Oskar and Tanya reached the imperial dining hall considerably later than either of them had intended.
Tanya walked beside him with careful dignity, though the stiffness in her steps betrayed her. One hand rested upon Oskar's arm as if from simple affection; in truth, she was relying upon him more heavily than she cared to admit. Her golden hair had been restored to something approaching order, but several loose strands still clung to her flushed cheeks. Faint red marks showed above the collar of her dress wherever the fabric failed to conceal them.
Oskar, meanwhile, looked entirely satisfied with himself.
The hall had already emptied considerably.
Cecilie and Gundelinde had taken most of the children into the winter gardens, accompanied by several nurses, maids and Eternal Guards. Others had already disappeared into classrooms, music lessons or whatever important duties occupied imperial children before noon.
Only two small groups remained behind.
At the children's end of the long table, Anna was managing the four youngest members of Oskar's household.
Tanya's little sons, Grel and Gael, sat opposite one another in matching high-backed chairs. Grel regarded his porridge with deep personal suspicion, while Gael had somehow removed one shoe and was kicking beneath the table with his stockinged foot.
Beside them sat Anna's daughters, Floriel and Liliel. The two girls had become involved in a bitter dispute over a silver spoon, despite three identical spoons lying unused within easy reach.
Anna held the contested object above their heads.
"You have the same spoons," she explained for what was plainly not the first time.
Floriel pointed accusingly.
"But that one is mine."
Liliel immediately shook her head.
"No. Mine."
Anna closed her eyes for a moment, gathering patience.
Near the tall windows, the Empress had claimed several of the older children whose lessons began later that morning.
Augusta sat upon a broad sofa with Juniel pressed against one side and Lailael tucked against the other, both princesses attempting to follow the words upon the page. Azarael and Liorael sat cross-legged upon the carpet before her, leaning forward whenever the illustrations changed. Imperiel stood behind the sofa with one hand resting upon its back, pretending that he was merely supervising his younger siblings rather than listening as eagerly as any of them.
In Augusta's hands rested the brightly illustrated third volume of German Man.
Its cover depicted humanity's last stand.
German Man stood at the summit of a shattered mountain of masonry, taller than every figure around him. His dark cape snapped in the wind, and the great silver G upon his chest caught the light. A heavy rifle rested in one hand, while the other pointed downward toward the enemy climbing from the ruins below.
Beside him stood a company of heroes representing the great nations of the world.
A stern British naval officer wore a dark double-breasted coat and held a cutlass sword in one hand and a revolver in the other. A French infantryman in a blue coat and red trousers levelled his bayonet with theatrical courage. A broad Russian grenadier stood wrapped in a long grey greatcoat, an Orthodox cross hanging above his ammunition belt. An Austro-Hungarian hussar raised a curved sabre beneath a plumed cap, while a Japanese officer in a dark fitted uniform held his sword calmly before him.
The final member of the group was an American woman in a long military coat and broad campaign hat. Her hair streamed behind her as she knelt beside a light machine gun, its ammunition belt feeding from a wooden box painted with white stars.
They looked less like ordinary soldiers than the living spirits of their nations—Britain's endurance, France's defiance, Russia's strength, Austria-Hungary's martial pride, Japan's discipline and America's restless confidence.
German Man stood at their centre, not as their ruler, but as the figure holding them together.
Above the ruined city, fragile warplanes crossed the smoke-filled sky. Biplanes bearing the markings of several nations flew wingtip to wingtip, machine guns flashing as winged Mole creatures swarmed around them.
Below, the earth had broken open.
Beastly Mole soldiers climbed from a vast black fissure beneath the rubble. Some wore scavenged armour and carried crude rifles; others charged with hooked spears, swords and heavy axes. Larger creatures the size of elephants crawled among them on all fours, dragging iron shields or crude tunnelling machines behind them. Their pale, useless eyes stared blindly upward while their claws found purchase between shattered stones.
Humanity waited above.
The darkness came from below.
Across the top of the cover, beneath the title, ran the volume's promise:
ONE WORLD. ONE ENEMY. ONE LAST STAND.
Augusta read with complete seriousness, giving every character a different voice.
"The French captain looked upon the army rising from the earth and asked, 'Can mankind truly stand together?'"
The children leaned closer.
Augusta turned the page.
