Prologue: The Space Race
The mushroom cloud over Chicago had barely dissipated before the old (and some new) rivalries of Europe boiled to the surface. The Canadian government, unpopular at home and denied a return to Britain, were quick to position themselves in opposition to Germany. Russia soon followed, though in a much less obviously belligerent manner.
However, unlike previous conflicts, direct military conflict was not an option. Germany had the nuclear bomb, and in the ensuing decades the Russians, Canadians, Chinese, Nordics, Brazilians and the Argentinians would all develop nuclear stockpiles of their own. This new conflict would instead be fought with proxy wars and espionage.
A Canadian Excalibur II missile sits in its silo. A single missile could carry a dozen independent warheads.
One of these new fronts was space. Aside from being an ideal subject for propaganda and national prestige, the military applications of space were obvious to all parties. During the Syndicalist War, Germany had used the Raketenwaffe-2, commonly known as the R-2, to strike at industrial centres in London and Paris. While the strategic effect was questionable (many rockets failed to hit within city limits, and those that did usually didn’t hit anything of military value), it had a profound effect on morale, both within Syndicalist nations as well as Germany itself. While the nuclear strikes against London and Chicago were carried out using heavy bombers, the German General Staff were nonetheless entranced by the potential for both nuclear and conventional missiles.
Much of the German rocket program was led by Dr. Wernher von Braun, who was also an impassioned proponent of space exploration. Von Braun, who was something of a media darling, leveraged his position to get the ear of the Kaiser. Following numerous debates, the Kaiserliche Weltraumorganisation (KWO) was established in 1951 with von Braun as its director. The organisation’s mission was “to further peaceful exploration of outer space.” That this ‘peaceful’ organisation was headed by a person central to German weapon development did not go unremarked.
Wernher von Braun at his desk. While a media darling in his homeland, he was controversial abroad. Canadian comedian Mort Sahl remarked that he was “A man that aims for the stars, but sometimes he hits London.”
The KWO immediately went to work, launching several new rockets based on the R-2. One of these launches brought back the first pictures of Earth taken from space. Wernher von Braun was an international celebrity, frequently appearing on the fledgling television broadcasts and giving regular speaking tours at universities.
It was in this environment that the Russian Republic shocked the world with its launch of Kosmicheskiy Sputnik-1 in July of 1956. The satellite was of a basic design, carrying a simple radio transmitter that emitted a repeated radio pulse. But that signal was heard around the world.
Reporting on the Sputnik-1 launch was often breathless, if somewhat inaccurate.
This, combined with the Russians testing their first nuclear bomb in ‘53, was a cold shower to the Mitteleuropean establishment. Russia was still considered a backwards state that had “only” managed to defeat the Japanese.
In fact, it was the war with Japan that had given Russia a leg up. During the war, it had been clear to the Russian Government that actually invading Japan was off the table. Most of the Russian fleet was old and, more importantly, based in Europe. With the fate of the Second Pacific Squadron present in everyone’s minds, alternatives had to be found. The first solution provided was strategic bombing, and the Russian Republic poured significant resources into research and development. It was in this environment that aeronautical engineer Sergei Korolev caught the attention of his superiors.
Russian pilots downed over Japanese lines faced almost certain death, as captured pilots were routinely executed, and said executions were widely publicised. It was feared that any bombing campaign over Japan would be disastrous for morale, both among the pilots and on the home front. Korolev, who had been working on rocket-assisted take-off, proposed using ballistic missiles to strike the Japanese home islands without fear. The idea proved popular, and Korolev and several other engineers were assigned to a design team. While Japan would seek terms long before any missiles were ready, the work done led to the creation of the Rossiyskoye Kosmicheskoye Byuro.
The launch of Sputnik significantly energised the German government and the KWO. Von Braun, who had suffered significant loss of face, was put under immense pressure to avoid further humiliation. The KWO worked around the clock and managed to retrofit one of their existing rockets to carry a live payload, a cat named Elsa. The mission, launched less than six months after Sputnik-1, was a resounding success, with Elsa becoming an international celebrity and the fixture of several children's books.
