promoted ahead of other officers … often without the experience he needed to make full use of his new rank. He was a good organiser and bureaucrat, and the PEF needed a senior officer who knew how to handle logistics, but he’d never really been tested in combat. Worse, the various captains looked down on him for not being a combat officer. James had calculated it would make it harder for his subordinates to unseat him, if they thought they had cause, but it was a gamble. He would have preferred a more experienced man serving as his second.

Although a more experienced man would seem a worthwhile replacement if I slip up too badly, he reminded himself, coldly. And I needed support from his backers.

“We will have trouble keeping the regiments supplied if we run into trouble,” Stuart pointed out. James couldn’t help thinking he looked like a fussy bureaucrat, even though his family had ensured he and his siblings had the best genetic treatments money could buy. “Even with the remaining logistic transports, it will be difficult …”

“It depends on what we encounter,” James said. “We will adjust our plans accordingly.”

He smiled, rather dryly. If they encountered a timeline like Timeline B or E, there would be no threat. The local wildlife in Timeline E was remarkably aggressive – there’d been no humans to tame the beasts – but it wasn’t a threat to armed men. Local humans might be more dangerous, yet the PEF still had enough firepower to dominate the local region until reinforcements arrived. The only real risk was a peer power and that was vanishingly unlikely. No one had tried to invade the Protectorate yet.

Stuart nodded. “Do you wish to check in with the remaining captains?”

“They know their duties,” James assured him. He’d never liked senior officers peering over his shoulder when he’d been a junior himself. The captains were prickly and independent, not the sort of officers who’d be happy with their superior checking on them. They’d worked long and hard to earn their posts and they had no intention of letting their efforts be wasted, not when they might be able to climb even higher. “We did enough drills to know the captains can handle their regiments.”

Stuart saluted, then hurried off. James watched him go, keeping his thoughts to himself. The drills had been carefully carried out, pitting the PEF against a series of enemies from primal insurgents to modern-day armoured forces, but there had always been a question mark over their true enemies. They thought they were ready for anything, yet … were they? They’d worked out how to coordinate in the middle of a battlefield, against enemies who matched their tech and had the umpires on their side, but … what would they face when they rotated into a whole new world? The drills, even the live-fire field exercises, hadn’t been real. The coming transit was.

We’re warned to expect the unexpected, he thought, as he studied the live feed from the various regiments, departments and orbiting sensors. But if we knew what we were expecting it would hardly be unexpected.

The timer blinked on, counting down the minutes to transit. James keyed his console, checking the links to the receptor force. They’d be cut, the moment they jumped; he’d be alone, in sole command of an isolated force, a force that would remain out of touch with its superiors for weeks, perhaps even months. They would be completely alone, unable to summon reinforcements or requisition supplies. It was a terrifying thought, for all the fabbers and machine shops within the vast fortress. He’d been in the military for nearly twenty-five years and yet he’d never been out of touch with his superiors, not even when he’d been stationed briefly on the moon. He was solely responsible for the men and women under his command, in far more ways than one. Success would boost his career to the very highest levels; failure would send him crashing into obscurity, blighting the family name even if he never returned …

To win or lose it all, he thought. The family motto, stubbornly kept despite their ancestor being on the wrong side of a civil war … James had never been certain if the Protectorate quietly admired James Graham, First Marquis of Montrose, or if his family had been lucky enough to survive long enough for reconciliation, when it became clear that Charles Stuart’s cause was hopelessly lost. James could not stop himself from reaching for the stars, even though defeat – or even ambiguous victory – would ruin him. He could not fear his fate when the prize was worth any risk. I could not be me if I didn’t gamble everything on victory.