"German Man raised his weapon toward the darkness and answered—"
"For humanity!" Juniel and Lailael shouted before she could finish.
Azarael and Liorael joined them a heartbeat later.
"For humanity!"
Even Imperiel forgot his carefully maintained dignity and repeated the battle cry with one fist pressed against his chest.
Augusta laughed.
Oskar stopped inside the doorway and watched them.
His mother had once regarded the comics as one of his stranger commercial experiments. Now she read them aloud with dramatic enthusiasm to children who already knew every line by heart.
A faint smile touched his face.
His ridiculous stories had escaped his hands.
They had become part of the family.
Oskar smiled.
His mother had once regarded the comic as a strange little indulgence. Now she performed every voice and sound effect for an audience of violet-eyed children who already knew every line.
Anna looked up as Oskar and Tanya entered.
Her eyes moved first to Tanya's unsteady walk, then to the marks upon her throat.
A brief, unmistakable shadow crossed her expression.
"You took your time," she said.
"There were matters requiring attention," Tanya replied with impressive composure.
Anna's gaze dropped to the hand Tanya still kept upon Oskar's arm.
"Clearly."
Tanya released him and moved quickly—though not comfortably—to Anna's side. She collected the disputed spoon from Floriel, replaced it with another and began helping Gael recover his missing shoe.
"There," Tanya said brightly. "Everything is under control."
Anna studied her for another moment. Then one corner of her mouth curved.
"Sit down before you fall down."
Tanya coloured but obeyed.
The jealousy remained, though it was too familiar to become anger. Anna shifted closer and pushed a plate of fruit toward her. Tanya accepted it with a quiet smile, their shoulders touching as they returned their attention to the children.
Oskar crossed to the main table.
A chair had been built especially for him, reinforced with steel beneath the carved wood. Even so, it complained when he sat.
Servants appeared almost immediately.
Eggs, sausages, dark bread, cheese, porridge, fruit and an entire pot of coffee accumulated before him. Oskar began eating with the steady concentration of a man refuelling an industrial machine.
Wilhelm lowered the edge of his newspaper.
"You appear rested."
"Extremely."
Across the room, Anna made a small, disapproving sound.
Oskar pretended not to hear it.
For several minutes the meal proceeded peacefully. Augusta continued reading. Toddlers objected to breakfast. Tanya attempted to hide her discomfort whenever she shifted in her chair, while Anna occasionally glanced at her with an expression balanced between amusement and envy.
Then Wilhelm folded his newspaper.
The pleasant softness left his face.
"Vienna is considering military measures."
Oskar stopped cutting his sausage.
The Kaiser spoke quietly. Even inside the family dining hall, certain subjects did not require servants to overhear every word.
"The Serbians continue pressing toward the Adriatic. Bulgaria stands before Constantinople. If the settlement threatens Austrian interests—or encourages the Slavs within the Empire—Franz Ferdinand may feel compelled to act."
"He will consult us first," Oskar said.
"He has."
Oskar placed his knife down.
Across the room, Augusta turned another page. The children shouted when German Man struck a Mole creature from a rooftop. Their excitement made the conversation at the table feel even colder.
Wilhelm leaned closer.
"If Austria mobilises against Serbia, how quickly can the Eighth Army move?"
"The Black Legion is ready to defend East Prussia immediately," Oskar answered. "Elements could move south or west by rail within days, but moving the whole force would reveal preparations we have spent years concealing."
"And the Panzers?"
"Forty are fully operational. More training vehicles and prototypes exist, but forty are ready to fight as a formed regiment."
Wilhelm absorbed the number.
"Only forty."
"Forty more than anyone else possesses."
The Kaiser conceded that with a small nod.
"And the aircraft?"
"Enough to form the foundations of an air force. Not enough to lose carelessly. The advanced fighters and bombers are still expensive, and trained pilots are harder to replace than machines."
Wilhelm's fingers tapped once against the newspaper.
"And the Navy?"
"The battle fleet is stronger than Britain believes. The submarines are improving. The two carriers should commission next year, though they will require another year of training before I would trust them in a major battle."
"Carriers," Wilhelm murmured. "Floating airfields."
"Yes."
"You truly believe they will matter?"
"They will decide the future of the sea."
The Kaiser looked toward the Balkan map.
"And if the future arrives sooner than expected?"
Oskar understood the real question.
Could Germany fight now?
