Eric Flint's Blog, page 193

1636: The Ottoman Onslaught – Snippet 48

1636: The Ottoman Onslaught – Snippet 48

“The Bavarians might not like that idea.”

Mike’s face had a very hard expression, now. “Ask me if I give a fuck. By the time we finish with them, the Bavarians will damn well do what we tell them to do. We’ll build a graveyard here and they will maintain it thereafter. They’ll pay for the upkeep too, the bastards.”

He went to his horse and got back in the saddle. “Get your men ready, Colonel Higgins. I want to start our march on Munich at first dawn.”

“Yes, sir.”

****

After he’d seen to it that his regiment was fed, and had whatever shelter could be scrounged up — luckily, it didn’t look like it was going to rain that night — Jeff indulged himself one last time. In clear violation of military rules and regulations, he had the regiment’s radio operator send a message to the Residenzschloss in Dresden.

He didn’t bother sending it in code. The Bavarians already knew they’d killed USE soldiers that day, so what difference did it make if they knew the name of one of them?

Jimmy Andersen was killed yesterday.

He didn’t add anything along the lines of “may God have mercy on his soul.” Gretchen was religiously inclined and he wasn’t. They’d known that about each other almost since the day they first met.

It had been what movie producers would have called “meet cute,” assuming they were producing a horror movie. Jeff had helped Gretchen haul her sister and some other girls out of an outhouse where she’d hidden them from rampaging soldiers.

Wannabe rampaging soldiers, rather. Jeff had held them off long enough for Mike Stearns and the APCs to get there. He hadn’t been alone, though. Larry Wild had stood next to him, and so had Jimmy Andersen and Eddie Cantrell.

He and Eddie were the only ones left. He wondered where Eddie was, now. Somewhere in the western hemisphere, the last he’d heard. Eddie had lost a foot in the years since then. On the other hand, like Jeff himself he’d gained a wife so he was still ahead of the game

“Is there any further message, Colonel?”

Jeff thought about it, for a moment. Then, shook his head. “No, that will be all.”

Anything he’d add to that — I miss you; I love you — Gretchen already knew. And while Jeff was willing to violate the rules and regulations when one of his oldest and best friends had gotten killed, he didn’t see any point in trampling the rules and regs and dancing on their grave.

Besides, Duke Maximilian might not know that the commander of one of the regiments that was about to lay siege to his capital was married to the most feared and feted — in some circles, not his — revolutionary in Europe. Maybe that secret would be his undoing, in some manner as yet unforeseen and unforeseeable.

“They don’t call me the DM for nothing,” he muttered.

Dresden

Gretchen didn’t receive the message until the following morning. When she did, she immediately left the Residenzschloss and went looking for Ursula Gerisch.

It took her a while to find the woman. When she did, Ursula was just coming out of a grocery. The store, like most such in seventeenth century European cities, was on the ground floor of a narrow building pressed up against buildings on either side. The owner and his family would live upstairs.

Ursula was looking very pleased with herself. That meant she’d made another convert — or made significant progress in that direction, at least. Gerisch had made herself quite unpopular with the city’s Lutheran pastors since she arrived. Whether it was in spite of her disreputable past or because of it — Gretchen preferred the latter explanation, herself — Ursula was an extraordinarily good missionary.

Ernst Wettin had privately told Gretchen that several of the pastors had come to him to register their complaints, but he’d shrugged off the matter. First, he’d pointed out to them, the emperor himself had agreed to place unusual restrictions on Lutheran privileges in Saxony. And secondly, the pestiferous Gerisch creature was proselytizing on behalf of a creed which was subscribed to not only by Admiral Simpson — that would be the same admiral whose ironclads had leveled the walls of Hamburg along with a portion of Copenhagen — but by Gretchen Richter as well.

Yes, that Gretchen Richter. You hadn’t heard?

As soon as Ursula came up to her, Gretchen got right to the point. “We need our own church.”

“Yes, I know. But I don’t know of any vacant ones.” Gerisch looked dubious, adding: “I suppose we could take up a collection and see if we could buy one of the existing churches…”

Gretchen shook her head. “None of these Lutheran pastors would sell to us. The problem’s not the money, anyway. I could afford to pay for it myself, if need be.”

That was something of an exaggeration. She and Jeff were quite wealthy now, measured in the way David Bartley and others like him gauged such things. But most of their wealth was tied up in the stock market or the apartment building they’d bought in Magdeburg. They didn’t have much in the way of liquid assets.

It didn’t matter. Gretchen had figured out a solution. All the Lutheran pastors in Dresden would shriek their outrage and Ernst Wettin was bound to wag his finger and express solemn disapproval — for the public record, at least. She didn’t think he’d really care that much, personally.

But the reason none of that mattered was because the only person who could have seriously objected was the Elector of Saxony, John George, who was no longer of this sinful earth.

“There’s a chapel in the Residenzschloss,” she explained. “It’s ours now.”

Gerisch stared at her. “Said who?”

“Says me. Round up as many church members as you can find and let’s… well, I suppose we can’t say ‘consecrate’ it because we don’t have a priest yet. But we’ll do our layman best.”

She had no idea if what she was doing was part of accepted custom, tradition or ecclesiastical law according to the Episcopal Church. But she didn’t care very much because the church she now belonged to was not the Church of England but the Protestant Episcopal Church in the United States of America. And since the United States of America did not exist in this universe, Gretchen figured her church would soon enough transmute into the Protestant Episcopal Church in the United States of Europe — and could say what customs and traditions and ecclesiastical laws that church would eventually adopt?

Dresden customs and traditions, if Gretchen had anything to say about it.

Which, she probably would. She hadn’t leveled any fortified walls or brought down any royal towers, true. But she could lay a reasonable claim to having leveled an entire province. She’d turned a stinking dukedom into a republic, hadn’t she?

****

There was no service, when they all gathered in the chapel that afternoon, because they had no priest. Gretchen just proposed that all of them there — which was herself, Ursula, and eleven other people, all but three being women — say their own quiet prayers.

She did so herself.

Dear Lord, please care for the soul of Jimmy Andersen.

Gretchen hadn’t been that close to Jimmy herself. He’d been a quiet man, very introspective. But she knew how much he’d meant to Jeff.

And please care for my beloved husband, who is still in harm’s way.

And would be, possibly for a long time to come. But Gretchen felt greatly relieved. She hadn’t prayed in…

How many years had it been? Five years since she’d met and married Jeff. Two years before that, since her father had been murdered in front of her and she herself turned into her rapist’s concubine.

Seven years it had taken her, before she was finally able to forgive God. Long years for her; but, of course, not even a moment for Him who moved in such mysterious ways.

Amen.

Eventually, she’d find a priest who could explain it all to her and put everything in proper theological context. She was quite sure that it was inappropriate for a mortal to forgive God. But those were what her husband would call optional technicalities.

They didn’t call him the DM for nothing.

 

1636: The Ottoman Onslaught – Snippet 47

1636: The Ottoman Onslaught – Snippet 47

Chapter 22

Bavaria, on the Amper river

Two and a half miles east of Zolling

That evening, after searching for the Hangman Regiment’s commanding officer for half an hour, Mike found Jeff Higgins digging a grave. Part of him was irritated that a colonel was engaged in simple labor that he could have assigned any soldier to do. For that matter, he could have just let the three soldiers he had helping him dig the grave while he went about doing what he was supposed to be doing, which was commanding more than a thousand men. (One thousand, two hundred and seventy-one, to be exact, as of the start of the battle. All of the Third Division’s regiments were over-strength; none more so than the Hangman.)

But Mike said nothing. He didn’t have to remove the tarpaulin covering a corpse next to the grave to know whose body it was. Or had been, he supposed, if you believed in an afterlife. Mike didn’t and he knew Jeff didn’t either, but he wasn’t sure about Jimmy Andersen.

He got off his horse and went to stand by the grave. It was already at least four feet deep.

“Do you have a coffin?” he asked.

Jeff stopped digging and straightened up, leaning the shovel against the side of the grave. “No, and I’m not waiting until we can get one. I doubt if there are any civilians within ten miles of here.” He looked up at his commanding general and made a face. “I’m being self-indulgent already, so I’m not about to tell my men to start playing carpenter — assuming they could find the tools anyway. Besides…”

He waved his hand in a gesture that encompassed everything around them. “There are hundreds of corpses in the area. Most of them are ours, but the Bavarians left some behind too. We can’t make coffins for more than a handful of them, so I don’t see any point in trying to pick and choose.”

Mike looked around. He’d noticed on his way here from Moosburg that there were fewer corpses strewn about than he’d expected to see. “Where…”

Jeff rubbed his forehead with a forearm. That wiped away some of the sweat, at the expense of smearing a little mud on his face. “The Bavarians stacked them up in piles.” He nodded toward the corpse under the tarpaulin. “I found Jimmy in one of them. He was kind of… well…”

He shrugged. “He’d been there almost two days and he was getting a little ripe. But at least his body was still intact. Some of the corpses — a fair number of ’em — were in pieces.”

Mike reached down a hand. “Come on out of there. Your men can finish the grave and we need to talk.”

Jeff took his hand and Mike helped lift him out of the pit. Then, he walked away a few steps so the two of them could talk privately.

“I’m sorry, Jeff,” he said. This was not a time for military formalities. “I fucked up pretty bad, and if I hadn’t Jimmy would still be alive.”

Jeff shook his head. “Don’t beat on yourself, Mike. If generalship was easy, everybody and their grandmother would be calling themselves Napoleon and Alexandra the Great. Jimmy’s death was a fluke. The bullet that killed him wasn’t even aimed at him. It just came in out of nowhere at exactly the wrong time and place. The same thing could happen to you or me or anyone on any given day in a combat zone. War sucks, period. It’s just the way it is.”

There wasn’t anything to say in response. Jeff was right, on all counts. Which still didn’t make Mike feel any better.

“Besides,” Jeff continued, “the real problem is the same one it’s been since the USE put its army together. It’s not you, it’s that we don’t have enough cavalry. Half the time we’re stumbling around half-blind, and some of the time we might as well be completely in the dark.”

“Yeah, I know. I’ve put in another request –”

“It ain’t gonna happen, Mike,” Jeff interjected, “and you know it as well as I do. The Third Division’s at the bottom of any stinking nobleman’s list, when it comes to ‘cavalry jobs wanted.’ So I think we need to go outside the box. What we need is our own airplane. Or airship, if we can get our hands on a hydrogen one. These hot air jobs are fine for a lot of things, but they purely suck when it comes to providing us with reliable reconnaissance.”

“I’ve thought about it myself, but I don’t know where we’d find one. I had David check with Kelly Aviation, since everything Hal’s building is already signed up by the air force. But they don’t have anything free, either.”

“What about an airship?”

“There’s nothing suitable being built in the USE, that I know of. There might be something underway in the Netherlands, but King Fernando will have first dibs on whatever gets built.”

Jeff chuckled heavily. The sound had very little humor in it. “So have your wife twist his arm. She is figuring on being the next secretary of state, right? Or am I supposed to believe that silly bullshit that she stepped down for Piazza because nobody else was available?”

Mike chuckled as well. “My lips are sealed. But… Next time I see her, I’ll see what I can do.”

The soldiers digging the grave starting climbing out of the pit. “We’re finished, sir,” said one of them. “Six feet, like you said.”

Mike and Jeff went over and looked down. Then, as if they were of one mind, each of them took one end of the tarpaulin-covered figure lying next to the grave and lifted it up.

In the end, Mike wound up lowering Jimmy into the grave himself. He did so by the simple expedient of climbing in and having Jeff and another soldier hand the body down to him. They didn’t have any ropes to lower the corpse and the alternative of just pitching him in wasn’t acceptable to either of them.

After he positioned the body as best he could, Mike climbed back out, hoisted by Jeff and the same soldier. The other two soldiers started shoveling dirt over the body.

“Hold on,” Jeff ordered them, raising his hand. “I want to say a few words.”

“Do you need a Bible?” Mike asked. “That’s one thing about a down-time army. Every other soldier will have one.”

