In the Name of War #7
The Tsar, who had been stoking the fires of war against Russia, sensed he was becoming Europe's outcast. As the Russian Republic held its first election and Finland debated the world's first women's suffrage, America was swept up in a frenzy. "Trusts? Fuck that shit!" "Monopolies out—now!" Teddy, reelected in '04, was dancing a deadly sword dance.
He tolerated some regional monopolies, unlike me in the Korean Empire where nationwide ones were structurally impossible, but in America, where national trusts were flexing their muscles, Teddy had to fight this lonely, perilous battle alone. He thought to himself: This was, truly— a fight to protect America, America's future. In this land of freedom and competition, monopolies couldn't be allowed.
The trusts wailed about excessive government intervention in capital—bullshit—but who cared? The masses cheered Teddy's rampage: railroads blown up yesterday, beef trusts today. If some company—or a few—monopolized flour, chicken, milk, cola, or telecom networks? If they trampled consumer pricing rights? You'd want to smash them, right? That's normal.
Teddy secretly craved a third term. No—he desperately wanted it. I nailed the beef deal with the Korean Empire. I led the Spanish-American War from the front. I deported every illegal. I dug the Panama Canal. Who else could be America's three-term president? That Woodrow Wilson guy, cozying up to KKK clubs? Everyone treated it as a joke—but he wasn't joking. He wanted it. A third term!
His first presidency was just an extension of the vice presidency, right? Having already won reelection, he wanted a real one now. For that, he needed votes. Money. Unless he smashed those trust eggs— no omelet.
Senator—no, President—Theodore Roosevelt. He was set on making a badass omelet. Everyone was egging him on: "Third term! Omelet!" Now the cowboy swung his mighty bat for a home run.
"Standard Oil's Rockefeller!" Grit your teeth. "The whole world is beautiful, isn't it?"
"That's insane."
"Insane? The world's the insane one."
Indian Ocean. Instead of sipping a mojito on this badass sea, it was rebellion suppression, base-building, and fortress construction. Depressing as hell. Not that I was doing the grunt work myself—I lounged on deck, mojito in hand, soaking up the sun.
"All 50,000 troops landed in the Bay of Bengal."
"Good. Build those coastal defenses hard."
This wasn't rebellion suppression. It was war prep. Swadeshi, swaraj—Indians dumping British tea into the Ganges were veering into outright treason. What nonviolence? Be-violence.
I knew the real reason. Suez Canal blockage wasn't just Britain's problem. Even the few Indians sucking honey from it were whispering, "Did those British bastards do this?" That was the real issue. Those smart collaborators—England's most vital assets in ruling India—starting to doubt the Brits? That's the beginning of the end for the British Indian Empire.
Lately, India looked like they'd washed their hands of it. A real headache. Why else did America's superpower army flop in Afghanistan and Vietnam? The "collaborators" they propped up were corrupt, useless trash.
Local collaborators are that crucial. Problem is—ours are a massive pain in the ass too. I eyed the guy who'd crossed Sinai on camelback, vehemently opposing this deployment: Dadabhai Naoroji, ex-British MP. What a sticky situation.
Don't look at me like that. I hate this deployment too, old man. India? Cholera central after Africa. That's why I'm here inspecting personally. We agreed to just hold the Bengal coast—no deep inland bullshit with my boys. But I don't trust the Brits one iota. They've broken promises plenty.
"To reiterate: We're only building coastal forts in the Bay of Bengal for India's defense."
"With an army like that?"
"Yes."
"We'll see."
The old geezer pointed at his eyes, then jabbed a finger at me. Senile and picking up bad habits. Who taught him to point?
I tipped my straw hat up, scanning the horizon. Please, no incidents. Fat chance. While the old man and I bonded over calling the Brits fucking scum and cracking drinks on deck, I had to step away. Bad news arrived by ship courier.
"Armory raided?"
"Yes, sir."
"How?"
"Pardon?"
"I said no locals near the base. How'd they raid the armory?"
"No sentries? Warning shots?"
"Well..."
"Forget it. Shit happens. I could preach all day, but they won't listen."
50,000 troops—moneybags. Markets spring up around them. Ban locals on pain of death? Expect a boom in funeral pyres. Obvious.
I'd said fuck that. Black market, legit trade—adult or kid, no Indians allowed. Best to block access routes entirely. I flooded them with supplies and fat paychecks so they'd skip local deals.
"Contacted locals, they scoped the armory, got raided. Obvious."
"At least it's split across sites? Just a fraction lost, limited damage?"
"Yes."
"Lucky. But not enough. Lay mines along the perimeter."
"...Mines?"
"What can I do? They ignore me. Some deaths might make 'em listen."
"But they're civilians?"
"After raiding the armory?"
"..."
"Wire, signs: 'Minefield.' If they cross anyway, they're showing your paths."
"Building a military fortress— no law against mines near civvie areas?"
"None."
"If another raid—or even one Indian spotted inside the perimeter, and it reaches my ears—it'll be very unfun. Kids or adults. Got it?"
"Yes, sir."
"Wait, sergeant. Want reasons?"
"Reasons?"
"Yeah."
"You'll explain to your men."
"An honor, sir."
"Simple: Right now, all Indians are the enemy. Kids or adults."
"..."
"They just can't draw swords on us by British order. But they'll club our backsides anytime. Best: ignore. Next: look away. Worse: coexist. Worst: partner up."
"Smile, cry, beg—shoot the air if needed. That's why I hate places like India."
"Yet here I am, sailing to the Indian Ocean 'cause I'm worried you'll fuck up."
The sun blazed mercilessly. My shadow pitch-black beneath me.
"I'll decide here: Ignore them, sergeant. No guilty conscience needed. Deep down, they see us sea-crossers as beyond salvation."
"Too much?"
"No, sir!"
"Really?"
"Yes!"
"Starving kid collapsing for vultures, widow burned alive, elephant rampage, tiger mauling, mother begging meds clutching child—ready to ignore it all?"
"..."
"Good. I'd be shocked if you said yes."
"No, sir!"
"But that's daily for Brits here. We're standing in for them—uncomfortable, but adapt."
"...We can just let that slide?"
"Intervening worsens backlash. British brass bitches about 'sati' nonstop, but it fuels resentment."
"Sati seems cultural—religious—but it's economic at core. No easy fix."
"My human advice: Ignore maximally. Indians seem to crave 'freedom.' Let 'em have it."
Burning widows per custom is freedom too, right?
"No need to understand. They're all religious; atheists like us won't get it. Respect by ignoring— that's the order."
"Still pisses me off, sir."
"Erasing religion erases customs. Customs erase people. Can't starve all India. Want that?"
"...No."
That's why I wanted India and the Korean Empire to just go their ways.
Unless Buddha returns, it's hopeless.
And yet...