"Yes," he said. "We could fight."
Wilhelm watched him closely.
"But?"
"But war now would still be a gamble. We possess advantages, not invincibility. Our new weapons are few, our doctrine is untested and much of the ordinary Army still thinks in the old way."
Oskar lowered his voice further.
"Give me three years. More Panzers. More aircraft. Trained carrier crews. Larger fuel reserves. Better radios and enough ammunition to sustain the machines we have built."
"And then?"
"Then Germany will not be impossible to defeat."
Oskar paused.
"But anyone attempting it will have to destroy himself in the process."
Satisfaction appeared beneath Wilhelm's moustache.
"Nearly unstoppable."
"Nearly," Oskar agreed. "There is no such thing as completely unstoppable."
He returned to his food, but his appetite had dulled.
The idea of war always appeared cleaner upon maps. Arrows advanced. Lines broke. Cities changed colour. Ministries counted divisions, shells and railway timetables.
The maps did not show the inside of a burning vehicle. They did not show wounded men screaming for a driver to return. They did not show what remained after a missile found its target.
Oskar had once believed that possessing overwhelming strength would make war easier to prevent.
Perhaps it would.
Yet Europe increasingly resembled a cage crowded with predators. Britain, France, Russia, Germany, Austria-Hungary, Italy and the Ottoman Empire circled one another, each armed, suspicious and too proud to step backward.
There was no authority above them strong enough to command restraint.
No world government. No international police. No father standing over quarrelling children.
Only promises, alliances and fear.
Sooner or later, one of the animals inside the cage would bare its teeth. Another would answer. Then the entire enclosure would become a slaughterhouse.
Oskar looked toward the children gathered around Augusta.
German Man stood upon the illustrated rubble, holding back the creatures below while humanity finally fought beside him.
It was a comforting fantasy, for sadly real nations were far less cooperative.
Augusta finished the chapter and closed the comic.
"Now," she announced, "you must all prepare for the garden."
The children protested immediately.
"One more!"
"German Man has not reached the Mole Queen!"
"You already know what happens," Augusta replied.
"That is not the same!"
Oskar laughed.
His mother looked toward him.
"And what have you planned for Christmas?"
"Something memorable."
Anna raised her eyebrows.
"That usually means dangerous."
"Not this time."
"What is it?" Wilhelm asked.
"A surprise."
Oskar imagined himself wearing the enormous red coat waiting below, surrounded by boxes of coloured interlocking bricks. He could already hear the children arguing over who had been the best behaved.
"You will all be pleased," he promised.
Breakfast ended soon afterward.
Wilhelm returned to his papers. Augusta gathered the smallest children, while Anna and Tanya prepared to follow them into the gardens.
Tanya caught Oskar's sleeve.
"You are coming?"
"Shortly. I need to check something downstairs."
Her expression suggested she understood that "something" rarely meant one thing.
"Do not disappear for the entire day."
"I will not."
Oskar kissed her forehead, then did the same to Anna.
"I shall join you outside."
He left the sunlight behind.
The guarded entrance to the family wing opened onto a private landing within the eastern palace. Beside the descending stairwell stood the great freight elevator, its brass doors closed and its numerical lock waiting beneath a polished panel.
Oskar ignored it.
He preferred the stairs when he needed to think.
The upper steps were carpeted and warm. Farther down, the carpet ended. Wallpaper became painted stone, then bare masonry reinforced with steel. The air cooled as he descended below the ordinary palace basements and into the hidden foundations beneath them.
Electric lamps burned behind thick glass at each landing.
Two Eternal Guards waited at the final level. They struck their fists against their hearts as he approached.
"Your Highness."
"Anything to report?"
"Nothing unusual."
Oskar passed through the secured lobby and approached the immense double doors bearing the words:
THE OSKAR INDUSTRIAL GROUP MEETING HALL
The chamber beyond stood empty.
The great triangular table waited beneath its lamps. Oskar's enormous chair occupied the broad end, with the sealed vault doors rising behind it. Gold, silver, jewels, bonds and emergency reserves slept beyond those doors.
He turned instead toward the stonework beside the vault.
His fingers found a concealed catch.
Part of the wall released with a low mechanical sound, revealing a narrow passage descending into darkness.
Oskar entered.
The hidden laboratory had grown enormously since its first construction.
