Sultan’s Palace, Alexandria, Egypt, January 1, 1847

Muhammad Ali was dying.

His years had been successful, Egypt was led to greatness and prosperity and even a measure of hegemony over the petty states of the Middle East under his reign. However, he had alienated many people not just with his brutality, which he could have gotten away with, even turned into a strength, but also with his defiance of tradition plus the demeaning concessions with which he had secured the vast majority of his dominions against the overwhelming power of Britain. And now, with his son Ibrahim dying from tuberculosis as well and his grandson Abbas already dead, some suspect by his own command, it was the former’s task to hold back the tide of discontent which was still simmering in the areas where opposition to the Sultanate remained strong.

As the former Pasha, now Sultan, of Egypt lay on his deathbed, surrounded by his doctors, caretakers, servants, and relations, he looked around uncomprehendingly at first, gripped by the increasing senility which had arrived with his advancing years. Then, a glint came into his eye as he looked at his son, sixteen-year-old Sa’id, who was now the next in line (once Ibrahim had died) after Abbas’ death through poison administered in his wine. Then he said in a raspy voice:

“Even before I die, send out an army to Syria across the Suez - The British will be obligated to allow our passage, lest any rebels threaten their precious canal, more worth to them than a dozen cities. This army will be composed of conscripts from Egypt itself and several battalions of Sudanese, in order to make the instructions forwarded to them easier. What are these commands? To take hostages among the leading families of each town and city, and burn out any rogue shaikh, Bedouin tribe, or discontented noble who want to bring back the backwardness and chaos of the past.”

The hard edge came back to his voice as he continued, “At the same time, another army is to be sent down to the Sudan, where the ungrateful natives of the region claim the right to revolt due to our ‘oppressions’. As if The Highest himself did not smile upon me and justify my actions! Similar instructions are to be given to this force - Take hostages and give punishment for any hint of revolt!”

He coughed, his death was near indeed. “As for the Sharif of Hedjaz… Heap him with high honors and a reminder that any rebellion in Arabia will open the gates to the return of the heretical followers of Ibn Wahhab and his ilk. Hint at a marriage between my son and heir,” Sa’id then looked at him with some surprise at being mentioned, “And one of his daughters, a purest Sayyida who carries the line of the Prophet - Peace Be Upon Him - himself.”

Sa’id’s eyes opened wide at that - His father was shooting high, indeed, if he was aiming for one of his son’s future brides (for their religion allowed for four wives) to come from such a family. No, Sa’id knew that any sons he would bear with his future wife could claim the dignity of the Caliphate itself, and thus usurp another of the Ottoman Sultan’s shrinking raft of titles. He bowed before his father, amazed at his wisdom.

The Sultan of Egypt then took off his turban and put it on Sa’id’s head, saying, “You are the one and only successor to my throne - I have crossed many lines and risked hellfire to ensure that this is so. Now take up the sword as well as the throne, and do not shirk from taking the blood of rebel and ingrate!”

An oblique admission that Abbas’ death was indeed caused by him, and exhausted by this last movement, as well as his outburst, Muhammad Ali of Egypt lay down and finally expired, the boundless energies which he had put into administration and conquest both finally dissipating.

But for Sa’id, now Sultan Sa’id, once known only for his Francophilia and fascination with Western ways, the flames were just beginning to burn.

“Gather the leading men of the court, city, and army here immediately and have them pledge their allegiance. Muster the needed forces and send the needed messages, now. We will not let what my father has built fall down just because of the jealousy of blind and old men!” he barked out with surprising ferocity. “Egypt will stand!”

Hofburg Palace, Vienna, United States of Greater Austria, January 2nd, 1847.

Many in the Union had celebrated it surviving into a new year yesterday. No, it wasn't fair to use the word surviving, Austria had entered the new year in a better position than it had ever been really, its position secured after the fear of Russian, Prussian or French interventions to restore the monarchy and more importantly, with its many different people actually growing accustomed and accepting of the new status quo. It would take many more years, enough to educate a new generation fully into this new system and for them to internalize its new Motto:

Indivisible and Inseparable, Forever a Federation of Equals.

For Klemenz von Metternich however it was just another morning. He knew his way around parties of course, a real social butterfly that was at home everywhere around everyone, from the petty Hungarian nobles to standing next to Bonaparte himself (The first, of course.).

"Eure Exzellenz."