A low tremor ran through the fortress. James tensed, eyes darting from console to console. The Crosstime Transpositioner was ready. The armoured infantry and tanks were ready. The aerospace forces – flyers and drones – were ready, the latter linked to command and control stations within the command chamber. The point defence too … it was unlikely, to say the least, that they would emerge into a battlefield, but there was nothing to be gained by taking extra chances. They were already taking the biggest one of all. The medics, the intelligence staff, the logistics … volunteers all, mercilessly drilled to ensure they could handle anything, and ready. He could feel the tension pulsing in the air, training holding it at bay. They were ready.

His terminal bleeped. “Sir, the Council has just sent us a good-luck message.”

“Thank them for us,” James said. He had enemies on the council, but even his worst opponent would understand the Protectorate came first. If the mission failed, the consequences would be incalculable. “And tell them we’re beginning the final countdown … now.”

His finger ran down the console, taking them past the point of no return … although, in truth, they’d committed themselves long ago. Another tremor ran through the base as the fusion generators powered up, channelling vast amounts of power into the Crosstime Transpositioner. The power levels required to transit, even once, were so high that it was a given the system would not survive the jump, no matter the outcome. James had a private suspicion the council hadn’t pushed to correct that problem because it ensured enemies on the far side couldn’t capture an intact Transpositioner. The databanks had been carefully purged of anything that might allow the natives to build their own. James understood the logic, even though it worked against him. If they did run into a peer power, the last thing they wanted to do was make the new threat more dangerous.

“Now hear this,” Stuart said. His voice boomed through the fortress. “Ten minutes to transit. I say again, ten minutes to transit.”

James lifted his eyes and studied the display. It was just past midnight … it would be the same on the other side, allowing them to arrive in the dead of night. It was possible no one would even notice their arrival, at least at first, or … who knew? The basic shape of the North American continent would be the same, he thought, but beyond that …? The politics could be very different. Or they might not exist at all.

He braced himself as the timer started to count down the final seconds. It wouldn’t be long now.

Updates (Again)

Hi, everyone

This is just a very short update. I wrote two novellas when I was on holiday – one of which is now part of the Tales Of The Nameless World collection, the other intended for Fantastic Schools – and now, given that we are back on and the kids are going back to school, I have completed the first draft of Judgement Day, the direct sequel to Endeavour and The Lone World. I hope to have the book edited in a couple of weeks or so, but obviously I cannot promise a precise publication date just yet. Watch this space.

My current plan is to go ahead with Conquistadors, the start of a new series featuring a cross-time invasion, then either do a new Learning Experience or The Empire’s Corps. I’m currently working on the plan for Schooled In Magic 26, The Apprentice Mistress, but I have a bit of a problem getting the plot to where I want it to go. My normal practice when dealing with plot-block is to write it out, then leave it alone for bit and see what happens. Hopefully, The Apprentice Mistress will be the third book in my planned publication schedule.

I’m tossing around handful of other ideas, which I will develop when I have the time. I intend to do a pure alternate history story at some point, set in 1950s Nazi-ruled Europe, or possibly a story featuring two young boys who buy an interstellar freighter and set off to have adventures; naturally, it doesn’t always go as they hoped. I’m also trying to draw up a list of plots for future Schooled In Magic tales, mainly for Fantastic Schools, that explore other boarding school and school themes in general: the school play, bullies, and other concepts that might fit into the universe without being world-shattering. Any suggestions would be warmly welcomed.

For various reasons, I also need to do a book – either the start of a trilogy or perhaps a stand-alone – that follows an ISOT/Ring of Fire theme; basically, something gets sent back in time to change history. As you may know, if you were following my work from start, one of my original ideas was to send modern day Britain (2007 Britain, to be exact) back to 1940 and see what happened then; I’m tempted to try redoing that series from scratch because there were a lot of good ideas in it, but at the time I was not remotely able to do it justice. There are other ideas – I am tempted to mess around with sending the modern HMS Queen Elizabeth back in time instead, as well as a handful of others – so feel free to let me know what you would like to see.

Anyway, back to work for me. If you have time to leave a review, please do so: every little review helps a great deal.

Thank you for your time

Chris