Eric Flint's Blog, page 199

1636: The Ottoman Onslaught – Snippet 29

1636: The Ottoman Onslaught – Snippet 29

Jozef felt a fierce surge, almost one of exultation. His fury had been building for days and he’d finally have someone to unleash it upon.

But first, he had to take some care of the children.

“Tekla, Pawel, I’m going to stop very soon and you both have to get off the horse.” He nodded toward some brush off to the right a short distance away. “Go hide in there. Keep your heads down.”

“What are you going to do, Uncle?” Pawel asked nervously. In the three days of their travels, Wojtowicz had undergone a transition from scary stranger to nice man to uncle Jozef.

“Make these bad men go away. Far away.”

Oh, so very very far away.

He brought the horse to a halt. “Now, children. Off you go — and on the right side of the horse, where they can’t see you well.”

Pawel was on the ground in less than two seconds. He reached up to catch his little sister as Josef lowered her with one hand.

His right hand, unfortunately. But he didn’t think it was really going to matter because with his left hand he was already drawing out one of the two pistols he carried at his waist.

He thought the world of those weapons. Even with the money provided him by Grand Hetman Koniecpolski, Josef hadn’t been able to afford actual up-time pistols. But these were close to the next best thing: Blumroder .58 caliber over-and-under double-barreled caplock pistols. He’d opted for the longer eight-inch barrels despite the extra weight and somewhat more awkward handling because he wanted to be able to fire from horseback — while moving, at a canter if not a gallop — with a good chance of hitting his target.

He’d been able to practice a fair amount with them, too, before he left Dresden. After his participation in the sortie that marked the height of the battle between the besieged forces and Báner’s men trying to get back into the trenches, he no longer bothered hiding the fact that he’d trained as a hussar.

He watched while the children scurried off into the shrubbery, without so much as glancing at the wooded rise where the ambushers were waiting. He didn’t need to. Part of the training he’d gotten — which had been reinforced by his later experience as a spy — had been to quickly scan and memorize terrain and whatever forces might be located there.

There were three beech trees crowning the rise, all of them mature with thick trunks and plenty of room for horsemen beneath the lower branches. It was the sort of place careless and lazy soldiers would pick for an ambush. They’d have done better to use one of the groves of fir trees that dotted the terrain.

As soon as the children were out of sight he spurred his horse and charged the rise, angling to the right in order to take as much advantage of the road as he could before the final moments.

Part of his mind registered the squawks of surprise — there was some fear there, too — coming from the men half-hidden among the trees. But he paid little attention to that. His concentration was now visual, keeping everything in sight, in his mind’s eyes — where everyone was, how they were moving — how many were there?

Three, he thought at first. But then a fourth man came out of hiding and began running away on foot. Clearly, the fellow hadn’t been expecting this reaction from a lone traveler with two small children — and wanted no part of it.

He was a dead man, but Josef ignored him for the moment. He’d already shifted the pistol from his left hand to the right and taken the reins in his left. He now guided his horse off the road and straight up the rise into the trees.

The pistol came up — the range was less than ten yards now — and he fired.

His target jerked and yelled something. Now six yards away. He fired again and the target went down.

He shoved the empty pistol into a saddle holster — quickly, the range was down to three yards and one of the men was aiming his own pistol — and drew the one on his right hip.

Then, rolled his upper body down next to his horse’s flank. The enemy’s shot went somewhere over his head. The fool should have tried to shoot the horse.

He was back up again. Visualizing everything. One enemy was clambering onto a horse — and not doing a good job of it. He must be rattled. A second was fumbling with his pistol — probably the one he’d just fired, proving himself a fool twice over.

Josef drove his horse over him, trampling him under. Distantly he heard the man scream but he was now concentrated on the one getting onto his horse.

He ducked under a branch and came up right next to him. Fired. Fired. The man slid out of the saddle, smearing blood all over. The horse panicked and raced off, dragging him from one stirrup. If he wasn’t dead already he would be soon, being dragged like that.

Jozef wheeled his horse around. The man he’d just trampled was moaning and clutching his belly. Something in his body had been ruptured, probably. He’d keep for a while.

The first man he’d shot was lying on his back, staring up at the sky with lifeless eyes. The second shot had passed through his throat and probably severed his spine.

Josef wheeled his horse back around and set off after the man trying to run away. By now, he was perhaps thirty yards distant.

The fleeing soldier didn’t stop and try to stand his ground, the way he should have. He just kept running — as if he could possibly outpace a warhorse. Lukasz had told Josef that routed infantry usually behaved this way but he hadn’t quite believed him.

Stupid. Jozef’s saber was in his hand. It rose and fell. The fleeing soldier’s head stayed on his body but not by much. Blood gushed from his neck like a fountain.

On the way back, Josef stopped at the rise, got off the horse and finished the business with the trampled one. He used the man’s uniform — such as it was — to clean the saber blade.

Then he walked his horse back to the bushes where the children were hiding.

The boy stood up before he got there. “Were those the men who killed my father and the others?” he asked.

Jozef shook his head. “Probably not, Pawel. But they belonged to the same army. Holk’s men.”

“I’m glad you killed them, then.”

“So am I.” He tried — probably failed, though — to keep the ferocity out of his voice.

Tekla came out of the bushes and rushed up to him. He held her for a while, until she stopped crying.

“Come now, children,” he said finally. “We want to reach Wroclaw by nightfall.”

 

Challenges Of The Deeps – Chapter 03

Challenges Of The Deeps – Chapter 03

Chapter 3.

Wu bounced along in front of Ariane, watching in all directions at once. The Grand Arcade, that gigantic area of open-air markets, stalls, covered collections of shops like mini-malls, was a constant whirl of activity that never stopped – ideal for both an ambush and an escape. He turned periodically, seeing that Ariane was just behind him, that no threats loomed nearby. Then he could return for a few moments to the enjoyment of the moment.

The Arcade was one of the most wonderful places Wu had ever been, and seeing and smelling this maelstrom of a thousand species and a million scents lifted his spirits, helped him … not forget, really, but push back the loss that still ached, perhaps always would ache, behind his heart. All gone. They haven’t said it, but I can tell by the glances, the words not spoken… if there is anything to be salvaged, it will not be all. It will not be most. A few small things, remnants of my world… a world of lies, but they were my lies to live with.

But the Arcade was another world, a real world of wonders perhaps surpassing the imaginations of the Hyperion designers, a world within another world within an endless sky of worlds. DuQuesne said it was made for us. Maybe he was right, after all. I shouldn’t have doubted; he usually is right.

“You’re looking better, Wu,” Ariane said.

“Better? Better than what?” He was momentarily puzzled.

“Than you have for the last couple of weeks. Happier. There’s more of a bounce in your step.”

Wow. He couldn’t keep from staring at her for a moment. “You could see that? I thought I was good at hiding my pain.”

“You are,” she said, with a gentle smile – one so different from the smile she wore in competition or battle. “But as the Captain with three Hyperions in my crew, I’ve gotten used to watching for subtleties that I probably would’ve missed a year ago.”

“Ha! Of course you have.” He tried to ignore the fact that when she smiled like that and looked at him with sympathy and worry, with those eyes and hair of blue, she looked very much like someone else. “I do not like being sad. I don’t like remembering sadness and loss. But… I cannot forget, either.”

“You shouldn’t forget. They were your life. Your world. Like you said to Mr. Fenelon, if you don’t remember them, who will?”

He nodded, looking around again. They were moving down one of the many rows of food vendors; that made the expected movement of the crowds fairly predictable, which was good. “I know. But I know that S… Sanzo,” it was astonishing how hard it was to say her name now, “… Sanzo wouldn’t want me to be sad. If there was nothing I could do, then she would want me to do what I could here.”

For a moment, he allowed his heart to go black, his voice to drop to a near snarl. “But I will not forget the one who did this.”

Instead of backing away at the sight of the monster within – as almost everyone, even his old friends, used to – Ariane put her hand on his shoulder, and her touch was warm. “No, Wu. None of us will. And I promise you,” her voice was for an instant as level and cold as his, “we will find him – or her – one day.”

She’s STRONG, he thought, one of the highest compliments he could pay anyone. No wonder DuQuesne and Dr. Sandrisson like her so much. “Thank you.” He glanced around again. “So we are shopping for food?”

“I want to get a good assortment of, well, pretty much everything to take with us. If we’re going to be gone for months, I don’t want a boring repetitive diet.”

“I will agree there!”

For the next hour or so, they did exactly that; Ariane selected multiple foods – meats, unusual grains of purple and green, a dazzling selection of fruits, snacks and alien tubers, all to be sent to the Embassy for packing.

A movement caught his eye and he grinned. “Captain, can we go talk to an old friend?”

“Who are you -” she followed his gaze, and her smile answered his. “Of course we can. As long as you promise not to get in trouble this time.”

“I’m on duty this time,” he pointed out.

The tiny – even shorter than Wu Kung – white-and-purple figure turned, tail raised halfway, as they approached. “Captain Ariane Austin of Humanity, greetings,” said Tunuvun, bowing with wide-spread arms.

“Tunuvun of the Genasi, greetings,” Ariane said, bowing.

He turned to Wu. “And my brother warrior, Wu Kung, I am pleased to see you again as well.”

“Me too!” He stepped in and clasped hands with the smaller being, feeling the strength of the three-fingered grip. “How are you and your people?”

“Very well, and I thank you for asking. In fact…” A scent of trepidation and decisions. “My meeting you here is not entirely accident,” he said, looking at Ariane. “I had hoped to meet you in such circumstances – unofficially, where I might ask you a favor without possibly embarrassing us both.”

“A favor?” One of Ariane’s brows lifted. “I can’t imagine anything you might ask being embarrassing. What is the favor?”

“Refusal could be an embarrassment, at least for me, if done in an official setting,” he said. “And could reflect upon you. I wished to ask… would you – and my brother Wu, of course – accompany me to deliver our Challenge?”

“What?” Ariane’s scent showed her startlement and gratification. “Tunuvun, we would be honored to be present at that event. When would you like to do this?”

“Well… now, if it would not be overly presumptuous.”

The sharp scent, like lemons and ozone, was clear. “You’re nervous, Tunuvun!”

The tail twitched. “Of course I am nervous! I go to Challenge for my entire people’s right to be people – to be Citizens of the Arena, to be part of the Arena as you are, and we are not. All will rest on my back.”

“I don’t blame you, Tunuvun,” Ariane said, and her smile showed she did understand. “And so you want to get that out of the way as soon as possible, so you can just focus on winning the Challenge – whatever it ends up being.”

“You are a competitor as well, Captain. Yes, you understand perfectly. So…?”

“So let us go issue your Challenge, Tunuvun of the Genasi!”

