It's Just a Scribble

It was just a scribble.

Say anything. I'll support you to the fullest, so hurry up and make the nuke for Russia. No, for this Anastasia. If we secure nuclear weapons first, we win in the end. That's why I'm treating Einstein so well.

“Of course it’s important. Do you have something to say about physics?”

“There are many students interested in physics, and that’s all well and good, but I would like to invite physicists from other countries to Russia.”

Inviting physicists from other countries.

“You want to research together, then.”

After all, when it came to physics, this was the man. He had been the very core of modern civilization.

“Do you dislike the Russian scholars? We have students as well, don’t we?”

If he didn’t like the Russian scholars… well, nothing to be done about that.

“Not at all. We have capable friends like Pyotr Leonidovich Kapitsa. And those who came with us from Germany—Otto Hahn and Lise Meitner—are quite talented as well. But I wish to attempt something on a larger scale. I believe this could lead to tremendous advances in Russian physics.”

Ah, so the man and woman who had followed him were those two. Otto Hahn and Lise Meitner? Weren’t they both figures connected to nuclear research? Both had been at the Kaiser Wilhelm Institute, if memory served. Germany’s Uranprojekt would never materialize in this timeline. Nazi Germany had ultimately failed because they invaded Poland mid-project and conscripted the physicists into the Wehrmacht, shutting everything down.

But setting that aside. I see. He wanted to open something big. Or rather, he wanted to gather Russia’s physicists.

I had founded the United States Royal Society modeled after London’s for Einstein’s sake. If we wanted to draw real results, Einstein was right. If our Dr. Einstein wanted to do something, we should let him. But there had to be conditions.

With Otto Hahn and Lise Meitner present, they were probably already researching something nuclear-related. Yes. If not now, when would I ever get the chance to throw this bait?

I raised a finger in front of Einstein.

“But there are conditions.”

“Please state them.”

Straightforward. I liked that.

I possessed a modest amount of knowledge about nuclear weapons. Of course, I didn’t understand the full process the way a physicist would—I only knew the outcomes. It wasn’t as if I would be building nukes in an apocalyptic world anyway. When nuclear war seemed imminent, I had researched survival methods. How to live through a nuclear detonation. In the end, the only useful conclusion was that since you were going to die anyway, you might as well march straight into the hypocenter and oxidize spectacularly. As a bonus, I had naturally absorbed information on how nuclear bombs were made and the principles of nuclear fission.

I rummaged through those memories and immediately scribbled down everything I could recall about nuclear fission—theory, units, formulas. Just enough to whet the appetite. Naturally I wasn’t an expert, but it was better than nothing.

I handed the densely covered paper to Einstein and the other scientists.

“What do you think?”

“This…”

Just looking at it, they couldn’t very well dismiss it outright. Physicists had to research things, after all. Even if I shoved it in their faces, they wouldn’t snap “What the hell is this, you damn nerd?” but they would at least run experiments. That was why I was dangling the bait like this.

At first it wasn’t about weaponization. I offered only the pure phenomenon itself—nuclear fission. Interesting, isn’t it? Wouldn’t you like to research this? That was the approach. As physicists and scientists, they would want to verify whether it was real.

“Please research this matter of nuclear fission.”

“Your Majesty. May I ask one question?”

The faces of our Einstein and the others grew deadly serious.

Yes. Wasn’t this originally something that emerged in 1938? Writing down the answer directly in an essay question on a math exam was essentially the same thing. These were things you only truly understood by performing the experiment yourself.

“Yes. Go ahead.”

“Where exactly did you obtain this information?”

Pretending I had always known this would be awkward here. During the civil war I would have had no time to learn it, and before that there had been even less opportunity. Feigning knowledge in any other way would only invite endless questions, which I wanted to avoid. So, as expected, the dream answer was safest.

“Just… an old man told me in a dream.”

Since our Mr. Tesla had also claimed to have heard things from an old man, I would say the same.

“In a dream?”

“Therefore, how about proving this within the field of nuclear physics? If you do, I will allow you to do anything you wish.”

In short, if they performed experiments that proved what I had seen in the dream, they could do whatever they wanted.

“In that case… yes. We will attempt it.”

“Ah, and regarding this nuclear physics research, I would prefer that you not inform the foreign physicists we invited, if possible. Alternatively, you may make naturalization to Russia a condition of participating in the research.”