Elsa the cat. Selected for her calm disposition, she became the first living thing to enter orbit. Scientists at the KWO wanted to euthanize Elsa so they could dissect and study the effects of zero gravity on her, but were refused by the PR savvy von Braun. Instead, she would live the rest of her life at the KWO headquarters, serving as a mascot and “tour guide” to groups of visiting schoolchildren.
From this point on the space race slowed slightly, as both Russia and Germany worked on putting more satellites in orbit and perfecting their rocket technology, with the ultimate hope of putting a man in space. However, there was one other party in the space race.
For Canada, space was not a matter of scientific curiosity (as it was for the RKB), or avoiding national embarrassment (seemingly the main motivation of the KWO), but a matter of state survival. Edward VIII and his cabinet were desperate to prove their political legitimacy, and participating in the space race was one such method. Significant resources were diverted to the Royal Space and Aeronautical Society’s efforts of putting a man in orbit. This resulted in the Kingsman I mission in 1959. King Edward had invited the worldwide press to witness Jack Woodman become the first man in space. Instead, they witnessed the catastrophic failure of the Kingsman rocket as it exploded on the pad, killing 53 and injuring hundreds. While the RCMP would arrest several “syndicalist terrorists” in the aftermath, consensus outside Canada was that the rocket failed due to rushed development.
The Kingsman I rocket explodes on the pad. Among the injured were King Edward himself, who suffered ruptured eardrums.
The catastrophic failure of Kingsman I significantly influenced both the Russian and German space programs, as both nations feared similar failures. The KWO was especially affected, as it had been rushing to catch up to their Russian counterparts. Now any plans required careful reevaluation, as both the Kaiser and the Chancellor made it clear that no German rocket was to explode on the launchpad. Meanwhile, the RKB only adjusted their timetable to allow for more testing. These efforts paid off, and Pavel Ivanovich Belyayev became the first man in space during the Stremleniye 1 flight.
Pavel Ivanovich Belyayev posing for his pre-launch photo. When asked later in life if he was worried about meeting the same fate as Jack Woodman he responded: “I didn’t have time to think. I had too many checklists to get through.”
In the ensuing decade, the three main space agencies would compete in achieving various scientific and engineering firsts. Political commentator (and occasional politician) Helmut Schmidt remarked that “When people said that the next war would be fought with missiles, I don’t think this was what they had in mind.”
This “war” ended on June 16th 1972 when the KWO’s Odin VII mission landed on the Moon, and Philipp Grünewald became the first person to step on another celestial body. The event was broadcast around the world, despite fears of another Kingsman I situation, and was, in the words of project lead Wernher von Braun, “the final proof of German technical superiority”. However, this proved to be the high point of early space exploration. Von Braun’s death a few years later combined with financial downturns would hamper the KWO’s efforts. Though they were fortunate compared to the Canadian RSAS, which was effectively shuttered for two decades following the July coup.
The next great surge in space exploration would not happen until the 2030s. It was largely driven by the discovery of the Maranzgoz principle, allowing for much more efficient space travel, and the ensuing boom led to a mad scramble for resources around the solar system. The German Reich, spearheading the efforts of the Europäischer Wirtschaftsbund, established three outposts in the asteroid belt alone, the largest being their station of Ceres.
The economic boom unleashed by this flurry of activity had major side effects back on Earth. The American Republic was the first major victim. Having never really recovered industrially from the ravages of the Second Civil War and the Canadian occupation, the country had focused on agriculture and resource extraction. Already under significant pressure from increased automation, the influx of large amounts of high-grade mineral ores from space caused widespread unemployment and social unrest. Combined with the crop failures caused by 2034’s “double winter”, the nation found itself on the edge. When President Mary Whitehall vetoed the Basic Income Act, it pushed the nation over it. The Third American Civil War was not as organised or as destructive as the previous two, being mainly fought on a local level by a diverse group of militias. However, it did cement America’s reputation as a failed experiment.
