In today's tidbit, cats are let out of the bag and wider philosphical issues are posed, all because Mal was clever at the wrong time. There are no plot holes, only plot hooks in The South Is Rising!
Philadelphia, Pennsylvania
November 26, 1940 (Event + 6 days)
Something was wrong. The thought had been nagging Flora Blackford all through the ride back to Powel House. She couldn’t figure out why, though: the two Fen envoys had been nothing but gracious during the trip. Their aides had been somewhat less so, but then that was expected of aides, really; theirs was to be neither seen nor heard.
Still, the nagging sensation remained, worrying at her like a dog with a bone. It wasn’t until they’d reached the presidential residence that it struck her like a thunderbolt.
He had known her name.
By all the information that they’d had, from the other-US and from the other-US’s allies, this was a completely different world, one where the War of Secession had turned out differently. So how, in the name of all that was holy, did General Fnord know her name? The realization stopped her cold in the doorway, long enough for the general’s aide to run right into her.
Flora stumbled, and almost made an inglorious landing on Powel House’s front stoop when her descent was stopped. “Thank you, Captain…?” she trailed off, having forgotten the woman’s name in her moment of epiphany.
“Weatheral, ma’am, Athene Weatheral, but most folks call me Tina.” Weatheral’s voice was soft, with a strong English accent. “Are you sure you’re all right, ma’am?”
“Yes, yes,” Flora said. “I was… distracted. It occurred to me that I hadn’t been introduced to General Fnord, yet he knew my name.”
Weatheral looked pained. “The cheeky bastard overplayed his hand,” she muttered, then mustered a slight smile. “Don’t worry about it, ma’am, Mal and Mr. Marsden will explain everything.”
“’Mal,’” Flora echoed. “That’s an awfully informal way for a subordinate to talk about her, er, commander.”
Weatheral shrugged. “Us Reds, we’re a pretty informal group in a lot of ways, dictatorship of the proletariat and all that, you know?”
That was a tidbit Flora hadn’t heard from the briefing. “Reds? You’re Reds?”
“Well, we’re Reds. Kind of, anyway, we’re sort of a mix of Goldman syndicalists, social democrats and anarcho-transhumanists. Not that that means a whole lot to you,” Tina added. “We like to call ourselves Reds, though; especially since it gets the wind up guys like Marsden,” She finished the sentence with an impish smile, and Flora couldn’t help but laugh a little.
“All right, Captain,” she said, chuckling. “I’ll let your boss explain things.”
~***~
“The ambassador from the Sandwich Is - excuse me, Hawaii – was very informative about the world outside our borders, but he danced around a few things. At the same time, you tipped off Congresswoman Blackford” Mal suppressed a wince “that there was something unusual going on. Now, gentlemen, before we discuss anything further I think it’s time you put that card on the table.” Smith leaned back and gave the two envoys a steady look.
Mal looked at Chris. “Well,” he said, “should we do the world-shattering revelation?”
“I don’t see how we’ve got much choice here,” Chris replied.
“Hm. Well then.” Mal reached down and, after a moment of rummaging, pulled a thick paperback book out and handed it to the President. “Everything we know, we know because of these.”
Smith looked at the cover. On it, three indistinct figures stood on a street covered with Freedom Party banners. The title read The Victorious Opposition. Brows lifted, he turned to the back cover.
Harry Turtledove’s acclaimed alternate history series began with a single question: What if the South had won the Civil War? Now, seventy years have passed since the first War Between the States. The North American continent is locked in a battle of politics, economies, and moralities. In a world that has already felt the soul-shattering blow of the Great War, North America is the powder keg that could ignite another global conflict—complete with a new generation of killing machines.
Al Smith felt his mouth go dry as he looked at the story synopsis on the back of the book. “This is impossible,” he said. “Impossible,” he repeated, his voice gaining strength.
“I know,” replied Mal. “I don’t blame you if you don’t believe it. I’m not sure I believe it most days.” He shrugged. “But as Galileo would say, eppur si muove.”
“It’s just…” Smith shook his head. “It’s our lives, laid out here for other people’s amusement…”
“Think of it this way, Mr. President,” Rei Ayanami cut into the conversation. “What you’re reading is history, and what’s past is past. You can learn from it, but you shouldn’t dwell on it.”
Smith peered at the tiny woman. “That’s oddly perceptive from someone so young, miss.” Rei favored him with a tiny smile.
“It’s something I’ve had to deal with,” she said.
“History, eh?” Smith said, looking at the book with a little awe. “It’s one thing to wonder about how history will judge a man, but to read that judgment yourself... well.” He turned his gaze from the book to Mal. “There are more of these?”
Mal nodded. “Quite a few.” This time he pulled a thin metal object out his case. Smith blinked at the appearance of the gadget, all chrome and white Bakelite. Mal placed the pad on his desk. “This has all the books pre-loaded on it. The controls are pretty easy to figure out, and it has a charge that should last a month or so.”
Smith eyed the pad a little warily. “And this covers?” he asked.
“The entire series covers the Second Mexican War, the Great War, the interwar period and the Second Great War,” Mal said. A pause. “If we were to use the books as a history, then we’d be in the last chapters of the first book I handed you. Everything after that… doesn’t really matter.”
Flora could no longer contain her curiosity. “Why not?”
“You’re here,” Chris said. “If you were where you belong, then those books would still apply. But since you and the CSA are in our world now, what happens in those books won’t happen.”
“Or at least,” Mal chimed in, “we’re going to do out damnedest to keep those events from happening.”