A servant said as he bowed and presented the Prince-President with his many medals and decorations to chose which he would wear now that he had finished dressed. So much for the american style 'Herr Prasident'. Indeed, in Austria, it was the nationalities that were equals, the men and the classes? Not so much. The monarchy had been abolished but the office of Prince-President had all but replaced that of Emperor in almost every ways. Nobility still existed, the support of the old landlords was too important to be ignored, but a good amount of censorship- no, how did they call it? Ah yes, 'editorial policy' was enough to gloss over these ugly little details.

No matter. It was not the substance that was important, but rather the look of it. Massive concessions had been given, and above all they had been given without even the threat or the act of violence and so the act seemed genuine. Well, it was genuine, certainly! Metternich genuinely wanted to keep what Austria had built together and saw it as his destiny, his reason of being! It just happened that he saw the best way to do this involving giving rights to minorities. Good for them.

"Aherm. In today's news your Excellency, new from Algeria indicates progress in the French intervention."

Ugh. If it could have been a quagmire ending in humiliation for N... Metternich rolled his eyes in silence as he thought of 'Charlie'. He may refer to the current emperor of France as Napoleon when speaking, but he surely wouldn't give him that name in his own private thoughts. A pale imitation of a much greater man.

"Yesterday, his majesty the Sultan of Egypt, Muhammad Ali, died in Cairo. His 16 year old son Sa'id will succeed him."

"Young. Good. If he wants to westernize as badly as his father it'll be easy to continue our rapprochement." Metternich said without any real emotion as he put the finishing touch on his medals.

"Unfortunately maybe not. We have heard he is quite the Francophile." This gave pause to the Prince-President. Only for a moment though, facts were facts, no use raging against them. Plus, Francophile wasn't nearly as bad as Russophile and it might give the englishmen some trouble sleeping if at all possible.

________

The old man was thus dressed and going to work in his personal office, servants and guards bowing before him with the same reverence they gave a few years back to the emperor (even more in fact! Metternich was far from the slow thinking epileptic he had deposed). A man arrived, slightly disheveled after a day of partying it seemed, but before he could give excuses for his lateness, he was interrupted.

"The drafts?" Metternich asked impatiently. To this the man only bowed to silently apologise before taking a folder he held under his arm and present it to the Prince President. The old man took it and began to read its content as he lesurely strolled to his office, about a dozen people slowly and awkwardly following his pace, only stopping when he crossed the door to the office. Klemenz nodded to the man, satisfied of his work and for the first time bothering to actually look at the man and think of his name. Young, fair looking and a bit on the short size, a black haired Sloven with a good sense of style but visibly not a morning person.

"Excellent work mister Kovačič."

He said before giving back the folder.

"You may send these invitations out."

_____________________________

Generalkonferenz zu Spurweiten und Frachtnormen!
General Conference on Track Gauges and Freight standards!

After the recent adoption by the Austrian Reichstag of the national railway standard, intellectuals and industrials across the Union and Europe have pushed for the standardization of train track gauges and shipping containers across the entire continent, believing that such agreements should be made now while this revolutionary method of transit is still undeveloped as to facilitate trade between nations!

Nations that already have a good amount of tracks of their own native gauge may of course object, but the Austrian rail committee insists that the broad 1,676mm gauge, while extremely large by common standards, is designed to be future-proof and accommodate future rail development and size increase! Users of the new Prague-Vienna-Budapest line also described rides on this particular gauge as more 'stately and comfortable than others on gauges of lesser sizes'.

The objective is also described as political and humanist in nature by Prince-President Metternich who believes that increased trade and flow of goods is the best way to maintain the Concert of Nations along with peace in Europe through common prosperity.

The international conference is due to be held at the end of March with the start of spring and of course all European states have been invited to participate along with the United States of America, the Ottoman Empire and the Sultanate of Egypt. In addition, China, Japan and Korea are invited as observers but will not have a seat at the table.

_______

To his Imperial Majesty Charles Louis Napoléon Bonaparte III,

It is my distinct pleasure to send you a personal invitation to the General Conference on Track Gauges and Freight standards as well as to a broader state visit in our proud United States of Greater Austria. For too long have the French and German people have been at odds with each other, often due to the machinations of foreign powers who benefit to see us divided. It is my personal belief that our people share the great brotherly heritage of the Carolingians of old and that our mutual pride as great people have blinded us to the much greater possibilities that we have in sharing bonds of commerce and friendship rather than live as adversaries and enemies.

