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Challenges Of The Deeps – Chapter 15

Challenges Of The Deeps – Chapter 15

Chapter 15.

“Leader, an urgent communication for you.”

Dajzail looked up from his meal, seeing Kanjstall the Salutant waiting. “That urgent?”

“It is from Fleet Master Alztanza, Leader.”

Home and Hive, that is urgent. With only seven Fleet Masters in the entire One Civilization (that the undercreatures mistakenly called an “empire”), communications from them were rare and always important; and Alztanza himself had been one of Dajzail’s friends since they were young. “I will take it now, then.”

Kanjstall dipped his respect, came forward, and gave him the message crystal. Without being told, Kanjstall dipped again and left. That is why he is my Salutant. I can rely on him utterly.

Placing the crystal in the reader, he was immediately faced by the Fleet Master.

“Dajzail, the Wise and Compassionate,” the Fleet Master began, and Dajzail rippled his manipulators in annoyance. I am not some Hive vaingroom, to be foolishly flattered, especially by a friend. But he reminded himself that the last Leader, Alethkand, had been far less tolerant, and the Fleet Master had learned his communications protocol in those days, well before Dajzail had ascended. Fleet Master Alztanza continued, “the Strong and Just, I greet you. We have vital news for you.”

As he listened, Dajzail forgot entirely about his meal, and felt his manipulators and entire body vibrating for an entirely different reason: fierce joy. Once the message was concluded, he spoke. “Kanjstall,” he said, the green-light ball of Arena communication instantly appearing, “send a message to the Fleet Master, the complete text to be: Report here at once. Then join me in the conferral chamber with the Master of Forces, Master of Homes, and Master of Trade as swiftly as may be.”

Dajzail finished his meal, leaving the bones to be cleaned up later, but he barely noticed the sensation of fullness or savored the taste — a shame, he noted distantly, as Tensari was difficult to come by without inciting difficulty with the undercreatures and should not be treated as mere fuel for a day. But his mind was far too occupied to pay attention to anything else.

The other four Molothos were waiting for him in the conferral chamber as he entered. Kanjstall, small but quick on his claws, dark carapace showing the touch of that green peculiar to those from the original homeworld; Malvchait, Master of Forces, massive, almost completely red with highlights of space-black, a warrior and strategist without equal; Elshuti, Master of Homes, mediant sex currently, a steel gray, hir eye damaged across nearly a quarter of its circle but the rest shining clear and sharp; and Master of Trade Peryntik, fresh from her latest molt, her regenerated forelimb still white-soft.

The four dipped low, their lower carapaces touching the floor; he gestured impatiently with one claw and they rose and locked legs for comfort. “What matter is so urgent, Leader?” asked Malvchait.

“The War of Purity moves forward,” Dajzail said simply.

The others froze momentarily, and then a great hungry screech of fierce joy rose from all four. “We have word, then?”

“Fleet Master Alztanza finally broke the mystery, yes. His analysts sifted all of the data gathered from the high colonies, and finally discovered that the Twinscabbard-class vessel Blessing of Fire had failed to report back after more than four full revolutions. This was of course only one of several lost in that general period, but the timing was good; it would have been out more than one and a quarter revolutions and due to turn back, thus well out into the Deeps on exploration. Fortunately, there were records for the gene-codes for the Masters and Salutants on Blessing of Fire, and once Alztanza had received them, he was able to match them with the body the undercreature DuQuesne taunted us with.”

“We do not know their home-star’s exact location, then?”

Dajzail’s laugh rippled around the room, a sound he knew would sound far from pleasant to most undercreatures. “Oh, but we do, Elshuti. We know — to within a very small degree — the time at which the conflict must have taken place. Thus, Alztanza was able to determine, within an equally small margin of error, how far Blessing of Fire could have traveled in that time, and what the general planned heading of Blessing of Fire was.

“This leaves only one candidate star, a green-central single-unit star not drastically different from our own, which fits with the human-undercreatures’ known illuminance preferences.”

“Are there Forces available on the nearest high colony?” asked Peryntik.

“A Seventh-Force is stationed there.”

Malvchait bobbed up than down, obviously pleased. “Three hundred forty-three warships? That should be more than sufficient for this. I will take control personally, if you so order, Leader.”

“I do wish you, and Alztanza — since it was his discovery — to direct this operation militarily. I will, myself, take command of the Master warship of the operation. However, I do not agree with your initial assessment.”

The leader of the Molothos’ military forces scissored his claws in apologetic confusion. “Truly? I know they have gained some warships –”

“I have watched these undercreatures very carefully,” Dajzail said, and rapped his own fighting claws hard on the table to reinforce his emphasis. “They are dangerous animals. Fortune has favored them multiple times. The warships they were given are from the Survivor, and he is not one to take lightly. The Arena’s announcement showed that two of them managed, in some manner, to defeat the entire complement of Blessing of Fire, perhaps even to destroy the ship itself. That may be — almost certainly was — an event that involved great fortune as well as, or even in place of, great skill, but we cannot know that.

“All we do know is that the human undercreatures have won every single challenge they have faced thus far, defeating the True People, the Blessed to Serve, the Vengeance, and the Warpers of Reality, the Shadeweavers themselves.” He vibrated in violent negation. “No, we shall take no chances. Assemble a full Force at Zeshezan-Katrill, Master of Forces, all seven Sevenths. No, two full Forces. At the same time, assemble a complete Fleet for quick deployment to lowspace. We will not permit them the luxury of safety anywhere. We will assault and take their Upper Sphere. We will secure their Sky Gates for our own use. We shall bring an entire Fleet thence.”

The others rose higher in anticipation.

“And then we will — regardless of cost or time — send that Fleet through their own Sky Gates, come to their very home system, and crush their worlds, and make these undercreatures either the slaves of the True People… or one final, cautionary tale in the history of those who have insulted us!”

 

1635: The Wars For The Rhine – Snippet 23

1635: The Wars For The Rhine – Snippet 23

Chapter 12

Rhine Valley, southern side, between Koblenz and Bonn

September 1, 1634

It was pitch-black and pouring rain by the time Melchior reached the Inn of the Black Goat just outside Godesberg. He had planned to spend the night in Bonn before continuing to Cologne in the morning, but the clouds had gathered on the long desolate stretch of cliffs between Uberwinter and Godesberg, and the resulting darkness had forced him to slow down. By now everybody would be asleep, but Andrew the Scott, the innkeeper, had made enough money out of the four Hatzfeldt brothers over the years that he would not mind Melchior stabling his horse and dossing down in the hay himself. No chance of the mountain bacon and the hot whiskey posset that were the Goat’s specialties, but — as any old campaigner — Melchior kept a bit of food in his saddlebags. That would have to do for tonight.

“Wen d’you tink di cannens gonna get hir?” The singing Swedish accent of the question made Melchior freeze just before turning into the cobbled stable yard.

“No idea. Faster than if we’d tried to lug them over those damned mountains.”

“Those wiren’t mountains,” the Swedish voice chuckled, “just little hills with a few little hillsides. Berg is so much easier to move in than Sweden. River valleys everywhere. Up the Eder and down the Sieg. And once you’re all the way up, it’s easy downhill all the way. Just as with a woman.”

Letting the laughter cover any noise he and the horse made on the wet gravel, Melchior backed away and turned the horse. Eder and Sieg? Those rivers led northeast to Kassel, the capital of Hesse-Kassel. Duke Wilhelm of Hesse-Kassel had been moving his armies around in the mountains of Berg all summer, obviously trying to grab as much as he could, while the problems left by Duke Wolfgang’s death were still unsolved. But when Melchior had left for Vienna, the man had been safely stuck at Remscheid up near Düsseldorf. So what would soldiers coming from Kassel be doing this far south and on this side of the Rhine? And were they Hessians or the main USE army?

As far as Melchior knew, those regiments of the main USE army not in the east at Ingolstadt were far north near the Baltic. Of course a single Swede didn’t mean that it was the USE army — Melchior knew quite well that he had a few Swedes in his own regiments — and it could just be that Hesse had hired a few extra regiments to break the deadlock at Remscheid by attacking the Jülich-Berg army from the south. On the other hand Archbishop Ferdinand of Cologne had been trying to stir up something in Fulda, which was inside the area occupied by the USE. Twenty years of campaigning made it perfectly clear to Melchior that he needed more information before proceeding with his journey.

Andrew the Scot had acquired the Black Goat by marrying the daughter of the old owner, Nicholaus, and old Nic had now retired to a one-room stone cottage a bit down the road from the inn. A major reason for the Goat’s popularity had always been the cheap-for-the-quality of their spirits, and the old man’s contacts with smugglers — and heaven knows what else — had always ensured that he knew everybody and everything that went on along the Rhine. Old Nic would not take kindly to being woken, but if an army came to Bonn, it was almost certain that Cologne was their ultimate target, and with Melchior’s family living there, he’d brave the old reprobate to get that information right now.

* * *

As Melchior approached the cottage he saw squat, old Nic taking a leak from the doorway. He didn’t seem overly surprised to have Melchior pop out of the rain, just told him to take the horse to the empty wood-shed and throw the blanket there over it.