He bowed again, very low indeed, and then turned and began striding briskly away. “Then follow. It is not too far, and I would rather walk, unless you have an objection.”

“None at all. Nothing wrong with exercise.” As they began walking, Ariane continued, “So who’s the lucky target of your Challenge?”

“I will be issuing Challenge to the Vengeance,” Tunuvun replied.

Wu saw Ariane stop in her tracks, and her scent shifted to surprised concern. “Tunuvun, you’re going to Challenge one of the Great Factions?” Ariane said slowly.

“Of course he is,” Wu answered; it had been so obvious to him that he hadn’t realized it would surprise Ariane. “The rules said they had to choose one with enough Spheres that the loss would not be great, and honor dictates that such a solemn and important Challenge must be given to one truly worthy.”

“Wu Kung sees truly,” Tunuvun said. “This Challenge must leave none in doubt of who we are, or what our worth is.”

A few minutes later, they stopped before the doorway of one building that thrust itself like a dagger into the sky, pointing towards the distant ceiling of Nexus Arena.

“This will be interesting,” muttered Ariane.

“Selpa A’At of the Vengeance, come forth!” Tunuvun said, and one of the green comm-spheres appeared before him as he spoke. “I, Tunuvun of the Genasi, must speak with you here, before my companions.”

A moment passed, then the sphere brightened. “With such formality I am called; I answer you, Tunuvun and say to you, wait, then, and I will be there in moments.”

Wu waited, tense. I really hope Maria-Susanna isn’t with him. He missed the golden-haired woman terribly, but he now knew what she had become, and seeing her so hurt and changed was a fresh pain he did not need.

But Selpa ‘A’At emerged alone, to Wu’s great relief, spherical body seeming to float level between its spidery legs. “I am here, Tunuvun of the Genasi. What is so urgent and so public that you must call me here, before my own Faction House?”

Tunuvun drew himself up, somehow looking tall and proud. “In the name of my people, I Challenge you, Selpa ‘A’At of the Vengeance, by the right and power of the Arena itself; you must accept, there is no refusal for this Challenge.”

The globe of a body rose and fell. “So. Before I respond, might I ask why you have chosen the Vengeance?”

“I offer you a chance to best me, who won a Challenge for the Powerbrokers against you under circumstances that I know did not entirely please you. It is an honorable chance for you, and an honorable Challenge for me.”

Selpa chuckled; the actual sound, which Wu could hear underneath the translation of mirth, was a rasp as of wood on wood. “So. The Vengeance accepts your Challenge, then. More, it is our right to select the nature of the Challenge.”

Tunuvun tensed. “It is,” he agreed.

Wu Kung felt himself tensing as well, for along with the sharp smell of the Genasi’s trepidation he could detect the far more worrisome scent of amusement and confidence. Selpa knows something or has thought of something Tunuvun won’t like, I’ll bet.

“We could select many contests that would be ill-suited to Genasi; still, you could then select a Champion who was skilled in such areas. Instead, we will select one that has aspects appropriate to both sides. It will be Racing Chance, with the race an obstacle course.”

Instantly Tunuvun began to relax. “This is an acceptable selection,” he said.

No! Wu didn’t know what, but that smell of triumph told him a trap had closed.

“And our Champion,” Selpa A’At said, his voice smooth as silk, “for the racing portion, at least, will be Tunuvun of the Genasi.”

Wu found his mouth had dropped open, as had Ariane’s. “Wh… what?”

Tunuvun had gone rigid as a statue, and Wu began to realize just how artful a trap Selpa had laid.

“You… you can’t do that!” Ariane snapped.

“Captain Austin of Humanity, you are I am afraid completely incorrect,” Selpa said. “Not only is the general rule clear that I can select any Champion; it is also the fact that following the loss to which he refers, the Vengeance immediately made a contract with him and his people to provide us with at least one such Champion at our discretion. This was, in a way, our recognition of his performance in that Challenge.”

Ariane shook her head. “Well… fine, then. But all he has to do in that case is sit down at the start line and let the other guy win.”

“No, he can’t do that,” Wu said, seeing Tunuvun turning towards Ariane with outrage writ large in his posture. “Ariane, this is his profession. If he ever is seen as doing less than he could, he’d lose face – lose tremendous face.”

“My brother understands,” Tunuvun said, his voice filled with leashed anger and chagrin. “In fact, to forestall any accusations that I might lose the match on purpose, I will have to run this race better than any I have ever run, with no reserve held back at all, so that there is no doubt I was running to win for my patrons.”

But then Tunuvun’s scent changed, and though his face looked little different, Wu Kung sensed a broad smile. “But the same rules apply to me. Whoever is to race against me – and who must beat me, if the Genasi are to win their citizenship in the Arena – will have to be my equal, or perhaps even my better, and though I have, rarely, lost, I have met only one such. So I ask you, Sun Wu Kung of Humanity: will you be our Champion?”

Selpa stiffened, all six legs locking.

Wu Kung glanced uncertainly at Ariane, but then saw the savage grin spreading over her face and felt a burst of gratitude. “Wu Kung, as Leader of the Faction of Humanity, I give you full permission to accept this request.”

“Then I will gladly race against you, Tunuvun!” he said, and grasped the smaller creature’s hands again. “If you’ll forgive me for beating you!”

“My brother in combat,” Tunuvun said, and that sense of a smile was all around him, “I will only not forgive you if you lose.”

 

1636: The Ottoman Onslaught – Snippet 28

1636: The Ottoman Onslaught – Snippet 28

The children seemed paralyzed with fear, still. Jozef knelt down and gave the girl’s face a gentle caress. “I won’t hurt you, I promise. But you can’t stay here forever. Come with me and I’ll take you someplace safe.”

He had no idea where that might be, but he couldn’t simply ride off and leave them here. They were too young to survive for very long on their own. The boy might, but the girl would surely die.

“Why does God seem to have such a grudge against poor Poland?” he muttered. Jozef had an insouciant temperament and was generally good-humored. But by now the contrast between Poland’s feckless rulers and the people he’d come to know in Dresden was becoming downright grotesque. Were he not a son of Poland and quite attached to his homeland, he’d have instantly traded King Wladyslaw and the whole miserable worthless Sejm for a printer’s daughter named Gretchen, a former tavern maid named Tata, and a one-time gunmaker become quite a good officer named Eric Krenz.

The children were still frozen in place, like two little statues. Josef got back on his feet, leaned over, and picked the girl up in his arms. She did not try to resist, nor did she make any sound.

“Don’t hurt Tekla!” the boy cried out, reaching out his hand. “Please don’t!”

His Polish had a heavy rural accent, but was obviously his native tongue.

Jozef cradled the girl in one arm and reached down with his other hand. “I won’t hurt her. Or you. Now come, boy. We have to leave here. What’s your name?”

Hesitantly, the boy reached up, took Jozef’s proffered hand and levered himself upright.

“I’m Pawel. Pawel Nowak.”

“Where is your family, Pawel?”

The boy looked distressed. His eyes moved toward one of the wrecked buildings and then shied away. “Gone. All of them except me and Tekla. They killed my father and uncle. My older brother Fabek also. My mother… I don’t know what happened to her. The soldiers took her away. I think she was hurt.”

By the end he was starting to weep. So was the girl. Jozef put an arm around Pawel’s shoulders and drew him close, while cradling Tekla more tightly.

So he remained for a while, until the children were cried out.

“Come on, now,” he said. “We have to get moving.”

“Where are we going?”

“We’ll spend tonight in Boleslawiec.” Since the children were Polish, he used the Polish name for the town. “After that… I have to get to Wroclaw.”

Pawel’s eyes widened. “But that’s so far away!”

The distance from Boleslawiec to Wroclaw wasn’t actually that great. Perhaps eighty miles — certainly not more than a hundred. A few days on horseback, no more. But for a Silesian village boy, it would have seemed almost as far away as Russia or France. If he even knew where those countries were located, which he probably didn’t.

After some experimentation, Josef found that the best way for the three of them to ride was with Pawel sitting behind him holding on and Tekla perched on his lap. It was awkward and it was going to be uncomfortable for all them, especially the poor horse. But at least today they didn’t have very far to go.

Tomorrow and the days thereafter… were tomorrow and the days thereafter. There were advantages to having Jozef’s temperament. He wasn’t given to worrying overmuch about what the future might hold.

****

He found a fairly decent tavern in Boleslawiec that had a room to rent. The food was mediocre but edible. The biggest drawback to the situation was that the tavern’s barmaids seemed quite friendly but with two children in tow he found himself unable to proceed as he normally would.

So, he retired for the night sooner than usual. When he got back to the room he’d rented, he found that Pawel and Tekla were already sound asleep. They were cuddled together so tightly that he’d have more space on the bed than he’d expected.

First, though…

He’d already placed the batteries in the radio before he’d left Dresden. So all he had to do was place the antenna out of the window. Then, patiently, he began spelling out the Morse code.

Poznań, Poland

“You wanted me, Grand Hetman?” Lukasz Opalinski didn’t quite come to attention — Polish military protocol was fairly relaxed about such things — but his tone was respectful and alert. Koniecpolski was not in the habit of summoning one of his junior officers on a passing whim. Something important must be brewing.

The top commander of the army of the Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth looked up from a piece of paper in his hand. Silently, he extended the hand to give the paper to Lukasz.

In radio contact again. In Bunzlau. Need to meet with someone in Wroclaw. Have two children need care. Nephew.

“Two children?” Lukasz couldn’t keep from laughing out loud. “I wouldn’t have thought even Jozef could have sired two bastards in the time he’s been gone.”

Koniecpolski smiled. “I don’t understand about the children either. But if he says he needs to meet with someone, we must see to it. My nephew is brash but he’s no fool.”

Lukasz had already thought ahead. “I’m free at the moment — not much for a hussar to do in this sort of siege — and I’ve been to Wroclaw. I wouldn’t say I know the city well, but I do know it.”

Koniecpolski nodded. “Off you go, then. It’s about a hundred miles or so. If he’s in Boleslawiec with two children you’ll get to Wroclaw about the same time he does.” The Grand Hetman frowned slightly. “I don’t know why he used the German name for it.”

Lukasz shrugged. “They’re a rude and abrupt folk, so their names are usually shorter. That matters when you’re using Morse.”

“Ah. I hadn’t considered that.” Koniecpolski was aware that there was some sort of code usually involved in radio transmission, but he’d probably never actually heard it used. He would have simply been given already-translated messages.

Lukasz was in very good spirits on his way out. Sieges were boring.

Lower Silesia, between Legnica and Wroclaw

“There’s someone up on the hill,” Tekla said. Her tone was anxious. “In the trees. I think they’re trying to hide.”