I would thus like to speak with you of a common future, harmonious and mutually respectful.

As a proof of our noble intentions, I would like to present you during your visit with the remains of the son of your glorious uncle and your cousin, Napoléon François Joseph Charles Bonaparte II, that have as you know been laid to rest in Austria after his death of tuberculosis.

With your benediction of course, we would only ask for his heart and his stomach to be preserved in the Habsburg crypt as per the ancient imperial tradition and as a symbol of yet another bond that unites our two people, for he was a French but also an Austrian Prince.

With my vows of friendship,

Prince-President Klemens Wenzel Nepomuk Lothar von Metternich-Winneburg zu Beilstein.

Snow covered the streets and roofs of Paris. Outside, the City of Light was coming to life as the sun shone its first rays, barely warming up the cold air of January 1847. Charles Louis Napoléon Bonaparte, Emperor of the French, was having buttered bread, grilled bacon, and Algerian mandarin oranges with a cup of coffee for breakfast in his palace of the Tuileries.

“What news today, Alexandre?” The Emperor had his own daily routine, having his aide bring the latest relevant pieces of information to him in the morning.

“Good news from Africa, Sire. The empire of Morocco has capitulated to your demands and has agreed to stop supporting the rebels. Reports indicate that Abdelkader is fleeing east.”

“Emir Abdelkader. What else?”

“A letter from Austria. For your eyes only.” The aide produced a sealed letter and handed it over to Napoléon.

He read it twice, then set it down on the table. “Brotherly heritage of the Caroligians… Old habits die hard,” he muttered.

“Sire?”

“Von Metternich wishes that Austria be friends with France, it seems. Or so he says.” The Emperor took a sip of coffee. “He speaks of friendship and prosperity, but there is hostility as well. The Austrians want us to believe that they blame our past enemies for the rivalries between us. Poor Austria was manipulated by the Russians, Prussians… British, most likely.”

“Do you believe them?”

“No. They want us to hate them slightly less than we hate all of our old enemies, this is the only truth I can see in this paper. That’s what matters.” A short pause followed. “Von Metternich also sent me a personal invitation to their… Conference on Track Gauges and Freight standards, as he puts it. And a visit of their country.”

“Would the Parliament approve?”

“The Parliament doesn’t need to know the exact contents of the letter. It will just be a tour of the conference. Everyone knows that I wish to develop railways further. And since Von Metternich offered to return my cousin’s remains to France, I cannot refuse. Nor can I send anyone else.”

Sunlight kissed the summit of Mount Austin, or The Peak as it was known locally, bathing the recently logged area where new homes were slated to be built in a gentle pink glow. Despite the onset of mid-winter, the temperature still hovered above 15 degrees centigrade and any white man who could be seen was clad in short sleeves.

One of those men, his biceps straining against the sleeves of his khaki shirt, was Governor Daniël Verlaan. Originally born in Rotterdam, he had been hand picked to oversee the Dutch arrival in Hong Kong and subsequently ensure the flow of goods back to Europe.

Signs of his success and continued work could be seen everywhere on the island as Steel glinted along the slopes of the mountain to show where a tram line was being pushed up the side to replace the ole donkey track that served the higher elevations of the island. Two other rail lines left Victoria Harbour, eventually wrapping around the island to connect on the far side, providing access to a series of fortifications, gun batteries, and various agricultural operations.

Victoria Harbour itself was alive with swarms of small Junks and other craft that raced back and forth between the long harbour quays and the fleet that had dropped anchor the night before. Four ships of the line, beautiful and sleek lined, towered above everything else but every eye was turned to the steamship in the midst of the fleet. The vessels were still rare in this part of the world, China having recently bought a single vessel of the original Dutch paddlewheel build some years before. This one was different, slightly larger, and driven by a steam powered screw instead of paddles on either side. Though few in Victoria Harbour understood it, they were looking at the first propeller-driven steam frigate in the world.

Some twenty Dutch flagged merchant ships had arrived with their escorts and now mixed with ships bearing flags of several other nations. The Dutch might dominate ocean going trade but it was not unheard of for private individuals from other countries to launch their own economic ventures. The Dutch did nothing to dissuade this practice, indeed most foreign trading vessels had a Dutch silent partner investing in their operation.