Jeff shook his head. “Jimmy wasn’t religious, Mike. None of us Four Musketeers belonged to a church except Larry Wild. He was raised in the Church of Christ but he didn’t really hold to it any more. There’s a passage from Ecclesiastes that Jimmy always liked, though, and another one from Romans that Larry Wild recited to us once and all four of us agreed we held to it. I recited it after I heard that Larry had been killed and I still have it memorized.”

He moved to the edge of the grave, lowered his head a bit and, with his hand clasped before him, said the following:

“For everything there is a season, and a time for every matter under heaven. There’s a time to be born, and there’s a time to die. For none of us lives to himself, and none of us dies to himself.” He took a breath and added: “Go in peace, my old friend Jimmy Andersen. And if you do find anything over there, try not to screw up, okay?”

He stepped back from the grave and nodded at the two soldiers with shovels. As they went back to filling the grave, Jeff turned to Mike. “What do we do for a headstone? There aren’t any masons left in the area either.”

Mike had been pondering the same problem and had already come up with a solution. “Just remember where this grave is and hammer a stake with Jimmy’s name into it. We’ll replace it with a headstone when we get a chance.”

“What about the rest of the soldiers? We can’t dig individual graves for everybody.”

“No, we’ll have to bury most of them in mass graves. But…”

He was thinking ahead, still. “After the war’s over — this war, anyway — we’ll turn this whole area into a military graveyard. There’ll be headstones lined up in rows for every soldier who died here, even if they’re not right where the man was buried. Like we did at Arlington and Gettysburg and — oh, hell, lots of places — back up-time.”

 

1635: The Wars For The Rhine – Snippet 29

1635: The Wars For The Rhine – Snippet 29

Chapter 15

Bonn, the river wall

September 21, 1634

Charlotte shifted the musket below her cloak, and wiped away the raindrop under her nose with the back of her hand. Despite the situation she smiled a little: whoever would have thought this?

Once she had recovered from her breakdown on her first training session, she had actually become quite good at shooting, but had still felt that for a woman to shoot a gun was somehow indecent. But standing by her baby’s cradle on the morning of the Hessian attack, watching him make small suckling movements in his sleep, Charlotte had completely changed her mind. She had spent a good deal of time helping to make the infirmary ready for the siege, but otherwise she had taken to spending every moment she could on practicing with whatever group of militias was on the walls, even talking the instructors into letting her train with the men, and finally taking regular watches. And it felt good! For once in her life she had the feeling of actually being able to defend herself against an enemy wanting to hurt her and her son. For once she wasn’t completely helpless and could only rely on the goodwill of others.

It was probably just an illusion. The Hessian army had completely surrounded Bonn, preventing anyone except those able to travel the Rhine at night from entering or leaving the town, and the militias took turn spelling the town guard manning those sections of the walls — such as the river wall — not likely to be targeted for a direct attack. Still, Charlotte felt safer than at any time since her marriage, and not a single nightmare about Gruyard had plagued her since she had first picked up a gun and taken her place on the walls.

“Alles in Ordnung?” Charlotte turned her head at the question and looked at the officer coming along the wall. The hood covered most of his face, but judging from the rain-dripping reddish goatee it was General Melchior von Hatzfeldt, who had been given the command of the town.

“Yes, Herr General. Nothing has been seen moving on the river all morning.”

“Your accent sounds southern. Have you been in Bonn for long?” Melchior von Hatzfeldt put his foot up on the cannon wheel beside Charlotte and rested his arms on his knee.

“Just a few months.”

“And already you are willing to fight for this town?”

“I have a baby son here, Herr General, and I am most certainly willing to fight. Fighting is good.” Charlotte patted the gun she was leaning against her leg to keep it out of the rain.

“I see.” Charlotte could hear the amusement in the man’s voice and frowned at him as he continued. “After having spent more than half my life as a soldier, I’d rather say fighting is sometimes necessary. I’d also say that it should not be necessary for a young mother to risk her life standing behind a gun on a parapet.” A bit of steel crept into the general’s voice. “I will not order you to leave the militias, but I cannot approve of this new American fashion for female soldiers.”

“No.” Charlotte looked across the grey rain-dotted river towards Berg, which — God willing — her son would someday rule. “I refuse to hide behind my own skirts. Fighting might get your body killed, but not being allowed to fight may destroy your mind and soul. And as for female soldiers?” She turned her head, and smiled bitterly at the handsome man beside her. “With all respect, Herr General, get used to it. A gun is more effective than a frying pan, and the Americans have proved that with training women can fight just as well as a man.”

“Hmhf!” General von Hatzfeldt pushed back his hat, and smiled back at her. “Certainly, some of the most competent people I know are women.” He hesitated a moment. “You seem quite passionate about this. Were you caught in a battle yourself?”

“Sort of. Just not one where guns were the main weapons. I think I’ll prefer guns.”

“You think so? I find myself hating them more and more.”

“But . . . But you’re a general! A famous one!” Charlotte nearly dropped her gun.

General von Hatzfeldt shrugged and looked across the river. “A general might do less actual combat himself, but it’s still the same. The blood and the gore. Seeing men’s brains splattered all over from a bullet hitting their head. I suppose that’s why I so much dislike seeing a woman holding a gun. I’d like to believe there exists something clean and perfumed, and untouched by the gore.”

“Untouched!” Charlotte spun on her heel to face the man beside her. “Untouched! A pawn. Moved by anybody’s will but her own. Bended, broken, used in other peoples schemes and deals.” She stopped with a gasp, frightened by her sudden loss of control, and feeling the hot tears mingling with the cold rain on her face.

“I see.” The general reached out to touch Charlotte’s chin with a finger, his wet leather glove only smearing the moisture. “I’m sorry for your pain, My Lady, but while a gun might seem to me an odd bandage for your wounds, I do wish you ease from it.” He smiled sadly, bowed and left to continue along the wall, while Charlotte spent the rest of her watch staring across the river and into the past.

 

Challenges Of The Deeps – Chapter 21

Challenges Of The Deeps – Chapter 21

Chapter 21.

“I am glad, tremendously glad, that you were able to resolve that situation so well, Laila, Carl, Simon,” said Oscar Naraj, his deep, rich voice resonating in the comfortable meeting room. “The Tantimorcans were appreciative of your tact and sympathy, and I have thus concluded a most advantageous negotiation with them.”

Simon still found it somewhat uncomfortable to sit in the same room and talk civilly with a man he still suspected of being the prime mover in Ariane’s abduction. From her expression, Oasis Abrams felt the same way; Carl and Laila had been working with Naraj long enough that any remaining dislike wasn’t visible. Still, Naraj had accepted the rulings of the SSC and CSF as far as anyone could tell, and had thrown his full energy into his duties as Ambassador and negotiator.

And he was, beyond any doubt, very good at that. The other species of the Arena generally responded well to his approaches, and he had negotiated numerous “advantageous”, as he said, deals with various smaller Factions.

His powers were, of course, strictly limited. “I presume you have a copy of this agreement?”

“For your review, and the approval of our duumvirate Leaders Pro Tempore, certainly. The gist of the agreement is that we will provide or procure Champions for their next three Challenges, and in exchange they will design and construct full prototypes of five Arenaspace vessels for our complete use, including all data to allow us to begin full production of the vessels.”

“That does sound like a bargain,” Laila said. “But what if — despite our record thus far — our Champions do not quite make the grade, so to speak?”

Oscar nodded gravely. “A concern, of course. Two of the five designs will not be completed unless and until we have won one Challenge for them. If we lose all three, by some terrible mischance, there will of course be penalties. The details are in the contract. Please review them as soon as convenient.”

“Definitely,” said Carl. “We’re learning a lot about ship design in the Arena from studying Orphan’s ships, but we still need some better tailored designs for operations other than big military patrols. The Arena and Warship SFGs have produced some decent designs, but I don’t think they’re quite up to the level of factions that have spent centuries doing this stuff.”

“And we do need more ships,” Simon said. “The Sim Focus Groups’ work will do for the interim, but I am becoming more and more certain that time is running out for us. The Molothos have not forgotten about us, and if they ever find out where we are… they will crush us.”

“Believe me, Doctor Sandrisson, I completely, completely agree,” Naraj said. “You may recall that I approached their Leader with the naïve belief that some form of negotiation would be possible, and was swiftly disabused of that notion.” He frowned, an expression that made his broad face look sad rather than angry. “Negotiation might be possible with them — I refuse to believe that it is utterly impossible — but only if one was in a position of vast strength.”

Laila Canning shook her head swiftly, bobbed brown hair following the motion. “Perhaps, but irrelevant for now, Ambassador. It will be a very long time — if ever — before we are in such a position.”

“I think we’re all agreed on that. But do we have any other, well, Hyperion Champions around?” Simon asked. “After all, DuQuesne and Wu Kung are not available, and we’d like to have such a trump card available.”

A (reasonably) gentle punch stung his arm. “Um, hello? Earth to Simon? I’m sitting right here!” said Oasis Abrams, AKA the mysterious “K” of Hyperion. The redhead’s smile took the sting from her words, and lessened the sting in his arm, too.

He smiled. “I meant in addition to you, Oasis, but yes, I should have phrased that more clearly. My apologies.”

“No problem,” she said. “And yes, we’ve got at least one more. Vel just made the jump here; he’s being checked out as a pilot for some of our Sphere defense ships, but he’ll be available.”

“Vel?” Simon sorted through memory and briefings. “Ah yes, Velocity Celes. But I thought he was a ground racer, not a space racer like Ariane’s friend Hawke.”

“He is, but he’s a Hyperion, Simon, and one designed as a driver and pilot. Believe me, he’ll be one of the best we’ve got in just a few days.” Oasis’ grin held absolute confidence. “Trust me on this.”

“I wouldn’t dream of doubting you, Oasis,” he said. “But as I understand it there are at least a few more; I think we should find a way to recruit as many as possible; as DuQuesne put it, the Arena was almost tailor-made for them.” As he said that, he caught a momentary, almost subliminal shift of Oasis’ expression; it vanished in the instant he saw it, but he was certain it had been there. Interesting. What does that mean? “From what we know, all the Hyperions enjoy some rather unfair advantages over regular Arena citizens. And Lord knows, we could use all the unfair advantages we can get.”

“True, very true indeed, Doctor,” agreed Naraj. “On the subject of gaining unsuspected advantages, I also have a summary of our actions in what your Captain whimsically named ‘Operation Dandelion’.”

Simon chortled. “Let us have it, then!”

Assured that they were prepared, Oscar Naraj transmitted a quick data dump from his own headware. Simon found that his experiences with the Arena had, at least, made assimilating large amounts of information far easier. He quickly sorted out the salient features of the report.

Operation Dandelion was, in Ariane’s words, “Our plan to grow like weeds in the lawn of the Arena.” Having obtained two other Spheres — completely unbeknownst to anyone else in the Arena except the Liberated and the Minds (both of which had strong vested interest in keeping that deal a secret), Humanity had every reason to establish and expand its presence on those Spheres… and the worlds they represented.

“As you can see, reconnaissance of the Spheres and their associated solar systems has been very successful. The first Sphere, named Tellus by Captain Austin, is associated with a solar system with eleven major planetary bodies, one brown dwarf orbiting at a considerable distance from the primary, and two Earth-type habitable worlds. The second Sphere, named Gaia, is associated with a solar system with seven major planetary bodies, two asteroid belts, and one Earth-type world. The most interesting fact about both of these systems is that while we know they belonged to the Blessed to Serve and were, therefore, presumably colonized by them to one extent or another, there is no trace of any prior colonization or exploitation.”

“That’s… frightening,” Oasis said after a pause, red hair exaggerating the awed shake of her head. “I know that some of our prior conversations with Arena residents implied something of the sort, but…”

“I concur,” Simon said. “This is perhaps the most complete demonstration of the Arena’s capabilities. If we are in any way correct, it removed vast numbers of former inhabitants from the Spheres and the planets and solar systems associated with them, relocated them safely to some other appropriate Spheres, reworked any aspects of the planet to fit Earth-normal requirements, and…” he thought a moment, “… and must have rearranged the planets including physical distribution of ores and such to make the system appear completely untouched.”