“I see them,” said Jozef. He’d actually spotted the men before the girl had, half a minute earlier. The “hill” she referred to was more of a slight elevation just a few yards off to the left side of the narrow road they were following. The landscape was mostly flat, as was generally the case in the basin formed by the Oder river. They were quite a ways north of the Sudetes Mountains which formed most of the southern border of Silesia.

But there were occasional rises in the terrain, often wooded, and at least three men were on the one just ahead of them. They were indeed trying to hide — none too adroitly — and it was quite obvious the reason they were doing so was because this clumsy effort was their idea of an ambush.

 

1635: The Wars For The Rhine – Snippet 10

1635: The Wars For The Rhine – Snippet 10

Melchior, the ruddy and most handsome second brother, had planned to become a Knight of St. John on Malta, but broke off his studies after several years in Fulda, Würzburg and France to become a soldier. As such he had made a very fast career to general under Wallenstein, and had since gathered a sizable fortune during his campaigns. Before going to Cologne Father Johannes had searched the library in Grantville for information about the Hatzfeldts, and in the Americans’ world Melchior had — in 1635 — become an Imperial Count, Field-Marshall and Imperial Councilor as a reward for remaining loyal to the Emperor during Wallenstein’s intrigues. Now Melchior was an Imperial Count a year early, but just that, none of the other titles. And rather than fighting against Wallenstein’s rebellion in Bohemia — or against one of the Protestant armies elsewhere — he had been given furlough to visit his family. He had, of course, left behind his regiments in Linz, and he wasn’t as famous as Tilly and Wallenstein, but he was still the highest ranking and most respected Catholic war-leader now in the West. Sending him to lead an attempt to push back the USE occupation along the Rhine, would make sense; but was that the plan? A messenger from Don Francisco had come to Cologne a few days after Melchior’s arrival: Count Wilhelm of Hesse-Kassel was most alarmed by General Melchior von Hatzfeldt’s presence so near his border, and any sign of military mobilization would be viewed as intended aggression. Any information from Father Johannes would be appreciated!

The Fleckenbuehl cousins — with estates in Hesse and a long history of service to the ruling family there — repeatedly tried to corner Melchior for a private discussion, so after a few days Melchior took to spending all his afternoons with the ladies and Father Johannes in the muniment room. And to his great mortification Father Johannes found himself jealous of the other man’s easy relationship with his ladies. It was of course an unworthy feeling. Illogical. Ridiculous. And all together to be ignored. And beside Melchior’s presence in the muniment room might provide some insights in what dastardly deeds were going on in Bonn. That Father Johannes liked — really liked — the two ladies didn’t mean their male relatives weren’t both ambitious and ruthless. Father Johannes really should spend as much time as possible with the ladies. Eh! With Melchior. He owed it to … To his American friends. And the chance for a better world that they represented. And as a priest he should certainly try to prevent a renewal of the fighting in this part of Germany. Eh! As a Catholic priest he should prevent a Catholic Archbishop from using this Catholic Imperial General to re-take areas presently occupied by the Protestant? Argh! What a bloody mess. Father Johannes stopped to rest his head against the door before entering the muniment room.

Inside the two ladies and Melchior were laughing at two cats sitting on each end of the table and alternately hissing at each other and ignoring each other with contempt. “Come in Father Johannes,” said Lucie smiling up at Father Johannes, “two new toms have been added to the household and they are being absolutely ridiculous.”

“Yes,” said Maxie leaning back in her chair and smiling wryly at Father Johannes, “and their names are Melchior and Father Johannes.”

Melchior stopped laughing and stared at Maxie, while Father Johannes sank down on a chair and kept his eyes on the cats. The silence stretched for a while, then Melchior started chuckling. “I didn’t think we were being that obvious, Father Johannes.”

Father Johannes sighed and looked at the other man; when he dropped the harsh authority of an officer and his smile reached his eyes, Melchior really looked like a male version of Lucie. Kindness and humor at least somewhat included. “If my behavior has been offensive or in any way improper, I most humbly apologize,” said Father Johannes with a bow towards the other man.

“Don’t be silly, Father Johannes,” once again Lucie made Father Johannes feel like a school boy, “compared to most of the clerics I know, you are an absolute pattern-card of moral rectitude and proper behavior. But you and my dear brother have so much in common, that it’s silly so formal you both have been. Why don’t you start by telling Melchior about the Americans notion of Democracy? Papa studied for years in Strasbourg, and was most interested in Philosophy; Melchior has inherited this interest.”

Hessian camp outside the town of Frankenberg

Wilhelm of Hesse-Kassel had been commanding troops since he was a teenager, including several years of learning everything he could from Gustavus Adolphus, and now every bit of experience he had told him that this campaign was getting too complex. His wife Amalie took the greatest delight in political intrigues, and the more complex the better. But while he had the greatest respect for her brain and knowledge, she didn’t really understand military realities in the field.

He had perfectly agreed with her that the new province of Hesse-Kassel needed a major center for industry and trading, preferably on the Rhine. With Gustavus Adolphus blocking both Essen and Düsseldorf, the only possibility left was Cologne. So, he’d made plans for a feint towards Wildenburg and Schönstein followed by a quick raid across the mountains south-west of Hessen to take first Bonn and then Cologne before the summer was over. That Archbishop Ferdinand had been hiring some of Wallenstein’s old colonels was not a problem, especially since the names mentioned were definitely second-rate. It made a somewhat plausible excuse for those excessively nervous types in the government who insisted that armies should only be used for defense. The French had been sniffing around the area all spring, but Richelieu liked to have a finger in all pies, and the French troops south of Trier had not been reported moving north, so that was fairly much business as usual too.

That General Melchior von Hatzfeldt had suddenly shown up in Bonn a few weeks ago was slightly more worrying, but since he came without his regiments, it was probably just some kind of scouting mission for the HRE. But now! Hesse sighed and looked down on the telegram in his hand. A special courier from Amalie had arrived only a week ago with a letter saying that Wolfgang of Jülich-Berg was in league with the archbishop and Richelieu in planning an attack on Hesse-Kassel, and that the plans should be changed to head due west for Mark and Düsseldorf. Today she had sent a telegram using the radio between Magdeburg and Kassel to get the message to him faster, if less secretly, saying that the Catholic Alliance had already attacked Essen, and that he should head north-west towards Paderborn and Dortmund to hit them from the rear!

Both changes made sense on the basis of the information, but what Amalie really didn’t understand was that you could not keep changing where your army was going and still expect it to get anywhere. Doing so undermined the men’s confidence in the leaders, and backtracking on roads already churned by a passing army meant that the cannons and supply wagons were almost guaranteed to get stuck. He could recall the cavalry and send them north to Paderborn, or he could let them take the mountain paths to the road past Plettenberg, but the cannons and the infantry were already strung out along the southern route, and there was no way he could turn them north before Siegen.

In the meantime he needed to leave the army and go see old Ludwig of Sayn-Wittgenstein. That stubborn old fool was almost on his deathbed, but still determined to make troubles. His heir, Johannes, was a sensible young man, who had almost immediately seen the benefits in having his small mountain realm incorporated in the USE province of Hesse-Kassel. But the old man had flat out refused to even discuss it; declaring in the most pompous phrases that he would see every mountain stream run red with the blood of both his own people and any invaders before he gave up the land built on the bones of his ancestors.

The army Wittgenstein could field wasn’t even a single regiment, so it was of course possible to simply ignore the old man and press ahead. But since the old man’s daughter-in-law was the sister to Hesse’s sister-in-law, it might be better to try diplomacy once more. Hesse’s brother Herman really doted on his new bride, and if Hesse — even by accident — made Juliane’s sister a widow, there really would be trouble when he returned to Magdeburg.

 

Challenges Of The Deeps – Chapter 02

Challenges Of The Deeps – Chapter 02

Chapter 2.

“Captain Ariane Austin, Doctor Marc DuQuesne, it is an honor to welcome you back to my Embassy once more,” Orphan said, giving the full pushup-bow which both the Blessed and the Liberated used as a sign of greatest respect. “And you as well, Sun Wu Kung. I take this to mean that the various… issues in your home system have been addressed in a satisfactory manner?”

DuQuesne saw a smile instantly appear on Ariane’s face, the smile that she often wore around the flamboyant, devious yet likeable Leader of the Liberated. “They have, Orphan. Though – as I’ve come to expect – they created additional ‘issues’ that will have to be addressed in time.”

“That is ever the way of things, is it not?” Orphan said, gesturing them to follow. “The course of a Leader is never simple.”

“And if it ever looks simple,” DuQuesne said, “you better believe you’re missing something big.”

“So very true. Here, seat yourselves, I have provided some of the refreshments you found most palatable on our last meeting.” The tall, green-black semi-insectoid creature took his own seat, which was more a resting perch than anything else, and raised a drinking globe. “To our continuing alliance, my friends.”

“I’ll drink to that,” DuQuesne said, raising his own glass. “How are things now? Where is Sethrik?”

“Things, as you say, are going very well since our secret victory over my former people. At the moment, Sethrik is in a meeting with the Naquari, a small but very capable Faction, who may be able to assist us in exploiting some of the resources of our new Sphere.”

DuQuesne grinned at that. Ariane’s inspired generosity in gifting one of the three Spheres they’d won to the Liberated had not only doubled the holdings of the Liberated, it had also sent an unmistakable message to the Blessed (whenever they realized it) that the Faction of the Liberated was considered one of the most important allies of Humanity… and thus any action against the Liberated might well bring the unpredictable and unknown forces of Humanity to Orphan’s aid. “We might have some more help for you there, too.”

Orphan’s head tilted inquiringly. “Indeed? Please, continue.”

“The story of your Faction is a pretty inspiring one from a Human point of view,” Ariane said. “We’ve had inquiries as to whether a human could join the Liberated. I presumed that they could, and that you would have no objections to appropriate humans joining, but wasn’t going to say so until we spoke with you.”

“Object? Most certainly not, Captain Austin!” Orphan’s voice – translated perfectly by the Arena – was enthusiastically emphatic, and he reinforced this with the double-handtap that indicated assent. “Obviously anyone joining would have to be of appropriate… caliber, given our situation with respect to the Blessed, and would have to understand that our ultimate goals will eventually put us directly into conflict with the Blessed and the Minds themselves. It will not be a… safe choice of Faction.”

“We’ll make sure any volunteers are fully informed of the nature and depth of commitment. But you may want to hold off on accepting more than one or two at this time.”

“Hold off? But I -” Orphan broke off, stiffening. “Captain Austin, are you saying -”

“– we’ve found you a crew!” DuQuesne finished for him with a grin. “Yes. And so if you took in more than a couple recruits, you’d exceed that limit of four members you mentioned to us a while back – which would mean that Sethrik would be severely limited in where he could go, and also stuck having to either trust, or keep an eye on, new recruits.”