Verlaan was standing on a quay, sipping coffee, while four burly sailors provided him some privacy from the heaving mass of humanity. Unlike the British before him, he kept a low profile and his garrison even more so. Only a fool would miss the strength of the defences, but he wad determined no one would have an easy time gauging the strength of the garrison.

"Verlaan, morning."

There was an definitive American twang to the voice that address him and he nodded cordially at the gregarious Yank approaching him. James "Jimmy" Breslin represented American interests in the city and managed a thriving trade company that operated largely on mainland China.

"Jimmy," He jerked his head a t the nearby coffee pot, the closet he would get to offering a cup. "How're you this morning?"

"Mighty kind of you," The American said as he poured himself a mug. "I'm well thank you. Damn fine boat you've got out there." He gestured with his free hand toward the steam-frigate.

"Wish it were mine, but it won't be staying with the garrison." Verlaan grimaced as he tasted gritty coffee bean, spitting it into the water when he could. "How are you numbers this month?"

"Damn fine, thankee." Breslin said, offering a toast with his coffee. "With the asians trying to modernize there are plenty of opportunities to make some hefty dollars out here."

Breslin sipped the coffee, eyeing the huge Dutchman over the rim of the priceless blue china. The man was unusual, in fact most of the recent Dutch leadership in the last ten years was a far cry from what many Americans assumed Europeans were like. Everyone knew the King was technically in charge of the country, but the real power lay in the Elector Council, which in turn was made up of savvy businessmen and military leaders. The practice of promoting people based on their family connections had quietly gone the way of the British Empire, and instead jobs fell to those who had the merit to see them through.

"Yes, also a bit worrisome. There are a lot of people over there, and in Japan. If we give them modern weapons, we might be in for a world of hurt."

"That's why you sold them that paddle-steamer, right?" Breslin couldn't resist the jab.

The Dutchman shrugged. "It was old. It will suit them to flex some might on their neighbours but it is only one ship and we have to pay for the new navy somehow."

The American pondered on that for a moment. The Dutch ran the worlds Navy and maritime trade enterprise, dwarfing even that of the British before them. They had chosen to do it differently though and he admired their use of local partners rather than out right conquest. The return of many colonies to local populaces had actually served them well in securing trade routes and goods.

"Still, I would hate to seem start building their own."

Another shrug. "Easier said than done. The parts needed are hard to make, not impossible, but certainly very difficult."

The two men fell into a companionable silence as they continued to watch the lively activities before them. Breslin was grateful the Dutch had allowed him to purchase a small piece of the harbour front; Hong Kong was the only port not closed off to foreigners in China and that made it extremely valuable. His rent alone was staggering, as were the costs for shipping his goods on Dutch ships, but it meant they were protected and got to their destination.

Even the insurers these days were largely Dutch, the Amsterdam branch of Lloyds of London among the largest. The name was largely a throwback to better days but it was trusted everywhere and the Dutch had not bothered to change the name.

"Where are they bound next?" Breslin asked after some time, eyes still taking in the strange lines of the steam-frigate. The lack of a paddlewheel was odd.

"Amsterdam. The Japanese trade ships should be here in the next day or two. Transfer everything to the clippers and they will be on their way."

The clippers were things of beauty. Towering piles of sail that could outrun even a steamship on a good day, they were making the trip home in less than a month and fetching fantastic sums for luxury goods. Europe had not lost its taste for the finer things in life.

"I wonder if you might be able to find some cargo space for a few things of mine..." Breslin said, casting a sidelong glance at the Dutchman and saw his lips twitch in an approximation of a smile.

"Bound for where?"

"New York. Faster than trying to ship it to California and then overland."

"I might be able to find you some space. I have my personal allotment yet to be used up..." The Governor had a reserved five precent of cargo space on every ship for his own goods, it made the position very lucrative indeed.

"Forty precent share?" Breslin asked hopefully.

"Done." Verlaan replied. He could have haggled, but a time would come when he would need wealthy friends in America and Breslin was looking to be one of them. The two sealed their agreement with a clink of china and turned their gazes back to the harbour.

Dier el-Bahari, January 12 1847

Sand and debris were being cleared out of the old necropolis, a site of the Ancient Egyptian civilization long forgotten by the current inhabitants of the land, who didn’t even claim to be its heirs. An old Coptic monastery, abandoned for at least several decades, had also been demolished in order to unearth ‘pagan’ artifacts on his orders, pagan artifacts that to a scion of the Enlightenment like him, were worth more than ‘current’ superstitions.

