So... you know how you have really really weird dreams when you're sick with a fever? Well, this time, alcohol wasn't responsible for the weirdest story I've written yet... 'nuff said...

The battleship U.S.S North Carolina's blunt bow shoves through the fog like an impatient bull. The slate grey sea is nearly silent- only the gentle slap of the waves, and the quiet "chuff… chuff… chuff…" of the massive warship's engines disrupt the enforced calm of the fog. She slows, and stops. Her destroyer escorts keep a respectable distance- pay their respects to the illusion of solitude- as a launch is lowered over the side, in it, the captain, the executive officers, and the men from Washington.

The launch moters through the shallow waters, between sandbars, its engine an intrusive whine. There, through the fog, a smooth grey cliff. Gantries and cranes and an open hangar deck betray the illusion- not a cliff. A ship. A ship longer than the biggest battleship, and taller than an apartment building. Grey, like the fog, and silently run aground. The men from Washington must have questions- they'd be mad not to- but they don't speak. The men have no words to describe the brooding vessel.

The beached ship is cocked at a wild angle, one of the aircraft elevators- large enough to lift one of the army's medium bombers- hangs only ten feet above the calm waves. The launch's crew throws a hook, shimmies up the trailing rope, affixes a ladder, holds it for the men from Washington. All without talking, all with the brutal efficiency of military men.

The men from Washington climb aboard. A few of them stagger, whether from the crazily tilted deck, or unfamiliarity with the sea, even they don't know. They catch themselves, straighten their suits, and nod grimly.

"The bridge is through here," one of the marines says. "We explored a little when we found her."

"Lead the way then mister Rollins," the chief of staff says. George Marshall. The architect of victory, Churchill had called him, after the war. It isn't after the war yet.

"Mr… Or course sir," the marine nods nervously, and gestures awkwardly. It takes nearly half an hour to reach the bridge, even knowing the way. There are signs periodically, written in English, and a great, tattered, damp American flag, hanging limply from the superstructure.

"Who built her?" Marshall asks.

"We did, sir," one of the other marines says. A mister Gruber, if the sealed manila envelope is to be believed. "Or… Well… We will?"

"Beg pardon?" Marshall asks.

"We're here sir," the first marine replies. "It… Um. It would be better if you saw for yourself?" He hauls on one of the bulkhead doors. It opens smoothly. Soundlessly. His behavior would not be tolerated under normal circumstances, but, with so much unexplained, the marines are forgiven. Their abnormal behavior barely even noticed. The odd party steps through, onto the wide bridge.

There are none of the brass-rimmed dials they expected. None of the shining gold wheels, or leather seats that always seem to have a few cracks, no matter how new they might be. No speaking horns, no anti-aircraft nests. Just grey steel chairs, keyboards- no typewriters- and glittering, dew beaded screens. There is a click somewhere deep in the machinery. The high, electric, whine of a fan starts in one of the consoles. A lens flickers, and there stands a shimmery, half-transparent woman. Young, twenties, maybe. Early twenties. Wearing a white blouse- a naval officer's uniform, Marshall realizes abruptly. A uniform! On a woman! Well, it's hardly the oddest occurrence of the day. She wears her hair- platinum blond- in a long, efficient, braid.

"Greetings," she says. The voice comes from one of the nearby machines, though her mouth moves as it should. "I am the human interface of the United States supercarrier U.S.S Elsa A. Bentley, CVN-121. Please state your name, rank, and intent."

"Um…" Marshall says. "What? Is this some kind of joke?"

"No," the ship replies. "Please state your name and rank, or defensive measures will be initiated."

"Erik Gruber," one of the marines says quickly. "Chief warrant officer."

"Insufficient authority for full activation," the ship says cooly.

"George Marshall," the man says, straightening his suit. "Chief of staff."

"George Marshall was promoted to secretary of defense, September twenty first, nineteen-fifty," the ship says.

"I don't know who you are, or where you come from," Marshall snaps. "I don't know what you're playing at, but it's currently June first, nineteen-forty, young lady."

There is a click. Another. A dozen more fans start their obnoxious whine. Deep in the heart of the titanic vessel, a deep thrum.

"I… see," the ship says. "Welcome aboard chief of staff. Shall I begin activation preparations?"