Orphan was speechless for a moment, then performed another deep push-bow. “Given your difficulties, I had of course decided not to remind you of this promise for a time; I am honored and touched that you clearly have kept it in mind even through such trying times. When will I have the opportunity to meet this crew?”

“You’ve already met them,” Wu Kung said, his own smile showing his fangs. “It’s us.”

A handtap of assent. “Of course. Only those I can trust, and those whose capabilities I know.”

“And in my case,” Ariane said, “someone with a vested interest in this mystery of yours.”

DuQuesne saw the tightening of the wingcases that indicated tension or sudden thought. “Ahh. Of course. You hope that this mission may shed light on the powers of Shadeweaver or Faith that lie locked within you.”

“Do you think it could?”

Orphan was silent for a moment. DuQuesne caught Wu’s narrow-eyed glance, but even without that he could tell that Orphan was weighing options, deciding what to say and what to hold back. “Orphan, don’t make me suspicious of you again.”

Orphan made a buzzing sound, translated as a brief chuckle. “Ahh, Doctor DuQuesne, I doubt that you are ever likely to lose all suspicion of me. But here I must tread carefully. There are things I do not speak of even here, in Nexus Arena, that I will only speak of in the Deeps between the Spheres, where even Shadeweaver or Faith would have difficulty locating me, let alone spying upon me.”

DuQuesne nodded slowly. The Shadeweavers can mess around with the Arena’s rules, so it stands to reason that someone like Orphan might not trust even the Embassy’s security without limit. But what that implies about his secret? That’s pretty scary.

After another moment, Orphan’s hands tapped quickly. “In answer to your question, Captain Austin, yes, I do believe it could shed a great deal of light on this most difficult mystery of yours. Not without some… risk, but then, risk is not so terrifying for you as for some, yes?”

“I rather enjoy it at times,” Ariane said honestly.

Orphan laughed, though the laugh was a bit strained and his color momentarily paler. “I would like to say how incomprehensible I find that, except that I have found myself, at moments, feeling the same way during some of our more … perilous moments.”

“So, will the three of us be enough?” Wu asked, “or do we have to find a couple more?”

“My initial preference would be for a few more… but in truth, three capable beings such as yourselves will suffice, and in some ways … yes, in some ways fewer is preferable. Secrets, you understand.”

“In that case, it’s still too many,” DuQuesne said equably.

“How do you mean?”

He grinned. “We’ve got an old saying back in Earth system: ‘three can keep a secret… if two of them are dead.’.”

Orphan burst into buzzing laughter. “Ahhh, yes, how very appropriate, Doctor! It so truly reflects the way of the spy and manipulator, does it not?”

“It wouldn’t have lasted so long if there weren’t truth in it, that’s for sure. So, can you tell us how long this jaunt will be for?”

Orphan took a drink, obviously thinking. “The precise length of time depends on many factors, as one might imagine. But… months, certainly. The journey is not short, and of course we must first travel there, and then return, and I cannot say precisely how long my… business, so to speak, will require before I may return.”

Months… we’ve had some experience now with travel in the Arena. That means… “You mentioned only talking within the Deeps about certain things. Does that mean…?”

“Ah, Doctor DuQuesne, you are as perceptive as ever. Yes, our journey will take us through the Deeps indeed, far from mapped Sky Gates and well-trafficked routes through the Arena’s skies. You are, I believe, well-familiar with one of the reasons for my sobriquet of ‘the Survivor’, yes?”

“Yeah,” DuQuesne said, “and that’s actually one of the things that’s got me worried. You’ve been on at least three expeditions to the Deeps, expeditions of which you were the only survivor.”

Wu Kung stood slowly. “I did not know that.”

“It is true. And it is also true that on one of those expeditions I made the… discovery which now necessitates my return. But by that token, I did learn much of the perils surrounding that particular location and the, hmm, peculiar approaches one must take to survive there.” Orphan leaned back, his tail bracing him as he regarded the group.

“I would like to know whether we will survive, then,” Wu Kung said, looking much more menacing than someone of his small stature would be expected to look. “Because if it will put Ariane in too much danger I will say we are not going.”

Orphan’s wingcases contracted, then released. “To know? All of us would very much like to know, for certain, whether we would survive a given choice, would we not? Alas, I can only give you likelihoods and intentions, not certainty.

“What I can say, my friends, is that I know what happened to the members of those ill-fated expeditions, and I know how to avoid those fates. While I give you no guarantees, I have every intention of making this journey as safe as possible. I would very much like to return here with my entire crew intact.” He gave the broad gesture which DuQuesne interpreted as a smile. “After all, this would also encourage others to possibly journey with me without suspecting that such a trip could be a death sentence.”

Wu Kung stood immobile for a moment, regarding the alien narrowly. “There are many things you are not saying.”

“Indeed there are. And things I will not say until we are well within the Deeps, I assure you. But I very much mean it when I say that I regard you as my friends, and do not wish to bring harm to any of you.”

Wu shrugged and sat down. “Okay, that much was truth. We will go.”

Orphan looked over at Ariane. “Had he said no?…”

“… then we’d be staying,” Ariane answered immediately. “There’s no point in having a bodyguard if you don’t listen to him, and Wu’s instincts are pretty good.”

“Well. In that case I thank you, Wu Kung.”

“Do not thank me; it is just that, past all your twistiness, you like Ariane and Marc, and you don’t want to hurt them. You were telling the truth there. So that should be all right, and if I’m along, I can take care of them anyway.”

Orphan chuckled. “Very good, then.”

“So we’ll be out for months,” DuQuesne said thoughtfully. “We’re taking Zounin-Ginjou?”

“Yes, my flagship has been repaired, and I will have it appropriately disguised by the time we are ready to launch.”

“Disguised?” repeated Ariane.

“Indeed. The more misdirection I can manage, the better. I do not wish to be followed nor tracked in any way; minimizing the ease with which others can recognize my vessel is certainly one way to reduce this risk.”

“This will be interesting,” Ariane said. “All right. Well, we won’t lack for space on Zounin-Ginjou, so we should be able to take anything we need, yes?”

“Oh, certainly. Bring anything you feel you require or that will make you comfortable. Your own foodstuffs, of course, are recommended. While I will naturally bring food with me, my selections for human palates are of necessity currently quite limited.”

Ariane nodded thoughtfully. “Good enough. I still have a few things to do here, though – I have to touch base, as we say, with the other Factions, make sure that there aren’t any key issues I have to address before I turn things over to Carl and Laila, and so on.”

“Certainly, certainly, Captain Austin,” Orphan said cheerfully. “And as I have been waiting a while, another week or two is no great burden. Let us plan on launching on this expedition in two weeks from this day; is that satisfactory?”

DuQuesne considered, then nodded. He was pretty sure it would be easy enough to assemble anything he wanted or needed in that space of time. “Works for me.”

“And for me,” Ariane concurred. “Orphan, make your plans. In two weeks, we set sail into the Arena!”

 

Challenges Of The Deeps – Chapter 01

Challenges Of The Deeps – Chapter 01

Challenges Of The Deeps

Sequel to Grand Central Arena and Spheres of Influence

By Ryk E. Spoor

Chapter 1.

Ariane Austin felt the peculiar jolt that the Sandrisson jump always gave her, and found a smile on her face. “We’re back,” she said.

“Out of the political frying pan and into the Arena’s fire,” DuQuesne said, chuckling. “Feels good, doesn’t it?”

“Not something I would have expected, if you’d asked me before all this started,” Ariane said. “But I have to admit that Arena politics are more exciting.”

“Fates preserve us from exciting politics like that last adventure,” Simon Sandrisson said.

Ariane looked back at Simon, who was sitting in one of the passenger seats of the shuttle Century Eagle, adjusting his hair clip to catch a stray lock of his pure-white hair. “Why, Simon, are you saying you don’t want to rescue me again?”

There was general laughter from everyone present – DuQuesne, Wu, Gabrielle, Oasis Abrams, and Simon himself. “I would say rather that I would prefer you never be in a position to require rescue,” Simon replied, his smile and wink charming as ever. “Although you and Sethrik did well enough for yourselves at the end.”

“With the Monkey King’s help, yes,” she said, nodding at Wu with a smile. “But yes, I agree. Still… we’re about to go out and get ourselves in danger again, aren’t we?”

DuQuesne looked momentarily grim. “And I really wish I could find a decent argument to keep you out of it, but I can’t.”

“No, you can’t, Marc. I could keep you out of it with more justification. The only argument that even has relevance is that the Leader of the Faction should stay home where it’s safe.”

They all knew that wouldn’t wash with her, and wouldn’t for the other Faction leaders. Orphan, leader and – until recently – sole member of the Faction of the Liberated, often risked his life in questionable ventures, such as the one they would be accompanying him on.

His unique position excused his risk-taking, but the fact was that – despite the Arena residents’ overall greater aversion to high risk – Faction Leaders and equivalents seemed quite willing, and capable, of facing dangerous situations personally. Sethrik and his Mind-groomed traitorous successor Vantak had shown that clearly, engaging adversaries directly and without any reluctance in deciding the fate of worlds with guns, swords, or bare chitinous hands. Her impression was that Selpa’A’At of the Vengeance, Dajzail of the Molothos, and even wise, considered Nyanthus of the Faith would all be willing to take on threats to their Factions personally, if need be.

And that’s the kind of company I have to run in. Me. Ariane Austin… Leader of the Faction of Humanity.

The thought was still ridiculous, even though she’d lived with that title for well over a year now. The idea that she – formerly just a high-ranking racing pilot – had ended up as the literal leader of the entire human race was inescapably ridiculous, yet also as inescapably true. She’d nearly lost her life – and cost humanity a great deal more – before she’d not only grasped, but accepted, that burden that the nigh-omnipotent Arena had laid upon her.

Now she was going back once more… and she already had a challenge ahead of her.

The rest of the trip to the great docking facility within their Sphere’s “Harbor” was uneventful, not that she expected anything to happen. Of all the places in the Universe, being inside one’s own Sphere was probably one of the safest, at least in terms of threats from outside your own faction.

Unlike earlier voyages, there was traffic at the Dock. Multiple ships were coupled to the airlocks along the kilometers-long, eerily skeletal structure. “Approaching saturation,” Simon observed. “Are we regulating transitions carefully?”

“Yeah,” DuQuesne answered. “Checked with Saul on that and a few other things. They’ve done a few experiments and verified your theoretical limits – minor tweaks that might change the model slightly but nothing major – and there’s now a lot of oversight on transitions on both sides.”

“So how many vessels can we get in the harbor before we get stuck?” Ariane asked as their seats unlocked and restraints retracted.

“For vessels of reasonable size, the limit’s twenty,” said DuQuesne. “Doesn’t seem to matter whether they’re in groups or all spread out, either, which doesn’t make much sense to me.”