Even Oscar Naraj — normally focused more on the political and social than on the physical issues of the Arena — looked daunted. “A truly, truly awe-inspiring capability. And I must also wonder how the Arena determines the location of those removed; surely it does not simply dump, perhaps, billions of people onto another world?”

“I asked Relgof about that,” Simon said. “The Arena distributes the refugees as evenly as possible — apparently taking into account things like family and friend associations, resources at the destination, and so on. And in the event that a simple relocation is not practical — for example, a small Faction with two Spheres whose systems have large populations — it has apparently created appropriate habitats for the refugees.”

“And does this in what may be a matter of hours, presumably, depending on how the Sphere is claimed and how quickly the claimants may go to their new possession,” Laila said. “Impressive does not begin to cover it. But,” she said with a brisk air, “we are off the topic. Have we begun colonization efforts to Tellus and Gaia?”

“Initial exploration and preparation efforts are underway,” Naraj said. “As expected, AI and nanotech capabilities are in full force in the normal-space solar systems, which will give us a tremendous ability to begin construction and expansion.”

That reminded Simon of one of the other crucial issues. “Has the SSC moved forward on AI Emancipation?”

“Forward, yes. Swiftly, no. As you can imagine, it is a tremendous, tremendous challenge to address the potential issues in a manner that even a plurality, let alone a majority, of the Council is comfortable with.”

Simon knew that Naraj was one of those not comfortable with the idea — and the knowledge of the existence of the Minds of the Blessed and their total re-engineering of their creators gave a very concrete weight to the concerns of fully-unleashed computer intellects. “Would it help if any of us were to go and try to push things along?”

“Yeah,” Carl said. “I’d point out to them that when Ariane gets back she’s going to expect something to have been done on this, and if it hasn’t been she’ll raise all kinds of hell. And every one of us will back her to the hilt.”

Oscar’s face wrinkled in thought. “It may be necessary for someone to apply pressure. But allow me to convey your concerns on my trip tomorrow. If I feel there is no inclination to hurry things along, then one or two of you might put in an appearance.”

“You’re not really enthusiastic about the idea, though,” Oasis said.

“Not a bit of it, no. But I have agreed to perform my job to the best of my ability, and I know the group of you are indeed — without any doubt — speaking with the full authority of, and complete consistency with, Leader Ariane Austin’s position in these matters; I have no intention whatsoever of incurring Captain Austin’s wrath ever again, I assure you, so thus my beliefs are not relevant.” Naraj smiled, and Simon could see a rueful edge on that smile. “I cannot earn back trust unless I am absolutely reliable, after all.”

“And for a long time,” Laila said bluntly. “All right, we’ll wait until you get back. But you should know we’ll have other sources.”

“Doctor Canning, I would be extremely disappointed by you if you did not. Trust is only a part of it; for domestic and foreign intelligence it is desperately important to have multiple resources providing you with information.”

“Don’t worry, I am running that part of the operation!” Oasis said with a grin. “It’s like going home, in a way.”

Naraj’s eyebrows rose. “Truly? Then with a Hyperion running your intelligence, I have no further concerns.” He nodded. “In any event, I expect to begin serious colonization movement in the next… oh, month and a half. There are already a large number of applicants, and as these are merely to be new human colonies they do not need to be screened to nearly the degree as new entrants to the Arena need be.”

Simon felt a touch of his internal omniscience stirring, allowed himself to perceive what urgency drove it. Ah. “I would caution people to construct nothing on the Upper Sphere that can be detected, not until we have formidable system defenses and are ready to deploy equally strong defenses around the Sphere. While it seems unlikely that we will have another encounter with the Molothos or other hostiles at our new homes, we do not want to give away our presence inadvertently.”

“Noted, Doctor Sandrisson. I concur, and I will convey these instructions myself,” Naraj said. “Now, there are a few other issues that I must review…”

Simon finally extricated himself from the meeting; Oasis followed him out. “Lordy, he does like to talk, as Gabrielle would say.”

Oasis laughed, green eyes sparkling. “He sure does. But hey, not like there wasn’t talk-talk on both sides.” She fell in next to him, matching him stride for stride; she was somewhat shorter but her legs were long. “I’m starved after all that, though. Want to go get something?”

“I would love to. I need to get out of the Embassy.”

While the Grand Arcade was the center of Nexus Arena’s commerce, it was far from the only place of commerce, and Oasis led him to a restaurant actually on Dock 4; it was a tall spindle of a building with a broad, glassed-in deck atop, something like pictures of the ancient Space Needle or some of the delicate towers in some of the more popular space sims.

“The view is stunning,” he said as they were seated.

The immense Dock stretched many kilometers out from the side of the incomprehensibly huge cylinder that was Nexus Arena. Hundreds — thousands — of vessels of every size and description were docking, loading, casting off, maneuvering near or far from Dock 4 and the many other Docks visible to one side or the other. A flock of teirann — which DuQuesne had named “aetherbirds” — streamed by, their crystal bodies and wings a ripple of rainbow and diamond, while in the distance the many-colored clouds turned and streamed slowly, majestically, occasionally lit from within by lightning.

“It is gorgeous, isn’t it?” Oasis said, smiling broadly. “Privacy screen,” she said to the apparently empty air, and a faintly-visible luminous curtain surrounded them. “I love this place. Great view, get to watch the life of the Arena going by, and still have a private talk with someone.”

“How private?” he asked. Given the kind of subjects that might come up with Oasis, he felt the question was important.

“Contracted from both the Analytic and the Faith. So as private as anything gets, really, aside from what Orphan mentioned once about going into the Deeps. Or maybe going back home. And the food’s great — as long as you don’t mind some spice. Lots of different spices, actually.”

“I have tried to be quite adventurous, at least in the cuisine area,” Simon said. “Bring it on, as DuQuesne might say.”

Her face flickered through a number of emotions in an instant at the mention of the other Hyperion — fondness, melancholy, a misty-eyed reminiscence — before returning to a more immediate good cheer. “All right, Simon! I like a guy who’s willing to try things that bite back.”

“As long as they’re not venomous,” he said with an answering smile. As he examined the menu that materialized before him, he asked, “So you were a… what, intelligence agent before? You said that it was like going home.”

Oasis’ face flickered, and the expression… shifted. It was a tiny shift, but he had seen it many times now. Oasis Abrams and the Hyperion known to him only as “K” were not quite fused. That shift happened when one or the other of the women sharing one brain was slightly more dominant, and the expression told him that this was “K”.

She nodded, even as her fingers made a selection on the menu; he did the same. “Technically for both of us, actually. I… Oasis… did a fair amount of intelligence work for Saul and others once we got over the fall of Hyperion enough. But I… K, that is… been doing spy stuff since, well, about the time Marc was trying to decide which college to apply to. Before that, really.”

“I imagine it was rather different than such work here, though, unless your… er, world was like ours.”

She laughed again, though with the same touch of wistful sadness that the other Hyperions often showed when thinking of the past. “Like this? No, totally not much like this. Either the Arena or modern Sol System. But a lot of the basics don’t change, just the tricks and the targets.” She looked back at him; those amazing green eyes almost matched his own in color, but he was sure his never managed a tenth of the intensity in hers. “Now you, you’ve always been a scientist, right?”

“Well, I was always interested in being one, but you can’t call yourself a scientist right away,” he answered. “But yes, that’s always been my profession. I have found myself sometimes acting in other capacities since we arrived here, of course.”

“Oh, sure! DuQuesne told me you saved Zounin-Ginjou and fought the would-be Leader of the Blessed one-on-one!” He knew this woman — regardless of which persona he regarded as active or central — was older than he by a factor of nearly two, but she was looking at him with a wide-eyed excitement that made her seem scarcely eighteen. “We all got the summary, but tell me the details — what do you remember about it?”

Simon cast his mind back, a bit bemused by the conversation’s turn. “Mostly? Being terrified, I suppose. I mean, there was a great deal more to it, but once I realized there were actually people trying to kill us I assure you my heart was doing its best to pound its way out of my chest.”

“Were you just terrified?” she asked, leaning a little forward.

Remembering that battle — the flare of missiles’ jets passing scant meters away, the staccato hail-rapping of hypersonic cannon rebounding from armor, the incredible body-shattering concussion of the primary beam firing within a turret, the long, cold glint of his sword pointing at the green-black form of Vantak — Simon felt as though he were, momentarily, back on board Zounin-Ginjou, and… “No,” he said finally, hearing his own startled, incredulous tone. “No, I was … excited. Exhilarated, at times. Determined. Transported, in more ways than one.”

He looked up to see her smile, sharper, knowing, but the green eyes were warm and sympathetic. “I knew it. There’s nothing like that feeling, is there? The Edge. Running on a bridge as it’s falling apart under you and not knowing if you’re gonna make it, facing someone trying to kill you and wondering if you’re good enough to take him, hearing the countdown to disaster and seeing you have twenty-nine seconds to stop it or everything blows. You know the Edge now, don’t you?”

He felt the chill of gooseflesh along his arms, saw the hairs standing up, remembered the fear of his own omniscience warring with the exaltation of the prediction of the future, of combat against a chosen warrior of the Blessed to Serve, and nodded slowly. “Yes, if that is what you call it, I cannot argue that I do not know the ‘Edge’.”

She laughed joyfully. At that moment, their servers entered, placed the first plates in front of them, then withdrew. Once they’d left, she smiled again. “Fantastic, as another lost friend of ours would have said; you love the running, deep down, like all of us do. I couldn’t really hang out for long with someone who didn’t.”

Simon liked to think he had gotten a bit better at picking up on personal interactions over the years. “Oasis, pardon me very much if I am wrong, but are you making a pass at me?”

“Would it bother you if I was?”

“Not… precisely. I did think you and DuQuesne –”

“Ah. Marc. Yes, we did have something. Still do, sort of… but I’m not the woman he knew then, and that really does throw him way off. And me; Oasis never knew Marc, and he’s not entirely her type.”

“And … no one else?”

The distant look came back. “There was… when I was a lot younger. But… Hyperion. He was part of my world, and we couldn’t salvage it.” She smiled with only a hint of sadness. “And besides, even before Hyperion fell, we’d… drifted. That’s why DuQuesne and I got together.”

He frowned. “You know, I get a bit puzzled about time. It sounds like you and Marc were together for quite a bit, yet you could not have met until that grand-scale crossover that led to the disaster.”

She shook her head, the brilliant red hair rippling like flame in wind. “Remember, they could control perceptions and events in-universe — and they had the technology to do things like speed up or slow down metabolisms, too. So while in the real universe we weren’t even twenty, Marc was physically and intellectually well over thirty, and I was well into my twenties. The investigations, discovery of the truth and all that, from our point of view, covered a few years, while it wasn’t more than a couple of months from the … researcher’s point of view.”

“Good Lord. Every time I think I grasp the depth of that project, I learn something that shows me I was wrong. A bit like the Arena, I suppose.”

“Too much like the Arena,” she said forcefully. Then she closed her eyes and sighed; when they opened again, she was smiling once more. “Anyway, hell of a diversion for an answer that really was yes, I am making a little pass at you, or flirting anyway to see if you are interested.”

You know, I honestly don’t think I was such an attention-magnet before. For a moment he really missed Mio, his AISage, who would have had some sort of witty and incisive remark on the situation; the silence in his head was sometimes too much. “I would have to be both blind and deaf to not be interested, I think. So this is a date, then?”

“If you like. I know you’ve been dancing around with Ariane, and Laila, too.”

“But no commitment on either side yet; in the case of Ariane, of course, there is also DuQuesne and the fact that all of us tend towards monogamous pairings if we were to be serious.” And as both Ariane and DuQuesne are off on a journey of undetermined length…

“Great!” She grabbed his hand, squeezed it, then grabbed up one of the strange multifaceted fried objects in her appetizer and bit into it. “Wow, spicy indeed. Here, try one!”

From the crunching sensation and the strong, complex flavor and texture, he was sure this was some sort of meat, fried in hot oil of some type. And spicy it was, with hints of cinnamon, pepper, and capsicum … and maybe a touch of something like lemony cardamom? “Very good. I like it. Here, try my… um, marinated uljuru, which I think is some kind of worm-type creature.”

