6th Marine Division Headquarters, Ishigaki, Taiwan, Republic of China, 11 November 1917
To put it mildly, Michael had a lot on his mind right now. Between the Ottoman, American, Siamese, Korean, and Japanese soldiers all coming to the island for training and the fact that his wife was off in Indochina, he'd had his fair share of headaches.
That wasn't to say that he objected to it all. He knew full well that Downtimers were just as capable of learning as Uptimers; Hell, his wife was all the evidence he needed. Not only that, but these guys were learning pretty quickly, to the point that when they went home they'd be able to teach these same skills to their own men and women.
Not was he worried too much about Aki. Sure, she didn't have as much training as he did, but he and Rachel taught her how to shoot and throw a punch. That said, Marty hired her on for her brains, and she was pretty damned good at compiling and analyzing information over in the New Schools and the embassy.
Not only that, but it turned out one of his childhood friends had ended up in Taiwan when the whole Great Journey happened. Sure, Le Van Ninh was a couple years younger than him and Marty, but he'd known the guy since they were Boy Scouts back in Orange County.
Christ, it's like it was only yesterday that we were all kids going on campouts and I was teaching him how to handle a knife and start a fire.
Right. Don't get distracted.
Aki will be fine. Her dad said so himself.
And Michael knew better than to question Mako Higa's judgement. After all, his father-in-law trusted him enough with Aki, so the old man probably had a point when he said that she'd be fine.
Still, Michael worried about her. It was natural, as far as he was concerned, but that hardly made him feel any better about it.
Which, of all things, meant finding ways to keep his mind off of it.
And if that meant playing MVP Baseball 1917 with his men, then so be it.
"You know," Zhou said as his next batter was hit, "Sooner or later you're going to run out of pitchers."
"Eh, this one's a practice game," Fa scoffed, "Doesn't count."
"Yeah, just don't screw up the controllers, guys," Michael told them. "So, everyone has a team, right?"
"Pretty much," Chiu chimed in, "I've got Haishenwai, Fa has Lhasa, and Zhou has Urga. You called the Guardians, right?"
"Yup." Being General had some perks. In this case, it meant he had first dibs on teams. "So, we have people and alternates signed up, right?"
"Pretty much," said the loader-turned-Captain, "Some of the Americans, Japanese, and Koreans wanted in. Couple Ottomans and Siamese, too."
"Looks like we have ourselves a league."
It was a simple thing, if he was being honest. Sure, he could play against the CPU all day, but where was the fun in that? Better to bring out the old PS2 and let the men join an impromptu team-bonding activity. And if their guests wanted to join them, then all the better.
The Americans and Japanese had been the most-interested, what with baseball already being a thing over there. But over time, others ended up joining in to watch and learning how to play.
It wasn't real baseball, of course. But living on a tropical island meant that the diamond was often soaked into mud whenever they wanted to set up a game.
Or at least that was Michael's excuse. Truth be told, he'd rather be playing this than actual baseball because he sucked at playing baseball.
Turns out there isn't much overlap between pitching, fielding, and leading a military campaign. No wonder my position was "Equipment Manager."
Now, that wasn't entirely fair, if he was being honest. After all, he was damn good at fixing and organizing gear. It just also turned out that he sucked at anything more than playing catch.
"We have the schedule planned out, right?" he asked, turning to Zhou. "You did fill that out, right?"
"Ran it through the computer last night, Chen," his former gunner told him. "First game's in a few days."
"Thanks. Really appreciate-"
Once again, his phone rang. Michael looked at it to see his old friend calling him. "One sec."
A couple presses on the screen, and Marty was on the line.
"Hey Mike, you guys haven't been selling stuff on the black market, have you?"
"Hi to you too, Marty. And no. What, did somebody start selling bayonets and swords on ebay?"
"Nah. Apparently we have intel saying that old Qing rifles are showing up all over the place."
"Dunno man. Wish I could help with you, but we're kinda busy over here."
"Yeah, I heard. Anyways, wanted to run it by you. If you see anything, let me know."
"Sure, Marty. Is it okay if I run it by my guys?"
"Yeah, sure. Later, Mike."
"Later, Marty," the general said, before turning off the phone. "Huh."
"What's up, boss?" asked Chiu. "MIB?"