American militia members during the Third American Civil War. Many of the groups were poorly trained and equipped, but highly motivated.
In Europe, tariffs and automation taxes buoyed the various EW states as they began implementing universal basic income and other social policies. While often not popular among the upper classes, they were widely seen as necessary. EW parliamentarian Jean-Pascal Boulet summed it up when he noted that “This ends one of two ways. Either we pass this bill, or you can join me when we’re guillotined on Place de la Concorde.[1]”
Elsewhere in the solar system, the first permanent settlement was established on Mars. Largely headed up by scientists, the outpost was dug into the side of the Mariner Valley and employed between 50 and 200 people at any time (assisted at all times by a small army of robots). While the research was diverse, the public’s attention was squarely on the possibility of terraforming Mars, a dream since the early days of science fiction. This was despite most experts claiming it would take centuries, if not millennia, with current technology.
Part of this fascination was possibly inspired by the declining climate situation on Earth. By the 2050s, most coastal settlements (that could afford it) were protected by a sea wall. Super hurricanes (usually no longer classified as that anymore due to their regularity) plagued the Americas, worsening the ongoing civil war in the American Republic, and Asia. In the latter region, Japan was especially exposed.
The Bangkok sea wall, protecting the city from surges. Similar walls could be found around most coastal settlements by 2050.
Having experienced a coup d’état following its defeat at the hands of Russia and China, Japan had turned towards isolationism once more. The few diplomats and journalists who could enter the country told of an almost neo-feudal state where scores of uneducated workers toiled away in fields, mines and factories to benefit a rigidly defined caste system. As natural disasters battered the islands with increased frequency, most analysts projected a breakdown in social order within the decade. It was a shock when Japan launched their own space program, establishing a mining colony on Eunomia, dubbing it Bitoku[2].
Unlike the off-world mining colonies of other nations, which were largely automated and required just the bare minimum of personnel, most of the work on Bitoku was done by hand. The population ballooned as a result, passing 45.000 in less than four years[3]. A significant portion of the workforce was convict labour and conditions were predictably poor. Deaths were common, with one anecdotal story being that any man sent to Bitoku carried his own body bag in his kit bag.
In 2059, one of Bitoku’s poorly maintained airlocks failed, venting the atmosphere of 356 workers. Most of them were asleep when it happened, and only 63 managed to evacuate or don a pressure suit in time. When the leak had been fixed and the bodies sent to recycling (a common practice on Bitoku), colony administrator Norihisa announced over the broadcasting system that due to the loss of life and time, a double shift would be required to meet their quota.
This turned out to be a poor decision, as furious workers stormed the administration centre of the colony, overwhelming the guard force by sheer numbers. Norihisa was beaten to an inch of his life and then dragged to the nearest airlock. There he was asked if he wanted a space suit or not before they threw him out. He requested to have one. For the next six hours he would beg the workers to let him back in. His pleas were recorded and broadcast back to Earth.
A street mural depicting the spacing of Norihisa. It appeared overnight in Madrid and proved immensely popular. Copies soon appeared in cities all around the world. The original artist has never been identified.
Back on Earth, the events on Bitoku caused an outrage. Network pundits debated the morality of the situation endlessly, with countless arguments in favour or against the miners. The major governments of Earth, especially Germany, Russia and China, were also hotly debating the issue, though with less concern for the morality of the situation. Japan was already assembling a force to retake Bitoku, chartering every transport ship they could get their hands on as they assembled Earths first spaceborne army. Naturally, none of the Great Powers, and especially China, were keen on the Hermit Kingdom having free reign in space. A response was needed, but the potential aftermath weighed heavily on all parties.