He watched with seeming casualness as she scooped one up, popped it in her mouth, and chewed. Her eyes flew wide, but she did finish swallowing before she went for her glass. “Holy cow that’s hot! HOT hot!” She paused, then suddenly laughed. “Well, that will teach me to underestimate you! You’ve got a more asbestos-lined mouth than I do!”

“My best friend when I was young, Marisol, had a heritage of Indian-Mex cooking going back generations, and she would try to give me something I couldn’t eat — it was a sort of friendly contest. For my part, of course, I refused to admit that anything she brought was too hot, so I developed quite a cast-iron palate.”

“Holy cow,” she repeated, now on her second glass of water. “You could’ve probably given Sydney a run for her money.” The wistful note was very faint, but he could still hear it. Another Hyperion memory.

That rang another bell. “May I ask you something?”

“You can ask anything, Simon. Can I have another of those?”

“Of course,” he said, taking one himself and enjoying the tingling burn. “Back in our little conference, I was quoting DuQuesne in saying that the Arena seems almost tailor-made for your people, and I noticed a little… change in your expression. What was that about?”

She seemed to be taking the second uljuru much better; perhaps the first had numbed her mouth. “That, Simon, is… something we might actually want more privacy for. Back at our Embassy, if not all the way back to Earth. Let’s just say that it’s maybe more the other way around.”

That they were made for the Arena? Yes. That fit with his internal sense, even though he did not have that Olympian perception active. “Very well, we can discuss that at a later time. But perhaps you can tell me something of what you’ve done since Hyperion?”

“I could bore you for hours on that topic, Simon,” she said.

The rest of the meal passed swiftly, and Simon found he was very much enjoying it. Oasis had a quick wit, a ready laugh, and despite her warning of boredom had lived an exciting life, helping Saul Maginot clean up the occasional but often very dangerous fringes of the otherwise peaceful Solar System of the late 24th century.

Finally, the two of them rose and went to the overlook, gazing out over the Dock several hundred feet below. She had taken his hand and was talking about what she saw. “… and that’s actually a Tensari cruiser; they’re not much into military stuff, but they do have a few — I think it’s still Tantimorcan design, but the decoration’s pure Tensari. That little one in between the two big cargo transports, that’s someone’s personal flyer; the general design looks like it could be Vengeance but I can’t be sure. Now, looking down towards Nexus Arena, we can –”

She broke off, and her face had gone stark pale.

Following her gaze, he had a quick impression of a tall figure, human or very humanoid, wearing a white suit of some sort. But before he could get a better look, the figure was swallowed up by the crowd.

His hand was empty, and she was already halfway to the stairs, at the stairs, running down them, flying down them at a speed he simply could not match. “Oasis!” he called, trying to catch her, “Oasis, what is it?”

She was a blur, leaping from one side to the other of the spiral stair, sliding down the banister and then bounding to the other side, making the other patrons going up or down the staircase seem frozen in place. Oasis reached the bottom before he — fast as he could run — was more than a quarter of the way down.

Panting with the exertion, he finally burst out onto the Dock, looking around, searching the crowd. He saw a flash of red hair in the distance, forced his now-aching legs into a sprint, weaving between Daelmokhan workers and Milluk tourists and a Chirofleckir businessman, until he finally came into sight of her, slowing down, feet unwillingly going to a walk and, at last, a stunned, immobile stillness.

“Oasis, what is wrong?” he demanded as he finally reached her.

“I… don’t know,” she said after a moment. “Did you… see anything, when I was looking?”

“A person — which could have been, or not been, a human — in some kind of white outfit, clothes and hat. But I could not even confidently say what kind of outfit, let alone whether it was being worn by a human being.”

“I swear it was…” She trailed off. “But that isn’t possible.”

“Why? Who did you think you saw?”

Her smile was fragile now, like a cracked crystal goblet. “Someone… someone who not only should be dead,” she said in a shaken whisper, “but technically wasn’t even ever alive.”

 

1636: The Ottoman Onslaught – Snippet 46

1636: The Ottoman Onslaught – Snippet 46

If the 1st Brigade collapsed, Mike’s whole battle plan went up in smoke. He’d have no choice but to bring the rest of his division back across the Isar in the hope that he could keep von Taupadel and Higgins and their men from being slaughtered. Whether he could do that in time…

Was another gamble, and one with fairly long odds against success. That was the reason he’d decided to stay at the ford on the Isar just downstream of Moosburg, while he sent the 3rd Brigade and most of the 2nd Brigade up the river to find the ford that Colonel Engler was holding for them. Mike was keeping the Gray Adder regiment with him, to provide cover for the 1st Brigade if they needed to retreat from Moosburg and cross over the Isar.

That would leave the entire Third Division strung out for miles along the banks of the Isar, from the ford below Moosburg to the ford between Moosburg and Freising. Strategically that would leave him with a mess, since he’d be on the wrong side of the river for an assault on Munich. But if the 1st Brigade was broken at Moosburg he’d have a much more pressing tactical mess on his hands, and the fact that most of his forces would now be across the river from Piccolomini’s army would put them in a good defensive position. With Heinrich Schmidt coming south with the SoTF National Guard, Mike was sure that Piccolomini wouldn’t risk making an assault on the Third Division across the river. He’d just withdraw up the north bank of the Isar and take up defensive positions at Freising or somewhere south of there.

So Mike wasn’t likely to face a disaster no matter what happened. But if his plans failed, he’d have led his army into a pointless and brutal killing field due to his own over-confidence. Jimmy Andersen and hundreds of other soldiers would wind up in graves whose headstones might as well read Here lies a good man, killed because his commanding general was a cocksure jackass.

Maybe the worst of it was that Mike might kill hundreds more of his men because he was still gambling like a cocksure jackass.

He’d know by nightfall, one way or the other.

Bavaria, on the Isar river between Moosburg and Freising

Thorsten Engler didn’t think he’d ever in his life felt quite as much relief as he did while watching Colonel Amsel’s Dietrich Regiment coming across the bridge onto the north bank of the Isar. Within minutes, the infantrymen were taking positions behind the fieldworks that the flying artillery had hurriedly set up.

And, naturally, complaining bitterly that the fieldworks were just the sort of ramshackle crap that you’d expect lazy and pampered artillerymen to set up, while the infantry set about correcting all that was wrong, subtracting all that was useless, and adding almost everything that would actually do any good if it came to a real fight.

Very satisfying for them it was, no doubt — and the flying artillery couldn’t have cared less. Insults from infantrymen were of no more moment than mist in the morning or the chattering of tiny rodents. Who cared?

What Thorsten did care about was that by the time the Dietrich Regiment had taken positions and the Lynx Regiment began coming across, there was no longer any realistic prospect that the Bavarians could overwhelm the flying artillery even if they did finally arrive in force. Which —

They still hadn’t. In fact, so far as Thorsten could determine, the Bavarians remained completely unaware that the Third Division had — in almost the literal sense of the term — stolen a march on them.

****

That blissful ignorance — blissful for the Third Division, at any rate — ended a little after noon. Alex Mackay, accompanied by a small party of his cavalrymen, came cantering across a field toward the new fieldworks. By the time he arrived, both Thorsten and Brigadiers Derrflinger and Schuster had ridden out to meet him.

“They finally spotted us,” Mackay reported, twisting in his saddle and gesturing to the rear with his hat. He did so in the effortless manner of someone who’d been riding horses since he was a boy and had been a cavalryman his entire adult life.

“We encountered a Bavarian cavalry patrol about half a mile back. There was no clash, though. Clearly enough they’d already spotted your fieldworks. As soon as they saw us they took off. They’ll be giving a report to Piccolomini within the hour.”

“All good things come to an end,” said Thorsten. His tone was philosophical, however. By then, the Lynx Regiment had extended the fieldworks further down the Isar in both directions, a good half of the Yellow Marten regiment had crossed the bridge and the White Horse Regiment had arrived and was waiting its turn.

They’d be waiting for a while, though, because the field artillery units were also arriving and Derfflinger and Schuster were both determined to get them across the Isar as soon as the Yellow Marten finished its crossing.

Derfflinger took off his hat. He did so neither to point with it nor to give his head some respite — the temperature was quite pleasant that day — but to swat away some insects. The advantage to riding a horse was that it rested a man’s legs; the disadvantage was that the great beasts invariably attracted pests.

“It looks as if the general’s gamble will pay off,” he said. “Between you and me and the flies, I had some doubts for a while there.”

“Never a dull day in the Third Division,” said Schuster agreeably. The statement was patently ridiculous — the Third Division had as many days of tedium and routine as armies always did. But all four men gathered there just north of the Isar understood the sentiment.

Bavaria, on the north bank of the Amper river

Just west of Moosburg

“You’re certain, captain?” Piccolomini demanded. “Absolutely certain?”

The cavalry officer nodded firmly. “We got a very good look at them, General. We were there for at least five minutes before their cavalry patrol spotted us.” He nodded toward the slip of paper in Piccolomini’s hand. “I made those notes right there on the spot, sir. There’s a lot of guesswork, I grant you, but I’m positive about the essence of the report. The enemy has several thousand men on the north bank of the Isar.

He gestured toward the southwest. “About three, maybe four miles that way, sir. Not too far from the village of Langenbach.”

Piccolomini squinted in the direction the man was pointing. The narrowed eyes weren’t due to sunlight, of which precious little made its way into the interior of the tavern, but to thought.

Not much thought, however. It was now quite obvious what Stearns had done. He’d trusted in the forces he’d left in Moosburg to hold the Bavarian army at bay while he made a forced march, forded two rivers — or rather, forded the Isar in both directions — in order to place most of his troops across Piccolomini’s line of retreat.

The maneuver was bold to the point of being foolhardy. Piccolomini would never have even considered it, himself.

But… blind luck or not, the maneuver had succeeded in its purpose. Piccolomini now had no choice but to retreat south of Freising — and he’d have to do so in a forced march himself, in order to skirt the forces Stearns had gotten across the river.

Grimly, he contemplated his options. They were… not good. After fighting hard for two days, his men had suffered a lot of casualties. Not as many as the Third Division — although today’s fighting had evened the score quite a bit, since the Bavarians had been the ones fighting on the offensive. But between those losses and the rigors of a forced march which would last at least two days, Piccolomini knew perfectly well that his men wouldn’t be able to fight another battle a few days from now at Freising.

They might be “able,” but they certainly wouldn’t be willing. His men were all mercenaries and they’d be disgruntled. Already were disgruntled, he didn’t doubt. Piccolomini could and certainly would claim that he’d won a tactical victory here at Zolling. But mercenaries didn’t care much about such ways of scoring victories and losses. They’d fought — fought hard — and bled a lot, and a number of them had died. And what did they have to show for it?

Nothing beyond a march back to Munich, the same city they’d marched out of just a few days before. They’d be sullen, and Duke Maximilian — whose temper was always unpredictable these days — might very well discharge Piccolomini before they even reached Bavaria’s capital.

So be it. Piccolomini had probably burned his bridges with the Austrians when he’d accepted Maximilian’s offer, but there was still Spain. With all the turmoil their cardinal-now-pope Borja had stirred up in Italy, there were bound to be employment opportunities.

Perhaps France, though… With this new King Gaston on the throne and what looked like a possible civil war in the making…

“What are your orders, General?”

Pulling himself out of his ruminations, Piccolomini looked around and saw that most of his adjutants had gathered around by now. He tossed the slip of paper onto the table in the middle of the tavern.

“We have to retreat. Back to Munich. Make sure the ford we’ve used is well-defended. I doubt if the USE forces in Moosburg will make a sally, but it’s always possible. Once we’re back across the Amper –”

****

On his way out of the tavern, Piccolomini stopped for a moment to study the leather strip someone had used to repair the door.

Then, shook his head. “He just got lucky, that’s all,” he muttered to himself, and went to find his horse.

Wondering, all the while, whether he really believed it.

 

1635: The Wars For The Rhine – Snippet 28

1635: The Wars For The Rhine – Snippet 28

Chapter 14

Field Headquarters of the archbishop of Cologne

September 2, 1634

To Franz von Hatzfeldt, Bishop of Würzburg

From Melchior von Hatzfeldt, Count and General of the Holy Roman Empire

Dear Franz

I have accepted taking charge of Bonn, and I shall begin negotiations with Hesse on the town’s behalf as soon as contact is made. Kindly inform the archbishop that you, my brother, are the only person I shall acknowledge as speaking on behalf of the archdiocese in those negotiations.