At least until the end of the Second World War, nuclear weapons must belong to Russia alone. That way, if Germany ever pushed us to the brink, we could simply say yep, nuke and end the discussion.

To prevent Russia’s future rampage, we might eventually share the technology with nations like America, but at minimum we needed sole possession through the wartime period.

“Very well. Then if there is anything else you desire, it shall be done.”

“Thank you.”

With that, Einstein and his party withdrew, carrying the scribble I had given them. I wondered if they really needed to come to me in person, but since I was the one who had accepted their defection, perhaps it was only natural. Or maybe they still viewed the regime as an absolute monarchy.

How should I have dangled the nuclear bait in front of this man? This took care of the first step. Gradually I would have to suggest developing it into a weapon.

I recalled that he had opposed nuclear weapons because of their danger. Later there would be someone like Lev Landau—the Soviet Union’s version of von Neumann. No. For now I needed to grind his favorability. Later, when communist Germany ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠became a problem, I could insist on weaponization.

In the first place, it was practically a miracle that this man had come to Russia. He could have gone to Austria or any number of other countries, yet he chose this nation fresh from civil war. Wasn’t that a kind of destiny?

If Einstein invited foreign scholars to Russia, we could attach various conditions to absorb talent in physics, chemistry, biology, and other fields.

“Your Majesty. The document you handed over earlier… perhaps…”

The Black Baron seemed curious about what I had given them.

“Are you curious?”

“Haven’t you foreseen many things until now, Your Majesty?”

No, I wasn’t perfect. That foresight only reached as far as the Second World War at best, and even that was only possible because of the variable called the German Free Socialist Republic—that zombie state. This time, what I had written might be wrong, and Dr. Einstein could later simply chuckle and say, “The old man must have shown him some scribbles. Hehe.” If that happened, I would be reduced to the foolish Charina who made physicists experiment with things she saw in dreams.

So for now I needed an appropriate excuse.

“Ah, this time it really is just a scribble.”

“A scribble?”

It wasn’t exactly a scribble. In the end, whether the nuclear-fission material I had handed over became a mere scribble or something more would depend on whether they could verify it.

“If they cannot figure it out, then it will remain a scribble. It is nothing more than something I—Charina—saw in a dream, after all.”

But I firmly believed they would succeed. Of course, even if this process moved faster than in original history, developing nuclear weapons required enormous funds. That was the real problem.

Was there nowhere a massive sum of money might suddenly appear? For example, if something exploded in America and Russia solved the crisis, earning an enormous payment in return. Ah, that idea had appeal. Was there truly no event that would cause money to rain from the sky?

Selling oil and earning revenue was fine, but it was better to have plenty ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠of money in the treasury from the beginning. Money given by others was always sweeter. ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠Even if we sold oil now, it would not be immediately funneled into atomic bomb development costs. Russia had far too many things that needed changing.

Around this time in the United States of America, Beria and the Okhrana agents dispatched there were having considerable difficulty locating Trotsky.

They had taken to frequenting a certain chicken restaurant. Whenever their search for Trotsky ended in failure, Beria and the Okhrana agents would come here to eat chicken. Today was no different. Beria flung off the hat he was wearing and exploded.

“Damn it. Where the hell did that Trotsky bastard disappear to?”

“Hmm. Perhaps it is time to call it quits?”

“Many Okhrana agents still view me as a Cheka spy. Unless I catch him, how can I prove my loyalty?”

In truth, no one inside the Okhrana still considered Beria a Cheka plant. Communists in Russia had been virtually wiped out. Ruthlessly slaughtering former comrades and then claiming to be a Cheka agent made no sense. The reason Beria refused to stop was simply that he wanted to earn merit.

“Well, what we have already is more than sufficient, but if you insist… Moreover, Her Majesty Charina intends to assign you a new mission. If finding Trotsky takes this long, you will miss that opportunity as well.”

“What is it?”

“Grand Duke Kirill returned home this time hoping to claim a share, but Her Majesty drove him out.”

Grand Duke Kirill. Yes. He was the cousin of Nicholas II, the one who had been manipulated by that monster Rasputin. An insignificant figure, then. Given the current atmosphere, did that mean Her Majesty wanted him eliminated?

Beria lowered his head slightly and spoke in a quiet voice.

“Are we to dispose of him?”

It would be perfect if they could kill him.

