The Small Ball Anastasia Launched (2)

The provisional government building in Yekaterinburg fell silent after the city’s fall. Shaken by the defeat, the Bolsheviks launched no immediate counterattack. In that breathing space I finally received proper news of the Great War’s end—from an envoy sent by a Germany that was grimacing on the brink of collapse.

What is this? The First World War ends this pathetically?

Of course someone had to take the blame. The chief scapegoat was the Austro-Hungarian Empire, now reduced to a truncated Austrian Empire. Still, the outcome was better than in the history I remembered. They had lost South Tyrol to Italy and Bosnia to Serbia; Hungary had broken away. Yet they kept the Czech industrial heartland and preserved the monarchy. How had things turned out this way?

In the original timeline the great powers learned of the Romanov family’s fate only after considerable delay. Could the mere fact that they learned of it a little sooner have altered the peace so dramatically?

“His Imperial Majesty the Kaiser, wishing you to fight with vigor, has sent the uniform once worn by Her Highness Princess Louise.”

The German envoy placed a neatly folded military tunic on the table. I stared at it, speechless. The cut and insignia were unmistakably those of a German princess. The implication was obvious: Wilhelm II had meddled again.

I had no proper uniform of my own. I had simply been wearing a Russian imperial tunic folded and refolded until it fit. Now this.

“How exactly did the war in Europe conclude? It was never going to be a simple affair.”

“His Majesty the Kaiser declared that the Bolshevik threat endangers the peace of the world. He therefore concluded a separate peace with Britain and has decided to extend support to Your Highness.”

“In other words…”

“The Kaiser specifically asked me to convey this: you must, without fail, crush the Bolsheviks.”

So that’s it. Now I understood. The Bolsheviks’ reputation among the European powers was even blacker than in the history I knew. They had not only butchered the Tsar’s family with obscene cruelty but had violated the Empress and the Grand Duchesses as well. Barbarians. Satans. Even among socialists and communists who dreamed of toppling monarchies, the stories caused revulsion. And when the Soviet Union’s grandiose plans leaked out, the fear only deepened.

Wilhelm II had belatedly realized what defeat might mean for an emperor. His own beloved daughter Louise might one day suffer the same fate. No matter how incompetent he was at foreign policy, he had governed his own house with some skill. News of Nicholas II’s death—his own cousin—would have set his blood boiling.

Could this have become the snowball? A humiliated Germany would have been shackled, forced to surrender its colonies. Having already lost the war, Berlin would lack the strength to hold distant possessions anyway.

“Then Germany intends to support ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠us?”

“Indeed. The matter has already been discussed with the other powers. Should you require any assistance, simply name it. We will do everything possible.”

So Germany had stepped forward, staking its prestige on our cause. Excellent. I would take full advantage.

“Our situation in Russia is dire. Local arms production is almost nonexistent. In addition, we plan to construct a new railway network centered on Yekaterinburg.”

Weapons mattered, but railways mattered more. Russia’s immensity made supply lines a strategic necessity. Even in the original timeline’s German-Soviet war, the rail net had allowed the Soviets to shuttle men and matériel from the east to meet the German advance. Train after train crammed with fresh recruits—until even the Germans ran out of curses. In a country this vast, control of the rails was everything.

“I shall relay the request to Berlin at once. His Majesty is prepared to assist with local production. We will examine the railway proposal as well.”

Good. Then, on impulse, I added:

“And tanks—would those be possible?”

The absence of tanks had contributed heavily to Germany’s eventual collapse. It was worth testing the waters. The envoy’s eyes flickered with unmistakable unease. So they were thinking about tanks. If France wasn’t careful, it might find itself on the receiving end again.

“I am not personally familiar with that matter, but I will report it to my government.”

In the original timeline the Hundred Days Offensive, naval mutinies, and the November Revolution had toppled the German Empire. Here, however, the war had ended not in unconditional surrender but in a negotiated peace. The monarchy had survived. Moreover, the Don Republic had chosen to join us in Yekaterinburg. Given Germany’s influence behind the Don Cossacks, it was safe to assume Berlin had blessed the decision.

Anton Denikin remained in South Russia but had sent word: he was ready to link up at any time. The Soviet position was far worse than in the history I remembered. A colossal wall now stood against them. Cockroaches though they were, the Bolsheviks had been branded satanic across Europe. The victorious powers were shipping every leftover rifle, shell, and warship they could spare. In the Black Sea we had even taken delivery of obsolete battleships to begin rebuilding the imperial fleet. A fleet was unnecessary for fighting on land, but it would be vital for restoring Russia’s maritime dignity.

After the German envoy withdrew, Admiral Kolchak and General Gaida of the Czech Legion entered.

“Tanks have arrived from Britain and France,” they reported.

British Mark series machines and French Renault FTs. There were even a few German models, blunt and heavy-looking. The powers were clearly desperate.

“They must be in quite a panic,” I murmured.