Loving regards from your brother,

Melchior

Archbishop Ferdinand of Cologne crumbled the letter in his hands and hissed.  “Has Franz seen this?”

“No, Your Honor. I thought a message from Bonn would be so important that Your Honor should see it immediately.” Otto Tweimal cringed and smiled, and wondered once again if it was time to find another employer. Being secretary to the newly appointed Prince-Bishop of Würzburg had offered all kinds of opportunities for power and grafts, and the exile at the archbishop’s palace in Bonn also the hope of an even better position there. But now? A failing power was not worth cultivating, and military life was far from his taste.

“Your Honor,” Felix Gruyard had been reading over the archbishop’s shoulder, “with three of your colonels back, Bishop Franz von Hatzfeldt isn’t really needed here. I suggest he is sent off to Cologne after reinforcements; with, of course, an escort.”

“No, he is going to Mainz after that turncoat to Anselm von Wambold. Pick the escort from my personal guard, they leave within the hour.” The archbishop banged his fist against the table in anger, and rose from his chair.

“Your Honor, it might be better not to tempt von Hatzfeldt into joining …”

“Pick an escort that’ll see to it he doesn’t. Herr Tweimal, place yourself at Gruyard’s immediate disposal. Franz von Hatzfeldt no longer needs your service.”

* * *

Cologne, Hatzfeldt House

September 2, 1634

To Colonel Hermann von Hatzfeldt, Hatzfeldt House, Town of Cologne

From Melchior von Hatzfeldt, Count and General of the Holy Roman Empire

Dear Hermann,

I accomplished nothing in Munich and little in Vienna, and returned to Bonn on top of an attack from Hesse. Archbishop Ferdinand has left Bonn, along with Franz and the mercenary cavalry. I have accepted taking charge of the town, but there is nothing I can do to stop Bonn from falling once the Hessian artillery gets here, and I shall begin negotiations as soon as contact is made, both with Hesse and the USE.

The information as I write is: major contingent of Hessian cavalry came down Sieg and took Beuel. They are as I write crossing the Rhine near Vesseling. Only minor number of infantry (mounted) with them. Artillery expected to arrive soon, probably from Frankfurt, but may also come from Essen and thus reach Cologne first.

Please spread the news among our contacts and warn the council of Cologne. If you can get a mandate from them, and contact the USE before Hesse encircles Cologne, we might be able to pull something off for the entire area, including the family estates and perhaps even Würzburg.

Your loving brother,

Melchior

“Oh dear,” Lucie von Hatzfeldt, looked across the table at her youngest brother, “I hoped the refugees exaggerated, and it was just a minor force aimed at stopping the archbishop’s wild schemes. But if Melchior doesn’t think so … Do you think the Hessians could conquer Cologne?”

Hermann shrugged. “Their entire army could close off the town, and given enough artillery they could breach the walls. It would either take a very long siege or be extremely costly in men, but it could be done.” He shrugged again and rose from his chair. “I’ll pick up young Count Palatine Friedrich von Zweibrücken, and go see the council; they’ll be in session all night. Please find the letters Father Johannes wrote from Fulda, and make notes of the Americans he mentioned in Mainz and Frankfurt.”

* * *

Beuel, Hessian Field Headquarters

Archdiocese of Cologne

September 2, 1634

To whom it may concern, Hessian Field Headquarters, Archdiocese of Cologne

From Melchior von Hatzfeldt, Count and General of the Holy Roman Empire

On behalf of the Town of Bonn I, Melchior von Hatzfeldt, Count and General of the Holy Roman Empire, have opened negotiations with the United States of Europe concerning said Town’s inclusion among said States. In view of this I hope for an end to hostilities, but also inform that I have accepted taking charge of the Town of Bonn, and shall defend it to the uttermost of my abilities.

By my hand and under my seal,

Melchior von Hatzfeldt

Duke Wilhelm of Hesse carefully refolded the parchment. This wasn’t good. That the initial attack across the Rhine had failed to take and hold the river-walls of Bonn was not a problem; it would have made things simpler, but no one counted on un-supported cavalry taking a fortified town.

Having General von Hatzfeldt as an opponent was bad, but at least he wasn’t leading his regiments, and von Uslar could surely beat those mercenaries the archbishop had hired. Having Bonn — or any other part of the Archdiocese of Cologne — independently join the USE was on the other hand totally unacceptable.

Having the entire area between Hessen and Cologne more or less up for grab after the removal of both Georg Wilhelm of Brandenburg and Wolfgang of Jülich-Berg was surely a God-given opportunity, but it would all be worth next to nothing unless he could get the rich trading center of Cologne too. If the Hessian army could take Cologne, the emperor would surely give him Berg and Mark too. It had been necessary to promise De Geer parts of Mark as well as several other concessions in order to get the Hessian infantry access to the Rhine, but Gustavus Adolphus would consider it a small price to pay for removing the last fully Catholic enclave in the west. If, however, the Archdiocese of Cologne — or parts of it — joined the USE on its own, Hesse stood to lose quite a lot of face and favor. He had long been one of the emperor’s favorites, and considering his long and loyal service it was unlikely he would get into serious trouble for anything less than treason. Still, when Amalie had attempted to get the guardianship of the Jülich-Berg heir, Axel Oxenstierna’s reaction had made it perfectly obvious Hessen had seriously over-stepped their privileges and that any further presumptions would be slapped down.

So, a second misstep could remove him from his status as one of the emperor’s most trusted German allies, which meant that it had to be a victory. Bringing in a new area by negotiation would not do now. It was too late to stop von Hatzfeldt’s messengers, but he would have at least a month before orders could arrive from Magdeburg.

“Rutgert, send a troop to find out what’s keeping the cannons and where. Also, I want the artillery bastions around Bonn built first.”

“Bonn?” The lieutenant serving as secretary looked up from the American style writing-board, and looked puzzled.

“Yes, Bonn. Move all the building teams there, and have Colonel Brenner plan for all the cannons from Frankfurt to be placed around Bonn first; I want the town in rubble within a fortnight.”

* * *

Mainz

September 12, 1634

To whom it may concern in USE administration

From Melchior von Hatzfeldt, Count, General and Agent Plenipotentiary of the Holy Roman Empire

With the power granted me by the Council and People of Bonn I, Melchior von Hatzfeldt, hereby apply, on behalf of the Town of Bonn, for the opening of negotiations concerning said Town’s inclusion in the United States of Europe.

By my hand and under my name and seal,

Melchior von Hatzfeldt

Bennett Norris looked up at the big, rough-looking man standing in front of his desk. “Herr Karl Mittelfeld, the CoC in Mainz vouches for you as a committee member in good standing from Bonn.”

The big man nodded and shifted his weight, making Bennett remember his limp, and gesture him towards the chair.  “Do you know the content of this letter?” Bennett continued.

“It’s from General von Hatzfeldt, who’s been given command of Bonn to deal with an attack from the Hessian army, Herr Norris. Bonn is asking to join the USE. The general’s brother, Colonel Hermann von Hatzfeldt, is here with a similar letter from Cologne, but your soldiers didn’t want to let him through to you. The general said to me to say to you that your mother-in-law, Andrea Hill in Fulda, has told his friend, Father Johannes the painter, that the Americans want people to join them instead of being conquered. The councils of Bonn and Cologne want to do so, but the Hessians must be stopped, while a deal is made.”

“I see. And I shall act upon this. Thank you for bringing me this letter. Will you remain in Mainz?”

“I’m taking another letter to the general’s brother, Heinrich von Hatzfeldt, at the Church of St. Alban. He will find a place for me to stay until you can give me a letter to bring back to Bonn.”

“Fine.” Bennett smiled a little. “I usually see Domherr Heinrich von Hatzfeldt several times a week anyway; at least we will now have a new subject to debate.”

When the big man had limped out the door Bennett Norris sat a while staring at the letter without seeing it. A lifetime of small town administration combined with civic duties on school and church boards had not prepared him for this. The year he had spent as the Grantville liaison to the Council of Jena, while Marian, his wife, had trained the nurses at the hospital, had taught him to work with the German version of bureaucracy, but being an inspector of the upcoming elections was as much as he had volunteered for. Not this. Heading the NUS administration in Mainz was supposed to have been a brief stay while the permanent staff recovered from a bad bout of food poisoning, but those who had not died were still bedridden.

Bennett put his head in his hands and groaned. He really, really, really did not want to make decisions about wars.

 

Challenges Of The Deeps – Chapter 20

Challenges Of The Deeps – Chapter 20

Chapter 20.

“Orphan, we’re being followed.”

The tall alien was beside her almost instantly. “Are you certain, Ariane Austin?”

“Pretty sure. See these returns? And using the rear telescopes I thought I saw a couple glints where that cloudbank thinned out.”

Orphan straightened, stroking his headcrest in the way he often did when thinking. “This is an excellent place for an ambush. We are actually heading for another of the Sky Gates that — as far as I am aware — only I know of. But we will be passing quite near the usual gateway used by traffic in this region of the Arena.”

“Prep the weapons, then?”

“Best to do so, yes. I would rather not fight anyone, but please, ready us. I will take the main board, Ariane. If you would be so kind as to take the secondary, there? Yes. I will give control of the vessel to you, so that in the event of emergency you can use your superlative piloting instincts to our benefit.”

She grinned, feeling a surprisingly welcome tension spreading through her. Good Lord, am I so bored that potentially being in another Arenaspace battle sounds fun to me? I guess I am. That’s pretty pathetic, Ariane. “On it, Orphan.”

Wu Kung bounced up. “I will take one of the turrets, DuQuesne! These are not as fun as a real fight, but at least I can do something.”

“You have indeed learned how to operate them,” Orphan agreed. “However, I must impress upon you the need to minimize your impulsiveness. As I said, I wish to avoid conflict if possible.”

“I understand,” Wu answered. “I will not touch the weapons unless you say it is time. I promise.”

“Good enough,” DuQuesne said. “You take this panel, I’ll take the other.”

For a few minutes, they continued cruising through Arenaspace, now in a skyscape of red-and-purple clouds dimly visible in the wan light of whatever luminaires might be hidden in the far distance. A massive accretion of sky-rubble, accumulated from the castoff materials of who knew how many Upper Spheres, drifted in the middle distance, a jagged, irregular silhouette of black against the magenta and crimson background. A layer of white cloud lay below, streaming slowly across their course. Ariane thought she could see faint, darting movements in the distance — perhaps zikki or one of their smarter relatives.

Then the faint shapes on the radar display began to close in, their outlines to become sharper. Even as she turned to notify Orphan, she saw another set appear on the forward radar. They’re jetting out from behind that accretion! “Ambush, Orphan! Forward and aft, spreading laterally.” Another set of returns. “Crap. Some coming out of the cloud layers above and below, relative to our own orientation.”

“Well-organized pirates, indeed,” Orphan said. “If so, however, they will contact us shortly. Pirates, after all, prefer to take their prizes intact. How many do we have, and estimates on size or class?”

“Let me take a look,” DuQuesne said. At her glance, he winked. “I’ve got a little more experience in this than you, Ariane.”

Orphan gave him a puzzled look. “A single prior battle, impressive though it was, is not a tremendous amount of experience, Doctor.”

“Who said it was my only prior experience?”

Orphan began to reply, stopped, studied him, then did the expansive wing-shrug. “Carry on, then.”

“Lessee… total count is… eight vessels. Judging by size, maneuvers they’re making, I’d put five of them in something like a swift attack boat class; they’re not very big, but they’re fast and maneuverable and probably pack a punch. One of the ones coming out ahead is hanging back quite a bit, she’s a lot bigger than the others, probably the mothership or at least a mobile HQ; not maneuvering fast so a carrier-type, probably a converted cargo ship, looks about half to three-quarters the size that we are, or that our disguise looks to be anyway. Other two aren’t small and they’re in between in acceleration, so I’m guessing they’re frigate or destroyer class — hope that’s translating well for you.”