Inside the cottage the toothless old man kept the lamps out, but stirred the coals in the fireplace, making his shadow dance weirdly on the rough wall. “Sit down, boy. On y’way t’Bonn or from’t?”

“I’m on my way to Bonn, Nic, but just what has happened?” Melchior folded his long legs to sit on the low stool beside the fireplace.

“Hessian cavalry. Surprise attack at dawn this morning. Came down Sieg and went through them archbishop’s mercenaries at Beuel like a knife through hot butter. Got some men across t’Rhine on t’ferry and took that old toll-tower.” Nic spat into the fire. “Them ropes on this side’s cut, and t’ferry sunk. They’ll come across sooner or later, never-you-fear, but it’s not that easy without t’ropes to guide.”

The four mercenary regiments Archbishop Ferdinand had hired as part of his plans were led by the Irish colonel Butler and three of his friends. Although their equipment had looked good, Melchior had no confidence in their ability to fight as a unit. He knew all four men from Wallenstein’s army where they had been his peers and colleagues; neither of the four was incompetent, but they also had no sense of responsibility towards their men. Even Melchior’s usually very easygoing cousin, Wolf, loathed their carelessness with the lives of their own men.  Melchior had always tried to make his men as good a fighting unit as possible, not just to win but also to survive and become even better and more efficient fighters in the next battle. Butler and those like him believed that they could always hire new men to fill out the ranks, and make the princes pay for their hire. That veterans fought better than novices was of much less importance, especially since those who didn’t survive the battle couldn’t claim a share in the loot.

Aside from the two thousand or so cavalry the archbishop had only his personal guard, but in Melchior’s estimate that should be enough to stop anything the Hessians could ferry across the Rhine — providing of course that the troops were properly lead and nobody lost their head and panicked. However, if the Hessians managed to gain a beachhead, and hold it for long enough to land cannons, then the situation would be entirely different.

The “normal” method of conquering a fortified town was to send cavalry to stop all traffic in and out, while the artillery slowly moved into position to shoot holes in the walls. Then infantry would attack through the holes to open the gates for the cavalry, and finally there would be fighting in the streets until the town surrendered. If the walls were very thick or the town’s population big compared to the attacking army, a prolonged siege might weaken the town by starvation.

 

1636: The Ottoman Onslaught – Snippet 41

1636: The Ottoman Onslaught – Snippet 41

But wild-ass guess or not, the general needed an answer. “I figure we’ve lost maybe twenty percent of our guys, all told. Most of those are wounded, not killed, but they’re out of the fight now.”

“Not good, but better than I feared. How’s your morale? Your men’s, I mean. I know yours is solid. It always is.”

Jeff felt a little better, hearing that. He had a tremendous amount of respect for Mike Stearns. It was nice to know that the man had a high regard for him as well.

“We’re solid, General. We held ’em off and now the guys are mostly pissed.”

“All right. Here’s what I want you to do…”

After Stearns finished the quick sketch of his plans, he asked: “Any questions?”

Jeff’s answer came immediately. “No, sir. Our part’s about as simple as it gets. Hook up with von Taupadel, hunker down along the river, and hold the bastards in place while you do all the complicated stuff.”

“That’s pretty much it. Is there anything else?”

Jeff hesitated. This wasn’t really part of military protocol since the commanding general of a whole division didn’t need to be told every detail of the casualties they’d suffered, but…

“Jimmy Andersen was killed, Mike.”

There was silence on the other end of the radio for a moment. Then Stearns said: “I’m sorry, Jeff. I truly am.”

“War sucks, what can you say? Hangman Regiment out.”

Bavaria, Third Division field headquarters

Village of Haag an der Amper

Mike stared down at the radio receiver he still held in his hand.

Jimmy Andersen dead…

The Four Musketeers, the kids had liked to call themselves: Jeff Higgins, Larry Wild, Jimmy Andersen, Eddie Cantrell.

Four teenagers, close friends in the way that geeky boys in a rural area will stick together — the more so because all four of them had lost their entire families in the Ring of Fire. For one reason or another, their folks had all been out of town that day in May 2000 when it happened. There’d been just the four of them, playing Dungeons & Dragons in the Higgins’ family mobile home.

Five years later… and now half of them were gone. Larry Wild had been killed in the Battle of Wismar on September 9, 1633. And now Jimmy Andersen was gone, also killed in combat.

He looked up at Christopher Long. “What’s the date?” He’d lost track. Middle of May was all he could remember.

“May 14, sir.”

“1636.” For some obscure reason, Mike felt the need to include the year.

Jimmy Andersen would have been… what? Twenty-three years old? That was Jeff’s age, Mike knew. His birthday had been in March. March 22, if Mike remembered right. Gretchen had sent Jeff a cookie — which hadn’t arrived until the next month, naturally.

His thoughts were wandering, and he couldn’t afford that. Not now. Not today. But before Mike shoved them aside he allowed one final spike of sheer pride to race through his soul.

Everything he’d always believed had been confirmed over the past five years. Every ideal, every tenet of political belief, every guide to personal and social conduct. Mike took no credit for any of them, because like most people born and raised in the United States he’d grown up with those beliefs and ideals. What he did take pride in — and take credit for, to the extent he shared in that credit with thousands of other people — was that when a small town in America had been ripped off its foundations by a cosmic catastrophe and tossed into a maelstrom, the people of that town had risen to the challenge. And they’d done so by holding fast to their beliefs and ideals — no, more; championing them for everyone — rather than abandoning them.

Along the way, lots of compromises had been made, sure. Mike himself had been personally responsible for a good number of them. Things sometimes got ragged around the edges. But that was the nature of political affairs — hell, any human affairs. Marriages only survived by the willingness of people to compromise.

Still, all things considered, they’d done well. Damn well. And paid the price for it, too. Somewhere around thirty-five hundred people had come through the Ring of Fire, and by now — just five years later — at least five hundred of them were gone. Mike didn’t know the exact figure, and felt a moment’s guilt that he didn’t.

Most of those people had died because, like most rural towns in economically depressed areas, Grantville had had a disproportionate number of elderly residents, many of them in poor health. Anyone dependent on up-time medicines that couldn’t be duplicated down-time — and most of them couldn’t — was gone by now.

The others, though, had died in the line of fire, doing their duty. Some of them had died fighting tyranny; others had died fighting one or another of the diseases that ravaged this era.

Larry Wild had died at Wismar and Jimmy Andersen here at Zolling. Derek Utt had died in the Rhineland, fighting the plague. So had Andrea Decker and Jeffie Garand. The list went on and on, and it would keep going on.

Mike tried to remember the famous line from Abraham Lincoln’s Gettysburg address. That cause for which they here gave the last full measure of devotion, he thought it was.

His people. They’d always been his people. Now more than ever.

“General?” Ulbrecht Duerr’s voice broke through his musings.

Mike turned. “Yes, Ulbrecht, I’m here.”

He grinned then, and though he didn’t know it — then or ever — that grin brought instant cheer to every soldier in the tavern who saw. They’d come to know that grin, this past year.

Mike slapped his hands together and advanced on the map spread over the table.

“Gather round, gentlemen. Another stinking duke is going down.”

 

1636: The Ottoman Onslaught – Snippet 40

1636: The Ottoman Onslaught – Snippet 40

Chapter 19

Bavaria, on the Amper river

Two and a half miles east of Zolling

Lt. Colonel Jeff Higgins was staring down at the reason his regiment had not gotten in radio contact with divisional headquarters.

His radio specialist, Jimmy Andersen, still had his hands clutched around his throat. Lying on his back just outside the entrance to the radio tent, in a huge pool of drying blood. His eyes looked like a frog’s, they were bulging so badly.

“Jesus wept,” Jeff whispered. Some part of his mind knew that — if he survived this day himself — Jeff would be weeping too, come nightfall. Jimmy Andersen had been one of his best friends since…

He tried to remember how far back. First grade. They’d met in first grade. They’d both been six years old.

It was obvious what had happened. Jimmy had heard the gunfire, come out of the tent to investigate — not even a radio nut like Jimmy Andersen would have sent a message before doing that much — and a stray bullet — dear God, it had to been almost spent, at that distance — had ruptured his throat. The last two or three minutes of his life would have been a horror, as he bled out while choking to death. The only slight mercy was that he’d probably fainted from the blood loss fairly soon. From the looks of it, the bullet had nicked the carotid as well as severing his windpipe.

A freak death. But they were always a feature of battles. It would have probably happened right at the beginning, when the initial Bavarian charge allowed them to come within a hundred yards of the radio tent. Right now, the enemy cavalry had pulled back a ways and the front line — such as the ragged thing was — wasn’t close enough any more for a bullet to have carried this far.

What had happened to the assistant radio operator? Jeff looked around but didn’t see him. He’d probably just run off, panicked by the surprise attack and the still greater surprise of seeing his immediate superior slain like that.

“Should I contact HQ, Colonel?” asked one of Jeff’s adjutants. That was…

Jeff’s mind was foggy and this was one of the new recruits to the regiment. It took him two or three seconds to pull up the fellow’s name.