Mr. Fnord interdimensional man of mystery
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Philadelphia, Pennsylvania
November 26, 1940 (Event + 6 days)
Something was wrong. The thought had been nagging Flora Blackford all through the ride back to Powel House. She couldn’t figure out why, though: the two Fen envoys had been nothing but gracious during the trip. Their aides had been somewhat less so, but then that was expected of aides, really; theirs was to be neither seen nor heard.
Still, the nagging sensation remained, worrying at her like a dog with a bone. It wasn’t until they’d reached the presidential residence that it struck her like a thunderbolt.
He had known her name.
By all the information that they’d had, from the other-US and from the other-US’s allies, this was a completely different world, one where the War of Secession had turned out differently. So how, in the name of all that was holy, did General Fnord know her name? The realization stopped her cold in the doorway, long enough for the general’s aide to run right into her.
Flora stumbled, and almost made an inglorious landing on Powel House’s front stoop when her descent was stopped. “Thank you, Captain…?” she trailed off, having forgotten the woman’s name in her moment of epiphany.
“Weatheral, ma’am, Athene Weatheral, but most folks call me Tina.” Weatheral’s voice was soft, with a strong English accent. “Are you sure you’re all right, ma’am?”
“Yes, yes,” Flora said. “I was… distracted. It occurred to me that I hadn’t been introduced to General Fnord, yet he knew my name.”
Weatheral looked pained. “The cheeky bastard overplayed his hand,” she muttered, then mustered a slight smile. “Don’t worry about it, ma’am, Mal and Mr. Marsden will explain everything.”
“’Mal,’” Flora echoed. “That’s an awfully informal way for a subordinate to talk about her, er, commander.”
Weatheral shrugged. “Us Reds, we’re a pretty informal group in a lot of ways, dictatorship of the proletariat and all that, you know?”
That was a tidbit Flora hadn’t heard from the briefing. “Reds? You’re Reds?”
“Well, we’re Reds. Kind of, anyway, we’re sort of a mix of Goldman syndicalists, social democrats and anarcho-transhumanists. Not that that means a whole lot to you,” Tina added. “We like to call ourselves Reds, though; especially since it gets the wind up guys like Marsden,” She finished the sentence with an impish smile, and Flora couldn’t help but laugh a little.
“All right, Captain,” she said, chuckling. “I’ll let your boss explain things.”
~***~
“The ambassador from the Sandwich Is - excuse me, Hawaii – was very informative about the world outside our borders, but he danced around a few things. At the same time, you tipped off Congresswoman Blackford” Mal suppressed a wince “that there was something unusual going on. Now, gentlemen, before we discuss anything further I think it’s time you put that card on the table.” Smith leaned back and gave the two envoys a steady look.
Mal looked at Chris. “Well,” he said, “should we do the world-shattering revelation?”
“I don’t see how we’ve got much choice here,” Chris replied.
“Hm. Well then.” Mal reached down and, after a moment of rummaging, pulled a thick paperback book out and handed it to the President. “Everything we know, we know because of these.”
Smith looked at the cover. On it, three indistinct figures stood on a street covered with Freedom Party banners. The title read The Victorious Opposition. Brows lifted, he turned to the back cover.
Harry Turtledove’s acclaimed alternate history series began with a single question: What if the South had won the Civil War? Now, seventy years have passed since the first War Between the States. The North American continent is locked in a battle of politics, economies, and moralities. In a world that has already felt the soul-shattering blow of the Great War, North America is the powder keg that could ignite another global conflict—complete with a new generation of killing machines.
Al Smith felt his mouth go dry as he looked at the story synopsis on the back of the book. “This is impossible,” he said. “Impossible,” he repeated, his voice gaining strength.
“I know,” replied Mal. “I don’t blame you if you don’t believe it. I’m not sure I believe it most days.” He shrugged. “But as Galileo would say, eppur si muove.”
“It’s just…” Smith shook his head. “It’s our lives, laid out here for other people’s amusement…”
“Think of it this way, Mr. President,” Rei Ayanami cut into the conversation. “What you’re reading is history, and what’s past is past. You can learn from it, but you shouldn’t dwell on it.”
Smith peered at the tiny woman. “That’s oddly perceptive from someone so young, miss.” Rei favored him with a tiny smile.
“It’s something I’ve had to deal with,” she said.
“History, eh?” Smith said, looking at the book with a little awe. “It’s one thing to wonder about how history will judge a man, but to read that judgment yourself... well.” He turned his gaze from the book to Mal. “There are more of these?”
Mal nodded. “Quite a few.” This time he pulled a thin metal object out his case. Smith blinked at the appearance of the gadget, all chrome and white Bakelite. Mal placed the pad on his desk. “This has all the books pre-loaded on it. The controls are pretty easy to figure out, and it has a charge that should last a month or so.”
Smith eyed the pad a little warily. “And this covers?” he asked.
“The entire series covers the Second Mexican War, the Great War, the interwar period and the Second Great War,” Mal said. A pause. “If we were to use the books as a history, then we’d be in the last chapters of the first book I handed you. Everything after that… doesn’t really matter.”
Flora could no longer contain her curiosity. “Why not?”
“You’re here,” Chris said. “If you were where you belong, then those books would still apply. But since you and the CSA are in our world now, what happens in those books won’t happen.”
“Or at least,” Mal chimed in, “we’re going to do out damnedest to keep those events from happening.”
Mr. Fnord interdimensional man of mystery
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"I. Drink. Your. NERDRAGE!"