They all oriented themselves before entering the airlock; among the other impossible things the Arena did casually was to provide science-fiction-standard artificial gravity within the Spheres and most other living areas. Not orienting yourself before you stepped out was a good way to fall on your head.

“Why’s that?” Gabrielle asked. “Seems to me that if you spread ’em all out, they wouldn’t interfere with each other so much. Or maybe if you crowded ’em all together that the interference wouldn’t reach far out.”

Simon’s head came up with a sharpness that showed an insight. “Ah, of course. The problem, Gabrielle, is that when the ships are close together, the interference resonance is magnified by the multiple coils, so that it in effect ‘balloons out’, vastly larger than the individual drive fields would be alone. At the same time, if you distributed the ships widely, each one has a very large interference radius. I suppose you could get more in, if you distributed all of your ships exactly right, but it would be a difficult process and would involve sending your transitioning ships billions of miles out – in all directions. And, of course, if any of those ships started to move, all bets would be off.”

Wu Kung left first, as usual; he would not allow Ariane to enter any location without scouting it himself. The others followed once he waved; exiting, Ariane saw how Wu was studying the bustling groups of workers. “All clear, Wu?” she asked.

“Come on, Captain,” he said. “They’re just working.” The deceptively diminutive Hyperion trotted ahead of her, brown-furred tail waving a counterpoint to his footsteps, gold-tipped staff slung over his back. Wu’s gaze flicked back and forth, shown by the slight movement of his head, but despite his alertness he was also moving with the relaxed bounce she knew signaled that everything really was all right.

She noticed a pensive expression on DuQuesne’s face as they continued, and a similar shadow pass over Oasis’ as well. She let the others go on past and joined them; Wu glanced at her but then looked away, clearly aware of what she was doing. “Are you both okay?”

The immense black-haired engineer looked down at her, started to answer, then stopped himself; the red-haired former CSF officer seemed also at something of a loss for words. Finally DuQuesne sighed. “For what we have to do now, yeah, I’m okay. But losing those four…”

“…losing any of them was bad,” Oasis said bluntly. “But four? And not by accident, not even by Maria-Susanna? She was bad enough, but we…”

“You knew her,” Ariane finished. “She was… a known quantity, no matter how terribly she was broken. This came out of the blue. You don’t know what happened?”

“What happened, that was fairly easy,” DuQuesne said, looking up reflexively as they passed through the immense door that led to the Inner Sphere. “The question wasn’t what but who and why. Whoever did this wanted to make sure there wasn’t a chance of reconstructing anything, biological or electronic. They were in the process of wrecking Wu’s when we arrived, that’s why it wasn’t completely totaled.” He looked surreptitiously at the Hyperion Monkey King, but Wu appeared to be busily leading the way and watching.

“And…?”

He shook his head. “Still not much. Saul’s got his best people working on it, but he’s … well, not hopeful. There’s a possibility there’s some left in the deep backup data archives – those are hidden inside extra hardware layers embedded in the internal shell supports – but I’m not optimistic.”

Ariane tried to keep her expression neutral, but inside she felt the sting of sympathetic loss. Poor Wu! That would be his whole world they just destroyed – his friends, his enemies, his family and everything he was raised with. Simulated or not, they were real AIs which means they were as much people as we are. And that would be true of the other Hyperions who died. Whoever did this murdered a lot more than four people.

“It has to be someone associated with Hyperion,” Oasis said. “They knew exactly what they were doing and how to do it, and that trap they set for Marc… they knew him.”

“That ought to narrow it way down.”

“Problem is,” DuQuesne said, “none of the known Hyperion survivors fit this pattern. The only good candidate – at least for planning this – would be one of the old Hyperion AI adversaries.”

She felt a chill, as if a procession of ants dipped in liquid nitrogen had run down her spine. “And according to Mentor, at least one of them has escaped.”

“Right. But that puts us back to square one, in a way, because even Mentor couldn’t tell us which of the villain AIs it might be, and there are a lot of candidates. There were slightly more than a thousand Hyperions, and while a few of them didn’t have, well, epic-scale adversaries, most of them did, and some – especially those from long-running fictional universes – had many.” He looked to Oasis.

“Don’t worry, Marc,” she said, and put a hand on his arm. Ariane saw, in her gaze and posture, the duality that lived inside that single body – a nearly-merged combination of the original Oasis Abrams, and the Hyperion that was usually just called “K”. “You’ve got your own mission. Leave this one to me.”

Ariane didn’t hear the rest of the conversation, because Tom Cussler was waving at her from next to Wu Kung. “Hello, Tom,” she said, returning his bear-hug and hearing him grunt a bit at the reminder she was probably stronger than him. “Or I should say, Governor Cussler.”

He grinned, and Steve Franceschetti, standing next to him, gave him a congratulatory punch in the arm. “Way to go, Tom!”

“So that’s the title, is it? Confirmed by the SSC?”

“Confirmed and a lot of other things, too.” She handed them each a datachip. “Go over that tonight in detail. You’ll have a lot to absorb. Short version, I’m still Leader of the Faction, but there’s a mechanism to yank me that I think we can live with. And I’m not going to be around long; got a promise to fulfill for Orphan.”

“I hope the details on that are here too,” Tom said, falling in next to them as they continued onward.

“They are. As much as I know, anyway. Not to be spread around outside of our inner circle, though. You people need to know, but most others don’t.”

“Are you staying?” Steve asked. “I could get things set up for -”

“Sorry, Steve,” she said. “Next time, I hope. But I want to get back to Nexus Arena right away and make clear that things have been settled at home. The Leader of the Faction really can’t be absent long.”

“Right. Of course.” Steve’s sharp face, topped by curly brown hair, showed his disappointment, but there was understanding there too; he knew exactly how important it was for the Faction Leader to be present and active in the Arena.

The group continued through Gateway Colony, as it was now being called, making their way through the canyon-like roadways to the hexagon-paved center of the colony, then through the next doorway and through a series of corridors to the Inner Gateway, that huge swirling circle of iridescent-sparked ebony that led to Nexus Arena.

The familiar whirling tingle and indescribable, spinning, hurtling sensation seized her as she stepped through that portal and emerged into the kilometers-wide room filled with Gateways that was called Transition, the entryway to Nexus Arena itself.

In all directions were almost uncountable alien figures – bipedal, amorphous, multilegged, tentacular, floating – moving into or out of the Gateways, meeting with each other, avoiding others, and passing eventually out of Transition through a great archway into Nexus Arena proper. A Milluk – the same species as Vengeance Leader Selpa’A’At – was walking with spidery elegance alongside a sluglike Shiquan; a massive Daelmokhan’s semi-saurian body maintained a slow, dignified pace in order to continue a discussion with one of the Blessed To Serve. A dozen other species, all intermingling, talking, gesturing, moving in a dazzling and, Ariane admitted to herself, somewhat intimidating array of diversity and mystery.

But the very sight sent a thrill through her soul, and she knew she was home. She felt the grin spreading across her face as she stepped forward and headed down the ramp. “We’re back, Arena,” she said.

Welcome back, Captain Ariane Austin, said a quiet, yet somehow profoundly powerful, Voice in her head, a Voice she had heard a few times before: the voice of the Arena itself, or whatever intelligence hid behind and within the nigh-omnipotent Arena.

She stumbled with the shock. “I didn’t expect an answer.”

This time there was no additional remark forthcoming, but the simple fact there had been one at all filled her with a vague foreboding. The Arena generally didn’t speak unless it had a very, very good reason to do so, and from what she’d heard from other inhabitants of the Arena, she’d already had it speak to her, or in her presence, more times than most people ever would, even full-time residents of the Arena. So why did it speak now? Just to greet me?

“Something wrong, Captain?” DuQuesne asked.

“I don’t know, Marc,” she replied as quietly as she could. They reached one of the giant elevators in the area outside of Transition, a meters-broad shining column of metal. “The Arena welcomed me back. In person, so to speak.”

DuQuesne’s brow furrowed, and he nodded. There was no need to explain anything to him. “Well, let’s get to the Embassy and check in. Then we can think about whatever this little mystery means before we call up Orphan.”

Once out of the elevator, it was simple to flag one of the floating, open-carriage-like taxis and tell it “The Embassy of Humanity”; the taxi accelerated smoothly, weaving through foot and vehicle traffic with scarcely a jolt until it finally arrived at the Embassy.

“Well, we made it without anyone trying to shoot us, interrogate us, or otherwise inconvenience us,” Simon observed. “That seems an auspicious omen.”

As they passed through the doorway into the foyer of the Embassy, Ariane saw the precise lines and features of Laila Canning emerge from one of the interior doorways and stride with perfect rhythm straight towards them.

“Welcome, back, Captain,” Laila said formally, and then with an unexpected grin stepped forward and gave Ariane a hug. “We’ve missed you.”

After the initial startlement, Ariane felt an answering smile on her face and hugged back. “Well, thank you very much, Laila!”

Nearby, Carl and Gabrielle had completed their own even more enthusiastic greeting. I wonder if I’ll be performing a marriage there. Already did one for Tom and Steve.

“Can I assume from your arrival without Mr. Naraj in tow that we have resolved our issues properly?” Laila asked, after also embracing Simon and – after a split-second hesitation – shaking DuQuesne’s hand.

“Well enough, yes. Though Oscar will be coming back. We could not prove his involvement in my kidnapping, and he did make a lot of progress with other negotiations that we would not want to drop. We’ll just have to keep an eye on him, that’s all. He will not be given the authority he had, I assure you.”

“But your position as Leader, that has been confirmed?”

“We worked out a deal. If you’ll open a link?”

Unlike most people, Laila took the whole data dump without batting an eye; Carl’s eyes practically crossed and he had to sit down hard. She was the sort who worked with three AISages simultaneously. I have no idea what it must be like to have a brain like that.  “Oh! Quite clever. I look forward to meeting this Mr. Fenelon – he is coming, I assume?”

“Him, General Esterhauer, and several more, yes.”

“What about the… well, the murders of those Hyperions?” Carl asked, finally recovering.

DuQuesne shrugged. “We’ve discussed that earlier. Basically… too many possibilities, but the investigation’s ongoing. You can check out the second appendix for everything we’ve got; in fact, I want everyone on our crew to do that. Any of us might have some insight, and believe you me, we all want the monster behind this caught.”

Carl’s eyes went blank momentarily. “It’d help if I understood more about Hyperion.”

She saw DuQuesne hesitate, then grin. “Yeah, of course it would. I’ll give you guys the same summary I gave the Captain. But… don’t pass this stuff to anyone else, understand?”

Laila nodded, as did Carl. “We will say nothing.”

“How have things been here, Laila?”