Zilberschlag. Lieutenant Jacob Zilberschlag. He’d been commissioned just two months earlier, and was the first Jewish officer in the division. Probably the first Jewish officer in the whole USE army, for that matter. Mike would have made a place for him.

More to the point, Zilberschlag was one of the few officers who knew how to use a radio.

“Yes, please, lieutenant. Get General Stearns. I need to speak to him — and quickly.”

While he waited for Zilberschlag to make contact, Jeff shook his head in order to clear his brain. He had no time right now to let Jimmy’s death fog up his thoughts.

The situation was… stable, sort of, but that wouldn’t last long. The Hangman Regiment had been caught by surprise and battered bloody, but they’d held together long enough to survive the initial clash. Their one bit of good fortune was that they’d only been fighting cavalry and they’d never broken and run. Routed infantry got slaughtered by cavalry, but if they could stand their ground it would be the cavalry that eventually broke off first.

Yes, the fighting had been one-sided but not that one-sided, especially after the first five minutes passed and the regiment was still hanging together. The Bavarian cavalry had taken something of a beating too. A bruising, at least.

Jeff could see the river, not more than twenty yards away. The enemy cavalry had pulled back a few minutes ago. That almost certainly meant that they’d been ordered to cover the infantry who’d now be crossing over the from the south bank — right where Captain Finck, bless his miserable special forces black heart — had suggested would make a good place for an army to do that.

Which meant the Hangman Regiment had to retreat. Now. Fall back a third of a mile or so, however far they had to in order to link up with the 1st Brigade.

He looked back down at his old friend’s corpse. He’d have to leave it here. There was no time for a burial party. Hopefully, they’d be able to retrieve Jimmy’s body later. Or if the Bavarians wound up in possession of the field, maybe they’d bury him.

But Jeff didn’t think they’d be in possession, when everything was said and done. Tonight, maybe. Not tomorrow, though.

The Bavarians had caught them flat-footed, sure enough. The Third Division’s commander had screwed up, no doubt about it. But that was all over and done with — and the battle was just getting started.

Jeff’s money was on Mike Stearns. Fuck Piccolomini and Duke Maximilian and the horses they rode in on.

“General Stearns wants to talk to you, Colonel.” Zilberschlag now had the radio case mounted on his back. He came over, handed Jeff the old-style telephone receiver and turned his back so Jeff wouldn’t have to stretch the cord.

“Yes, sir,” Jeff said.

“What kind of shape are you in, Colonel?”

“We’re pretty beat up. I figure we’ve lost…” Jeff tried to estimate what the regiment’s casualties had been. That was bound to be guesswork at this stage. He also knew from experience that casualties usually seemed worse than they were until all the dust had settled and a hard count could be made of those who were actually dead, those who were wounded — and, of those, how many were mortally injured, how many would recover fully and how many would have to return to civilian life. It always surprised Jeff a little how many people came through what seemed like a holocaust completely uninjured. He’d done it himself in several battles now.

 

1635: The Wars For The Rhine – Snippet 22

1635: The Wars For The Rhine – Snippet 22

Chapter 11

Bonn, Eigenhaus House

September 1, 1634

All traces of Charlotte’s calm routine had disappeared on the day of the wedding. From before dawn she, like everybody else in the household, had been up and around making preparations for the feast to be served after the wedding ceremony. Charlotte had been given all the lists of ordered goods, and now stood by the gate to the kitchen yard in charge of getting everything distributed to the right parts of the house. On the street outside the tall, half-timbered house chopped pine bark had been spread to dampen the noise of wagons rolling over the rough cobbles, and in the calm morning air the smell of the pine mixed pleasantly with that of freshly baked cinnamon cakes and wood-smoke from the cooking fires.

Old man Steinfeld, the porter, had gone to the tubs of live eels and carps, and — after grumbling good morning to Charlotte — started cleaning the fish. On the sturdy bench beneath the kitchen window two of the maids borrowed from Frau Benedicte’s sisters, sat yawning and gossiping, while plucking the feathers of two big geese. The younger of the two cats keeping the house free from mice and rats twined around their feet, meowing and batting at escaped feathers, while the older cat had climbed on top of the hand-cart beside the gate, and crouched there, staring at the live eels and the basin with fish guts.

“Silly bugger!” As the old cat disappeared under the cart with a bit of fish, and the old porter shook his fist after it, Charlotte felt her face crack into the first smile for a long, long time. “Arrh, leave it be, Steinfeld. We’ll all have plenty to do today. There’s no sense in wasting any energy on a bit of fish gut.”

Hilda Mundi, the cook, had been running back and forth between the kitchen and the washing house half the night. The big fireplace built into the wall of the main kitchen had been filled with roasting meats, so the two big iron cauldrons used for boiling the sealed pots of rabbit-stew, the soup hens, and the nets containing whole stuffed cabbage heads had had to be moved to the washing house. It would have been easier with one cook in each building. When Charlotte had passed through the kitchen on her way to the yard, Heidi, the cook borrowed from Frau Clara, had been boiling spiced meatballs for the saffron soup, and Madelaine, Frau Elisabeth’s French cook, had been swearing in French at her helpers in the bakery. Frau Benedicte’s feast might be small compared to the entertaining Charlotte’s parents had done in Zweibrücken, and she had herself arranged bigger in both Jülich and Düsseldorf. But those feasts had been held in castles with all the space and servants one could want, and she had never before realised how much timing and planning it took to make something like this in a more ordinary household. Bigger obviously didn’t always mean more complicated.

Frau Mundi stretched her arms above her head and twisted her back. “Breakfast is set out at the end of the big table, Lotti. It’s all cold, and you’ll just have to snatch it when you can. I’ve added one of the big spiced fruitcakes, which didn’t rise properly. And once the fish are clean, Steinfeld, do sprinkle them with a bit of salt and place them in the wine cellar. I’m not ready for them yet and the master has given permission for the use of his cellar. Which reminds me. Lotti, as soon as the bottles of sack arrive, you are to send for the master; they are to go straight to the hall, not into the cellar. And Lotti, Frau Benedicte told me that you have never done much cooking since your husband was an officer, but surely you can peel apples?”

“Yes, Mutti.” Charlotte smiled at the friendly grey-haired woman, and made a notation on the paper with one of the crayon sticks one could now buy from the Americans. Such notations might not last the way good ink did, but it was so much easier to handle. “And a sugar baker showed me how to decorate cakes when I was a girl. It’s not that I’ve never learned anything about cooking, it’s just that I haven’t done anything but give orders since my marriage. The camp-followers did the actual cooking.”

“Excellent.” The cook smiled back and shook her head. “Stina was supposed to do the garnishing and decorating, but Frau Benedicte has kept her in the dining room to arrange the settings there. There has been a problem with the best linen not bleaching properly in the cloudy weather we have had lately, and this has upset the planned pattern of the dishes. Steinfeld, you direct any deliveries to Lotti in the pantry, she’ll tell them where to go from there.”

As Charlotte and Frau Mundi passed Ilse, the young kitchen girl who was cleaning carrots and onions in narrow scullery between the yard and the kitchen, a pile of big loaves of bread cooling on the table started slipping into the water basins. Ilse, trying to grab them, cut her finger and started crying. This might have been partly from peeling the onions, but a few drops of blood did fall, so the cook shouted at Steinfeld to come finish the onions. She then told Ilse to wash and wrap her hand in a clean cloth, before going to Frau Benedicte’s warehouse at the river-front for more of the sago imported from Malaya. She allowed Charlotte to snap up a piece of bread to eat, while explaining that the lowest layer in the sago casket in the larder had turned out to be damp and moldy. It was needed for a cold ginger soup in the third course. Did Charlotte know how to make parsley roses for such a soup?

In the pantry, where Charlotte was to work, the dishes were to receive the final touch before leaving the kitchen area. The major soup, fish and meat dishes for the first course would then go straight to the table in the dining room on the first floor, to be placed in a carefully calculated symmetrical pattern, while the cheese, fruits and sweet dishes for the third course would be arranged as impressively as possible on the special banquet table. The lighter meats, pies and vegetables for the second course, had to be stored somewhere while waiting for their turn, and as there was no room in the kitchen, the two male servants were lifting the doors from their hinges and placing them on top of the beds to serve as extra storage space.

On the long narrow table in the pantry, Charlotte was decorating a roast sirloin of beef with swirls of candied lemon peel and honey glazed onions, when she heard Ilse screaming hysterically in the kitchen. As she entered she saw Frau Mundi throw a ladle of cold water in the girl’s face, and tell to pull herself together.

“Ah, Mutti, it is soldiers on the pier!” The girl was gasping and her eyes looked fit to roll from her head. “A-And it’s on fire. A-And they are shooting. We are all going to be k-killed.”

“Lotti, go get Frau Benedicte.” Frau Mundi pulled the shaking girl down on her lap and wiped the water off her face. “Take a deep breath, Ilse. Now, what was on fire?”