The German government, already regarding themselves as Weltpolizei, proposed retrofitting a few ore carriers with simple kinetic strike missiles. There were already a few freighters docked at the Kaiser Whilhelm II Shipyards, and the dockworkers estimated they could arm the ships in a matter of weeks. China, Russia and Canada were less eager, remembering the disastrous Australasian Intervention. Meanwhile, they lacked the appropriate dockyard facilities to offer their own solution.
Into this series of secret talks, the workers of Bitoku threw a lit torch by declaring their independence from Japan, declaring themselves the Stellar Republic of Bitoku. They followed this by announcing that they would promulgate a constitution and hold elections by the end of the year. The establishment of humanity’s first off-world nation notably changed the discourse, among the public if not among the Great Powers. Discussions were still ongoing on the German plan when Chinese signal intelligence intercepted a message from the Japanese High Command to General Kitamura, who was heading up the Japanese task force. The message was simple and direct, instructing him to vent the atmosphere of Bitoku and not leave any survivors.
The proposed flag of the Stellar Republic of Bitoku. A large portion of the workers on the colony were political prisoners, giving their revolt greater political sophistication than the Great Powers expected.
This document, later known as the Kitamura Intercept, both underscored the consequences of not doing anything and handily gave all governments involved the moral high ground for the intervention. Germany, Russia, China and Canada all signed the “Space Militarisation Agreement”, which “gave” Germany the right to construct three spaceborne warships. While the agreement didn’t specify what consequences there would be should Germany exceed this number, the unspoken spectre of a ruinous arms race was clear to everyone.
Work began immediately with crews working around the clock to retrofit the ore carriers. However, Kitamura expedited his schedule, departing Earth on a hard burn two weeks ahead of the most optimistic German schedules. This was not as catastrophic as first assumed, as the Japanese freighters were heavily loaded with soldiers and supplies. The German ships however were lightly crewed and loaded, giving them a much better thrust to weight ratio. Even so, the ships had to depart before the retrofits were complete. The work would have to be finished en route to Bitoku.
The task force was led by Captain Torben Rheingold. Rheingold had served as a u-boat commander in the Kaiserliche Marine and had been involved in several special operations throughout his career and was regarded as an especially aggressive commander. But the German military was aware that sending a naval officer into space might cause some limitations of imagination. In an effort to mitigate this, they assigned Major Eva Lasch as his second in command. Major Lasch had served with distinction during the Australasian Intervention, becoming one of the few modern aces during the conflict.
Captain Torben Rheingold and Major Eva Lasch, both veterans of their respective branches. They would write the book on space combat, literally and figuratively.
The two worked well together. In his memoir “A Sea Without Waves”, Rheingold noted that “It was absurd. During the day we would supervise the retrofits and make sure we were still on course for our intercept. Then during the evening we would run through scenarios, detailing what we would do if the Japanese did this or that. All we had to base our work on were physics simulations and our own military intuition. We were laying the foundation of the Reich’s military doctrine, and we making it up as we went.”
Their work was put to the test three days journey from Bitoku. The German task force had been inside effective weapons range for several days at that point, but the Japanese freighters showed no sign of stopping or changing course. Captain Rheingold, with the backing of the German government back on Earth, issued an ultimatum to the freighters. If they did not deviate from their course within the next twelve hours, the German ships would open fire.
Back on Earth, the world held its breath. The militaries of South East Asia were on high alert while the civilian populations hoarded food and other essentials. The fear that Japan would lash out was palpable.
The streets of Pyongyang were empty in the hours leading up to the German ultimatum.
The twelve-hour deadline passed without any action from the Japanese ships. Captain Rheingold wasted no time, and seventeen seconds past the deadline, a single kinetic missile was launched at General Kitamura’s flagship. The missile spent the next 21 minutes and 48 seconds catching up with its target, time that the Japanese spent trying to evade the missile to little effect. It hit the primary loading dock, passing through the entire ship and ejecting large amounts of atmosphere. Captain Rheingold then messaged the ships, telling them that he would fire a single missile every hour, on the hour until they changed course, or were all dead. Seven minutes before the next missile was due to be fired, the Japanese task force adjusted their vector, heading for home.