“Eminently well, Doctor. Two powerful but smaller military vessels, several much smaller attack craft, and the main vessel. Ranges?”

“The main ship’s about fourteen hundred kilometers away,” Ariane answered. “The destroyer-types, about five hundred kilometers — one above and below. The fast-attack boats started farther away but they’ve accelerated, they’ll be within four hundred kilometers very soon.”

“Very good.” Orphan’s head tilted, then he gave his assenting handtap. “Exactly as expected, I see a transmission. Now, all of you, remain silent. The onboard transmitters will focus on me, and make the rest of you look like members of my species, but do not strain this rather stupid automation any more than necessary.”

“Got it,” said DuQuesne, and Ariane nodded. Wu Kung acknowledged the command by miming a zipped-lip motion and grinning silently.

Without a pause, the display area of the forward port lit up, showing a powerfully-built creature with a head reminiscent of a monitor lizard, but with eyes on the sides of the head and a horizontally-opening jaw. “This is Shipmaster Bos Arbsa, on the Jewel of Night. If you are uncertain, that would be the large ship nearly directly ahead of you on your current course. My fleet has you completely boxed in. Please reduce your current vector until you are at rest with respect to Jewel of Night.”

It was startling the transformation that came over Orphan in that instant. With scarcely a movement, somehow the fluid, dramatic Leader of the Liberated was suddenly rigid, cold, expressionless. His wingcases showed neither tension nor excitement. “This is Dranlu, a Madon-class freighter of the Blessed to Serve. You will stand aside. You will not attempt to board or approach this vessel. The Minds of the Blessed will not tolerate piracy upon our vessels.”

Ariane had gained enough cross-species experience to recognize the momentary discomfiture of the Shipmaster; as one of the Great Factions, the Blessed were not to be crossed lightly. However, it was, indeed, only momentary. “We recognize the power of the Blessed. But I put it to you that even the Minds themselves cannot seek revenge when they know nothing of the crime.” The jaws parted in what somehow looked to Ariane like a cruel grin. “Which — to your great misfortune — means that I can make no offer to spare your lives. I am completely familiar with the capabilities of the Madon-class freighters, and their armed variants. Formidable, but insufficient. Make your farewells to your crippled computational masters.” The transmission cut off.

“So much for talking,” Ariane said. “They’re closing in to weapons range. Orders, Orphan?”

Orphan sighed. “Alas, we do wish our presence here secret. Yet I cannot see any way to defeat these pirates without revealing that this ship is far more than it is.”

DuQuesne nodded. “So we take ’em apart as fast as we can.”

“Primaries?”

“Not immediately,” Orphan said. “If by poor fortune any of these escape, I would rather they not also carry news of our new weapons.” Ariane saw his pose shift and knew that Orphan was, in his own way, smiling with a sharp and deadly certainty. “And it is they who do not realize what they have ambushed.”

“Missiles inbound!”

“Activate point-defense cannon emplacements… seven and twelve,” Orphan said. “These would fit with a Madon military transport variant, and should protect us sufficiently for the first salvo or two, before the remainder of their fleet gets in range.”

“You want to sucker them in,” DuQuesne said in an approving tone. “Get them close so that when our disguise comes apart they’re way too close to get away.”

“Perfectly correct. For now, return fire with main turret four, Wu Kung, and DuQuesne, missile batteries three and five. That accords with the expected armament, and if you use them well, our adversaries may already be significantly damaged by the time they realize that their trap has become ours. When I give this sign,” Orphan gestured widely with both arms and wings, “you may open fire with every weapon at our disposal except the ‘primary beams’, as you call them.”

Ariane was already maneuvering to avoid the incoming fire, to confuse enemy targeting. In keeping with their assumed identity, she was throttling the acceleration and maneuverability of Zounin-Ginjou down drastically. This wasn’t easy; it was like trying to make one of Grandfather’s old classic sportscars behave like a broken-down clunker when the steering, engine, and transmission were all tuned for high performance. She concentrated, imagining that she was steering not a ship but a whale, a slow, majestic creature that would respond to her commands only with the same ponderous, considered movement.

The fast-attack vessels closed the distance, but even her comparatively slow maneuvers were enough to force them to adjust their courses; this was not like space, where vacuum would allow nigh-infinite range and where stealth was impossible; Zounin-Ginjou under Ariane’s guidance found drifting haze ahead that blurred her outline, made the smartest missiles that could work in the Arena confused, forced them to go to infra-red tracking that could in turn be confused with tailored flare signals.

Point-defense cannon whined and spat their own shotgun-defense of destruction at incoming missiles, shredding or vaporizing the weapons. Two passed the point defense but were thrown off-course, exploding some distance from Zounin-Ginjou; even so, Ariane heard the detonations faintly, felt the vibration in the hull. “They’re getting the range, Orphan!”

“Understood, Ariane Austin. But their vessels are nearly in position!”

She could not restrain her own fierce grin as she saw Orphan was right. As the fast-attack craft began their next attack run, the destroyer-sized vessels launched a large salvo of missiles, far larger than their two embattled point-defense assemblies could manage; but they were now less than two hundred kilometers away.

Spears of energy cut through the thin armored shell that formed the disguise around Zounin-Ginjou, and hypersonic cannon shells stitched a line of holes along the false engine housing. “Surrender,” came the voice of Bos Arbsa. “Your main engine is damaged, and you are — Voidbuilders’ Curse!”

Orphan had given the signal, and DuQuesne and Wu Kung’s fingers flew across their boards, then gripped and tightened on firing handles.

A fury of incandescent destruction lashed across the heavens, a full battery of main guns targeting each of the seven luckless vessels that had reached close-combat distance even as the multiple secondaries and point-defense emplacements raked the sky with fire and screaming hypersonic metal to erase incoming salvos without a trace.

The five fast-attack vessels stood no chance at all; Ariane, no longer needing to maneuver for the moment, sat open-mouthed as the gunships were literally erased, firepower sufficient to put holes through full-sized battleships focused on vessels not even a tenth the length or a thousandth the mass of Zounin-Ginjou. The destroyers did not disappear, but the combination of triple beams of main energy cannon and a salvo of missiles shattered them to useless, lifeless hulks in mere seconds.

Shattered, too, was the fragile disguise covering Orphan’s flagship, now falling away in tattered fragments. “Bring all three primary turrets to bear on Jewel of Night, Doctor DuQuesne, Son Wu Kung.”

“Who are you? The Blessed do not send stealth vessels against pirates!” The pirate captain sounded outraged, his translated voice practically screaming this isn’t fair!

“Alas, Captain Bos Arbsa, you have had the most terrible misfortune to fall afoul of Zounin-Ginjou and the Survivor,” Orphan said, and his light words were spoken in a cold tone that sent a tiny shiver down Ariane’s spine.

Bos Arbsa froze. “Oh no,” he said, a completely human reaction from such a monstrous face. “My apologies, Survivor! We will withdraw!” Even through the blurring of everything but the creature’s face, Ariane could see he was making quick, desperate gestures to his unseen crew.

“I was attempting a quiet, unmarked transit through this area of space,” Orphan continued, not even directly acknowledging the other’s words. “Now you have forced me to destroy my — you will admit — most convincing camouflage.”

Ariane saw that Jewel of Night was moving away — but not directly away, diverting to the side. “Orphan…”

“I see, Ariane Austin. Very interesting.” He looked back to the screen, and his voice was still light, empty, and cold. “I am afraid, Captain, that — like yourself — I can afford no witnesses to this conflict.” DuQuesne’s face was set in stone, as was Wu Kung’s; she saw that they had directed another salvo of fire at the remains of the two destroyers, which disintegrated to nothing but clouds of debris, no fragment large enough to show individually on the radar.

Ariane suddenly guessed what Orphan obviously already had; the reason Jewel of Night was maneuvering in the direction it was had to be that its captain knew of an uncharted Sky Gate, one close enough to afford a chance of escape if Jewel of Night could stay far enough from Zounin Ginjou. With concealment no longer an issue, she swung the battleship around with such acceleration she could hear faint creaking noises transmitted through the hull, and let the engines roar to full power, Zounin-Ginjou now thundering through the air of the Arena at an ever-increasing pace.

The other captain’s voice was still shaken, but regaining some of its bravado. “A good disguise, and a costly one, but you won’t get my own flagship, Survivor. You are faster, but you will not close the range fast enough.”

“I must, regretfully, disagree. Goodbye, Captain.” Orphan nodded to DuQuesne.

A triple salvo of intolerable brilliance annihilated the darkness of the Deeps, blazed its way in a fraction of a second to, and completely through, Jewel of Night. For an instant the stricken pirate mothership shuddered, faltering, and then with an eye-searing detonation vanished as damage reached its main superconducting storage coils.

Orphan stood still, watching the explosion and fire fade away, blazing pieces of wreckage careening through the endless deeps. He hesitated, then sighed, a sound amplified by his spiracles into a mournful hoot. “Gentlemen, if you would… complete the job.”

DuQuesne and Wu nodded and the unstoppable fire of the primaries eradicated all traces of Jewel of Night.

“You seem… bothered by this, Orphan,” Ariane said finally.

“Hm? And you are not, Captain Austin?”

“Well… yes. You know that from our last engagement. Fighting back is fine, but wiping out every trace, even possible survivors…”

“Your feelings are commendable, Captain. And not unexpected, given the outcome of our last battle together. But in this case… I dare not let this secret out, neither the secret of my possible destination, nor that of our weapons. I can take no chance on even a single survivor.”

“You’ve been at war with the Blessed — and sometimes others — for thousands of years, Orphan,” she said. “I’m not asking why you’re doing this — though I’d have a hard time giving that order — but why you are bothered by it. They did attack us, and after they thought you were Blessed, were going to wipe us all out; you had little reluctance before about vaporizing all the Blessed survivors.”

“Ah. Yes, I see the dissonance.” He looked out the forward port. “Continue on Jewel of Night‘s prior course. I would like to mark the location of its Sky Gate for later investigation. It is, of course, theoretically possible that its last maneuvers were meant to distract us from a more distant observer craft, but I would lay immense odds against that for many reasons.”

Orphan turned back to her. “In answer to your question… In that long struggle you have referred to, Captain, I have done many things. That included being a pirate, to be perfectly honest with you, a pirate who targeted Blessed vessels. I know exactly the fears and hopes that drive such beings, and the horror they must have felt to know that they had so terribly underestimated their prey. And even more, the despair of knowing that this time, their quarry would not be satisfied with anything other than their complete annihilation.” He looked out the port again, but Ariane had the impression he was not seeing anything. “But more… we cannot stay here and quarter space for days, examining every trace of these vessels for any sign of life. It is thus possible, though unlikely, that there are a few survivors, ejected or otherwise escaping the annihilation sent against their vessels.

“In that case, Captain, they will be drifting alone in the endless Deeps, with scarcely a hope in a trillion that there will be rescue or anything but slow death or sudden awaiting them behind the next deceptive veil of mist.” His eyes shifted back to her, and they were dark wells of pain. “And that fear and despair I have lived, once, and would not wish upon even the Minds themselves.”

 

1636: The Ottoman Onslaught – Snippet 45

1636: The Ottoman Onslaught – Snippet 45

Chapter 21

Moosburg

Six miles east of Zolling

For Jeff Higgins and his Hangman Regiment, the second day of the Battle of Zolling started off well and kept going that way — as of eleven o’clock in the morning, at any rate. The 1st Brigade’s commander, von Taupadel, had ordered the Hangman to take positions well inside the town itself and fortify them. If von Taupadel’s three regiments found themselves forced to retreat from their positions on the western outskirts of Moosburg, he wanted them to be able to retreat to the east of the town while being covered by the entrenched Hangman.