"Yeah. Apparently they found old Qing rifles on the black market. No idea where they're coming from."
"Triads, probably," Zhou figured, before turning back to the game. "Why? Is somebody taking surplus and selling it off to warzones?"
"Dunno. Apparently."
Location Unknown, Chiapas Province, United States of Mexico, 12 December 1917
As far as Emiliano Zapata was concerned, he didn't particularly care why the person was giving him and his soldiers free rifles.
He had thought it was a trick at first. After all, why were random Chinese people offering to give him and his men thousands of free rifles and millions of rounds of ammunition.
That said, he wasn't about to say no to free munitions to arm his men against his enemies. He was fighting for the people, after all, and if that meant making pragmatic compromises, then so be it.
That said, the Chinese merchants seemed remarkably enthusiastic to learn about his stances on land reform.
But as far as he cared, these were free weapons that worked, and they would be put to good use.
Chinese Consulate, Saigon, French Cochinchina, 20 December 1917
Le Van Ninh was more surprised than anyone to see a familiar face at the embassy, ever since that MIB agent had gone away for holiday.
It wasn't too surprising, of course, seeing that she was an analyst, not a field agent. Sure, Higa was good enough with a pistol, but she didn't get hired for that.
"So," a voice called on the other end, "Any update on the UCIC?"
"We have a few people on the inside, Marty," Le spoke into the phone. Technically, he was supposed to refer to the man as "Sir," but they were too busy catching up. "You'll never believe how it worked."
"Cleaning staff?"
"Yup. Oldest trick in the book. You'd think they would have caught onto it."
"This is a company that's trying to get into espionage, Le," the director pointed out, "They're not exactly professionals."
"You know how these guys work, Marty. Just because they're good at making money doesn't mean they're experts at other things. They just think they do."
I swear, CEOs are all the same. They're good at one thing, then they start thinking that they're experts on completely different things.
Honestly, the worst people in the world, next to people who get angry for money. Thank God we left them in the future.
"Anyways," Martin continued, "So, have they gotten anything good yet?"
"Yeah. They did it."
"Did what?"
"The attempted arson, Marty. Turns out they're working through fixers to hire criminals to start some fires around the New Schools. Guys we caught gave us a name, and the same names pop up in the UCIC files."
"Huh. Your people work fast, Le."
"They do keep trying to screw us over, Marty. So, is this enough to convict them?"
"Probably? I know Paris would want to hear this, but it'll get buried by the time they get back here."
"Yeah. Think the UCIC has people on the inside?"
"Probably? Le, you said it yourself that they have sympathizers in the colonial administration. They'll have a month's advantage against us if we leak this."
"Only if we go through the proper channels, Marty. What if we leak it to the press directly?"
"Hey, I'm not going to stop you. Wait, you do know somebody we can trust, right?"
"Yeah."
"Socialists?"
"Yup."
Mumbai, British India, 1 January 1917
"Get these onto the shore, now," said the first man, "We have only a few minutes until the patrols come back."
"The police aren't looking around here, Tejas," the second man hissed, only to lug the large crate onto the dock. "Ugh, it smells like fish."
"It was hidden in a fishing boat. What did you expect?"
"Doesn't mean I have to like it," the Ghadar agent muttered, "They couldn't think of a better way to smuggle these?"
"Well, we could always try to rob an armory. Would that make you feel better? At least you wouldn't smell like fish."
"Alright, Subhas. Now help me get this loaded into the cart."
Paris, French Republic, 21 February 1918
This was a shitshow. Jean Brodeur knew that much.
Not for us, that is. The UCIC and the Army, on the other hand...
How else could he describe it when it turned out that a French colonial company was actively funding acts of terror against a school?
Now, in fairness, said school was funded by Indochinese independence activists, but Jean knew that trying to burn down a school full of children would sit as well with the French people as bringing the Bonapartes back for a third time around.
Sure enough, the people of Paris were doing what they did best and rioting in the streets against what was known as the "Army Secret Organization," a network of French business interests, colonial officials, and members of the military that sought to hinder the colonial reforms at every turn.
It would all sound insane, if the evidence wasn't here. Random deaths, fires, and attempted assassinations? It all seems connected, and it's all in the UCIC's interests, as well.
Sure, the Indochinese could be trying to drive a wedge between us and our so-called allies, but they wouldn't bring this up unless they actually believed this.