“Busy,” said the brown-haired scientist. “There are at least two or three queries per day for you. No real emergencies yet, however. Long-term, the real problem is going to be the Molothos. Everyone knows we are at a war footing with them, and while the major factions have gained considerable respect for us, the Molothos have many thousands of years of reputation – quite deserved, as far as I can tell – for military efficiency, brutality, and an ability to win wars even if they lose an occasional battle. The only losses they have suffered in significant conflicts have been against others of the Great Factions – the Vengeance and the Faith as well as the Blessed.”

She gave a rueful grin. “If we could actually tell people what you managed to do to the Blessed, that might change perceptions a bit, but we cannot. So right now, negotiations with other Factions are still quite touchy because they are, understandably, skittish about involving themselves with us and possibly being targeted by the Molothos in turn.”

“That doesn’t include the Great Factions, I hope,” Simon said.

“Not so far,” Laila said, looking thoughtful. “While I am sure none of them want to confront the Molothos if they can avoid it, they’re not terribly scared of the Molothos either.”

“Good. Then our relations with, at least, the Analytic and the Faith should not be affected,” Ariane said. “The last thing we need is to lose the allies we already have.”

“Speaking of that, our next major order of business is with our first and most interesting ally,” DuQuesne said with a grin. “We still have a job to do.”

“And one we’ve put off for a long time,” she said. “Let’s give Orphan a call!”

“Just a moment, Captain,” Simon said. “Before you do that, I would like to – very regretfully – withdraw myself from this expedition.”

Ariane could see the regret echoed in the brilliant green eyes. “Withdraw? Simon, why? The three of us -”

“Well, you see, that by itself is part of it.”

DuQuesne grunted. “He’s got a point there. Like it or not, I think people recognize that the real top dogs of our Faction are you, me, and Simon. Taking all three of us out of circulation for some unknown time might not be the best idea.”

“Thank you, Marc. Exactly.”

Laila nodded. “I would very much not want to run things without one of the three of you here. These last few weeks have not been easy, and I expect – if that mysterious mission of Orphan’s is anything like what he implied – you will be gone much, much longer. One of you must remain.”

I wish I could disagree with that. Still… “You said that was part of it.”

“And not the largest part, no. In our excitement and – completely shared, I assure you – interest in finding out what, precisely, Orphan’s mysterious mission holds, I’m afraid we all forgot that I have a time-limited and extremely valuable opportunity.”

Ariane rapped herself on the forehead hard, just to remind herself how stupid she’d been. “Oh, God, how could I have forgotten that? The Archives!”

“Give me a smack too, Ariane. In fact, make that two smacks,” DuQuesne said. “Klono’s tungsten… dammit, no, not going back to those old oaths.” He blushed darkly, as he sometimes did when his old Hyperion upbringing surfaced. “But how the hell could I have dropped the ball that badly? Simon’s got a one-year pass to the largest library in two universes. We could end up away for months, and if he comes with us he’s pissing away one of the greatest chances we have to advance our knowledge and understanding of the Arena and everything in it.”

“I’m afraid that’s my feeling on the matter,” Simon said. “I should be spending several hours a week, at least, digging through those Archives, seeing what I can turn up.” The Analytic had given Simon the unlimited right to visit the Archives for one year – but had omitted any right of Simon to use the Archive’s equivalent of an index or search function.

Simon’s as-yet-poorly understood connection to the Arena, that sometimes provided him with knowledge or insight beyond the ordinary, had allowed him to mitigate this disadvantage to some extent, but didn’t substitute for the lack of the index. Partly, Ariane knew, this was because Simon himself was very wary of that capability – which had no known precedent anywhere in the Arena – and did not want to rely on it overly much.

But even pure random searching of a library that, literally, covered almost the entirety of the Arena – its history, its Factions, its technology – was an opportunity of almost incalculable value, and Simon was right – all too right – that it was one they could not afford to waste.

“I hate to agree, but I can’t see any possible argument in the other direction,” Ariane said reluctantly. “The fact that you’ll be seen – regardless of official positions – as something of my surrogate while I’m gone is just the cherry on top.” She looked to DuQuesne. “Do we need to choose a replacement, then?”

“I don’t think so. Orphan said a minimum would be three more, right? You, Wu, and me make three, and a pretty damned competent three at that.”

She felt slightly better, though she really didn’t like the idea of not seeing Simon for months. “True, he did say three was feasible. We’d probably prefer more, but unless he changed his mind, three should be enough.”

“You mentioned ‘official positions’,” Simon said. “Who’s actually going to be in charge?”

“While we’re gone? I’m making it a dual effort. Laila and Carl will be the nominal bosses, and I think you and Oasis can do the same for them that you and DuQuesne have done for me.”

“Advisors and gadflies, yes,” he said with a flashing smile. “That makes perfect sense to me.”

Carl grinned. “Or me and Laila the figureheads, with the mad scientist pulling our strings behind the scenes?”

Laila gave one of her short, explosive laughs. “Well, that would be satisfactory too.”

“Works for me, too,” DuQuesne said, grinning. “So are we ready?”

“Ready,” Ariane said. “Let’s go see Orphan!”

 

1636: The Ottoman Onslaught – Snippet 27

1636: The Ottoman Onslaught – Snippet 27

PART II

May, 1636

The sudden blood of these men

Chapter 13

Lower Silesia, near Boleslawiec

By the time he got to the outskirts of Boleslawiec — or Bunzlau, as the town’s mostly German inhabitants called it — Jozef Wojtowicz was in a quiet rage. Once he’d gotten beyond Görlitz, which marked the easternmost outpost of Saxony, the area he was passing through had quickly come to resemble a war zone — and a very recent war, at that.

What infuriated him was that the destruction had not been caused by Poland’s enemies but by soldiers who were officially employed by King Wladyslaw to protect the area. That would be the army commanded by Heinrich Holk, a man who had one of the worst reputations of any mercenary in Europe — which was saying a lot, given how low that bar had been set by now.

Holk had been employed by the Elector of Saxony, John George, right up until the moment that Gustav Adolf invaded Saxony and John George had need of his services. At that point — he might have taken ten minutes to decide, but probably less — Holk immediately fled across the border into Lower Silesia and offered his services to the king of Poland.

Who, for reasons known only to himself and God, had chosen to accept them. Jozef’s best guess — which did not mollify his anger in the least — was that Wladyslaw had been preoccupied with the threat that Gustav Adolf posed to Poland and had no troops he was prepared to send into Silesia to deal with Holk. So, he hired him instead. In essence, he bribed Holk to leave him alone.

The up-timers had a term for this sort of arrangement. They called it a “protection racket.” Which wouldn’t perhaps have been so bad if Holk had been an honest criminal and satisfied himself with the bribe. Instead, he’d made no effort to keep his soldiers under control and they’d set about plundering the countryside.

And that was another thing which enraged Jozef. Silesia was a borderland between the Germanies and the Slavic nations, and had been for centuries. At one time or another Silesia or parts of it had been under the control of Poland, Bohemia and Austria. Its inhabitants were a mix of Germans, Czechs and Poles. The rough rule of thumb which held generally through most of the region was that the towns and cities were heavily German, sometimes with a Czech and/or Jewish element, and the countryside was mostly Polish.

The largest city in Silesia was Wroclaw, known to its mostly-German inhabitants as Breslau. By 1518, the city had joined the Protestant Reformation but a few years later, in 1526, it came under the control of the Catholic Austrian Habsburgs. Until the Bohemian revolt of 1618, however, the Habsburgs had allowed a considerable degree of religious freedom. Thereafter, Ferdinand II had imposed his harshly Catholic policies over the area, although the brunt of those policies had initially been borne by Bohemia more than Silesia.

The war itself — what the up-time histories called the Thirty Years War — didn’t reach Silesia until 1629, when it was invaded by a Protestant army under the command of the German mercenary Ernst von Mansfeld. In response, the Austrians sent their mercenary commander Albrecht von Wallenstein to drive Mansfeld out, which he did — and followed by imposing his own harsh rule.

And then, just five years later, Wallenstein himself rebelled against the Habsburgs and restored Bohemia’s independence with himself as the new king. At the same time, he laid claim to all of Silesia — but that had been mostly a gesture, since the Polish monarchy seized Lower Silesia and Wallenstein was too pre-occupied with the Austrian attempts to restore Habsburg rule to pay much attention. All he really cared about was Upper Silesia, anyway, which was still largely under his control.

And there things stood. Most of the peasants were Polish Catholics, who lived in reasonable amity with the inhabitants of the towns and cities, who were mostly German Lutherans. Both Poland and Bohemia claimed to rule Silesia, but the Bohemians made no attempt to enforce their claim except in some immediate border areas and the Polish claim was enforced by a German mercenary thug whose real allegiance was to lucre and liquor.

As stinky situations went in the already quite smelly continent of Europe, Silesia was a veritable cesspool.

The worst of it was born by the Polish peasants. The German towns and cities generally governed themselves and had sizeable militias at their disposal. Jozef thought Holk’s army was large enough and strong enough that it could have overrun any of the cities of Silesia except possibly Breslau — but only at a significant cost. That was the sort of cost in blood and treasure that even very competent mercenary commanders tried to avoid. Holk and his men satisfied themselves by extorting bribes from the towns to leave them alone and periodically ravaging the villages.

****

As he passed through one small and deserted village, Jozef’s angry musings were interrupted by an odd little sound. Turning quickly in his saddle, he saw a small foot vanish around the corner of a house — not much more than a shed, really — that hadn’t been as badly damaged as most of the village’s buildings.

That had been a child’s foot. He got off his horse, tied it to a nearby post, and went to investigate.

Coming around the corner, he saw the foot again — the foot and most of the leg — sliding under a pile of debris that looked to be the burned remains of another shed.

“Come out, child,” he said in Polish. “I won’t hurt you.”

Moving slowly, making sure to keep his hands outstretched a bit so the child could see that he held no weapons, he advanced on the shattered and burned wreckage.

As he got close, he heard a little whimpering sound. He leaned over and — carefully, he didn’t want to dislodge a pile of wooden slats to fall on whoever was hiding there — lifted the largest of the intact boards and peered beneath.

Looking up at him, their faces full of fear, were two small children. A boy and a girl. The boy was perhaps six years old, the girl no more than four. From the mutual resemblance, he was pretty sure they were brother and sister.

“Where is your family?” he asked.

The children stared up at him, mute and silent.

He moved the board entirely aside. “Come out, children. I won’t hurt you, and you must be hungry. I have some food.”

He glanced around the village square — such as it was, which wasn’t much — and saw there was no well. “And water,” he added. There was stream fifty yards away which the village had probably used as its water supply. But the children would have been too frightened to leave their hiding place except at night — and possibly not even then.