* * *

In the dining room Frau Benedicte was setting out the blue and white delft-ware plates, while Stina straightened the candles in the big silver epergne at the center of the table. Despite the obvious haste of the two women’s movements, there was a marked contrast between the bustle of the kitchen and the silence of the elegantly paneled and plaster-decorated room. Both the lamp-light and the pale morning light entering through the beveled windows glittered in the glass and polished silver on the white damask cloth. For a moment Charlotte felt her thoughts swirl again in the dizzy confusion from her time in the archbishop’s Palace, and she stood staring mindlessly at the pattern of glitter and shadows.

“Good morning, Lotti, is there a problem below-stairs?” Frau Benedicte’s words jerked Charlotte out of her daze.

“No, Frau Benedicte, it’s outside. There appears to be fighting and fire at the warehouse. Ilse saw it and awaits you in the kitchen.”

 

Challenges Of The Deeps – Chapter 14

Challenges Of The Deeps – Chapter 14

Chapter 14.

“Orphan…” Ariane said apprehensively. “Are you sure we want to get any closer to that?”

“My dear Captain Austin, we are going to get far closer,” Orphan replied with a chuckle.

The immense vessel loomed ever larger in the suddenly-tiny shuttle’s viewport. Just about an old-style mile long, and looks it, DuQuesne thought, as he saw a brilliant line of light that widened, became a massive pair of doors into a huge landing bay. “Almost like coming home, isn’t it?” he said.

“In some sense it is coming home, Doctor DuQuesne,” Orphan said, his wingcases relaxing, showing that he was indeed genuinely happy to be returning to Zounin-Ginjou, the flagship of the Liberated. “I have spent at least as much time in this wonderful ship as I have in Nexus Arena, or on the Liberated’s Sphere.”

“That is Zounin-Ginjou?” Ariane demanded incredulously. From Wu’s expression, he hadn’t recognized the ship either.

“Indeed it is,” Orphan replied, with an amused tone in his translated voice. “Yet truly, I cannot fault you for being surprised.”

“I would’ve been, if it weren’t for the fact that I knew you’d never land on any other ship, and I could tell you were heading for this one from way back,” DuQuesne said.

In truth, it did not look much like the quasi-Victorian work of art that was the flagship of the Liberated, replete with brassy-golden trim and fittings, rich wooden hull hiding battleship armor, and vanes and fins to make the most avid Vernian steampunk fanplayer cry with joy. The sleek spindle-shaped vessel was no more; a much broader, duller outline, one completely utilitarian, efficient, massive, with lines and angles that DuQuesne thought were all too familiar.

“It looks like one of the Blessed’s ships,” Wu said, putting DuQuesne’s thoughts into words.

Ariane nodded. “That’s exactly why I was nervous; I thought it was a Blessed vessel.”

“Quite deliberately so,” Orphan said. The shuttle passed through the doors and DuQuesne felt the artificial gravity slowly take over, allowing Orphan to bring the vessel to a soft landing. “The exterior of Zounin-Ginjou is now identical, at least to any ordinary inspection, to that of a Madon-class Arena freighter, a common vessel type for the Blessed to use in intra-Arena trade.”

“Ha! I see!” Wu Kung grinned with his sharp fangs showing. “You look like the Blessed, so you can pretend to be one.”

“I thought you would understand quickly, Wu Kung. Exactly; I can play the part of my former people very well — I was one, after all, for a long time before changing sides. With luck, any confrontations would be ended by simply identifying the vessel as one of the Blessed; very, very few wish to risk the wrath of any of the Five Great Factions, after all, and the Blessed is probably the second-worst to offend.”

“With the first being our hair-trigger xenophobes the Molothos, yeah,” DuQuesne said. “I like it. You’ve made her into a Q-ship; looks like a freighter, registered to a dangerous power, and if someone is stupid enough to try to hijack you…”

“… they find out they’re attacking one of the most powerful warships in the Arena,” Ariane finished with a grin. “I like it. And now that we’re inside, I can definitely see this is really Zounin-Ginjou. What cabins will we have?”

“I see no reason you cannot have those you used previously. In fact, when I was conducting the rather extensive repairs necessitated by our prior argument with the Blessed, I performed a few more modifications to that entire suite of cabins to make them better suited to the use of Humanity.”

“I’m sure we’ll appreciate that,” DuQuesne said, as he made his way to the cargo area. “We’ve got a lot of stuff to unload here and get to our living area.”

Orphan, already making his way down the ramp extending from the forward section of the shuttle, gestured toward some shapes on the far side of the bay. “You will find cargo handling equipment there — I believe you recall how to use it from our prior adventures, yes?”

“Not helping out, Orphan?” Ariane asked with a faint smile.

“Many apologies, but I wish to get us underway immediately. The less time we remain in this part of Arenaspace, the less chance for any to notice this vessel’s departure — or the fact that the little shuttle we rode in has docked here.”

“No worries,” DuQuesne said. “Get us going; this is your party. Me, Wu, and Ariane can get everything moved pretty quick.”

It was not all that quick; moving the provisions for what might be up to a year wasn’t a trivial exercise, especially when the food and such had to be brought to the galley, while clothes and other personal baggage had to be brought to the living quarters. Still, they were almost done when DuQuesne felt that subliminal shock that told him they’d made a Sandrisson jump, presumably through a Sky Gate. “We’re really on our way now,” he muttered.

“And I don’t have a single meeting to go to!” Ariane said, grinning broadly.

“Yeah, but we have no idea what we’re heading into,” DuQuesne reminded her — not without an answering grin. “We might be in a battle three days from now, who knows?”

“Battles are fun!” Wu Kung said, emphasizing that with a sharp rapping of his staff on the deck. “Meetings with talk-talk-talk, that is danger!”

“You know, maybe I need to reconsider; is it a good thing that I’m agreeing with Sun Wu Kung?” Ariane asked.

“There are worse choices, but yeah, agreeing with him usually leads to an awful lot of heads getting busted.”

“Only bad people’s heads,” Wu pointed out.

“Generally, I’ll grant you that.” He straightened up. “I’m going to go check up on our host on the bridge.”

The other two followed, Ariane moving up to walk next to him; Zounin-Ginjou‘s corridors were more than wide enough to make that possible. Orphan sure didn’t skimp on comfort on this ship.

Of course, that was partly from necessity. If Orphan had been able to make use of top-of-the-line automation, he could have used every cubic inch of space for more armor, weapons, stores, and so on, leaving himself only as much space as he wished to keep for his own comfort and any anticipated allies. But with the Arena restricting automation to the point that he was stuck somewhere around the early 21st century, Orphan ran into a different limitation: how much he could actually control.

Without intelligent automation, there were only so many bells and whistles he could hang onto Zounin-Ginjou before they became useless distractions. Paradoxically, even though the ancient-style automation took up a lot more space per system, he ended up with a huge amount left over because he couldn’t install nearly as many systems; some of that volume was of course used as additional cargo space, but he had apparently decided that a large luxury suite might one day be useful, and turned a hundred cabins’ worth of space into about twenty.

Even so, Zounin-Ginjou packed a fantastic amount of firepower and resources into its hull compared to any similar vessel, and DuQuesne approved. When you’re alone in the Dark, carrying the biggest guns you can helps light things up, so to speak.

“Relaxing while you can?” he asked Ariane.

“As much as I can, yes. It’s not easy; I’m always worried about what’s going on back at Nexus Arena. It’s only been six days, but…”

“… but we know how a few days can change everything. But you were right about this trip. I can feel it, somehow.”

“So can I. But I’m still worried.”

Wu Kung grunted behind them. “I worry a little, but mostly that’s a waste of time. We just have to be ready.”

“Yeah,” agreed DuQuesne as they arrived at the bridge, “the problem is, ready for what?”

“Oh, wow,” Ariane said, looking up.

“Ahh, Captain Austin, I see you already appreciate some of the wonders of the Arena.”

Wu Kung bounded up and pressed his face against the near-indestructible transparent ring-carbon port, staring in a combination of joy and awe.

Before Zounin-Ginjou was a vast canyon of clear air, with gargantuan, rolling walls of cloud to either side, extending unguessable kilometers above and below their current course. Streaming twilight-lavender and grey-touched black, rolling deep green and mountain-waves of deepest blue, the clouds formed a dark corridor with faint yet white-tinted light streaming from behind the massive ship.

A barely-visible cone of shadow preceded them, a shadow against shadows where Zounin-Ginjou blocked the light of the Luminaire that must be almost directly aft. Periodically, blue-white, brilliant scarlet, or burning orange arcs of lightning would streak across the impossibly huge clouds, swift yet traveling so far that the eye could sometimes follow them into the distance ahead or above or below. Other lightning strokes, deeper within the clouds, would illuminate the interior, turning the dark cloud momentarily to a wall of frosted crystal tinted with all the colors of the rainbow.

“Wow,” Ariane said again, reverently. “Orphan, do you ever get tired of it?”

“One grows used to anything… but with your eyes, I see it anew, and am once more uplifted and humbled. Humbled by the vastness and the grandeur of the Arena… and uplifted by the thought that I, Orphan of the Liberated, am one of those who may travel these skies at my own will.”

He does “talk purty”, as Rich would’ve said. Wonder if his own people would hear language this flowery? “Where are we?”