Who was he, by the way? Well, the great Jean-Agustin Pierrot, friend of the new Sultan of Egypt and unofficial head of the ‘Egyptologist’ community which lived in this new country, providing specialist knowledge and intellectual credibility to the current regime in exchange for being allowed to sate their passion for the very distant past, for the ancient civilizations which were more fascinating than the current mundane ones.

Pierrot was different even from the others, though, in that he was believed to regard his own civilization as boring. Superior to others, certainly, but still boring. And what was surprising was that these allegations were completely true - His Egyptomania had advanced to the point where he genuinely believed the ancients to possess greater wisdom and greater happiness than the people of today, so burdened by their cares and their focus on worldly wealth.

Not that he’d voice it out loud, though.

Anyway, why was he clearing out this old necropolis, and the magnificent ancient pagan temple which showed signs of being defaced even in the ancient past? Well, he had a hypothesis - The defacements, which occurred in the time of Thutmose III, who, to the surprise of people who still thought that ‘Scripture’ was an accurate source of history, had occupied Palestine when the Israelites were supposed to have been -

His heresy was interrupted by a messenger, a soldier from the contingent of troops Sultan Sa’id had dispatched to guard the archeological dig site from the surge of malcontents which regarded all Westerners as ‘Kaffir’. As the somewhat portly, balding Frenchman turned to the soldier - A callow youth barely out of boyhood, by his reckoning, and asked in halting Arabic, “What is it?”, he waited for bad news.

Thankfully, it was nothing of the sort… If one were actually attached to the mundane world of politics. For the youth’s message, given in Turkish (which Pierrot understood better than Arabic) was:

“You are being asked to attend a feast with the Sultan in Alexandria; the British and French Ambassadors are also invited and so will those of the Dutch and Austrians and the Americans. They all want to hear about your hypothesis about a… Female Pharaoh?” said the youth.

For this was Pierrot’s intended contribution to Egyptology, to prove that the builder of the temple he was unearthing belonged to a Female King, one who was so offensive to her successor that he had her name cut out from her own temple. There were even proofs in the very interior of the building, of the name ’Hatshepsut’ being placed in cartouches - The symbol of a Pharaoh's special status - in chambers where no eye was intended to see and which thus were spared the vandalism.

“What game is your new Sultan playing?” he asked, “Shouldn’t he be sending an ambassador to Austria right now or playing soldier to quell rebels?”

The soldier revealed himself to be slightly more intelligent than expected when he said, “He has already sent Rifa’a al-Tahtawi as his ambassador to the Austrians, with instructions to convey Egypt’s peaceful intentions towards everybody, its commercial affinity with Britain, and its desire to emulate France’s culture... Or so I heard from my superiors.”

How pert, Pierrot thought. So this is what the new initiative to educate soldiers produces.

His next words were, “How could I refuse? Tell the Sultan I will begin packing up. In the meantime, I ask for more soldiers to be sent to protect this place - I heard that rebel activity is picking up even here…”

Typical, I am being used for a public relations exercise…

Busan

The southern port city was never nearly as cold as the windswept, barren mountains of the north, but it still was enough to bother Ryu Kyung-jae on his walk to the workshop. He tightened the strap of his beige durumagi against the wind that now cut through the tiny cobblestone-paved alley and leaned forward as he marched through the elements.

Much had changed in his hometown in the last decade. The royals had let the Americans in, luring their investments with the offer of prime real estate at the strategic port. The government, in traditional Joseon fashion, had set up a bureaucratic office in the city in a marvelous new building to work the specifics of such complicated diplomacy.

Kyung-jae’s father worked there. A veteran administrator of internal trade and economics, he was tapped to spearhead the dynasty’s policy of reopening to the world. Even then, his father quickly became overwhelmed by the influx of American professionals who saw Korea as a vast new market. From the United States came teachers, architects, engineers, advisors, merchants, doctors, and even lawyers to try and translate their very alien Western ideals to the yangban and jungin who worked feverishly to understand.

The trade in Busan grew, and through Kyung-jae’s father’s connections, he met with many of these Americans. Over the years as a class of foreign expatriates grew in the city, Kyung-jae found himself swapping ideas with very talented inventors and engineers. Many of them now spoke Korean well, having found an appreciation for the culture.

