The bus rattled through the dusty streets of Delhi, the air outside thick with heat and the shouts of hawkers. Somewhere in that mix was the faint sting of curry — sharp enough to make most newcomers wrinkle their noses.
Alan Wilson didn't notice.
Not because the smell wasn't there, but because he'd trained himself to ignore it — just as he'd learned to shut out the noise, the chaos, and the colonial awkwardness of a land that wasn't his… yet.
The young man's gaze stayed fixed on the bold black headline of his newspaper:
"The British Empire Confident of Retaking All of Burma Within Months."
Alan snorted softly. The sigh that followed was so faint even he barely heard it. The paper folded shut with a crisp snap, and his gaze slid to the streets outside.
The hawkers' cries faded in his mind, replaced by a sharper thought: It won't matter.
The year was 1945.The war might be ending — but for the Empire, this was the beginning of the end.
The United States and the Soviet Union were already sizing up the world like wolves at a carcass. Britain, the old lion, still held thirty million square kilometers and millions under arms… but Alan knew the truth.
He knew because he'd lived it once before.
And in that life — in this life — the collapse began here, in British India, the Empire's proudest jewel. Four million square kilometers of land, hundreds of millions of people… and a fire for independence that no Viceroy, no army, could truly put out.
Stopping it was impossible.Profiting from it?That, Alan could manage.
The bus rolled through Delhi Gate into New Delhi — the British-built city of wide avenues and white facades, meant to replace Calcutta as the heart of the Raj. For now, it was still an enclave for Europeans, a place where the Union Jack flew proudly over government domes.
Alan stepped down from the bus, passed the guards' inspection without a word, and found himself before the Viceroy's House. Its pale dome gleamed in the sun, the flag rippling above like a stubborn reminder of better days.
"Sir, you alright?" one of the guards asked with a smirk. "Not often we see someone your age heading in there."
Alan gave him a cool smile. "I'll take that as a compliment." Then he walked on, his shoes clicking on the stone steps.
Inside, the corridors buzzed with hurried footsteps and clipped voices. War didn't stop for paperwork, and in the offices of British India, there was always more of both.
In a bright, sunlit chamber, Archibald Percival Wavell — Viceroy of India — stood with his hands out to the fireplace. He didn't turn as he spoke.
"Baring, have the Muslim League and Congress men left?"
"Yes, Viceroy," replied a neat, sharp-eyed man in his forties. "And every meeting leaves them further apart. Which, of course, leaves us with the headache."
"Damn," Wavell muttered. Not anger — weariness. "The Prime Minister won't want to hear that."
Victories in Burma could make headlines.Political deadlock in India could ruin governments.
"They — and the men they answer to, Jinnah and Nehru — are dangerous, Viceroy," Baring said quietly. "The war may be ending, but the real question is whether the Empire's jewel will still shine afterward."
The fire cracked in the silence.
Some back in London were whispering that India — and the colonies — were no longer worth the cost. Adam Smith himself had once argued the same for the thirteen American colonies. But Churchill wasn't one to give up the Empire without a fight.
"Send London the news about Burma's advance," Wavell said finally. "They want victories. The Congress and the Muslim League can wait."
"Yes, Viceroy."
Baring left the office and went to his own — where a chessboard sat ready. He moved a piece, paused, and glanced up as the door opened.
A young man in a well-cut suit stepped in.
Alan Wilson.
Baring finished his move before gesturing to a chair. "Sit."
He picked up a file and began to read aloud. "Son of Grote Wilson. Born in London, 1924. Moved to Hong Kong with your father. Provided intelligence before Pearl Harbor. Evacuated to Calcutta after the colony fell. Accepted to Oxford's Oriental Institute before the war."
Closing the file, Baring studied him. "Your father could have gone further in service. It's a pity. You're younger than I expected."
"Not sure that's an advantage," Alan replied with an easy smile. Inwardly, he thought about the three years he'd 'added' to his age for appearances' sake. School had been too easy otherwise. The plan had been simple — play the well-bred son, let Father climb the ladder.
But Father was gone.Now the climb was his alone.
"Don't be modest. Your record's impressive," Baring said. "What's your view of India?"
They both knew the question wasn't casual.
Alan leaned back. "In the agricultural age, the East — by sheer size and geography — built more wealth than Europe could dream of. South Asia is the best example. British India is, and always has been, the cornerstone of the Empire's prosperity. The brightest jewel in the crown."
Baring's smile deepened. "Go on."
"It's the colonies' wealth that let Britain stand against Napoleon, against Wilhelm. India is rich ground. Oxford taught me that our vision must be wider than our rivals'. Broader. Sharper."
The compliment to their shared alma mater was deliberate.
And from the look in Baring's eyes, it had worked.