“Not that. She is probably planning to send Okhrana agents to keep him under surveillance. Since we cannot predict what he might do in Finland, it seems Her Majesty wishes to attach a capable individual to Grand Duke Kirill for the time being.”

So they would take turns monitoring him. If ordered, Beria could kill the man himself. Still, what he was most curious about remained Trotsky’s whereabouts.

“Ha, by the way, that mannequin outside. It looks just like Trotsky.”

While eating chicken, his gaze had suddenly fallen on the human figure beyond the window. It really did resemble Trotsky. If the figure weren’t a bit plump and holding a chicken, the likeness would have been stronger.

“Hahaha. Would that vicious Trotsky really be depicted as a plump, benevolent man smiling while frying chicken?”

“I suppose not.”

There was no way that wicked Trotsky had grown fat and taken up frying chickens. Even allowing for the model’s slight idealization, the real man was probably still out there somewhere shouting for revolution.

It seemed unlikely he would be in this nation of upstarts, the United States of America. Trotsky was a man who lived and died by revolution. If he had to be somewhere, China or France seemed more probable.

Beria knew this well. Though he had not been prominent at first, as the enemy’s defeat grew certain and his frenzy intensified, Trotsky’s madness and radicalism had become known even to rural villagers under Soviet rule. Charina had probably guessed, but since she had identified someone like Goddard, it stood to reason that Trotsky possessed some hidden value as well.

“I will speak well of you to Her Majesty. Wouldn’t you like to return home?”

“Hmm. Let me think about it for a few more days.”

He wanted to achieve merit somehow. He absolutely had to capture that Trotsky bastard.

Around this time, the very Trotsky whom Beria had been desperately hunting was contacting American communists and holding rallies aimed at Black people marginalized by American society.

“In this United States of America, slaves still exist. Where? Right in front of you. You—Black people—are the slaves! Even after emancipation, you are still treated as little more than slaves. You are humans the same as white people! You are proud citizens and workers of this great American continent! So why are you treated like slaves?”

During the Civil War sixty years earlier, Abraham Lincoln had issued the Emancipation Proclamation. Yet even now, lynching remained a cultural practice in the South, and the mass movement of Black people from southern states to others had been called the Great Migration. Why were Black Americans still discriminated against?

In the original world, even after Jesse Owens won four gold medals and set world records at the 1935 Berlin Olympics, he had faced racial discrimination. During his time at Ohio State University he had been barred from white dormitories and forced to use Black-only restaurants and buses. Conditions now were no better—if anything, they were worse.

In this world, Trotsky had struck precisely at that painful truth. And the colored people, the Black citizens, were drawn to his flamboyant oratory and verbal dexterity like rain falling on drought-parched ground. They followed him.

“Oh! He’s right!”

“What did we ever do to deserve this treatment?”

“We are human too! We have the right to be treated as workers just like white people!”

“You are truly great, Teacher!”

The Black audience was moved by Trotsky’s speech.

“You are by no means inferior in body to the whites, nor are you lesser than the yellow race who imitate white imperialism like those Japanese! Who dares ruin the value of noble life simply because your skin is dark? If you trace your roots, you too once built civilizations and stood as proud participants in history! Now rise! Demand your rights with pride!”

Trotsky’s ideology—that all humans were noble and that white and Black alike were the same workers—was far removed from the revolution he had once advocated. Yet among America’s colored population it struck a powerful chord. Nor was Trotsky inciting them solely for his own revolutionary desires. In reality, without him these people would be exploited by whites for the rest of their lives. It was mutually beneficial.

Of course, Trotsky did not reveal his true face to them. His comrades had insisted he hide his appearance because Okhrana agents were searching for him in America’s underworld. He wore a thick coat, thick glasses, and kept his face partially covered. To any observer he looked supremely suspicious, yet the Black audience never doubted him. Anyone who scratches where it itches and empathizes with your pain naturally earns goodwill.

Above all, the presence of American communists who had shown their faces and Russian communists who had accompanied him from Russia reassured the audience. They found nothing strange about it, trusted Trotsky completely, and eagerly awaited his rallies and speeches.

In this way Trotsky gathered the colored races of America’s underbelly along with the communists who had been cast aside by mainstream society and sympathized with them. It was no secret that most of them were former U.S. soldiers who had fought in the Great War.

And so, in the places where Trotsky delivered his speeches and then departed, the savory aroma of fried chicken lingered.