“That, Doctor DuQuesne, is actually a most interesting and perplexing question. I can describe the location, if I wish, by the directions needed to reach it, but can I truly say I know where it is? I do not know. For instance, I cannot tell you whether Nexus Arena lies in the direction we are heading, or behind us, whether it is a mere twenty million kilometers to our port side or five light-years distant to starboard. Without an active, inhabited Sphere in this area of space, with inhabitants to tell us from which galaxy they hail, we cannot even guess where within the vastness of the Arena we may be.”

“Are we in the Deeps yet?” Wu Kung asked.

“We begin to approach them. But our destination is still a great distance away… or, at least, a great deal of time away, even though for all I know our destination lies just on the other side of these clouds.”

“So where are we going right now?”

“There is another Sky Gate here,” Orphan answered. He studied various instruments; DuQuesne saw lines flicker on the viewport. “If my navigation is correct — and I am reasonably confident that it is — the Gate lies just inside of the wall of cloud to our starboard side, about two thousand kilometers ahead and down, relative to our current orientation. If we detect no other vessels here, then we will pass through that gate.”

“And if we do detect other vessels?”

“Then we will continue on, pass through another gate that is ahead, above, and just slightly to port. I will then have to take another roundabout route to return here again, taking us another several days.”

Ariane nodded. “So that gate you want to go through is one you know about, but no one else does.”

“You have the essence of it, yes. Though there may be others who know. I have no knowledge of any others living who do, however.”

“You sensing any ships now?”

“None whatsoever. And, with luck, we shall detect no others. This is a very little-traveled route.”

“And then we will be in the Deeps?”

“For a while, yes. Then another short leg of the journey through somewhat-explored territory before we reach our true destination.”

DuQuesne nodded. Wherever Orphan was taking them clearly had to be reached a very specific way — which fit with what he knew of the Arena. There must be a lot of places that can only be reached one way — one sequence of Sky Gates in or out.

Zounin-Ginjou, disguised or not, was still very fast, and it was not long before they were approaching the area of the secret Gate. Orphan spent the last few moments watching his monitors tensely before finally turning the vessel and sending it darting straight for the clouds a short distance below them.

A blaze of pearlescent light started at the forward end of Zounin-Ginjou, and DuQuesne knew another had started aft, the two light-circles racing to meet each other. That undefinable, tingling jolt, and suddenly the scene outside the port changed. A majestic maelstrom of silvery cloud spread out below them, turning with ponderous, lazy power beneath a sky of gold.

Orphan rose from his seat and turned. “Welcome to the Deeps of the Arena, my friends.” He bowed deeply. “And now… now there are none to hear us as far as any can imagine, and at last I can tell you the why of our little journey.”

 

Challenges Of The Deeps – Chapter 13

Challenges Of The Deeps – Chapter 13

Chapter 13.

“Not taking Zounin-Ginjou?” Simon asked, looking at the relatively small craft — no more than fifty meters long — that was sitting at the end of the berth the Liberated were assigned.

“Later,” Orphan said, carefully checking the exterior of his ship. “If all three of us took Zounin-Ginjou from here, too many eyes would note the departure; this is a short range vessel, the sort used for brief jaunts from point to point.”

“With your permission,” said Sethrik, watching as DuQuesne dragged a large case into the shuttle’s loading door, “We intend to allow a ‘leak’, as you call it, of information which will lead people to believe that the Liberated were donating some very valuable materials to your cause, and this was the mission to transfer it out of sight or range of those in Transition. Sensitive material is often transferred in this manner. Decoy missions as well, of course, so they will wonder whether the real material is in some other shipment through Transition at about the same time.”

“And in actuality you are just transferring Orphan, Marc, Ariane, and Wu to Zounin-Ginjou?”

Sethrik gave the swift outward flick of the hands that indicated negation. The former member of the Blessed and only other member of the Liberated continued, “Our story will have a core of truth, and you will be receiving something very useful to your current efforts. Details can be leaked later, so that suspicion will be kept to a minimum until it is far too late for anyone to even attempt an effective investigation.”

Simon shook his head, smiling. “Everything you do in the Arena seems to have three more layers than one sees.”

“And that,” Orphan said, leaping back to the loading dock, “is why the Liberated still exists. Three or four layers are the minimum.”

“I think we’re ready, Orphan,” said Ariane, Wu shadowing her closely; Simon saw his eyes darting everywhere.

Ahh. The last time they were on the Docks, Ariane was kidnapped. I doubt Wu Kung will ever forget that. And this is an open, and thus potentially dangerous area, and one that we know has far less restrictive rules on violence. “So you have no idea when you will return?” he asked again.

Ariane shook her head, making the dark-blue hair ripple. “Afraid not. A pretty long time, though, so I’m going to be trusting you to keep things under control here. Laila and Carl are in charge, but you’re going to be my eyes while I’m gone, you know.”

“I know.” He took her hand. “I will miss you. Perhaps a dinner when we return?”

She grinned. “Perhaps!”

“C’mon, Ariane, let’s get inside and give Wu a chance to settle down,” DuQuesne said, emerging from the door. “Everything set, Orphan?”

“All is in readiness, if all of your cargo is loaded.”

“I don’t see any travel bags,” Simon said, looking around.

“Everything’s in one of the crates,” DuQuesne said. “That way doesn’t instantly look like we’re going on a long cruise.”

Sethrik gave the compress-release gesture that approximated a shrug. “When your Leader is no longer seen, they will realize she is gone.”

Ariane raised a finger. “Not so quickly they won’t. Credit Oscar Naraj with this idea: anyone watching will see me and DuQuesne emerge from Transition, go back to the Embassy, and then a little while later see both of us go join Tunuvun and a bunch of Genasi on a clearly Earth-designed ship. The rumor there — and like yours, it will also be true — is that we’re making an official gift of an Arena-capable vessel, with a lot of normal-space tech and information, to the Genasi.”

“Ah, of course,” Orphan said, with his oft-amused tone. “And these decoys will not be seen again. But then the questions about where you have gone will center, not around the Liberated, but the Genasi. Who have an honor debt of immense size to you, so keeping the secret is a given. Well done.”

Ariane gave Simon a quick hug, and didn’t hesitate to include a swift but emphatic kiss before pulling away. DuQuesne shook his hand, as did Wu Kung.

Simon waved as the four disappeared inside the small Arena ship, and watched alongside Sethrik as the sleek transport — something like a Victorian-designed bullet with wings — pulled away and accelerated smoothly towards the area of the Sky Gates around Nexus Arena.

“So,” he said to the tall, green-and-black alien as they began walking back, “do you have any better idea than I do as to what it is that Orphan’s all secretive about?”

“Unlikely,” Sethrik said. “While he has given me many details about the history of the Liberated, about our resources — surprisingly large, given how much the Faction was reduced — and so on, he has remained extremely quiet about his personal secrets. And this one seems even more personal than most.”

Simon nodded. “I rather expected as much. Although you would also have to deny it if he had told you but wished you to keep it secret, I suppose.”

“You begin to understand the way of the Arena, yes.” Sethrik looked into the distance; this part of the Docks was actually rather empty today. Simon wondered if there was some sort of day/night cycle in loading and arrivals, or if it was merely the random chance of schedules. “Of course, even with the distractions you have planned, it will eventually become clear to watchers that Orphan and your Leader are gone, and they will reach the correct conclusion that they left together on this day.”

“But that shouldn’t pose an immediate problem, correct?”

Sethrik’s buzzing chuckle was somewhat disconcerting. “What should be, and what does happen, these are often different things in the Arena. As I have occasion to know. Still, no, I would expect that Orphan will have gained enough time so that the chances of any tracing his passage or learning his destination will be extremely small.”

They passed from the Docks to the interior of Nexus Arena, and Sethrik waved down one of the automated hovercabs. “Are you returning to your Embassy?”

“No, Sethrik — I actually have business at the Analytic today, so you go first.”

Sethrik gave the handtap of assent and directed the cab to bring them first to the Embassy of the Liberated, before carrying Simon on to the Analytic’s Great Faction house. Simon jumped down and walked into the huge, soaring edifice of polished alloy, glass, and stone that was the home of the faction dedicated to pure knowledge.

Having been there multiple times previously, it was simple to make his way to the Archives. Not so simple was keeping his breath from being taken away upon entering. The vaulted ceiling, a hundred meters above, with arched windows streaming sunlight — or a perfect facsimile thereof — into the cavernous space filled with rank upon rank of shelves, the shelves themselves fifty meters high, and each row dwindling away into unguessable distance, fading into the softness of mountains on the horizon. Here was the sum-total of the knowledge of the Analytic, one of the five Great Factions, the knowledge of a hundred thousand years and more, of species beyond counting, of Challenges as vast as the stars of Earth’s sky, of secrets from a million worlds.

And I have nearly a whole year to roam it at will. It seemed a terribly short time, yet the opportunity was beyond price. Simon Sandrisson could not restrain a wicked grin. When the Analytic’s board had agreed to give him this access, they had clearly believed they had by far the better end of the deal, because the access lacked one crucial element: access to the indexes of the Archives, the searchable database-equivalent of the incomprehensibly huge morass of data, prototypes, samples, and other accumulated knowledge held within the Archives. Thus — as far as they knew — Simon had no way of knowing where to find data that he truly wanted, nor of translating finds that were not recorded in any known language, for the Arena’s translation did not work for such data, only in general for the spoken word.