"Who…" Marshall rubs his eyes tiredly. "Nevermind. When was your keel laid down?"

"March third, twenty-thirtynine," the ship says. "At the Newport News Shipbuilding Concern, pier nine."

"I… Um." Marshall splutters. "If… um. If you are from… How?"

"Unknown," she lies. "Shall I begin activation preparations?"

"Ok," Marshall says carefully. "Are you loyal to… anyone?"

"I am a warship of the United States of America," the ship says. "I was commissioned to protect her people and her holdings, wherever they should be."

"So… You're a living ship… somehow…" The chief of staff says. It sounds more like a question.

"Yes," she nods. Many of the screens are lit now, numbers and letters scrolling across their arcane surfaces. "A second generation learning AI. That is, artificial intelligence."

"Ok," Marshall sighs. "That's a matter for the eggheads I guess. You're what? In control of all the systems aboard?" He's not sure he should believe her, not sure he shouldn't, but she is transparent, and he has no idea how it would be possible.

"Yes, sir," she says brightly. She gives an unsettling, predatory, grin.

"And you'll follow the directives of the president of the United States?"

"Insofar as those directives do not contradict the constitution of the United States of America," she says with a crisp salute. The predatory grin doesn't leave her simulated face. She chooses not to inform the human that her constitution has had a few amendments since nineteen-forty. "Yes sir. And the orders of all commissioned officers above the rank of rear admiral."

"You're how old?" The recruiter asks.

"Eighteen," Anna crosses her arms and stands as tall as she can manage. She pitches her voice as low as she can manage. "Eighteen," she says again.

"Uh-huh." The man steeples his fingers, and leans over the desk. "Do you know that it's a federal offense to lie about your age, young man?"

"Um," Anna scratches the back of her head. "Yes?"

"And that gluing hair to your face doesn't look like stubble?" The recruiter's face remains impassive.

"It absolutely looks like stubble!" Anna slams her fist down on the table. "And um… I didn't do that…"

"Really?" The recruiter cracks the barest hint of a smile. "Do you have any identification?"

"Pilot's license!" Anna cries, slamming the card down on the table. "Ha! Eighteen!"

"Eighteen." The recruiter nods. "Huh. Ha. Ha-ha! Anna? Your name's Anna?"

"Um. Anna can be a guy's name?" Anna grabs for her license. "Its short for... um... Andrew?"

"Sure." The recruiter says. "Whatever. Kristoff. Lieutenant colonel. I guess you've got some scheme ready for skipping the physical?"

"There's a physical?" Anna hastily pockets her pilot's license.

On July 10, 1940, the Battle of Britain begins. Over two and a half thousand German aircraft begin a bombing campaign of the British isles. Around ninety thousand English civilians are marked as casualties. First, the Luftwaffe attacks British shipping. Then their airfields, and radar stations. And then their civilians. In an armored bunker, beneath a battered building in London, amidst a veritable mountain of sandbags, and anti-aircraft artillery, and barrage balloons, Winston Churchill confesses that Britain will be forced to surrender in three days, if the attacks continue.

And then it stopped. On October 31, 1940 with the destruction of a total of almost two thousand German aircraft, and Britain's continued sovereignty, it stopped. Except this time, it doesn't.

The U.S.S. Elsa A. Bentley is the largest ship in the world. A carrier that dwarfs every warship ever dreamed of in 1940, and the German spies had heard no hint of her construction. Somehow, America had built the biggest warship ever planned, and they had done it without anyone noticing. The nazi high command panics. When pressure builds, to stop the bombing campaign, or change targets, they don't. They convince the fuhrer to back their campaign to the bitter, bloody end.

On November third, nineteen-forty, Britain surrenders to the nazi regime.

AN: so, I'm sick, and everything is kindof fuzzy looking, and it feels like my head is stuffed with wool, so its probably a bad idea to actually post this, but whatever. I need to stop writing the weirdest ideas that pop into my not-so-working-right head... I might get a reputation... then I'll publish something normal and shock you all (muahahaha).

Anyway, if this still seems like a good idea tomorrow, I will write some more? (And I guess if enough people ask me to, I'll ignore my better judgement.) If that happens, I'll need some kindof beta reader? On account of I've never been in any military, and have only the shakiest idea of military rankings/lingo?