After all, if they really wanted independence, they could just wait us out until 1925.
But this? This had the UCIC's fingerprints all over it. As in, it quite literally had their fingerprints, since he was fairly certain the whistleblower had literally dug these files out of the trash. Everything from memorandums to ledgers were now on his desk, verified by his own investigations.
Now, where did that leave them?
For starters, at least Paris now knew that the slow implementation of the reforms had come from the OAS, rather than the Governor-General's incompetence.
However, that left them with the same problems they had before.
Sure, Paris could issue orders to the Governor-General and have them enforced, but they didn't exactly have anyone who could enforce them, now that they knew how far the rot had gotten. Any order to Indochina would likely reach the UCIC and their allies before it reached the Governor-General, anyways.
It was a problem that he didn't know how to solve, if he was being honest, and Brodeur hated every second of it.
Sure, he wasn't a politician. He was a journalist and an advisor to Jaures, after all.
But at the same time, they needed to do something to deal with the UCIC and their allies.
He just didn't know what to do right now. Not over there, anyways.
As he looked out the window, he could see yet another businessman dragged into the street by the police over workers' rights violations.
Fifth one this week. Must be a new record.
Calcutta, Bengal Presidency, British India, 15 March 1918
One of the biggest obstacles in the fight against British imports had been prices.
After all, it was easy enough to say that you were opposed to buying British-imported cloth. The problem came when you had to pay more for Indian-made cloth in protest.
Truth be told, Vikram could sympathize with those who gave in. He didn't like it, of course, but he knew they had their reasons.
That was all a thing of the past, now that his textile mill was up and running.
This was the first of its kind in India, with its use of modern machinery bought from China, coupled with Indian labor and Indian-grown cotton.
"Vertical Integration," as the British called it. Or at least that was what his accountant had told him. Though if Vikram was being completely honest, that was such a mild term for the sheer impact it had had beforehand.
Back then, cotton would be grown in India, spun into cloth overseas in bulk, then it would be shipped back to be sold to the Indian people at unbeatable prices. While there was always the option of Indian-made goods, they lacked the efficiency that came with an economy of scale, leading to higher prices despite having to ship products halfway around the world.
But this? This was simpler, more-efficient, and by extension even cheaper.
Cotton would be grown in India, shipped to his factory, and then spun into cloth by Indian hands and Indian-operated machinery. There were no shipments halfway around the world this time, nor were the British factories even a fraction as efficient as his own operation.
When all was said and done, he'd saved money on logistics, operating costs, and transportation despite paying his workers a good day's wage.
That was what stuck out to him the most. With all the efficiency that came with modern machinery and not having to ship goods back and forth, he and his counterparts across India had beaten the British at their own game. They had managed to achieve the self-sufficiency of the Swadeshi movement without forcing their people to pay the price that'd come with it.
The British, for their part, had tried everything in the book to dissuade them. From tariffs on machinery to taxes on Indian-made cloth, none of them worked. In fact, the price of Indian-made cloth had been so low that his prices still beat anything the British could offer, even with the exorbitant taxes.
Now, Vikram wasn't about to object to taxes on principle. After all, he saw it as the cost of doing business and a means of contributing to the development of India. The problem, of course, was that none of the money was going there.
Apparently, the tax revenue was going to subsidize British imports to try and compete with their prices, along with customs enforcement.
That had been a thing, unfortunately. With the British at a disadvantage due to location and technology, the Empire had decided to place a heavy tariff on imported machinery from China. If they were to be believed, it was to "Protect India from predatory Chinese imports."
In practice, it meant that they needed to pay exorbitant prices to even import spare parts, which meant that the British were going to try to outlast the Swadeshi movement through sheer attrition.
That, however, was not something he was going to just let them do. Instead, he decided to bite the bullet and just buy the heavy machinery he'd need to build his own machinery in India.
It was a hard sell, of course. The Chinese factories weren't enthusiastic about India building their own machinery. While they definitely sympathized with him, they weren't about to sell the means to surrender their own market.
A licensing deal, however, had proven much more palatable to the Uptimer businessmen. It would cost him more in the long-term and the short-term, but that was a price Vikram was willing to pay.
If the British were going to cheat, then they just had to beat them at their own game a second time.