It was no longer a single room beneath the palace. Corridors and reinforced chambers extended through the deep foundations like the private organs of some buried industrial beast.
The first section resembled a chemical laboratory.
Glass vessels stood in ordered rows beneath ventilated hoods. Pipes, valves and rubber hoses connected pressure containers and sealed tanks. Drums of experimental compounds rested inside fireproof enclosures. Locked cabinets held acids, poisons, medicines and substances whose uses ranged from saving lives to burning them.
One isolated chamber contained his incendiary experiments.
Oskar had learned enough from his previous life to understand the principle behind weapons such as napalm. Producing something stable, controllable and safe enough to store was another matter entirely.
Beyond the chemical rooms stood the mechanical hall.
It possessed a low overhead crane, furnaces, lathes, presses and reinforced worktables. Heavy suits of experimental armour hung from hooks like empty metal men. Some were little more than steel breastplates fitted with straps. Others used layered plates, ceramic inserts and flexible joints in an attempt to balance movement against protection.
Rows of scarred test plates leaned against one wall.
Pistol rounds had flattened against some. Rifle bullets had passed through others as though the metal had been paper.
Kevlar remained beyond him. The chemistry refused to cooperate, and the manufacturing tolerances belonged to a world that had not yet been built.
So he worked with what the century could provide.
Steel. Ceramics. Layering. Angles.
Crude solutions, perhaps, but crude armour could still prevent a mother from receiving a telegram.
Farther along stood several compact experimental vehicles. One carried a rotating drill head intended for mining work. Another used tracks rather than wheels and had been built to test movement inside narrow tunnels. Components for improved pumps, tricone drilling systems and underground hauling machines occupied marked bays around them.
The same technologies could open mines, build railways or assist military engineers.
That was true of almost everything Oskar created. Tools became weapons whenever frightened governments touched them.
The electronics section frustrated him most.
Radios, vacuum tubes, crystal detectors and experimental amplifiers covered several benches. Wires hung in careful bundles. Half-completed receivers produced static when powered, while early switching devices sat beside diagrams describing logical systems far beyond the ability of existing factories to manufacture.
He understood computers. He understood integrated circuits. He understood what microscopic switches could one day become.
Understanding did not create clean rooms, photolithography or materials pure enough to obey him.
The future stood inside his memory, visible and unreachable.
Beyond the machinery lay a small greenhouse sealed behind glass. Medicinal herbs, poisonous flowers, rubber-producing plants and experimental food crops grew beneath electric lamps. Nearby cages held white rats used to test medicines, artificial sweeteners and compounds Oskar refused to place inside a human body until he understood what they did.
The laboratory was part workshop, part armoury, part greenhouse and part museum of unfinished futures.
It was his mind given walls.
Engineering. Medicine. War. Entertainment. Agriculture. Logistics.
Every problem he remembered, arranged beneath the palace and waiting for him to solve it.
But it was the map room that drew him.
Maps covered the walls from floor to ceiling. Coal, iron, bauxite and copper deposits. Possible oil fields. Uranium-bearing regions whose value no one else yet understood. Agricultural yields. Rivers, railways, ports and sea lanes. Population density, language, religion and migration.
At the centre hung a large map of southeastern Europe.
Pins and coloured threads crowded the Balkans.
Oskar stood before it.
Bulgaria had advanced almost to Constantinople. Serbia expanded southward while looking hungrily toward the Adriatic. Greece seized islands and coastal cities. Montenegro fought for territory larger neighbours also desired.
Together they called themselves the Balkan League. The name suggested unity where almost none existed.
They shared an enemy, nothing more.
The moment the Ottoman position collapsed, they would begin measuring one another's gains. Macedonia, Thrace, Salonika, Albania and Constantinople were prizes no alliance agreement could divide without creating another grievance.
Oskar studied the Chatalja line west of Constantinople.
The Ottoman Empire was weaker in this history.
Germany had withdrawn investment, military assistance and political protection. Krupp had provided no river of artillery or shells. German officers had not reorganised Ottoman formations. Constantinople had been left to purchase what it could from other manufacturers, surplus dealers and intermediaries.
Yet weakness had not ended the war. It had merely invited everyone to attack at once.
The Ottomans still found men. They still bought weapons. They still dug trenches, reinforced forts and clung to the approaches of their capital with the desperation of an empire defending its heart.
