Oskar was still half-asleep when he stumbled into Wilhelm II's office.
He had been dragged there—quite literally—by a furious older maid who, not ten minutes earlier, had flung open his door, marched in, and found:
one overgrown Fifth Prince,
one twelve-year-old princess,
and one white polar bear plush,
all asleep on the same bed.
Nothing indecent—just Luise curled against his side, clutching Mister Ice Bear, and Oskar snoring like an artillery barrage. But in the etiquette world of the imperial court, it was scandal fuel.
The maid had yanked Luise away, shoved a coat around her shoulders, scolded Oskar without pause, and eventually hauled him upright with the authority of a field marshal.
Now he stood blinking in the Emperor's office, hair messy, uniform slightly crooked, eyes still foggy.
Banquets drained him. Smiling, talking, not understanding half the words, watching for traps—it was all exhausting. He'd much rather be alone with paper, pencils, and engines.
"Essen," Wilhelm II said, taking in his son's face, "prepare a cup of coffee for Oskar."
There was a brief flicker of guilt in the Emperor's eyes. It was late. Oskar clearly needed sleep. Dragging him out of bed at this hour, even as Emperor, felt… unkind.
But battleships did not wait for anyone's bedtime.
"Yes, Your Majesty," Essen von Jonarett said, bowing and moving toward the sideboard.
Count Tirpitz was there as well, standing off to the side. He smiled.
"Your Highness," he said, "you left the banquet too early. At your age, this is the best time to enjoy such evenings. Don't start living like an old man already."
Oskar rubbed his eyes.
"Ah… Your Excellency Marshal, my man," he said honestly, "I am… socially awkward. Places like that, I feel out of place. Too much talking. Too much… violin. I get drunk, I get tired. Sleep is more good for me."
Wilhelm II frowned.
"Oskar, that will not do," he said. "Connections are important. Banquets are where men of influence meet, test each other, forge alliances. You have a long life ahead of you. You must build your own network."
Oskar nodded slowly.
"Yes, Father," he said. "I know you mean well."
Essen returned with a steaming cup and placed it in front of him.
"Your Highness, your coffee," he said.
"My man, thank you," Oskar said, picking it up carefully.
He took a long sip.
It wasn't the thin, burnt, machine-spat coffee of his old world. It was strong, fragrant, freshly ground, and felt like a direct artillery hit to his brain.
Colors sharpened. Shapes stabilized. Words stopped wiggling.
He breathed out.
"Better," he muttered.
Wilhelm II tapped the blueprint on his desk.
"Very well," the Kaiser said. "Let us talk business. Oskar—your Christmas present pleased me greatly. But the Marshal and I have questions. We would like you to explain some things."
Oskar straightened.
"Yes, my fa—Father," he corrected. "If you like it, then that is best. That battleship is… my guess at future capital ship design."
He tried to sound humble, but pride slipped through.
Tirpitz leaned forward, interested.
"Your Highness," he said, "your design is impressive. But it is very different from what our navy is currently building. Why do you believe that an all–heavy–gun layout is the future?"
Oskar nodded, switching into "lecture mode."
"Your Excellency Marshal," he said, "as big guns improve, their range and power grow. In future naval battles, ships will shoot at each other from much farther distance—eight, ten, twelve kilometers, maybe more."
He gestured vaguely at an imaginary horizon.
"At those ranges, only main guns—big guns—matter. Small secondary guns are useless. They cannot reach. So there is no point in giving battleships many small 'middle guns.' They only add weight and confusion."
He looked between his father and Tirpitz.
"So, I think: in future, battleships will be all big guns. Many guns of same large caliber. Easier to aim, easier to control, better at long range. It is… natural evolution."
Wilhelm II and Tirpitz exchanged a glance.
They had both read analyses from foreign attaches, reports of gunnery trials, debates among naval theorists. None had put it quite so bluntly—but the logic fit what they already suspected.
Tirpitz nodded slowly.