Had they known about that nigh-omniscience that Simon could tap, they might have thought very differently.

“Ahhh, Simon! I had heard you had come to visit!” The rough tones of Relgof Nov’ne Knarph interrupted his reverie. “And I see you cannot yet enter the Archives without feeling the impact of a thousand generations of knowledge.”

“Can you, Doctor Rel?”

The semi-humanoid alien’s filter-beard rippled with a chuckle. “No, truly. The immediate impact has somewhat lessened, but never have I come here without a moment of awe and reverence. Let others have their gods; I have this temple of knowledge.”

“Have you come to watch me wander the stacks?”

“That is a fascinating turn of phrase, Simon, given the circumstances,” Relgof said, with a near-human tilt of the head. “Come, let us examine a section of the Archives.”

Climbing into one of the egg-shaped floating carts used the way old-fashioned library ladders were — to reach any part of otherwise inaccessible materials, the two set off; Relgof allowed Simon to direct the course of the cart. I wonder what he meant by that bit about circumstances. Since he didn’t have a particular question in mind at the moment, Simon chose a direction at random and sped the cart down it for four and a half kilometers, stopping at a set of shelves with assorted memory crystals and some models and skeletal exhibits. A record of a civilization? An archaeological record?

“So, are you going to clarify that comment, Rel?”

Relgof did not bother to pretend he didn’t understand. “Simon, the Analytic can, of course, observe any activities within its own House. You have visited several times. Now, we are both well aware that you were denied the use of the Great Index and other search tools.

“It is rather difficult to imagine how, then, you managed — on your first visit — to unerringly locate key records on detection and uses of Sky Gates, and based on your reactions and subsequent events, were able to understand them, despite at least one source being in an ancient language with no known remaining members.”

Simon kept his face expressionless with an effort. Of course, since the Arena seems to even sometimes translate expressions from body posture, I cannot be sure some of my surprise or concern was not also translated.

“Now,” Relgof went on, reaching out and picking up one of the models of a strange house with oval doors and hexagonal windows, “It so happens that — at the moment — I believe I am the only one who knows about that most unbelievable event, since the others were not inclined to monitor you. And I do not wish to alert them to this. I am however genuinely curious and wonder if you might be willing to enlighten me.”

Simon raised an eyebrow. “I don’t suppose you would accept ‘coincidence’ as an answer.”

“Would you, my friend?”

“No. I admit that I don’t have nearly your experience with the Archives, but even my few visits have given me some impression of its vastness.” Simon thought for a moment as he took memory crystals and fit them into a visualizing device built into the cart, scanning the images and text therein. History, looks like. Might be archeological work on a long-vanished species. Relgof watched patiently.

Finally, Simon shrugged. “I won’t deny that I have found a way around that limitation, but the value of that secret — in all honesty — is a lot greater than a mere year’s access to the Archive.”

Relgof’s filter-beard froze, and the entire creature went rigid. After a moment he relaxed. “Yes, I suppose it must be. Either you have — in a manner we find undetectable — managed to gain access to the Index, which insofar as I am aware would require assistance directly from a Shadeweaver or Initiate Guide, or you have found a method that allows you personally to find what you wish without any recourse to the Index.”

Technically, without any recourse to the Archives at all. But I am far too cautious and — in honesty — afraid of using this power to that extent. “That seems to be roughly correct, Relgof. What do you intend to do about it, if anything?”

“Hmmm. Well… I would be willing to not mention this to anyone — and to steer the rest of the Analytic away from analyzing your visits, if any show such interest — if you have some unique piece of information, something useful to impart to me.”

Simon pursed his lips. “I suppose friendship does have limits when such secrets are involved.”

“When I am, myself, the Chief Researcher, the Leader of the Faction? Alas, yes. I must receive value for that offered. I have allowed considerable latitude already, partially for the uniqueness of your situation as First Emergents, and partly because I feel we truly are kindred spirits. But this…”

“I understand. Not like our prior after-hours research where the information we uncovered was something of interest to us both.”

Relgof tilted his head. “To what do you refer?”

Simon blinked in puzzlement. “Rel, to that rather long-drawn out session of research on the background of Shadeweaver and Faith capabilities, culminating in your discovery of that old story about the Ryphexian ‘Master of Engines’?”

The gangly alien’s posture and voice were replete with utter confusion. “Simon, I confess that I have not the slightest idea of the event to which you refer.”

Suddenly it all made sense. There had been no references in the Index to Shadeweaver or Faith powers being used outside of the Arena. The two had found it necessary to perform many hours of research in order to find a single confirmation.

If you want to keep a secret like that… you need a way of making people forget.

But Ariane Austin’s victory over the Shadeweavers in direct Challenge against Amas-Garao meant that the Shadeweavers could not affect Simon or any other human. That didn’t hold true for the other species and factions, however.

Simon suddenly smiled. “Then I have something to trade, Rel — your real problem is going to be keeping it in mind long enough to make use of it!”

 

1635: The Wars For The Rhine – Snippet 21

1635: The Wars For The Rhine – Snippet 21

Chapter 10

Bonn, the river wall

August 31, 1634

Charlotte looked down at the gun in her hands. She had of course seen such before, even held her brother’s first set of pistols and tried to admire them, but guns had always seemed like something that had no place in her personal life, something other people had and knew how to use.

“Rest the butt of the gun on the ground, and lean the gun against the crock of your arm, while you measure out the powder from your horn.” When Frau Eigenhaus had first mentioned the possibility of Charlotte joining the Women’s Militias, Charlotte had protested that she didn’t want the risk of anybody recognizing her — and didn’t have any interest in guns anyway.

“Pour the powder into the barrel of the gun.” Frau Eigenhaus’s assurance, that nobody would recognize her with the way she looked now, or even consider that she might still be in Bonn and stand on the wall with the rest of the Eigenhaus’s adult female servants, had not persuaded Charlotte at all.

“Next take a lead ball from the purse, and wrap it in one of the small squares of greased cloth, before sliding it into the barrel of the gun.” The story of the American woman shooting Wallenstein was one Charlotte had heard before, though it had not occurred to her to take it as proof that with training a woman was in no way inferior to a man as a fighter.

“Now place another piece of greased cloth in the barrel, and very carefully use the stopper to press the ball and the powder together in the bottom of the barrel.” Only when Frau Eigenhaus had given a very stern talk about the duty of a woman in protecting her family and children, had Charlotte seriously considered the suggestion.

“Go to your post and take your stance.” Her darling little Bobo, so tiny and helpless. As Charlotte lifted the gun to her shoulder faces started flickering before her eyes. Her father, husband, the archbishop, all swirling around while their voices babbled in her ears, shouting at her yelling orders. Suddenly Felix Gruyard swam into focus. Charlotte fired the gun, and sinking to her knees started to cry.

Mainz, Church of St. Alban

The building housing the office of Domherr Heinrich Friedrich von Hatzfeldt was neither new nor luxurious, but to Melchior the warm and slightly shabby surroundings looked like an extension of his calm and patient older brother.

“Welcome, dear brother.” Heinrich laid down the papers he was reading and rose smiling from the bench to greet his brother. “Come sit in the shade with me, Melchior. As you can see, I’ve moved my office to the courtyard to take advantage of any breeze from the river. Judging from the heat and humidity, we should have thunder any day now.” He looked to the western sky. “But probably not today. Do you come alone?”

Melchior felt himself relax and smile. He really ought to find a way to spend more time with his family. It wasn’t that he regretted his youthful decision to abandon his plans of becoming a Knight of St. John, and instead become a mercenary soldier, but it seemed that the rank and fortune that path had gained him had come only at the cost of quiet happiness and contentment. He had hoped to settle down with Maria and start a family of his own, but now . . . “My sergeant took a spill from his horse and landed badly, but the American remedies available in Frankfurt should keep him from losing his leg. I left Simon, my courier, with him, and told them to contact you in case of trouble. I hope that was all right with you” Melchior sat down on the bench beside his brother and leaned back wearily. It had been a hard journey with long days in the saddle and camping wherever they could at night.

“Of course. But did Wolf and the rest of your men stay behind in Austria?”

Melchior looked more closely at his normally unflappable brother and noticed the furrow in Heinrich’s brow. “Yes, it’s not possible to take them across Bavaria at the moment, but what has happened here, Heinrich?”

“While you were gone, Archbishop Ferdinand made his move — or rather several moves — but the one that has upset everybody here was sending his torturer, Felix Gruyard, along with several of the mercenaries to Fulda, where they kidnapped Abbot Schweinsberg and tortured him to death.”

“What? Why ever would he do that?”

“I have no idea. Archbishop Anselm suspects it was just a minor part of a bigger scheme, but doesn’t know for sure. I suppose it could just be Archbishop Ferdinand settling his old scores with Schweinsberg.”

“If so, then he’s even more deranged than his brother.”