The Bulgarians had reached farther and faster than almost anyone expected. Yet they had not finished the job.
Oskar pressed one finger against the map.
With proper cooperation, the Balkan armies might already have broken the final Ottoman defences. Greece controlled the sea. Bulgaria possessed the largest army. Serbia and Montenegro could have added their strength where it mattered.
Instead, they competed over roads, cities and flags.
Centuries of occupation, forced conversion, revolt, massacre and reprisal had created wounds deep enough that even victory could not make the region whole.
They behaved like children fighting over an inheritance while the house still burned.
And Oskar possessed the strength to stop them.
The Black Legion could enter the Balkans by rail. Its artillery, machine guns, radios, marksmen, aircraft and Panzers would transform the balance immediately.
He could break the Ottoman Chatalja defensive line. He could force Serbia away from the Adriatic. He could dictate borders and place soldiers between populations before vengeance consumed them. He could end the war.
But he could not act. Because the moment German troops entered the region, Austria-Hungary would have to follow.
Russia would mobilise rather than allow Germany or Vienna to decide the fate of the Straits. France would support Russia to prevent the balance of Europe shifting eastward. Britain would move to protect its trade routes and ensure no single continental bloc controlled the road between the Black Sea and Mediterranean.
No Great Power would tolerate another deciding the Balkan question alone. They would rather risk burning Europe than permit a rival to impose peace.
Oskar's hand closed against the edge of the map table.
He remembered the names from his old life. Sarajevo, Kosovo, Bosnia, Serbia, Macedonia. Different uniforms. Different flags. The same graves.
Even at the end of the twentieth century, the region had fractured again. Old hatreds returned with new rifles, new propaganda and new excuses. Villages burned because grandfathers remembered what other grandfathers had done.
Time had not healed the Balkans. It had merely taught the hatred to wait.
His gaze moved toward Constantinople as a thought came to him. Would the world have been better if the Eastern Roman Empire had survived?
The thought was sentimental, and he knew it.
The Byzantines had not been saints. They had ruled through intrigue, taxation, armies and force. Yet they had also represented continuity—an authority rooted deeply enough in the region to hold roads, ports, cities and peoples beneath one structure.
Perhaps peace required such a structure.
Not a theatrical restoration of ancient titles. Not Greeks dressing themselves as emperors and pretending the centuries between had vanished.
Something functional.
A regional power strong enough to prevent every small kingdom from reaching for the throat of its neighbour.
Austria-Hungary might have become that power if it could reform itself before nationalism tore it apart. Greece might have formed the cultural centre of something larger. Germany might one day guarantee borders no one else could alter. But guaranteed peace was another word for imposed peace.
A father could stop children fighting. He could also become a tyrant who never allowed them to grow.
Oskar stared at the map until the colours blurred.
He had power, but not enough to act without consequence. And yet too much to pretend helplessness.
That was the cruel balance.
Move too soon, and he might begin the European war he had spent years trying to prevent.
Wait too long, and he would continue receiving reports of villages emptied, prisoners murdered and refugees starving beside roads.
There was no clean decision. Only arithmetic performed with human lives.
Then a splash of red at the edge of his vision finally pulled him away.
The Santa coat waited upon a nearby chair. The matching cap lay folded beside it, along with a false white beard large enough to cover half his face. Wooden crates contained carefully wrapped sets of bright interlocking bricks—small houses, buses, soldiers, animals and enough loose pieces for the children to build whatever nonsense entered their heads.
Oskar stared at them.
Then he laughed quietly. The sound seemed strange inside the buried laboratory.
"Enough," he said.
The Balkans would still be there tomorrow.
Perhaps, while wrapping presents, he would find another route—diplomatic pressure, humanitarian aid, a conference, quiet promises made to kings who believed the ideas were their own.
Something less obvious than an army. Something that might shift the balance without breaking the cage open.
For now, however, children were waiting above him.
He removed the newspaper reports from the worktable and replaced them with boxes, coloured paper, string and small cards bearing each child's name.
For the next hour, Oskar ceased being prince, industrialist, general and prophet of wars that had not yet happened. Instead he became a father preparing Christmas presents.
The maps remained upon the walls. The machines waited in silence. And somewhere at the back of his mind, beneath thoughts of red coats, toys and delighted children, the Balkans continued to burn.
Thus the final days of 1912 began drawing toward their close.