"Your Majesty," he said, "our latest intelligence suggests the British are developing a new class of battleship that they themselves call… revolutionary."
Wilhelm II's expression darkened.
"The British already hold a strong lead," he said. "If their next ships surpass ours again, closing the gap will be nearly impossible."
He was arrogant in public. But privately, he did not delude himself that his navy could yet beat the Royal Navy in a straight fight.
Oskar rubbed his nose.
"Father, Marshal," he said, "I think the British next ships will also be all–big–gun battleships. Heavy guns only. No second main battery."
Both men turned to him.
"Oskar," Wilhelm II said carefully, "is this certain? Where did you get this information?"
Oskar's mind supplied: Because they will. Because it already happened, you idiots.
His mouth said:
"This is my… educated guess, Father. But I think it is very likely."
He could not say "I read it in a future history book." Not unless he wanted to be locked up in a church or a hospital.
Wilhelm II nodded slowly.
In his mind, Oskar was still just seventeen. For a boy his age to deduce that much from scattered data was already impressive.
"Marshal," the Kaiser said, "increase our efforts to obtain intelligence on the British project. If they are moving to all–heavy–gun ships, we must not fall behind again."
"Yes, Your Majesty," Tirpitz said.
He turned back to Oskar.
"Your Highness," Tirpitz continued, "I have another question. Why do you advocate oil-fired boilers and steam turbines? Germany is poor in oil but rich in coal. Coal-fired boilers fit our situation better. And we have far more experience with triple-expansion engines than with turbines. Using turbines on a battleship may cause… technical problems."
Oskar shook his head.
"Your Excellency," he said, "oil is better than coal for warships. Fuel oil has more energy, takes less space, easier to handle. Tanks instead of bunkers. Faster to refuel. Cleaner boilers."
He tapped the desk.
"Steam turbines give more power than triple-expansion engines. Less vibration, more speed. Speed is becoming more important. With speed, we can run away quickly from bad fights, and chase enemies in good fights."
He paused, then added:
"You know British like fast ships. They will not ignore turbines for long. If we stay with slow engines, we will always be one step behind."
Tirpitz frowned.
"But our turbine development is incomplete," he said. "We lack practical experience. If we commit to turbines now, we risk delays, failures, wasted money."
Oskar shrugged.
"Battleship takes two years or more to build," he said. "In that time, we push engineers. Make tests. Work hard. Two years is enough to make progress. Maybe not perfect, but good enough."
He smiled faintly.
"If we wait until turbines are 'perfect,' Britain will already have ten ships at sea. Then we will never catch up."
Wilhelm II's fingers tightened on the edge of the desk.
He could vividly imagine opening a British newspaper in three years and seeing pictures of a British all-big-gun, turbine-powered monster while his own navy still laid down updated pre-dreadnoughts.
"And the main guns?" Tirpitz asked. "You specified 305 millimeters. Why not the 280 we have standardized?"
"Bigger gun, longer reach, more punch," Oskar said simply. "In naval war, if both sides can hit each other, the one with bigger hole wins."
He held up a hand.
"Of course, we must consider weight, armor, stability… but if we can manage it, 305 is better. Later maybe even bigger… but not yet."
Wilhelm II looked at Tirpitz.
"Well, Marshal?" he asked. "What do you think of Oskar's suggestion?"
Tirpitz was silent for a moment.
Finally, he exhaled.
"Your Majesty," he said slowly, "His Highness is… ambitious. And he is asking for breakthroughs in several areas at once: turret design, turbines, fuel systems."
His brows drew together.
"But as a concept… it is sound. The all–heavy–gun layout is undeniably attractive for long-range battle. Oil and turbines are the future, whether we like it or not. The question is not 'if' we will go there, but 'when'."
He looked down at the blueprint again.
"And whether we will arrive before the British… or after."
The room went quiet.
Oskar sipped the last of his coffee and tried to look wise.
Inside, his thoughts were much simpler:
My man… it's starting.