The Japanese government would later claim that nobody was injured in the attack[4], and that General Kitamura only turned around due to “an overwhelming concern for the safety of his crew in the face of imperialist aggression.” Despite this, Kitamura would commit suicide before returning to Earth.
The aftermath of the Bitoku incident was in many ways anticlimactic. The Japanese government returned once more to its isolationist stance, even as Chinese intelligence suggested a violent power struggle had broken out among senior government officials. While on Bitoku, as promised, a constitution was promulgated and elections were held, with the pro-German “Earth Rapprochement Party” achieving plurality.
Once back in Earth orbit, both Captain Rheingold and Major Lasch were awarded promotions. Rheingold was made an admiral in the newly created Kaiserliche Raumstreitkräfte, while Lasch was promoted to the new rank of Kapitän der Weltraum. The German government also announced plans to design and construct three new, purpose-built warships. This last part rankled some feathers among the other signatories of the Space Militarisation Agreement, especially Canada, who considered this a breach of the agreement. However, the Germans considered the agreement to be a limit on the number of ships, and as long as they decommissioned the converted ore carriers, they would still abide by the agreement. Despite the grumbling, none of the other Great Powers made any substantial efforts to prevent this. Though China and Russia would establish a committee to design their own warships, should the need arise.
The Agatha Dorn, lead ship of her class, was the first purpose-built space warship. Each ship had a standard compliment of 82 and carried a wide assortment of weapons.
The new ships, the Agatha Dorn, the Adolf Hitler and the Erich Burchwald would have largely uneventful careers, generally limited to patrolling the system, and responding to civilian ships in distress. That was until the 21st of March, 2071.
In the early morning of that day, a series of solar flares caused an error at an Argentinian early warning radar. The radar interpreted the flares as the launch signatures of several Brazilian ballistic missiles. The message was rushed to the Argentinian president, Emelia Álvarez, who was still asleep. Faced with reports of a surprise attack by Argentina’s historic enemy, she ordered an immediate retaliatory strike. Within minutes Argentinian missiles were streaking towards their targets in Brazil. This in turn provoked a response from the Brazilians. For the first time in a hundred years, nuclear weapons were used in anger.
A nuclear explosion caught by the Brazilian life streamer Walpurgis. The stream cut out moments later.
At the same time, Captain Kristine Hartig was just stepping onto the bridge of the Erich Burchwald. The ship was in low Earth orbit in order to conduct boarding drills with the transport shuttle Gambol Shroud. The ship’s sensors immediately detected the ballistic missiles, believing them to be aimed at the ship. Acting based on automated responses, the ship’s point defence guns opened fire, destroying two missiles before the crew had time to determine what was happening.
It didn’t take long for Captain Hartig to assess the situation and decide on a course of action. Within a minute she had called the crew to battle stations, sent a warning to other ships in the area and ordered the point defence guns to open fire on every missile contact. She then sent a notoriously terse message back to the Raumstreitkräfte’s High Command:
“Nuclear exchange in South America. Several ballistic missiles detected. Intercepting.”
Captain Hartig would then bring the Erich Burchwald as low as possible while still remaining in the engagement zone. This carried significant risks for the ship, but would also give the point defence guns a better chance of hitting their targets. Over the next 73 minutes, the Erich Burchwald would destroy or disable 93% of the ballistic missiles, saving millions of lives.
Unfortunately, a significant amount of the nuclear weapons used were not carried by ballistic missiles, but instead smaller weapons carried by cruise missiles. These, combined with the missiles that slipped past the Erich Burchwald, would cause millions of deaths, the complete destruction of infrastructure in both nations, and significant environmental destruction. Among the dead was President Emelia Álvarez, who perished along with most of her government when a Brazilian ground penetrating weapon detonated 200 metres from the bunker she was sheltering in.
Remains of a village caught on the outskirts of a nuclear detonation.
