Win and You're Loyalists, Lose and You're Rebels #6
While those Asians were staging their human circus in Europe—the epicenter of yellow peril hysteria, smack in the middle of London—I'd barricaded myself in my hotel room, ignoring Gojong, who'd somehow become the emperor of the common folk, and Lee Wan-yong, who kept shooting me those desperate "save me" glances the whole time.
It wasn't anything major. Just a stomachache. More precisely, a stress-induced gut twist that hit every time I had to deal with the British. In my original timeline, this era's London was nothing special anyway—a city choked with smog blanketing the streets, chimney sweeps everywhere, and the occasional Indian street performer doing tricks for coin. The locals gawked at Asians like we were exotic zoo exhibits, snapping photos left and right... Fine, let 'em stare their fill. The real issue was that the British had read my hotel hibernation as some kind of signal.
"Lord Arthur."
"A pleasure, it's been too long. Your Excellency Supreme Leader."
"Yeah, been a while. You look like you've been living it up."
"Well, London is famous for its cuisine."
He chuckled at his own lame joke, Arthur did.
"And who's the one next to you?"
"Ah, this is Senator Nathan Mayer."
"An esteemed guest."
I lit a cigarette and eyed him. From what I knew—and this was fresh intel straight from MacDonald—the House of Lords in this country was basically a retirement home for dusty old aristocrats.
"Pleased to meet you. Nathan Mayer Rothschild."
The Supreme Leader nearly dropped the cigarette he'd just lit. I didn't know the exact pedigree of the Rothschilds, but their name carried weight—I'd clocked that much from the Surprise.
"Perhaps, Your Excellency, you'd care to join us in a little venture?"
"A venture?"
"Yes, business."
"You'll find it quite compelling."
Rothschild laid out the purpose of today's meeting.
"More positive than expected."
"They're more worried about American meddling than the canal project itself."
The Supreme Leader nodded approvingly. The Panama Canal seemed realistic enough to him too—and profitable to boot.
"Well, labor's cheaper than weeds down there."
"True, but from what I hear, Korea's digging some monstrous canal right now—insane length and depth."
"A canal?"
"An inland waterway. He says inland canals aren't profitable anymore."
MacDonald pulled out documents from his pocket detailing Korea's massive ongoing mystery project and its progress.
"From the end of Shanxi to Beiping, Beiping to Liaodong, and finally Liaodong to the Songhua, Amur Rivers. They're carving through mountains to link them with gentle gradients."
"Hold on. From where to where, and how the hell are they digging this canal?"
He stared in shock as MacDonald's finger traced the route.
"Not a canal—a waterway. And according to him, China's ancient Grand Canal was even crazier."
No, what they were digging was straight-up solid rock mountains. Judging by the elevations, they'd have to blast down dozens, hundreds of meters at minimum.
Come to think of it, their precious Panama was jungle and rock too.
"I see... so that's why you need to partner with them."
"Exactly. Seeing them commit to a century-long historical monument like that? Those bastards are as nuts as we are."
"Nah, they're way crazier. But why build something like that? Is there money rotting away up there?"
"He called it an emperor's duty."
Multiple diversion channels to tame the Yellow River's floods. Reservoirs to filter silt and keep it from drying up. Unfortunately, current tech couldn't dam the Yellow River yet, so there was some unavoidable logic to it.
"Still, isn't that pouring in too much cash?"
"Thing is, he says they've struck more gold than expected. Plus, the rock and mud from the digs sell great as building materials."
In truth, the constructive path to heavy industry growth was local investments and erecting these grand historical monuments nationwide. That's why the Soviets shipped political enemies to Siberia or Koreans to Central Asia, then dotted the landscape with statues and monuments galore. Nailed the heavy industry push that way.
The Supreme Leader—no, the General Secretary—aimed to emulate that. Might as well preempt those future Chinese rebellions while at it. Just cut the upper Yellow River's flow, and they'd be helpless no matter how hard they thrashed.
"Still hard to believe."
"No need. I only report what I've seen with my own eyes."
"Hmm..."
"Anyway, let's focus on Panama. Tech doubts aside, their cheap labor pool is solid."
"Fair point."
The two pondered how to dig the canal first, dodging America's opportunistic grabs.
"Why not just start now?"
"Now?"
"If we break ground first, what can they do? The site's ours anyway."
"True enough."
And so began the Panama Canal groundbreaking, funded by Britain and Jewish capital—a night when America's Pacific ambitions crystallized.
The world's day and night flipped once more.
Teddy Bear had been in a foul mood lately. He'd snagged the Philippines, climbed to the presidency as desired, even personally liberated Cuba—but Japan, his real prize, slipped away.
Worse, those imperialist bastards beating him to the Panama site burned him up. He needed the canal, not just the railroad, to swallow Japan whole. Then the Philippines-Japan line would lock in.
If that happens, the Pacific's half America's lake already.
Dominating the world's largest ocean? Tempting.
Problem was, he was president now. As VP, he could've barked at Korea's Supreme Leader to back off Japan—no real backlash, since it might align with the sitting president's will.
But as president? Blowback loomed. America never fretted over consequences, but Korea was a massive importer of beef and cheese, plus an Asian Monroe Doctrine powerhouse rivaling the U.S. Attacks would target him personally, not America—and his allies would look the other way. Rural voters mattered more than some island across the sea, after all.
Amid this, word arrived via undersea cable: intriguing news. Korea's Supreme Leader had shown up personally to the Asian summit in London.
He'd dismissed the emperor's visit as morale-boosting for underlings, but the heavy-ass Supreme Leader coming too? Meant a bomb was about to drop.
And drop it did. Teddy Bear—no, Theodore Roosevelt—bristled at "Anglo-Korean Alliance."
Maybe Korea just sold Japan to Britain.
He couldn't stomach that future. He could always snatch the canal back later, but Britain riding his precious Japan? No way.
Had to block it. Whatever secret pact they'd inked, a rising-sun America could promise far more than a setting-sun Britain.
He was confident.
With him as emperor, chairman, honorary president of the New Japanese Diet, and Ito sailing home on the same boat, I found myself—absurdly—drafting annexes to this so-called Anglo-Korean Alliance (or whatever) because the British king quipped, "But aren't you the functionary?"
Not wrong. I'd planned to dump it on Lee Wan-yong and head home, but the world doesn't bend to whims.
Small mercy: I shot down their "might as well make it a full alliance?" bullshit. If they wanted that, renew the Anglo-Japanese pact proper.
I'd said it a million times: I just wanted your vaunted "splendid isolation."
Wish someone would finally get I'm dead serious.
Regrettably, strike-prone me slumped amid these capitalist pigs, enduring lectures on why the Anglo-Korean Alliance was vital amid global shifts. The world's geopolitics, nonstop.
Me, of all people.
Couldn't deny it, didn't want to affirm—just shut up and listen.
"I wanna go home."
"Just a bit longer, sir."
"Can't stand up the U.S. president, after all."
What a character that guy was. Right now, America vied with Britain across the Atlantic. Yet here he was, scheduling with the nation that'd just signed an Anglo-Korean mutual defense pact—or whatever—in central London. Once the fat American booked a meet, these mannerless British porkers wouldn't leave me alone.
I knew they'd swapped manners for opium long ago, reeking of vice—but zero table etiquette? Savage.
Why was I playing stare-downs with these stinky old men instead of king games with pretty, perfumed British lasses?
Something felt off... like my genre was all wrong.
"Your Excellency."
"?"
"The fatso's here."
Speak of the devil.