Moosburg hadn’t been badly hit by cannon fire, so the Hangman had to build the fortifications partly by tearing down otherwise-undamaged buildings. Jeff felt a bit of guilt over that, but not much. Bavarian troops — more precisely, troops employed by the duke of Bavaria; most of them weren’t Bavarian themselves — had conducted themselves in such a foul manner for years that none of their opponents had any empathy for them or the realm that paid them. Jeff Higgins and most of the soldiers in his regiment understood on some abstract level that the average inhabitant of Bavaria had no control over the actions of Duke Maximilian or the forces he put in the field. That understanding was probably enough to restrain them from committing atrocities against civilians they encountered — of whom there had been a few, including one entire family hiding in a cellar, whom they’d escorted safely out of town. But they would have had to possess a superhuman level of restraint to extend that same mercy to buildings as well. And if that meant that eventually the residents of Moosburg would return and discover that their homes and businesses had been partially or fully wrecked, so be it. Better that, than a righteous and upstanding soldier in the righteous and upstanding army of the righteous and upstanding United States of Europe should have his brains spilled by a musket ball because he hadn’t possessed sufficiently adequate cover when the foul minions of the still-fouler duke of Bavaria launched their assault.

Which they did, right at sunup. But — so far, at least; it was still short of noon — the 1st Brigade was standing its ground. So, the worst that the Hangman faced was some hard labor and suffering some minor casualties: one man’s helmet dented and his senses sent reeling by a canister ball; one man’s cheek sliced open by a piece of splintered stone sent flying by an errant cannon ball; and one man’s leg broken by the collapse of part of a wall that the same cannon ball struck and from which the splinter derived — but it was just his fibula, and a clean break at that.

Bavaria, on the Isar river between Moosburg and Freising

Thorsten Engler had found the night that had just passed rather nerve-wracking, and the following morning had been even worse. He’d decided to have his flying artillery squadron use the ford to cross over the river and establish themselves on the north bank. They’d had no time before sundown to erect fieldworks, however, and he hadn’t wanted to risk doing so thereafter. The moon was almost full but the visibility still wasn’t good enough for soldiers to work.

Besides, Thorsten didn’t want a lot of noise, and there was no quiet way to cut down enough trees to build a bridge big enough for thousands of infantrymen and artillery units to cross over. There had been no sign as yet that they’d been spotted by any Bavarian forces and he wanted to keep things that way. So, once the squadron crossed the river and took positions he had sentries posted and ordered the rest of the men to get some sleep.

They started work just before sunrise, as soon as there was enough daylight to see what they were doing. They were still be making noise, of course, but hopefully the sounds of the battle on the Amper would drown it out. While they worked, Mackay and his cavalrymen maintained patrols that would warn them of any approaching enemies.

There were none, thankfully. Without an infantry shield, Engler and his volley gunners were at a terrible risk. Flying artillery had tremendous offensive power, especially against cavalry. But if they had to go on defense they were more vulnerable than just about any military force. They lacked the ability of infantry to hunker down in defensive positions. A man can fit into a foxhole or a trench or hide behind a tree or even a fencepost; a volley gun and its crew can’t. And they didn’t have the ability of cavalry to just ride away from danger. Volley gun carriages were too clumsy to make good getaway vehicles, and while the horses could be detached and ridden, they had no saddles. There were precious few gunners who could stay on a galloping horse which he was trying to ride bareback.

So, the volley gunners worked like demons until the fieldworks were finally erected, a little after eight o’clock in the morning. Thereafter, they could relax a bit — physically, at least, if not mentally. With the rate of fire experienced volley gun crews could maintain, and fighting behind shelter, they would be extraordinarily hard to overrun unless they ran out of ammunition — and that wouldn’t happen for hours.

By then, of course, the enemy could move up their own light artillery units and once they began firing the squadron would be forced back across the river. Even three-inch guns and six-pounders would quickly reduce the fieldworks they’d been able to erect.

But by then, the bridge would be finished. Unless the 1st Brigade and the Hangman at Moosburg collapsed entirely, forcing Stearns to bring back the other two brigades, the lead infantry regiments from the 2nd and 3rd brigades would have made it to the ford and begun crossing the Isar as well. Thorsten and his engineers had designed the flying artillery’s fieldworks so that some infantry units could take places immediately while other units expanded the fieldworks down either side of the riverbank. By nightfall of that second day of the battle, they’d have a well-nigh impregnable position on the north side of the Isar.

Bavaria, the Isar river

About two miles northeast of Moosburg

Mike Stearns was feeling fairly nerve-wracked himself, a sensation he found particularly aggravating because he was so unaccustomed to it. As a rule, he didn’t worry overmuch. He didn’t have the fabled temperament of Mad magazine’s Alfred E. Neuman — What, me worry? — but he had been blessed with very steady nerves and a sanguine disposition. Since he’d been a boy, his operating assumption as he went about his life’s affairs was that things were generally going to work out well, if for no other reason than that he’d damn well see to it that they did.

Perhaps for that reason, he’d never spent much time gambling. He enjoyed an occasional night of low-stakes poker, but simply because of the social interaction. Before the Ring of Fire, he’d been to Las Vegas twice, on his way to Los Angeles and on his way back. He’d fiddled with the slot machines for a while, on his first trip, more out of mild curiosity than anything else. On his second and final visit, he’d spent about an hour at a blackjack table, despite the fact that he found that particular card game quite boring. He’d done it from a vague sense of obligation that since he’d taken the time to pass through Las Vegas he owed it to someone — maybe himself, maybe the goddess of luck, who could say? — to do some Real Gambling.

So, gamble he had, losing about fifteen dollars in the process. When he walked away from the table he didn’t mind having lost the money but he did mildly regret the waste of his time.

The problem with gambling, from Mike’s point of view, was that a person was voluntarily placing himself at the vagaries of chance. That just seemed monumentally stupid to him. No one except a hermit could get through life without at one point or another — usually more than once — giving up hostages to fortune. But it was one thing to have your destiny kidnapped by forces beyond your control, it was another thing entirely to go looking for the bastards so you could hand yourself over to them.

He felt firmly — had felt firmly — that there were only two circumstances when a person should do anything that rash: when you got married, and when you had children. Even then, the degree to which your fortunes were no longer in your own hands was restricted. You did, after all, get to pick your spouse, so if the marriage turned out sour it was mostly your own screw-up. And you did, after all, occupy the parent half of the parent-child equation, so if your kids wound up being dysfunctional, you were probably the main culprit involved.

And now, on May 15 of the year 1636, Mike Stearns was realizing that he’d just made the biggest gamble of his life. True, he’d thought and still did that the odds were in the Third Division’s favor. Pretty heavily in the division’s favor, in fact. Nevertheless…

There was a chance that the 1st Brigade might collapse under the pressure of the Bavarian assault that had been going on since the day before. Yes, the brigade was a good one, full of veterans of the Saxon campaign, some of whom had been at Ahrensbök as well. True also, they were fighting on the defensive behind solid fieldworks and could always retreat into Moosburg if necessary. True as well, they had the Hangman regiment — probably the division’s best — in reserve.

They were still heavily outnumbered, and facing an army that was also largely made up of veterans and with an experienced and capable commander. So it was a gamble.

 

Challenges Of The Deeps – Chapter 19

Challenges Of The Deeps – Chapter 19

Chapter 19.

Simon stared incredulously for a long, long moment, before his natural politeness asserted itself. “Pardon me. Of course, please sit down.” I’ve just invited a known mass-murderess and part of another faction to eat lunch with me. But perhaps a wiser course than rejecting her.

Relief was visible on the perfect features as Maria-Susanna sat down. “Thanks so much, Simon. I… know you probably haven’t heard good things about me.”

“And some of them are true,” he said. “Most of them, I suspect.”

For just an instant he saw — or, perhaps, sensed, through that strange connection with the Arena — a flash of agony, remorse and anger and confusion. It was gone almost before he saw it, and she simply said, “I… suppose, yes. At least in some sense or another. I won’t argue with you, not now.”

Her eyes were downcast, and he heard a trace of shakiness in the breath she drew before gesturing, with too-casual a movement, for the menu to appear before her. She’s worried. Frightened? A Hyperion? He found a part of him wanting to reach out, take her hand and ask what was wrong.

Oh, this is dangerous. She may not assault me physically here, but already I can feel her effect on me. He recalled her prior appearance, how she had charmed even Ariane, to her confusion… and the furious anger he’d sensed in her, when no one else had seen it.

In that instant he understood. Of course. I had not yet fully admitted the existence of this strange ability, and it was active without my awareness. It gives me a perspective beyond the human, and here, against a woman who is herself beyond human, I am afraid I need that detachment.

Simon concentrated, allowed that godlike perception to trickle in, to elevate his senses and knowledge above those he owned naturally. As he did so, he could suddenly see layers of tension within the woman across from him. It does not let me read minds, but perceiving external signals that I would ordinarily miss, that it can do.

More importantly, he felt that preternatural attraction and sympathy becoming more distant. He could still feel them, but they were no longer gaining a hold on his deeper emotions and perceptions. But they are real. There is an attraction, a fascination, that goes beyond any ordinary emotional reaction. He could, somehow, tell that, even though he could detect nothing objective that would explain the attraction.

But none of that changed the fact that in front of him was a woman who was worried, afraid, a woman to whom such fear would be alien, perhaps was the trigger to make her into the monster he had heard of.

Or… just possibly… the lever to find a way to curing her. Is that possible?

“You could have called me — or anyone — if you wanted,” Simon said finally, as she scanned the menu with the air of someone only half-seeing what was before them. “But you did not. Why?”

Her eyes met his, a flash of deep-sky blue more intense than Ariane’s, and even through the Olympian detachment of his connection to the Arena he could feel the heartrending impact of that sad gaze. “The contact through the Arena… is impersonal, Simon. You know that. No one would have met with me without first preparing, formulating their suspicions, their fears.” She sighed. “And I’m not a danger to you. I’m not! I don’t agree with DuQuesne and some of the others on everything, but I want to save humanity, protect it… it’s… it’s my purpose.”

That much was true, and at the same time trembled on the ragged edge of disaster. To admit she has a real purpose is probably dangerously close to recalling that she was created. “I am not arguing with you, Maria-Susanna. What brought you to me, then, Maria-Susanna of the Vengeance?” He thought it best to remind her that despite her protestations, she was no longer with humanity.

She laughed, and there was a bitter note in that laugh that sent a jolt through Simon. “Just ‘Maria-Susanna’ now, I am afraid. I am no longer a member of the Vengeance.”

My God. “What? But… why?”

“I don’t know!” she snapped. Then she blinked, clenched her fists, and took three deep breaths. To Simon’s oversight, a roiling crest of emotion rose and was just as suddenly damped down. “I don’t know. Selpa ‘A’At called me in, said that the Vengeance felt that my presence was no longer a benefit to the Vengeance, and removed me from the Faction.”

She shook her head slowly, confused, angry, sad, all at once. “He seemed… horrified. By me. Or something associated with me. But I had told him a version of the truth, and he had seemed not to care as long as I posed no threat to his people. Now, suddenly, without warning, I am disposed of.”

“Just like that? Now you have no home, nothing?”

A wan ghost of a smile rose on her face. “Just like that. Oh, I am not a beggar on the streets; he did not begrudge me a very large number of vals for both my service and to pay for the insult and injury of dismissal. But I am now… nobody in the Arena.”

“I am certain there are other factions that would accept you,” Simon said.

“But not my own homeland, I suspect.”

Simon paused, and drove himself higher, looking at Maria-Susanna as he had Vantak during the battle. Is there a solution here? A chance? A way to draw her back from the brink?

Even as he did that, he saw.

Saw the woman before him, younger, without the signs of care or anger, alongside a man in a gold shirt that she looked at with absolute adoration. She traveled with him, fought at his side, tended him in injury, and was in turn tended when she had fallen.

And then the same woman, screaming in horror and denial as she cradled the man’s body in her arms. Denial turned to rage, rage to murderous fury and the first cold-blooded killing, hunting a woman whose features echoed her own through the increasing chaos that had to be Hyperion Station during its fall. The loss of others, hundreds of others, and the mind made to be a support and hero and defender broke, and he could see the pattern of the madness within her, bent inward, self-supporting, self-destroying.

Yes. It could be done. But not by me. Only by someone who knew her well, whose voice could reach her… and only if they said the right words. Still, he now had a grasp of what could be said, what could be done, even if it was very little.

“Perhaps,” Simon said, after what must have been only a fractional pause to Maria-Susanna. “But if you return, you will have to answer for everything you have done. You know that. Even if you justify it to yourself, the law will not have the same view.”