More importantly, they found a way to make wild amounts of money selling things to Korean city and village rulers that were commonplace back home. Technologies for mass production, replaceable parts, and steam engines now filled brick factories churning out goods near the port of Busan. While the marvels of these intricate designs intrigued Kyung-jae, he never could shake the feeling of guilt that these new factories were displacing the traditional craftsmen of his hometown.

Kyung-jae arrived at his workshop, fumbling for the keys on a metal ring as his freezing fingers lost their fine motor skills. With great effort, he unlocked and pressed his way through the door into the stone structure. It was cold, but he undid his overcoat and hung it by the door.

In the corner on the wall was his coal furnace that provided heat for warmth and his inventing. A jury-rigged forge lay dormant next to it, nearby a table littered with parts and contraptions of brass and gears. Kyung-jae rubbed his hands together and started up the furnace quickly, seeking to warm his workshop and finally get some heat in the cold dark morning.

With his hands on his hips, Kyung-jae surveyed the workshop. Inside it were dozens of other aimless inventions, each a solution looking for a problem. As he waited for the furnace to warm the space, he searched for an inspiration. Maybe today would be something different, something useful.

Hanyang

Within the great complex of royal ministries in the capital Hanyang, two ministers sat cross legged on a cushioned floor with cups of steaming tea in their hands. The window offered a view into a snow-dusted garden occupying the center of one of the buildings. The Six Ministries, Yukjo, were the beating heart of Korea’s bureaucracy. Thousands of civil servants and administrators scurried throughout the compound to run an increasingly complicated system of government.

The two men, aged and stern, were the ministers of defense and commerce: Byeongjo and Gongjo. Yi Dong-il, Byeongjo minister, stroked his grey beard as he reread through a translated letter from Europe. It had arrived from the Austrians, of all people.

“Why does this matter?” sternly asked the old military man. He frowned. “We have railroads, why do they want to change the size now? What’s the point?”

The Gongjo minister, Chung Tae-suk, chuckled at the old general. He explained gently to Minister Yi, who often seemed frustrated with things he didn’t immediately understand: “It makes the tracks the same, it’s supposed to make things easier to get steam engines to different places. You build one the same every time and you never need to worry about the wheels fitting to the tracks.”

“The American trains seem to fit just fine,” protested Minister Yi. “It’s not like we’ll be building a railroad to Europe.”

With a wink, Minister Chung parried. “It’s about more than just us. What if the Americans change their measurements? Then we will, too. The expense of that will be less than the value of trade lost if we stay stubborn. Remember, this stubbornness is what let the Japanese outpace us.”

Minister Yi shook his head. He knew Minister Chung was right. The Joseon dynasty had been so preoccupied with isolation and maintaining their own affairs that they had shut out the outside world for almost forty years. Much had changed, especially with technology. He could barely comprehend it anymore. Minister Chung had always been an internationalist and had been spreading his wings ever since Queen Sinjeong had proclaimed that the Joseon isolation be lifted.

“We’ve always prided ourselves on education and precision,” Chung said to Yi. “With these new tools, we’ve been able to get more precise and learn more than ever before. You’ve heard Ijo before, we have been getting wiser to the world this entire time.”

Yi nodded. Ijo, the ministry of personnel, headed the entire direction of government through its placement, training, and selection of bureaucrats. Informally, the Ijo acted as the rudder for the government under Queen Sinjeong’s decisions. The traditional council that headed the Yukjo, the Ujeongbu, was often sidestepped by Ijo in their execution of the Queen’s intent.

Yi harrumphed, reluctantly conceding to Chung. “I suppose this requires me to say yes to attending, owing to the military usage of these railroads.”

“Of course,” Chung replied. The Yukjo followed a hierarchy like anything else in the Joseon government. Byeongjo held seniority over Gongjo. Both were subordinate to Yejo, the ministry of rites that contained foreign diplomacy within its list of responsibilities. Before arguing their case to Minister Rhee Nam-hee and, ultimately, Queen Sinjeong herself, both of them would need to solidify their agreement on attending the conference.

“Alright,” said Yi. With a hint of disdain for the banality of the issue, he agreed. “I suppose we should fall in line. If the world moves on without us, that just leaves us vulnerable. That’s not what I desire. Let’s prepare for this… conference about railroad measurements.”