They had sent not only tanks but their own officers to train the crews. The King of Great Britain apparently wanted to keep his throne. That was understandable. If we could field tanks, we would hold a decisive edge in the Civil War. Yet I could already see the postwar complications. Britain and France would not provide such gifts for free. They would demand their share of the spoils once the fighting ended.

Still, all the powers were exhausted. Even if they tried to squeeze us, they lacked the strength to enforce their demands. America, that wealthy parvenu, might support us simply to contain communism. The possibilities were endless, but one thing was clear: this was not pure charity.

Unlike the original timeline, I had not accepted direct foreign troops—only matériel and “volunteers.” That was just enough to avoid being branded a traitor. In the old history the Bolsheviks had signed a secret deal with Germany and been called sell-outs, but the sight of the Whites accepting foreign bayonets swung public sympathy back to the Reds. This time the situation was different. The Whites did not look so bad. That single difference was crucial.

In any case, I was doing everything I could.

“Your Highness,” Gaida asked, “how long do you intend to remain on the defensive?”

“Should we not strike the Bolsheviks soon?” Kolchak added. “They may be numerous, but they are a rabble. We can suppress them.”

Both men were clearly itching for action. In the original timeline they had been crushed. The important thing now was that the Czech Legion stood fully on our side. Yet even if we appeared to hold the initiative, our position was still fragile. The Whites in the old history had ultimately fractured into competing warlord cliques. I, too, wanted to avoid prolonging the civil war unnecessarily.

“I ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠intend to drag this conflict out a little longer.”

“This war, you mean?”

“Rushing now does not guarantee victory. Even if we win, distrust of the imperial family will linger among those who lived under Bolshevik rule. Moreover, if the war ends too quickly, the European powers will surely try to extract concessions from us.”

Too many variables remained. We could not yet afford to gamble. The powers were exhausted and therefore limited in what they could demand, but we still could not expel the Soviets by brute force alone.

“Then…”

“I do not intend a complete stalemate. There is Japan in the Far East to consider. At the very least we must secure all of South Russia.”

I gazed at the map on the wall—a new map of Russia with Yekaterinburg at its heart. My eyes settled on one name.

“Then we must join forces with Anton Denikin and Pyotr Wrangel.”

“Yes. Once the army is reorganized, we must recapture Tsaritsyn.”

The Soviet position had deteriorated sharply. Cornered, they were resorting to extreme measures—mass conscription everywhere in a desperate bid to defeat us before their system collapsed. They were fighting harder than in the original timeline, yet even that seemed insufficient. Left alone, the Soviet image as a pack of rabid dogs would only harden. Meanwhile, our reforms in Yekaterinburg and the promise of a renewed Russia would shine ever brighter.

We could not simply crush the red plague by force. It had to be destroyed by the vaccine I was building: a new Russia.

“A horse with two heads never moves forward. We must unify the army under the White generals who have joined us here. I intend to transform this White Army into the regular army of the new Russia. Therefore we will strike here.”

I pointed at the map.

Tsaritsyn. In the original history Stalin had held the city with an iron grip, severing the link between the South Russian and Siberian Whites. Later it became Stalingrad, a name that would echo through the German-Soviet war.

“As soon as the army is ready, we will attack Tsaritsyn alongside Anton Denikin. Until then we must contain Bolshevik activity.”

“Understood.”

The future was the problem. This was ultimately a contest of time. Lenin, the Bolshevik idol ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠now backed into a corner, would have no choice but to resort to desperate measures. He would hurl every Red unit he could muster against us. Before that happened we had to secure our own base of power.

The White forces now gathered around Yekaterinburg numbered in the hundreds of thousands—exact counts were still being tallied. Compared with the millions Russia had once fielded in the Great War, it was a pitiful fraction. The civil war had shattered the old army. Capturing Tsaritsyn would let us swell our ranks.

“I will lead the assault personally.”

“Again? Defense and offense are entirely different. Please reconsider.”

Gaida had opposed my presence in the trenches even during the defense of the city. Yet I had crouched in the mud and pulled the trigger against the Bolsheviks. If mere defense required my presence, an offensive demanded it even more. He feared a shell would tear me apart. Understandable.

But if I wanted to seize the Whites by the collar and drag them ahead of the enemy, I had to stand at the front. There was no other way. At least I was not some peaceful-era civilian; that was one small mercy.

“Even if the situation has improved, I remain a Romanov—the daughter of the Tsar who oppressed his people. For the time being, for the sake of public sentiment and to pull the army forward by the collar, I must step forward.”

“Then if the danger becomes too great, you must withdraw. The White Army’s only hope now rests on Your Highness. You must preserve yourself.”

“I understand.”

I had no desire to die. I did not know how long this body would remain invincible, but when the time came to retreat I would do so with dignity. For the victory of the White Army I would stand at its head.

Coincidentally, Tsaritsyn was already under siege by Krasnov’s forces of the Don Republic. The enemy ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠commander defending the city was none other than that infamous Georgian butcher—Stalin.

I wondered how Lenin’s succession would shift if we took Stalin’s head here. Or perhaps there were other ways.