 

1635: The Wars For The Rhine – Snippet 09

1635: The Wars For The Rhine – Snippet 09

“Well, truly neither do I,” said Maxie smiling warmly, “but Father Johannes assure me that things like the flying machines are quite real, and I suspect that a flight in one of those could drive me more than a little out of my mind. Perhaps your husband experienced something like that, something his mind could not understand or accept, but which Essen embraced, and he therefore would soon find on his northern border. Your husband’s recent behavior certainly seems to indicate that he finds Essen a danger to him.”

“Yes,” Charlotte absentmindedly refilling the glasses, “and Turenne played him like a viola. Will you be staying long in Düsseldorf?”

Magdeburg, House of Hessen

My Dearest Uncle

I write in the hope of finding you and your family in your usual good health, and in the hope that your beloved wife …

Amalie lifted the pen from the paper. No. Better not mention her last skirmish with Ehrengard at all. Uncle Albrecht would have had all the details from his wife anyway — in fact he would probably have had them morning, noon and night ever since last Christmas — and she had to find a way to make the family stand together if they were to retain any kind of prominence. So…

…will permit your lovely daughters to visit me here in Magdeburg, and take advantage of the Abbess of Quedlinburg’s advanced lessons in the new political system. As you know the abbess is an member of the Chamber of Princes and one of the people presently working on the new constitution, but Princess Eleonore von Anhalt-Dessau, whose husband, Wilhelm Wettin, everyone expected to become the next Prime Minister of the USE, and I, have prevailed upon the abbess to offer lessons to those of her former students, who might find themselves in a position, where such knowledge would be to their advantage.

There. Implying that Albrecht’s daughters were expected to make marriages of political importance ought to tickle his vanity. Though from the little Amalie could remember, they were all rather insipid and really difficult to keep apart. But the fences had to be mended, and this invitation — written in her own hand — could only be taken as an extended olive branch. So, now all that was left to write was the usual polite regards and inquiries, and then she could go see what Eleonore had heard about the situation in Denmark.

Cologne, Hatzfeldt House

The four Hatzfeldt brothers had arrived together in Cologne after meeting in Bonn, and the entire family was now gathering in preparation for the youngest brother, Hermann’s, marriage to the heiress Lady Maria Katharina Kaemmerer von Worms-Dalberg on the first Sunday in June.

The fire at Wolfer Hof had not done much damage, but Lady Sophia — with her cousin, Dame Anna, in attendance — had moved to Hatzfeldt House, so she could have her baby away from the fearful fire. They were still in residence along with the nine Wildenburg and Fleckenbuehl cousins, who had been able to come. And even with the twelve Weisweiler and Werther cousins having their own lodgings, and the eight Merten and Schoenstein cousins staying with Margaretha in Wolfer Hof, the Hatzfeldt House was now bursting at the seams, and Father Johannes’ work came to a complete hold.

The orphaned Lady Maria Katharina, called Trinket by the Hatzfeldts for her love of finery, would come to Cologne later together with Archbishop Ferdinand, and stay with him in his palace until the wedding. Fortunately the big feast following the church ceremonial would also be held in the Archbishop’s Palace. That Trinket’s Worm ancestors descended from King Clodomir I of Cologne was almost certainly just a myth, but the archbishop none the less used it as an excuse for a big celebration in Cologne. And to get the council’s permission for him to enter the town to perform the ceremony. Cologne was staunchly Catholic, but also a free trading town with many special privileges, and since the citizens of Cologne had successfully rebelled against their clerical overlord in 1288, the following archbishops could enter the town only with the council’s permission. In Father Johannes opinion, the wedding celebration was a quite clever move, since having the town’s backing and support would most likely be crucial to any plans the archbishop made. And — of course — everybody loves a wedding.

Lucie had stuck to her plan to take all meals — except formal dinners — in the muniment room for as long as Lady Sophia was in residence, and Father Johannes usually kept her company in both places. The formal dinners really weren’t that bad. Sure, Lady Sophia’s overblown histrionics got a bit tiresome with repetition, but usually the dinner was in the honor of this or that cousin’s arrival in Cologne, and even if it wasn’t enlivened by one of the lively feuds the Hatzfeldts entertained themselves with, at least Father Johannes gained major orders for porcelain from the Magdeburg Meissen factory he was part-owner of. The ovens were presently being built in Magdeburg, and hadn’t gone into production yet, but his few test samples fired in Grantville had convinced everybody that he could deliver.

Maxie obviously enjoyed herself hugely by needling Margaretha whenever That Baeckenfoerde Woman had to be invited. And usually Maxie had the enthusiastic help of the Wildenburg, Weissweiler and Werther cousins, while the dignified Fleckenbuehls tried to calm things down and the Merten and Schoenstein cousins sniggered up their sleeves at their unpopular matriarch’s problems with keeping her sharp tongue under control when faced with the archbishop’s favorite cousin. All in all dinner parties from hell — except that everybody seemed to regard it as business as usual, so Father Johannes relaxed and let himself be entertained by the antics.

During the daytime Maxie came to the muniment room whenever she could find the time, and she and Lucie soon included Father Johannes in their old and firm friendship, talking about everything between Heaven and Earth, while sorting and listing the huge piles of paper. Father Johannes sometimes helped the sorting, but usually worked on lists for the restorations, sketches for the new buildings, or — lately — plans for a library — such as shown in the latest number of Simplicissimus Magazine and fast becoming extremely fashionable — to house the family’s collection of books.

Lucie’s four brothers also came to visit the muniment room from time to time. Quiet, calm-looking Heinrich Friedrich, the oldest of the Hatzfeldt brothers, was the least frequent visitor. Old Sebastian had spent most of his life serving the Archbishops of Mainz in one capacity or the other, and he had bought his oldest son an expensive position as a Domherr at St. Alban in Mainz. Here Heinrich had remained during and after the Swedish conquest of the town, and he now spent most of his visit in Cologne with the exiled Archbishop Anselm of Mainz.

All the Hatzfeldt brothers had studied theology for a while in their youth, but only Franz, the sturdy and dark third brother, had taken the priestly wows and made a career within the church, first as a diplomat in the service of the Prince-Bishop of Bamberg, later as a prince-bishop himself in Würzburg. Normally this would have made him the most powerful — and the wealthiest — of the brothers, but with his exile following the Swedish conquest, his prospects were now most uncertain. Especially since his main heritage from his father, the Castle Crottorf, was also behind the present USE borders.

Hermann, the spindly and narrow-shouldered youngest brother, was a Colonel, but well known to be much more of an administrator than a warrior — and always ending up serving as quartermaster of whatever army he was serving in. With none of his three elder brothers showing any signs of marrying, Hermann was now withdrawing from warfare and concentrating on handling the family’s estates and possessions; a life Father Johannes felt certain would suit him just fine. Not to mention that he’d probably get much better results negotiating with the USE for the conquered parts of his family’s lands near Mainz, than he would trying to fight for them.

 

1635: The Wars For The Rhine – Snippet 08

1635: The Wars For The Rhine – Snippet 08

Chapter 3

Düsseldorf, The Castle

June, 1634

“Sister Maximiliane to see you, Milady.”

Charlotte looked up from the letter she was writing to glance around the room to see if everything was in order. Two weeks ago she and Elisabeth had been about to board the boats arranged to take them up the Rhine to Cologne, when a dispatch had arrived from Wolfgang to the captain of the garrison left behind. As it turned out the cavalry that came running back to Düsseldorf with the news about the French betrayal had been only partly right: Turenne and his men had gone off on their own as soon as they had crossed the river Ruhr, but her husband was very much alive, and locked in a battle with the army of Essen. Faced with these news Charlotte had decided to stay in Düsseldorf, and wait for the arrival of her brother, rather than to try hiding from Wolfgang in Cologne. Unfortunately Friedrich had been delayed by spring flooding in the Alps washing away the roads, but according to his latest letter he had now arrived in Metz and would come north as soon as possible.

In the meantime Wolfgang’s plans to catch the army of Essen in a vise and crush it to a quick victory had been changed into a long drawn-out battle and attacks against the fortifications surrounding Essen. He had sent for the heavy cannons from Düsseldorf — as well as all available troops from Jülich and the cavalry the archbishop had promised him — but the news coming from the front was so contradictory, that the entire town — not to mention all the servants at the castle — were in a constant state of uproar. As a result Charlotte was constantly called upon to deal with some new crisis, and whenever she sat down to think and make plans, somebody would interrupt. Elisabeth, who was supposed to help her run the castle as well as keep her company, was actually worse than useless in dealing with a crisis; her mind had never been agile, and the life as a postulant, who never had to think outside the rules, suited her perfectly.

“Thank you, Frau van der Berg, that’ll be all.” Charlotte nodded to her castellaine, and turned her attention to her visitor. Sister Maximiliane, former Countess von Wartenberg and a cousin to Archbishop Ferdinand of Cologne, had come from Bavaria to nurse her cousin through a serious stomach disorder the previous winter. She was well known as a strong fighter for women’s right to enter total sequestration and concentrate fully on the glory of God, but to everybody’s surprise she had accepted taking change of the Hatzfeldt household in Cologne instead of returning to Münich. Speculations as to why had been running rather wild all spring, and ranged from a love-affair with Prince-Bishop Franz von Hatzfeldt to financial problems in Münich making it impossible for her to return. Elisabeth had been partial to the first theory on the basis of the many mistresses kept by the males in the Bavarian ducal family, but Charlotte knew the kind of money it took to enter total isolation, and found it far more likely that the strong-willed Maxie had bitten off more than she could chew and simply wanted to raise some money before going home.

Well, as the hostess it was Charlotte’s task to direct the conversation, so perhaps she could direct it in that direction — and if nothing else then at least an afternoon spent with the apparently intelligent and capable older woman would serve to distract Charlotte from all the problems otherwise running her ragged.

“My sister Elisabeth is unfortunately bed-bound with a stomach disorder today, but she has so much wanted to hear your opinion about the religious opportunities for women in Cologne. My own time is presently very much taken by the practical tasks of running this castle, but if you would be as kind as to give me your impression of the most needful undertakings, I’m sure my sister would be delighted to join you in whatever you feel would do the most good.”

“I am no longer actively involved with religious matters.” Maxie smiled a little bitterly and sipped delicately on the sweet, fine wine Charlotte was serving in costly Venetian glasses.

“Oh.” That was unexpected.

“My male relatives had promised me their support, but played me false.” Maxie looked directly at Charlotte and grinned without real mirth. “I’ll not deny that it hurt to give up the plans for which I had fought so hard, and I still believe that women should have the same opportunities as men, but personally I find that there is a certain liberty in no longer needing so many people’s goodwill.  I rather believe I’ll enjoy speaking my mind for a while.”