---

---

“That’s all, thank you!” the photographer said. Everyone clapped, Mr. Nelson the loudest of all of the men present. With a hand motion, a pair of dragoon officers came over and both bowing before the respective representatives of China and Korea, opening the boxes they held with the gold (well, gold tinted) revolvers. “Now then, gentlemen, let’s drink!” the Secretary of State said, going down the stairwell of the manor selected for the event. The waiters were of course white Mexicans - a strange sort of fashion symbol for wealthy Whigs - but they were all instructed in functional Korean and Chinese in addition to their English literacy.

Now, Nelson had already heard of the yellow peril some men spoke of, and behind closed doors he himself was one of the people disseminating said racial topic. However, the gentlemen he was speaking with were most enchanting. Though he didn’t know a lick of Korean or Chinese their oriental ways were swaying him around. They were so… polite. Oftentimes the almost ritualistic nature of even the basic matters of everyday life that explorers to the orient had described had its own appeal. It had almost the behavioural aesthetic of Greek stoicism, and yet was so different from it in practice. The trouble of course was the it made figuring out whether or not the men had a good time ever so difficult; he would only know if he had done his job many days later, maybe even months. He wondered if in some months, or even years the ambassadors would become more American and be easier to judge. He wondered if the same was happening to all the John Smiths over in the lands of mystery.

A man tapped him on the shoulder, and he half-turned from a conversation with a Korean man in a dashing silken suit. “Sir, your attention. Europe’s calling.”

---

---

The President sat with his boots on the table of the oval office, advisors of all sorts around him.

“Mr. President, if I may-”

“Cool it Danny. You’re new to this, you’re not thinking right.” he said, speaking to a middle-aged man. “Tell them this, after you’ve had your Viennese beers. You will support a unified rail gauge for Europe, Africa. However you will insist that the rest of the conference acknowledge the supremacy of the American gauge in Asia, and the Americas. Are we in agreement gentlemen?”

There was a murmuring of half hearted agreement to the compromise from the extremes proposed by the impromptu council assembled. “Good. Now then, lunch.”

---

---

Mr. Jenifer, surrounded by a slew of translators, clerks and other staff puffed on his cigar, of course not being the only one of the delegation to do so. Politely refusing requests to stop smoking inside, a small cloud reminiscent of a steam engine emanated from the American party as it awaited the commencing of the conference. Their message was a simple one, though despite being a middle ground that the President was so insistent upon he had his doubts that the organizers of the event would agree. The Austrians weren’t full of the same conservatism their Northern cousins held, but they had the almost peacockish arrogance that had lead to the dissolution of the “Holy Roman Empire” as it had styled itself. He rummaged in his pocket, removing the pocket watch therein with a frown. He still had the Samoa and Hawaii briefings in the evening. It would certainly be a long day, and thus he hoped that at least there would be an invitation for drinks following the business being done.

---

---

A little less happily, Ambassador Jenifer sat in the much smaller conference room of the American embassy surrounded by a few staff. As a Whig, he truth be told could not endorse what he was hearing. The man presenting it, was as far as he knew also a Whig, but the fact remained that they were all hearing words they’d more expect from a Southern Democrat twirling his mustache with his legs on the back of a negro. But, the worst was hearing they didn’t really have any say in this. Neither in Samoa nor Hawaii was the domination of local industries and businesses in any way ordained by the federal government. Yet, it was being roped into supporting the very same men that the Whig government had been sworn in to curtail.

Something was wrong here. The fact American cannons and flags were flying side by side the hastily designed ones of Pacific island tribes was almost a foreshadowing of American getting dragged into wars over these God-forsaken mosquito breeding grounds that would end with thousands of good American boys dead. For land that wasn’t even a State of the Union. Well, it wasn’t up to him he supposed. He had all the faith he could in the president to ensure that the United States would act in its own interests, rather than in the interests of little cabals in the United States. Somehow, he feared that this wouldn’t be enough.