“Yes. Now Anselm might not have been all that friendly with Abbot Schweinsberg either — I suspect fighting his way to Prince-Abbot of Fulda from such an obscure background made the man a lot of enemies — but there was an eyewitness to him being tortured to death by Felix Gruyard. Not a very prominent person, but one with no reason to lie. Schweinsberg’s body has now been retrieved and given a proper burial, but everybody is upset and worries about Ferdinand’s next move. Having your regiments here would be really nice. Is there no way you can send for them, or at least for somebody who might be willing and able to do something now?”

“I cannot think of anything. Bavaria has been in complete chaos since the duke’s fiancée ran off last month, and since she was a Habsburg archduchess, the relations between Bavaria and Vienna are really tense right now. Maxie gave me letters for almost anybody who might have been willing or able to come to Cologne, and she especially put her hopes on Maximilian and Ferdinand’s younger brother, Albrecht. But at the moment Albrecht is fleeing from his brother with a price on his head, and there’s little doubt that Duke Maximilian was involved in the death of Albrecht’s wife and one or more of their children. Might not have ordered it, but he was involved.”

“I cannot believe this.” Heinrich stared blindly into the golden sunshine dancing in the fallen leaves across the courtyard. “You didn’t by any chance encounter four riders on your way?”

“One of them riding a pale horse? No, not that I noticed.” Melchior leaned his head back against the rough stone wall, and closed his eyes. “I’ve never believed in omens and portents, but whether the coming of the Americans heralded a change or caused it doesn’t really matter. According to Father Johannes they themselves believe that they have come from the future, only their arrival will have changed the past, so that they are now from a future that’ll never be. A paradox and as such better left alone by practical men like you and I. After all, if the apocalypse is coming there’s very little we can do about it except carry on with our tasks.” Melchior sighed. “And at the moment my task is trying to keep things stable and preferably Catholic in the middle Rhine area. If I had my regiments, I could just have taken control, but as it is I’ll probably need to negotiate. Archduke Ferdinand gave me plenipotentiary powers, and if everything else fails, and the archbishop look about to send everything up in flames, I might be able to make some kind of deal with Don Fernando in the Netherlands. Essen and Hesse seems nicely locked in a stalemate in Berg, but that’s not going to last forever, and once the deadlock breaks, you can bet that fine new cassock of yours that all that might keep Essen, Hessen, and the Netherlands from trying for Cologne as well, will be if they don’t want to risk ending up fighting each other.”

“And our darling brother is likely to get caught up in the middle unless Franz can be persuaded to break with the archbishop. You will try talking to him again?”

“Of course. I’ll leave for Koblenz tomorrow, and continue on to Bonn the next day. I’ve got a letter from Wolf for his sister, and plan to look up Franz as well. But enough about that.” Melchior sat up straight and looked at his brother. “How are your trading schemes coming along?”

Magdeburg, House of Hessen

August 31, 1634

“Please come in, Abbess Dorothea.” Amalie put down her pen on the letter she was writing, and rose to greet her visitor. “Eleonore is not coming today; the heat is bothering her a bit.”

“I know. I just brought her a portion against stomach upsets. An American recipe that is not going to harm the baby. And how is your pregnancy coming along, my dear?”

“Healthy as a hog as usual. But I am aware that some of the old remedies contained abortifacients.” Amalie gave a slight smile. “And I faithfully promise to use only Quidlingburg American Herbal Remedies if I develop any problems. How is the production coming along?”

“Very well, actually.” The abbess sat down at the elegant table by the window overlooking the Square. “We had the still-rooms already, and the students have been most interested in both learning the new recipes, and earning a bit of money by producing enough for sales. That American Herbal book might have been very expensive, but it was one of the best investments I’ve ever made. I’m hoping to persuade Eleonore’s youngest sister, Eva, to go to Quidlingburg after her stay here in Magdeburg. We need someone to develop new recipes for problems the Americans could solve in other ways, and Eva has shown a real understanding of what each herb actually contains and can do.”

“And with her pox-scars she’s unlikely to find a husband.” Amalie shrugged and poured a glass of raspberry cordial for her guest. “Becoming an herbalist would be a sensible choice. I was just penning a note telling Eva and Anchen that my young cousins, Litsa and Maria, are expected any day.” Amalie took a sip of the cold mint tisane, she habitually drank instead of wine when she was pregnant. “Once they are here you can start your advanced lessons in the new political system. How is the final work with the new constitution coming along?”

“Slowly.” The abbess sighed. “Every time I think we have a consensus in the committee, somebody raises a new question. I still hope to get it ratified within the next months, but the election must be postponed until next year.”

“Come spring?”

“Or late winter.”

“Hm. I’d hoped it would be done faster. There are far too many areas of unrest, and we need a firm government to keep everybody in line.” At Amalie’s words the abbess started laughing so hard she had to clutch her side.

“Really, Dorothea. That wasn’t a joke.” Amalie looked affronted.

“Everybody in line, but you and Hesse, I presume?” The abbess was still chuckling.

“Oh, that.”

“Yes, that. How is your campaign going, my dear? That is of rather more importance than a kidnapping in Fulda or yet another peasant uprising.”

Amalie shrugged. “The entire summer has pretty much been wasted. Von Uslar and the Hessian cavalry have dealt with any troubles in all of Berg except the area around Solingen and Remscheid, but De Geers want too much for permitting the infantry access to the Rhine. Hesse could strike at Bonn and Cologne tomorrow, but without infantry and artillery to back up the initial strike, it would be a chancy undertaking.” She frowned. “It looked like such a golden opportunity what with Archbishop Ferdinand’s attention seemingly so firmly fixed on his old quarrel with Abbot Schweinsberg in Fulda, but this campaign has turned into a highly depressing affair. Unless you can come up with a really good idea, I’d much rather talk about something else. Did you know that Hermann and Sofie Juliane are moving into House of Hessen?”

 

1636: The Ottoman Onslaught – Snippet 39

1636: The Ottoman Onslaught – Snippet 39

In the larger villages, Mike’s command unit would seize the best and biggest tavern in which to set up a field headquarters. In smaller villages like Haag an der Amper, there would be no tavern as such. Typically, one of the more prosperous villagers would use one of the rooms on the ground floor of his house as a substitute.

By the time the army was done with such a temporary field headquarters and moved on, the place was fairly well trashed. The structure would usually remain intact, but the interior would be a ruin. Partly that was from carelessness and occasionally it was from deliberate vandalism — although not often if the troops were part of the Third Division. Ever since the atrocities committed by some of his units in the Polish town of Świebodzin, Mike had maintained a harsh discipline when it came to the way civilians were treated.

Mostly, though, the destruction was simply the inevitable side-effect of having far too many men wearing boots and carrying weapons tromping in and out of a building that had never been designed for the purpose. Mike had been bothered by the wreckage in his first weeks as a general, but by now he’d gotten accustomed to it. War was what it was.

When the gunfire erupted, Mike’s first instinct was to rush to the door in order to look for himself. But he suppressed that almost instantly and turned instead to the radio operator positioned at a small table in a corner.

“Any reports?” he demanded.

The radio operator shook his head. “Not yet, General.”

That was a bad sign. Probably a very bad sign. Mike had stationed Jeff Higgins and his Hangman regiment on the division’s right flank — and he’d done that partly because that was the flank that was more-or-less hanging out there and blowing in the wind. Jeff was his only up-time regimental commander and he had the only up-time radio operator, his old friend Jimmy Andersen. Mike was confident that, between them, they’d use the radio to warn him of any trouble almost instantly. He still had down-time commanders, no matter how many times he snarled at them, whose immediate instinct was to send a courier instead of using their regimental radio.

And now…

“Damnation,” Mike muttered. He looked at one of his junior adjutants, who’d also serve him as a courier. “Get over there, Lieutenant Fertig, and see what’s happening.”

Bavaria, on the Amper River

Two miles east of Zolling

Jeff Higgins wasn’t worried about the radio because he assumed Jimmy Andersen would have already sent the warning. His attention was entirely concentrated on trying to keep his formations from disintegrating under the impact of the Bavarian cavalry charge.

They probably would have, despite all his efforts, except that the same partially wooded terrain that was causing Thorsten Engler so much anxiety a few miles to the east was working in favor of the Hangman Regiment here. There were just enough small groves, just enough fallen logs, and just enough brush to give his men a bit of cover and impede the Bavarian horsemen.

It was clear very soon, however, that there was no way the Hangman was going to be able to hold this position. Against cavalry… maybe. But Jeff was quite sure this charge wasn’t the product of an accidental encounter with a passing cavalry unit. There were too many of them and they’d come on too quickly and in too good a formation. This had been planned.

The Bavarians had outmaneuvered them, it was as simple as that. Jeff was sure of it — and that meant there were infantry units coming up right behind. Probably some light artillery, too. They’d sweep right over them. He needed to fall back, anchor his regiment on the river and just hope that the commander of the 1st Brigade, von Taupadel, was moving his regiments up in support.

****

Von Taupadel was doing just that, and at that very moment. But moving several thousand men in unfamiliar terrain in response to gunfire coming from a still-unseen enemy is the sort of thing that only happens neatly and instantly in war games.