Charlotte found a wry answering smile tucking her own lips. “Yes, that would be wonderful.”

“I rather heard — between his words — from my archbishop cousin, that you have had some problems in that direction.” Maxie’s words were almost, but not quite a question.

“Yes.” Charlotte looked down into her wine to hide her thoughts. Not only would Maxie be a valuable ally if Charlotte went to Cologne, but Maxie’s openness about her own life made Charlotte want to trust her with her own problems. Still, Maxie was known to her only by reputation, so it might be wise to feel her way a little. “Do you think the Americans in Thüringen have been sent by the Devil?”

“No,” Maxie’s eyebrows had lifted in surprise, “but unless that was an abrupt change of subject, I’m most interested in the connection.”

“Wolfgang was three times my age when we married, but not at all a bad husband — or a bad man. He was quite tolerant of what I wanted, fair in his judgments, and both concerned and capable in running his lands. He often went to Essen, being interested in what De Geer there was doing, and usually came home with new ideas and plans. Then, a little more than two years ago, an American had been there to tell about all the new things they claimed were possible, and when Wolfgang returned he was very quiet and didn’t want to talk about it. In fact he forbade anyone to even mention the Americans. Then he started losing his temper over quite insignificant matters. Would fly into a rage if something had been moved, or his son voiced a different opinion from his own. Previously Wolfgang had been proud when Philipp had made a clever argument, but now it made him furious. And it wasn’t just with Philipp and me. It was the servants, in courts, everywhere, as if he had been bewitched into a totally different person. And it only got worse.” Charlotte shook her head and looked up at Maxie with a weak attempt at a smile. “You are very well known for your nursing skills, do you think he could be ill?”

“Not from any disease I have ever encountered,” Maxie looked thoughtful, “but the mind is a strange place, and I might have heard about something. Has he been very opposed to anything new?”

“Yes, anything new, anything changed.”

“Well, first of all: I’m not personally very familiar with any Americans, but Father Johannes, a person whose judgment seems quite sound, has lived with them since shortly after they arrived. He claims that they are quite ordinary people, special only in being most excellent craftsmen, but morally neither better nor worse, neither stronger nor weaker than what you’ll find in any German town. However, one of the crafts they excel in is that of medicine, and their studies of the human body have included that of the mind. One of the books Father Johannes read and found especially interesting described things that are not actually diseases, but rather too strong or twisted reactions to things happening in a person’s life. I recognized the description of shellshock in a patient I once had, who previously survived a heavy cannonade during a siege, and what has happened to your husband could be something similar called future shock. As far as I have understood, it’s what happens when your mind cannot adjust to all the changes in your life, and try to escape into unthinking rages, drink, or apathy.”

“I don’t understand.”

 

1636: The Ottoman Onslaught – Snippet 26

1636: The Ottoman Onslaught – Snippet 26

He’d have given a lot to have just one or two APCs with him. The vehicles weren’t amphibious but they’d do splendidly to drive off enemy cavalry while his engineers threw up the bridges. But in his infinite wisdom — being fair about it, the damn Polish king was being just as pigheaded about keeping the war going — Gustav Adolf insisted that all the functioning APCs had to remain with Torstensson’s forces around Poznań.

“Might as well wish for one or two M1 Abrams main battle tanks, while I’m at it,” Mike muttered.

“I didn’t catch that, sir,” said his adjutant, Christopher Long.

“Nothing. Just dreaming the impossible dream.”

USE naval base

Luebeck

Admiral John Chandler Simpson believed very firmly — as you’d expect from someone raised in the high church Episcopalian tradition — that a man who used profanity thereby demonstrated his inferior intellect and primitive grasp of the glorious English language. But, as he lowered the message from Veleda Riddle he’d just finished reading — the parsimonious old lady had even paid to have it sent by radio transmission, which indicated how agitated she was — he couldn’t help himself.

“Well, fuck me,” he said.

Grantville

It was hearing someone else express her own deepest qualms that finally settled Veleda Riddle’s mind.

“But she’s not one of us!” exclaimed Christie Kemp.

The statement stuck in Veleda’s craw, as the saying went — all the more so because she completely agreed with it. The woman was not only “not one of us” she was so far removed from “us” that she might as well have been living on Mars.

That was to say, one of the many planets He had created.

“Christie,” she said, trying to keep her tone from being too disapproving, “we are a church, not a country club. I think we need to keep that in mind.”

“I agree with Veleda,” said Marshall Kitt.

“So do I,” added his wife Vanessa.

Christie threw up her hands. “Fine! But you need to face some facts, people. We are not — not, not, not — prepared to deal with this. We have exactly one priest — well, that we’re compatible with — and he’s not leaving Grantville. We have no bishop who could ordain more priests, leaving aside that snot Robert Herrick whom Laud saw fit to make the bishop in Magdeburg. Herrick’s a goof-off anyway and we all know it. That means we’re still completely dependent on Archbishop Laud, who is — pardon my Baptist — an asshole who won’t give us the time of day. Even if he weren’t, he’s in the Netherlands.”

She had a point, as crudely expressed as it might be.

“I will write to him again,” Veleda said.

Amsterdam, the Netherlands

“That pestiferous woman!” Laud exclaimed. He held the radio missive clutched in his fist and waved it under Thomas Wentworth’s nose. “She’s at it again!”

“I just came in the door, William,” Wentworth said mildly. “On what I intended to be a simple personal visit. What has you so agitated?”

Politely, he didn’t add this time, as he so easily could have. Exile was a wearing state of affairs for anyone, but his friend the archbishop of Canterbury handled it with particularly poor grace. Perhaps that was due to his age. Laud was now sixty-three and was likely to be feeling his mortality pressing down on him. So much still to do — and now, so little time left in which to do it.

Laud heaved a sigh and sank back into his chair. “It’s the American woman, Veleda Riddle. I’ve told you about her. She keeps pestering me to give the Americans their own bishop. I’ve already sent them some priests! Well. Two priests — and I made one of them the bishop in Magdeburg. And there are only a very small number of American so-called ‘Episcopalians’ anyway. What do they need a bishop of their own for?”

Without waiting for Thomas to reply to that — clearly rhetorical — question, Laud raised his message-clutching fist again and waved it about.

“I’ll tell you! I’ll tell you! They intend to break away from the authority of the true Anglican Church, that’s what! I’m not a fool, you know. I’ve read the history books. In their world the archbishop of Canterbury was just a so-called ‘first among equals.'”

He broke off for a moment, glaring at the inoffensive wall opposite from him. “They called it the ‘Anglican Communion.’ Each national church having its own separate identity and authority, with only token acknowledgement given to the English fountainhead of the church.”

Wentworth had heard this all before — more than once. “Oh, leave off, William!” he said impatiently. “Why do you even care, other than as a matter of personal pride?”

“You don’t understand, Thomas. They’re not part of us.”

Wentworth took a seat on the small divan under the window. “No, they’re not. I have met some Americans, you might recall. But the way I see it, that’s all the more reason to let them go their own way.”

He leaned forward, planting elbows on his knees. “William, we have more than enough problems to deal with. One of them — do I need to remind you, of all people? — being to place you back in Canterbury where you belong. Why in the world would you want to pile onto your shoulders this additional distraction?”

Without moving his arms, he spread his hands wide. “So let them have their bishop, why don’t you? Then, hopefully, they’ll go on their way and that woman who aggravates you so mightily won’t bother you any further.”

Laud said nothing for a minute or so, he just continued to glare at the wall. Then, he sighed again.

“I suppose you’re right.” He rose to his feet and moved toward his writing desk. “There’s this much of a blessing, at least. The ancient harridan made a specific recommendation once. If I can find it…”

He rummaged among the papers piled around the desk.

“Ah, here it is.” He handed the letter over to Wentworth. “This will spare me the nuisance of having to send someone to investigate the possibilities.”

Wentworth scanned the letter quickly. When he got to the name of the man whom the Riddle woman had recommended, his eyebrows rose.

“Well, he certainly has the pedigree,” he said.

“In that case, I’ll send the appointment by radio transmission.” The expression on Laud’s face was mischievous; indeed, it bordered on being malicious. “They call it a ‘collect call,’ you know.”

He reached for the bell on a side table and rang for his secretary. “I can’t actually ordain him over the radio, of course. That requires a laying on of hands. But I can appoint him bishop-elect and make the appointment widely known.”

Regensburg

Tom Simpson wouldn’t have paid for the radio message, except for the name of the sender. What would the archbishop of Canterbury want with him?

It took no more than a few seconds to read the message. A few more seconds to re-read it. At least a minute, though, for the meaning to finally register.

“Well, fuck me,” he said.

****

As he headed toward the entrance, the radio operator called him back. “There’s another message coming in for you, Major Simpson.”

Tom turned around. “From who?”

“Your father, it says.”

After Tom read that message, the situation became much clearer.

“I swear to God,” he muttered, as he emerged back onto the street, “if you planted that woman in the middle of the Gobi desert — oh, hell no, plant her in the middle of Antarctica — she’d find an apple cart to upset. Take her maybe two minutes, tops.”

****

His wife’s reaction when she read the message from Laud was a variation on the theme.

“Oh, fuck no! Tom, you can’t accept!”

He made a face. “I’ll have to check with Veleda or somebody else who’d know the protocol. But I’m not actually sure I can refuse. Legally speaking — well, ecclesiastically legally speaking — I think this is more like being conscripted than volunteering. You know how it is in this day and age — half of your top clergymen are political appointees.”

“I don’t give a damn! I don’t want my husband to be a fucking bishop! I’m just a trashy country girl hillbilly! I want to get laid once in a while!”

Tom laughed. “Episcopalian clergy aren’t Catholics, honey. They — we — don’t take vows of celibacy.”

“Doesn’t matter! How can I possibly screw a goddam bishop?”

His grin widened. “Come here and I’ll show you.”

****

An hour or so later, Rita was much calmer. Not quite mollified, but close.

“Well, I guess there’s one upside to the whole thing,” she said, her head nestled on his shoulder.

“Hmm?” Tom’s eyes were closed. He’d have been purring, if humans were equipped to do so.

“You can get Ursula out of our hair. Send her to Dresden to do her proselytizing. Let her drive Gretchen Richer nuts. It’d serve her right since this is all her fault in the first place.”

His eyes opened. “I’m not sure I have the authority to do that. Ursula is just laity, not clergy.”

“Says who?” Rita levered herself up on an elbow and looked down on him. “Your church ordains female priests. I know it does.”

“Well, yeah — up-time. But here…”

His eyes were wide open, now.

Rita laughed and slapped his chest. Which was like slapping a side of beef. “Oh, Laud will have a shit fit! Welcome to the seventeenth century, way-too-smart-for-his-own-good husband of mine. What should we call it? Hey, I know — the Bishop Wars.”