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Captain Donovan looked down at his revolver, a droplet of sweat falling from his nose on the smoking barrel. He looked back up at the Mexican with his mangled face falling into the tropical dirt. He had shot and killed men before, but he had never seen such a mess made of someone’s head, the battle around him for the briefest of moments escaping what little attention he had outside of his stupor. But he charge of another Mexican with his bayonet quickly brought him back into the world of now. Parrying the spear with his saber he raised the pistol and once more fired. A third, a fourth, a fifth. Six times he took a life in less than a minute. No pistol of the past could reliable achieve such a performance unless it was a lucky pepperbox, and then it was hardly usable for the rest of the battle. Parrying again and riposting with a stab, the Captain fell against a tree. He got to the arduous process of reloading that was nevertheless in the past accomplished by simply drawing another pistol. Looking about in anxious sweeps of his vision, he noticed his fellows had likewise already inflicted a bloody toll on the Mexican ambush. They knew their land, oh they sure did appearing in every damn corner. But the home field advantage had not saved the Mexicans before, and it wouldn’t now. Santa Anna ran with his tail between his legs long before Colt’s finest work was in the hands of good American warriors. Now it was another matter entirely, a fact he would be happy to demonstrate to the damn beaners as he got up with his newly loaded rifle. Again a half dozen men fell to pistol fire, the latter three of them receiving the shots into their backs as they ran. He smiled. Mr. Monroe’s Doctrine would stand tall today.

Captain Donovan was one of the men that joined the army because he believed in all that America stood for, and today they proved that the Stars and Stripes would not only have the slow march of progress, it would herald the bold charge of advancement.

The Holy City of Mecca, January 14 1847

Layla of the Banu Hashim, the clan which were custodians of Mecca and Medina, had always been a strange girl.

“The person I received my name from, Al-Shifa bint Abdullah, knew how to read and write, so why shouldn’t I?” was one of the first questions she asked, and such was the air of innocence she gave that she cannot be refused. Nevertheless, she knew then that to ask for what belonged to men was dangerous, to play at anything more than being a potential wife and mother exposed her to potential harm.

So she took refuge in her books, what remained in the Holy City, and asked questions of what female pilgrims came to the Holy City. Some of them, though unquestionably Muslim, were rich, powerful, and held said power in a way which would be shameful in Arabia as it stood now. And so she learned to listen and watch and satisfy her curiosity in silence as she grew up and her intellectual pursuits became less tolerated.

Already, people asked why she was not married yet. Did she plan to be a Holy Woman, when her father needed grandchildren? If so, even her dreams of piety overstepped her bounds.

And she didn’t dream of just piety. She dreamed of greatness, when the Companions of The Prophet (Peace be upon him), including the women, respected those who read and write and read and wrote themselves - It was even the wives of the Prophet (Peace be upon him) who transmitted his law to future generations, a law which now seemed to forbid that which was permissible in the Companions’ own era. But this she took great pains to conceal, if only to delay the increasing coolness between her and her own family.

Which was why when the messenger from Sultan Sa’id, her father’s liege lord, arrived in her father’s house in Mecca, she saw it as the chance to achieve her hopes. The new ruler of Egypt was following the orders of his father, a hard man who even in death brooked no opposition.

As her father raged at the royal command, at the blandishments and implied threats meant to make him give his daugther away, Layla waited and watched, using sla - servant girls; slavery was formally abolished in name though not in fact - to act as her eyes and ears. And when her father demanded that he be made hereditary ‘Sharif of Hedjaz’ in name as in fact, she knew he’d yield, and send the daugther who was most displeasing to his eyes off with the Sultan’s envoy.

And so it was that Layla of the Banu Hashim, Sayyida and daugther of the new Sharif of Hedjaz, was sent off to Alexandria… And to a new life.

Al-Karak, Same Date

Al-Karak had rebelled twice, first in the 1830s and second in the year 1840 itself, and had barely recovered from the punishments visited on its people both times. Now, it was thinking of rebellion once more, and the Local Commander, marching with an army of 15,000 men, was tasked with making sure that appropriate vengeance was given, as per the last orders of the late Sultan and the new one. However, the Austrian military advisers who were accompanying the army had advised caution, maybe even clemency, and General Khalid, named after the most famous General of the early Arab Conquests, was tempted to listen to them.

After all, the town had not rebelled yet, and probably won’t with a substantial army encamped on its outskirts. Nevertheless, a show of force might still be in order -

A courier entered his tent. Suspecting bad news, the General turned to him and sighed, only for the message to be welcome:

“The Christians of Al-Karak, hearing that there were co-religionists among your forces serving as ‘advisors’, wish to send their Priest to negotiate with them and you to save everyone in the town of all faiths,” the messenger then looked at him, trying to read his mood. Impertinent but tolerable.

“This is good tidings!” General Khalid’s relative youth showed itself in the enthusiasm in his words. “Very well, tell them that their request is granted… And that a tax exemption and freedom from conscription for three years is on the table…”