Alexandrovsky Palace, Tsarskoye Selo. August 1904.
The first dawn in 1904 brought no spiritual epiphanies as expected. The light entering through the high windows of the Alexandrovsky Palace had a milky quality, filtered through silk curtains that cost more than a Putilov worker's annual salary. For Thomas, now Alexei, that light was the first variable in his new situation.
He was in a crib. The wood was cherry, carved with the Romanov double-headed eagle.
'Imperial branding from birth,' he thought with an internal grimace. He tried to sit up. His abdominal muscles were nonexistent, his motor coordination laughable. But he succeeded.
He looked at his hands. Small, pink, useless for holding a pencil or a scale ruler. But there was something crucial about them: there were no bruises. He had struck himself against the bars a few hours ago.
In the original history, that blow would have caused a dark bruise, the first sign of the hemophilia that would condemn the Dynasty. Now, the skin was intact.
'Suspicion confirmed,' he established in his mind. 'The genetic defect is nonexistent.'
The door opened. A robust woman in a nurse's uniform entered. Maria Vishnyakova. Thomas accessed his mental archives of Russian history. Loyal, superstitious, a source of information about internal domestic service politics, but irrelevant to grand strategy.
Behind her, the Empress entered. Alexandra Feodorovna.
In history books, Alexandra was a tragic figure, a neurotic woman consumed by guilt for having transmitted the disease to her son, manipulated by Rasputin. But the woman who leaned over the crib didn't have that shadow in her eyes. She had dark circles, yes, and a latent anxiety, but not the absolute terror that defines a mother who knows her son is made of glass.
"Mein liebling," she whispered in German. Thomas noted the language change. The court spoke French or Russian; the family spoke English or German in private. 'Useful data: native polyglotism.'
Nicholas II entered shortly after. The Emperor of All the Russias looked like a man who would rather be pruning roses or organizing stamps. He didn't have the aura of an autocrat; he had the aura of a middle manager overwhelmed by a corporation too big for him.
"The doctors say he's strong, Alix," Nicholas said, touching Thomas's cheek with a gloved finger. "Botkin says his blood is... normal."
"It's a miracle from Saint Seraphim," Alexandra responded, crossing herself.
'No,' Thomas corrected mentally. 'If you want to call it a miracle, fine. If that prevents you from hiring a crazy Siberian monk in the future, go ahead.'
During the following weeks, Thomas dedicated himself to one task: inventory. While pretending to be a baby, crying to be fed or changed, sleeping enough to maximize neurological development, his adult mind absorbed information voraciously.
The Alexandrovsky Palace was a gilded cage, but poorly designed. Security was porous. The servants spoke freely in front of the baby, assuming his incomprehension. Thomas heard gossip about the war with Japan. About Port Arthur. About which fleet was being blockaded. Disaster was approaching, and his father was worried about the color of the guard's uniforms.
His sisters. Olga, Tatiana, Maria, Anastasia. They entered the room like a storm of lace and laughter.
In the original history, they were passive victims. Thomas observed them with keen eyes. Olga was intelligent but melancholic. Tatiana, the 'Governess,' had natural organizational skills. Maria was physically strong. Anastasia was an agent of chaos. Potential: They weren't decorative 'Grand Duchesses.' They were underutilized resources.
If he was going to redesign Russia, he would need lieutenants. Tatiana could manage logistics. Olga, diplomacy. He wouldn't allow them to end up sewing bandages in a hospital while the regime collapsed. He would turn them into operatives.
He had 13 years before 1917. But the real inflection point was 1905. Bloody Sunday. The war with Japan. It was months away. As a baby, his capacity for direct intervention was nil. He couldn't stop the war. He couldn't prevent the workers from marching toward the Winter Palace. He couldn't change 1905. He had to survive 1905 and use the resulting trauma to mold his father.
One afternoon, while Nicholas held him awkwardly in his arms, looking out the window toward the snowy park, Thomas decided to conduct his first interaction experiment.
Nicholas sighed. "Admiral Alexeyev says the Japanese won't dare attack. They are... inferior."
The casual racism and blindness made Thomas want to scream. Instead, he extended his small hand and grabbed the Order of Saint Andrew medal hanging from his father's neck. He pulled it forcefully, forcing Nicholas to look him in the eyes.
Alexei held the gaze. Not with the vacant stare of an infant, but with the focused intensity of someone who sees a crack in the dam.
Nicholas blinked, surprised. "What is it, Alexei? Do you see something?"
'I see you're going to lose the Pacific fleet at Tsushima,' Thomas thought. 'I see you're going to lose your people's respect in January. I see that your weakness is the greatest threat to my survival.'
He released the medal and smiled. A smile, to reinforce the bond. He needed Nicholas to adore him. He needed the Tsar to see in his son not just an heir. Emotional manipulation would be his first political tool.
That night, in the darkness, he drafted the timeline.
From ages 0 to 3, he planned to achieve: Accelerated development. Learn to speak and walk in record time. Establish the myth of the "child prodigy."
From ages 3 to 7, he planned to achieve: Infiltration. Gain access to state meetings under the excuse of the heir's education. Identify competent allies and neutralize parasites.
From ages 7 to 14, he planned to achieve: Execution of Traitors. Forced industrial modernization. Creation of an intelligence network. Preparation for the Great War.
He closed his eyes. His body demanded sleep, but his mind kept processing. It was 1904. The world was slow, analog, and stupid. But it was malleable.
'We're going to fix this,' he murmured in a babble that the nurse interpreted as a dream.
Thomas Blackwood no longer existed. Only a remnant of him remained. And his masterpiece would be the Russian Empire.