“Yes…” her eyes blanked for a moment, then refocused, with another of those flashes of madness or pain. “Yes, I know. And so I cannot come home. Not now.”

“I’m sorry, Maria-Susanna.”

She looked at him then — really looked at him, not through the lens of her own worries, but with the wide-eyed blue gaze that he had seen in the younger girl. “You mean that. You really are sorry for me, for this… situation.” She smiled, an expression with the force of a cannon of sunshine, and reached out to squeeze his hand. “Thank you, Simon. And… I’m sorry, too. For having misled you, and especially for taking your research without permission. I needed it… but that’s not really a good excuse.” A moment of pained self-awareness. “I’m … good at excuses, though.”

“Given your situation… I won’t hold a grudge,” he said, with a smile and a nod. “Don’t do anything like that again, though.”

“I won’t. I promise, Simon; you’re safe from me — you and your marvelous brain and whatever it invents.” Again another flash of self-awareness, and her other hand convulsively tightened. “You aren’t associated with them, so I can promise that.”

“Them“ being Hyperion, I have to assume. The thought of Hyperion triggered another recall, and he suddenly found himself trying to weigh the dangers of exposing something.

She leaned forward. “What is it, Simon?”

Well, there’s no way I’ll convince her there wasn’t something. And… in all honesty, I would not want to keep this secret from her. “I just remembered something very important that I need to tell you.”

“Important? For me?” She was, for the moment, honestly startled. She knew no one in the Faction of Humanity would have anything they wanted to say to her, barring ‘you’re under arrest’, or possibly something worse. “What is it?”

“Someone’s killing Hyperions, and it isn’t you.”

Maria-Susanna went pale, face now alabaster white. “What? Who?”

“We have not yet identified the culprit. But we do know that he, or she, or it, is responsible for the deaths of at least four Hyperions, and nearly killed DuQuesne as well.”

Her perfect brows drew down and he could suddenly see the resemblance between her and DuQuesne: there was an implacable rage there at any who harmed people she thought of as hers. “Who did this… person kill?”

“I wasn’t given the details — probably wouldn’t recognize their names. DuQuesne and Oasis said it was…” he checked his memory of the conversation to make sure he got it right, “… Johnny, Telzey, D’Arbignal, and Giles.”

I was wrong; now she’s gone white. The beautiful golden-haired woman sagged back in shock. “No. No, not Johnny! Not funny old Giles! I didn’t even know… I thought they were dead already! Oh, DuQuesne, you were hiding them from me, and now they’re gone?” Her color was starting to return, and a hard, cold light was rising in her eyes. “But this enemy found them, even when I hadn’t?”

“Our top suspect… is an escaped Hyperion AI.”

She froze. Not only pale, her hands suddenly shook. “No. No.”

Simon couldn’t ignore that horror. He rose and gently put an arm around her.

Maria-Susanna leaned into him — just for a moment — shuddering. She pulled away, but did not move far enough to take his hand from her shoulder. For long moments, she sat there, still, gazing into an unseeable distance.

At last, she swallowed and nodded. “Thank you, Simon. Thank you very much. Not just for telling me… but for being here, for me, when you owe me nothing. I won’t forget this.”

She rose, taking his hand and squeezing it. “They… might be right about me,” she said, in the quietest whisper. “I… sometimes ask myself if they are. But… I can’t think about that. Not really.”

“Maria –”

“No, don’t. Just… take my thanks. You’ve been very kind, Doctor Simon Sandrisson, and I haven’t had — or earned — much kindness of late.” Her eyes were misty for a moment, then she blinked the incipient tears away. “And thanks to you, I know what I have to do. Again… thank you.”

Without another word, she turned and strode away, quickly weaving through the crowd until she completely disappeared.

She knows where she’s going now. He had no idea how he had led her to the decision, but clearly something about their conversation had given her the direction she had lacked. What Faction will she approach? What is her goal now?

And am I EVER going to get to relax enough to go to sleep?

 

1635: The Wars For The Rhine – Snippet 27

1635: The Wars For The Rhine – Snippet 27

The mayor stopped smiling. “We trust you to make the best of a very bad situation, Herr General. On our own we face either a conquest or a surrender without negotiations. You are the one person here that Hesse is sure to take seriously. Everybody else would just get the terms dictated, but if you stand for Bonn, you’d be listened to. By Hesse and by the USE.” He signed. “We do not like this, Herr General, but last night — after the archbishop left with his soldiers but before we knew you had returned — the council and guilds majority were in favor of applying for membership of the USE. Either as a free town or as part of a province. The Committee of Correspondence is not very vocal in Bonn, but they are here and claim to be able to make the necessary contacts in Mainz. They’ll wait for your orders before leaving; just tell us what you want.”

“Very well.” Melchior took a deep breath and nodded. “I accept the task. I’ll write letters for the USE and for my brothers. Please have two couriers ready aside from the person from the CoC. I’ll see Commander Wickradt about the rest.”

“Certainly, Herr General, and thank you.” The Mayor rose and bowed deeply. “Just … There might be one small limit to your power here in Bonn. Please don’t call the Women’s Militia “The Little Dears” within the hearing of any female; the consequences would be entirely beyond the council’s control.”

* * *

“Ah, General von Hatzfeldt.” Commander Wickradt was standing just beyond the iron-bound tower gate with the sun reflecting from his helmet and breast-plate. “There is some news about the mercenary colonels.”

“Excellent. Please walk with me, Commander, I’m staying for a while and would like to see the toll-tower for myself.” Melchior breathed deeply of the fresh air and looked up at the still hazy sun. The rain clouds from last night were gone and the mist had just been the usual morning mist hanging over the river. Both good and bad. It would make the couriers more visible, but also give earlier warning if the Hessians started moving in on the town.

“So you accepted the council’s offer?” said Wickradt in a much lower voice, as they walked between the half-timbered houses toward the river, their boots making small splashes in the rain puddles.

“Yes, and I’ll be sending off letters as soon as we have spoken. Please leave the western gate open until the couriers have left, but keep men standing by to close immediately if any large parties approach.” Melchior looked around at the wet cobbles sparkling in the sun. He had been a professional soldier for almost twenty years, and had been on the winning as well as losing sides of several sieges. But Bonn was so much a part of his childhood that the thought of blood running over these cobblestones made him feel sick.

“That is already done, General, and they’ll also close the gate if mists gather again to obscure the view of the approach. This time of year that’s entirely possible.” Wickradt had to stretch his shorter legs to keep up with Melchior. “The news I just had were that Butler, MacDonald and Deveroux rode in through the western gate this morning, and left again less than an hour later going west. Felix Gruyard was with them. No sign of Geraldin. Also, the scouts I sent out earlier have returned to tell that the Hessians are crossing near Vesseling, and the road via Bruhl to Cologne is still open.”

“All good, but if Geraldin turns up I’d like to see him.” Melchior stopped before turning into the open area before the toll-tower gate. “How much do they fire from the toll-tower?”

“Not much, I went to the gate yesterday under truce to ask for their surrender. They refused, but we reached an agreement. Neither side sets fires until the town is actually attacked, and they can empty their slop-bucket safely over the outside wall in return for not deliberately targeting civilians. They are native Hessians, well disciplined, and prepared to just hold on until the rest of their force get here. I refused them food and extra water, but offered to let any wounded into care in the town. They replied that none of them were hit in the balls and none were catamites, so they preferred to stay away from Felix Gruyard and the archbishop’s dungeons. I had to admit that I could not guarantee their safety.”

“Very well.” Melchior removed his hat and briefly scanned the tower by leaning round the corner. “No frontal attack on that, and reducing it to rubble only if negotiations fail. Let your wagons roll in to block as much of the gate as possible, and barricade all the streets just out of range. Where else might they attack? I remember the north wall missing some towers.”

“If they can breach the north wall on the middle, they cannot be reached with cannons while entering town. But I’ve concentrated as many cannons there as I dared, so getting close would cost any attackers dearly. The west walls are good, and I’m sure we can beat anything they send at the river walls.”

“Good. Letters next, and I’ll need a place to sleep.”

“Let us walk to the Town Hall.” Wickradt looked sideways at Melchior as they crossed the gutter to walk on the big flat stones set along the middle of the road. “Is there any chance of getting your own regiments here?”

“Not in time.” Melchior looked at the older man walking beside him and decided to be a bit more forthcoming. “I had some both personal and political problems in Vienna last winter, and was given furlough this summer to visit my family and make an evaluation of the military situation in western Germany for the emperor. I went back to report when it became obvious that Archbishop Ferdinand was about to stir things up along this part of the Rhine, but Bavaria is in chaos and the Habsburgs are waiting for the old emperor to die, so no one was willing to interfere.”

“How about the emperor’s heir, Archduke Ferdinand? Couldn’t he do something?”

“Could, yes, but there’s a long way from Austria to Cologne, and at the moment Duke Maximilian of Bavaria is likely to believe that any military movement in this direction is an attack on him. He is already seeing an enemy conspiracy every time somebody sneezes.” Melchior smiled wryly. “At the moment I’m under oath to the old emperor as an imperial count, but only on retainer as a general, while some of my men are hired by me and other by the Holy Roman Empire. I tried to get permission to bring my personal regiments to the west, but in the end I had to accept waiting for the new emperor to take command. My plans must then depend on his plans. If Hesse is still around when the old emperor dies, Wolf, my second-in-command and cousin, should be able to bring my men here. They’ll probably have to move either through Bavaria or along its southern border. Once they get here, we can try to hold as much of this part of the Rhine as possible.” Melchior stopped and lifted his hat in greeting to a vaguely familiar old woman dropping into a curtsy as he passed.

“And if Hesse has conquered Cologne and Bonn? Could your men take them back?” Wickradt looked grim.

“Not on our own. At least not unless we can get the population to rise against Hesse.” Melchior answered. “On the other hand, if Hesse succeeds before Wolf can get here it would leave the Holy Roman Empire fenced in behind Bavaria and entirely dependent on Italy and France. So even if the new emperor would prefer to keep his troops in the East, he might still find it necessary to send them.”

“Even with Bavaria unstable?” Wickradt lifted an eyebrow.

“It would not be an easy choice.” Melchior frowned. “When I left Vienna I didn’t expect to do more here than placate whoever the archbishop had managed to upset, and keep things calm until reinforcements could arrive. Still, Archduke Ferdinand gave me quite a lot of power to counter whatever the archbishop was up to, including plenipotentiary powers to negotiate on the emperor’s behalf in matters concerning the interests of the HRE west of Bavaria. Hesse’s attack across the Rhine came as a complete surprise to me. It makes sense for him to expand his new province into Berg, but any attempt on Cologne I would have expected to come from the south, and Rheinland-Pfalz is simply too divided to do that right now.” Melchior smiled and bowed to another woman curtsying to him before continuing. “I suppose I could take the archbishop’s mercenary regiments and try to stop him by military means — certainly most of my colleagues would do so — but there isn’t much chance I’d be able to succeed. And from the emperor’s point of view a Cologne with a negotiated membership of the USE is very much preferable to a Cologne conquered by Hesse.”

“So you’ll try negotiations.” Wickradt nodded to himself. “Sensible thing to do. With Hesse or above his head?”

“Above, if I can manage it. Gustavus Adolphus must have permitted — or at least accepted — Hesse’s plans.” Melchior stopped and looked at Wickradt. “If you are right about the Jülich-Berg heir being here in Bonn that might enable me to stop Gustavus Adolphus from openly backing Hesse. The baby’s aunt is Gustavus Adolphus’s sister Katharina, and he is said to be most fond of her. And the second most powerful man in the USE is Mike Stearns, an American. My brother Heinrich has been dealing with the Americans in Mainz for the past two years, and my friend, Father Johannes, has lived among them for longer. They have told me that the Americans know the value of a willing ally — or at least semi-willing one — over a conquered area.”

Wickradt scowled. “So all we have to do is keep Hesse at bay, until we get the negotiations opened? Well, we’ll do our best. May I spread the news about you talking charge of the town? There have been a few reports of looters already, and I expect your name would squelch that again.”

“Sure, but do put up a gibbet and don’t expect me to walk on water too.” Melchior slapped his hat against his leather trousers and started composing letters while he walked.