The ensuing relief operation was scattershot and disorganised. Supplies from neighbouring countries arrived at the coast, but the ruined docks meant that unloading the ships often had to be done by hand. Getting the supplies from the coast and deeper inland proved nearly impossible as most of the transport infrastructure was also destroyed. The few relatively intact roads were clogged with refugees. The situation worsened when it became clear that the fallout was blowing north, into neighbouring countries. Much of the initial relief had been organised by other South American nations. Now the ships carrying relief efforts were turned around to help deal with the incoming disaster back home.
The Kaiserliche Marine would not arrive until four days after the disaster, but it proved to be the first force able to manage the relief efforts. When planes and ships laden with supplies arrived from Canada, Russia and China, they operated under German command with few objections. Though the enormity of the tragedy overshadowed it, it was one of the first instances of the Great Powers working together without realpolitik getting in the way.
The German carrier Roon was on exercise in the South Atlantic when the nuclear exchange happened. She was the first German asset to arrive in the region.
This spirit of cooperation would last long enough to form the “South American Reconstruction Mandate”, an international body set up to oversee the long term relief efforts. The body was largely administered by South American nationals with substantial donations of equipment and money from the international community. The SARM was granted some degree of supranational authority, extending even to South American nations not directly affected by the disaster.
In the months following “El Error”, as it had become known due to a poorly worded comment from an Argentinian general, there were several shifts in international politics. The Canadian Parliament vowed to completely denuclearise its military within two years. The Nordic Union would follow, despite officially not having nuclear weapons. Calls for the same were heard in Germany, Russia and China. While none of the other Great Powers would commit to full denuclearisation, there was an increased willingness to talk. The ensuing NWR talks would lead to the lowest number of active nuclear weapons since the end of the Second Weltkrieg.
One of the more unexpected casualties of “El Error” proved to be the crew of the Erich Burchwald. The entire crew would receive the Order of the Black Eagle, Captain Hartig receiving it with the chain. She would also receive honours from the French, Canadian, American, Russian and Chinese governments, as well as awards from every South American nation that still had a functioning government. Despite this she would constantly torment herself, thinking of ways she could have stopped more missiles[5]. Two months after the incident she was relieved of command and put into psychiatric care. Despite some of the best treatment available, Captain Hartig was found dead in her apartment two years later, a pistol in her hand. She was given a state funeral, attended by Kaiserin Louise and dignitaries from around the world.
Captain Hartig’s grave, located in her hometown. While the government wanted to have her interred in Berlin, her family refused. The grave is frequently visited by South American travellers paying their respect.
Captain Hartig was the second member of the Erich Burchwald’s crew to commit suicide. Weapons Officer Lehmann had leapt from a bridge a year earlier. In total, seven of the eighty-one crewmembers would commit suicide. All but two would receive medical discharges.
It was in this environment that Dr. Perrin and Dr. Engberg published a paper on the mathematical proof for the existence of “hyperlanes”, corridors of spacetime where matter had negative mass, leaving it unaffected by general relativity. The paper was released to little fanfare among the general public, but revolutionised the field of astrophysics. For the first time, faster than light travel seemed like a realistic possibility.
And there was evidence that such “hyperlanes” existed within reach of Earth.
[1] Notably, Boulet was guillotined during the Nine Week Directorate, for reasons unrelated to the bill. However, it took place on the Champ de Mars.
[2] Commonly rendered as 美徳, and translated to mean Virtue.
[3] For comparison, Ceres, until then the largest outpost in the solar system, never passed 3.500.
[4] Most analysts agree that this is not true. The missile was later examined to evaluate its effectiveness, and it was discovered to be covered in human viscera.
[5] Simulations done by the Raumstreitkräfte largely proved her wrong. Researchers working with mathematical models found that doing everything perfect would at most have led to 2.6% more missiles being destroyed. When officers of the Raumstreitkräfte tried recreating the situation in simulations, only two managed to destroy more simulated warheads. Both of these officers had studied the actions of Captain Hartig extensively before stepping into the simulator.
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