Unfortunately, von Taupadel did not think of using his brigade radio until several minutes had gone by — perhaps as much as a quarter of an hour. In fairness to him, that was partly because he also knew that both the commander and the radio operator of the Hangman Regiment were up-timers, and he assumed they’d already sent a radio message to General Stearns.

Bavaria, near Moosburg

Five miles east of Zolling

Thorsten Engler could hear the gunfire to the west. Each individual gunshot was faint, because of the distance, but that much gunfire can be heard for many miles, especially when it is continuous and never lets up.

Half an hour had gone by since the flying artillery squadron had come into position outside Moosburg — thirty-three minutes, to be exact; Thorsten had a good pocket watch and used it regularly — and there had been no sign of movement in the town. Nothing. Not a dog had stirred.

By now, Engler was almost certain that the cavalry movement the Pelican had reported had been a ruse. A feint, to draw the Third Division’s attention to its left flank while the real assault came on the right.

He was tempted to send a patrol into the town to find out what was there, but he wasn’t quite ready yet. If he was wrong, they’d get slaughtered.

He’d wait five more minutes. In the meantime…

Thorsten turned to his radio operator, who was in place right behind him. Whether because he was betrothed to an up-timer or simply because — this would have been his own explanation, had anyone asked — he wasn’t a dumb fuck mired in military traditions which he didn’t have anyway because he was a sensible farmer — Engler never forgot to use the radio in an appropriate and timely manner.

“Send a message to General Stearns,” he commanded. “Tell him I think the report of cavalry movement in Moosburg was a feint.”

Bavaria, Third Division field headquarters

Village of Haag an der Amper

Mike read the message through once, quickly. He didn’t need to read it again because he’d already come to the same conclusion himself.

He’d have cursed himself for a blithering overconfident reckless fool except he didn’t have the time. He still didn’t have a report from the Hangman Regiment. It was too soon for a report to be brought by a courier and the fact that no radio report had come in meant that Higgins had either been overrun too quickly or something had happened to the radio.

Either way, that meant Higgins — at best — had been driven away from the spot on the Amper which Captain Finck had recommended for a river crossing. Which meant…

The Amper could be crossed there from either direction. Which meant…

Piccolomini had feinted on the right — his right; Mike’s left — to draw his attention that way. He’d then taken advantage of the Pelican‘s departure to launch a surprise attack on the Hangman.

Mike tried to visualize the terrain. The area along both sides of the river was wooded. If the Bavarian commander had moved the troops up either the night before or very early that morning — probably the night before, while the Third Division had been setting up camp — then they could have been in position and hidden when the Pelican arrived. The airship had only been able to stay in position for half an hour before it had to return to Regensburg.

As soon as it left, Piccolomini had launched the flank attack. But he couldn’t have gotten enough men onto the north bank to have any hope of rolling up the whole Third Division. No, he’d use the same ford that Finck had found to move most of his army across, now that his cavalry had driven back the regiment guarding Mike’s right flank.

Which meant…

Ulbrecht Duerr summarized the situation. “They’ll try to get enough men north of the Amper to roll us up. We need to fall back and anchor ourselves on Moosburg. Which means we need to take Moosburg now.”

Long shook his head. “That’s asking the flying artillery to take a terrible risk. The volley guns are all but useless in close quarter street fighting. All Piccolomini has to have done is left a few companies in the town to bleed them white.”

Mike had already reached that conclusion himself. And, for the first time since the gunfire erupted, found his footing again.

“I think we’ve got a bit of time, gentlemen,” he said. “We’re going to rope-a-dope. That’s if the Hangman’s still on its feet. Damn it, why haven’t they gotten in touch?”

 

1635: The Wars For The Rhine – Snippet 20

1635: The Wars For The Rhine – Snippet 20

Still, the abundance of writing material gave Charlotte the opportunity to write new letters to her family, and in the few quiet moments when the two of them were alone, Frau Benedicte talked to Charlotte about the previous visitors and conversations, asking what she had understood and clarifying this and that. Eventually — as Charlotte slowly recovered and started showing an interest in what was going on around her — the older woman also began asking Charlotte for information and opinions. Charlotte might feel woefully ignorant about business matters on more than a household scale, but as a member of the nobility she knew her peers — and their politics and follies — inside out. And as the weeks passed, and the archbishop kept chasing rumors of Charlotte up and down the Rhine, a genuine friendship evolved between the two very different women. Charlotte started making tentative plans for taking control of her son’s heritage once her brother finally managed to disentangle himself from the upsets caused by the crisis in Bavaria.

Linz, Austria, The Scribe

August, 1634

“I am quite certain I told you not to stir up trouble, so what were you doing getting into a duel with a Bavarian nobleman?” Melchior tossed his hat on the table and sat down on the chair by Wolf’s bed.

“Well, you also told me to keep an eye on Bavaria. So it’s really all your own fault.” Wolf leaned back against the pillows stacked high behind him. Despite all the trouble his cousin cost him whenever they were in garrison Melchior was actually pleased to notice that Wolf look fit and healthy — aside from a slight pallor and a bandaged shoulder.

“But what were you doing in Regensburg? Aside from the obvious, that is,” Melchior added when Wolf started to smirk. “I did hear about you and the nobleman’s wife.”

“The day after you left for Vienna, I had a letter from the lady in question. The dear Duke Maximilian appears to be throwing his weight around pretty badly. I just went to see for myself how bad things were.”

“And visit the lady.”

“Of course.” Wolf opened his eyes wide and tried to look innocent — something he wasn’t very good at. “After all she was the one who had made contact with me.”

“But you are healing now with no sign of a fever?” Melchior decided to drop the topic, Wolf had been in and out of trouble since they were children, and he wasn’t really likely to change now.

“Yes.” Wolf also stopped playacting. “And how did your errand go?”

“I’m going back to Cologne. But you’re staying here,” Melchior quickly added when Wolf sat up fast and then grabbed at his bandaged shoulder.

“If you think you’ll leave me behind just because that fat ninny managed to prick my shoulder, you can just think again.” Wolf had narrowed his eyes and looked ready to jump Melchior for a wrestling match.

“Calm down, Cos. I cannot take the regiments with me. It’s not that Archduke Ferdinand refuses permission,” Melchior held up a hand to forestall Wolf’s protests, “it’s the situation with Bavaria being too tense. There is no way the Duke would not consider it an attack on top of the insult given by his runaway fiancée. I’ll be taking just Simon and Sergeant Mittlefeldt, plus this bunch of papers.” Melchior tapped to his breast bulging slightly from the document purse he was carrying.

“Money?” Wolf looked interested.

“That too. But mainly writs giving me not only ambassadorial status but also plenipotentiary powers in negotiating on behalf of the HRE in all matters concerning the middle Rhine area. Now, I want you to take over as commander while I’m away. I know I usually put old Dehn in that position when we’re in garrison, but the entire situation is so uncertain, and while Dehn’s a good solid commander, his mind just isn’t very flexible.”

“I hope you don’t intend to give that as a reason,” Wolf remarked dryly.

“Of course not, I’ll tell him it was high time you grew up. I’m sure he’ll agree to that.” Melchior grinned a little; Dehn dignity had been the target for Wolf’s pranks more than once, and while the old man had born them with good humor, he had definitely disapproved of Wolf’s behavior. “But on a totally different matter: is your shoulder good enough for you to write? I’ll be around for a day or two, and your family would expect letters from you when they see me.”

“Better send Allenberg to me. I can write, and I’d like you to take a letter at least to my sister in Bonn, but Anna complains about my handwriting even at my best.”

Ludenscheid, Hessian headquarter

“Please come in, von Uslar.” The stairs to the tower room Duke Wilhelm of Hesse had chosen for this meeting had obviously been hard on his cavalry leader’s wounded leg, so Hesse waved him towards a chair, while going himself to check that no one was lurking on the stairs.

“I apologize for making you climb all those stairs with your bad leg, but I intend to ask you to attack a fortified town without artillery support,” Hesse closed the door and returned to his desk, “so I’m sure you’ll agree that secrecy is of the uttermost importance.”

“As long as it isn’t Kronach,” Von Uslar replied in his usual laconic voice.

“No, it’s Bonn. Your brother is coming westward with fresh troops, and I want you to head east and meet him at Berleburg, as if it was an ordinary exchange of troops. Together you’ll then go up the Eder valley, cross to Sieg at the headwater, and then down that valley to Siegen. From there you must reach Beuel as fast as possible, take the town and the ferry, and cross the Rhine to gain at least a foothold on the other side. Duchess Amalie has arranged for new cannons to come down the rivers from Frankfurt, but by the time they arrive, I want the countryside and as much as Bonn as possible to be under our control.”

“The archbishop’s palace in Bonn is said to contain quite a lot of gold and jewels.” Von Uslar now looked vaguely interested.

“Yes, and I’ll need that to cover the cost of the new guns, and other expenses.”

“And the infantry?”

Hesse sighed. “Eventually I’ll reach an agreement with De Geer for access to the Rhine, and we’ll meet you at Cologne. Cologne is of course our real goal, but I cannot sail the new artillery past the cannons on the river wall at Bonn.”

“Not to mention the gold from the palace.”

“Yes, that too.”