Eric Flint's Blog, page 302

The Savior – Snippet 17

The Savior – Snippet 17

2

Toward evening, the column crossed the boundary into the Treville District. Abel was now in familiar country and began to make out landmarks he knew well. They would not be passing through his hometown, Hestinga, where his father had his headquarters as district military commander. Hestinga was seven leagues to the east at the end of the great Canal, which fed into Lake Treville. This was the widest portion of the Valley.

They would pass Garangipore, however.

For Abel, Garangipore would always evoke the odor of hyacinth.

It was the perfume of the woman he loved, Mahaut DeArmanville Jacobson. So many meetings here in Garangipore, over the past few years, him down from Bruneberg, her up from Lindron.

She was a woman wedded to a job she loved, a job that gave her meaning. She’d found her calling.

He would never deny her that.

They were doomed.

* * *

The vanguard of the column reached Garangipore on the second day of the march through Treville. The town was a large grain repository, a transshipment center, with barges traveling down the River and heavily laden carts heading up the River Road to the northeast. It was also the place where the Canal left the River and headed for Lake Treville. Since the River Road ran along the eastern side of the River here, the Canal cut it off. The Corps would have to board ferries to cross.

Third Brigade had been chosen to handle transport of the entire Corps. Von Hoff, knowing the ability and experience of his engineering company, had volunteered.

Which meant that, as executive officer for Third Brigade, it was Abel’s job to work with his engineers to be sure this happened securely and on schedule. Fortunately, this was a task that pleased Abel. The chief of the Third Brigade Engineers was also Abel’s friend, the third part of the triumvirate at the Guardian Academy that had included Abel and Timon Athanaskew.

Landry Hoster was his name. Like Abel, he was a Guardian reserve officer, until recently stationed in the Regulars. For the past six years, that posting was serving as Abel’s righthand man and chief of combat engineering of the Bruneberg Black and Tans. In his maintenance shop a new type of bullet was being manufactured. It was a bullet based on the work of the heretic priest Golitsin. While Law had condemned Golitsin to burn at the stake because he invented breechloaders — nothing was said regarding the cartridges they used. These were bullets with the percussion cap, gunpowder, and slug held together by a stiff cylinder of papyrus.

In many ways, Landry was the complete opposite of Timon. About the only thing they had in common was a fanatical devotion to duty. Timon did it because he was a believer. Landry did it because, as he’d once told Abel, he was having so much fun.

“Tell me we have boats, Landry.”

“We have boats, Major,” the engineer answered, “and a lot of them. The engineering advance team got here five days ago. We hired or requisitioned damned near every vessel in the province.”

Landry was a heavyset man, almost a head shorter than Abel. He wasn’t fat exactly, but he had a pudginess that never quite melted away and seemed almost a part of his character. Landry was thirty, two years older than Abel, and had risen through the ranks in the Delta District Regulars before being accepted into the Academy. In the swamps and bogs of the Delta, an engineer had to know his stuff.

Landry was a shy man at heart pushed into leadership. Abel figured he’d probably been bullied a lot and scapegoated when he was younger. If so, Landry had gotten past that by the time he got to the Academy. There was a quiet competence about him, and he always seemed happy, or at least amused, even in the middle of the hardest tasks. Abel had learned not to underestimate Landry’s core military skills, either. He was a magician when it came to math, siege weapons, the layout of battlements and forts — anything having to do with numbers, angles, and the use of space.

Sometimes, when an idea struck him, he had a tendency to overdo it, however. Abel surveyed the huge gathering of River boats along the Canal’s southern bank.

“Looks like a bit of overkill to me.”

“Hey, we’ll end up glad we have them, sir,” Landry said, but cracked his usual smile. “I kind of had an idea about lashing them side-by-side and planking them over to make, well, sort of a bridge, but when I brought it up, our wonderful brigade chaplain nixed my idea. Said he’d hate to see me burn at the stake the way that priest did. You knew him, didn’t you?”

“I knew him.”

“Breach loading rifles,” said Landry, shaking his head in wonder. “Insanity. No wonder they set fire to the man.” Landry gazed across the water and mused. “Wonder how he handled the back-blow. I’d of liked to see how one of those things worked before they burned them all up.”

“I know you would,” said Abel. “Let’s get those boats loaded and moving, Captain.”

Landry straightened and saluted. “Yes, sir.”

Abel spent the day directing traffic. Landry’s men handled most of the launches, but Abel found he was needed in five places at once to solve small but potentially march-slowing logjams. Most of all, he made sure no boat was overcrowded. He told the loaders to remind the men at least three times what capsizing would mean.

This close to the River, the Canal was crawling with carnadons. An overturned boat full of men and donts would bring on a feeding frenzy of horrific proportions.

Besides, almost none of the men could swim.

His own captains knew Abel and Landry well, and gave Abel no trouble. However, some of the company captains from the First and Second Brigades were complete and cursed assholes about the whole thing. They didn’t like the way Abel was running the operation. They took exception to the warnings in his standard lecture — a speech that was designed to be sure the men knew what might happen if they dangled their hands in the water. They rolled their eyes and made fun of his hardcore attitude, as if they knew better.

Let them think what they want so long as they do what I say, Abel thought. What difference does it make if they know or don’t know that I’m saving their cursed lives?

Abel had been near two men when carnadons tore them limb from limb. Neither experience was one he wanted to relive.

But the truth was he was too busy to care what was said behind his back. In the end, with the help of Landry Hoster’s extremely efficient engineering company, he managed to cajole and bully the entire Corps over — men, donts, wagons, and all. The trailing pack train of the Quartermasters Corps was waiting to cross behind them. They would use Landry’s boats, but they had their own officers to oversee the specialized transfer.

Abel wished them luck.

It was after sundown, but before nightfall. The cloud of dust kicked up by sixteen thousand men making camp for the evening glowed a dusky, golden hue. The murmur of a thousand rough conversations filled the air, along with a few shouts at donts and daks to get out of the way or get a move on. The Corps was spread up and down the northern banks of the Canal, since it was a readymade water source, and in spite of the fact it was carnadon infested.

He noticed that men were going in details to dip pails of water, and their companions were armed and vigilant.

Good.

Maybe he’d put the fear of Zentrum’s wrath in a few of them after all.

Abel unsaddled his dont and released her into a corral near the command area. Groelsh, the command master sergeant, who made the staff camp arrangements, had chosen a good spot on a rise that overlooked the troops in either direction along the Canal. Abel stowed his saddle beside the others on the makeshift corral railing. His pack and weapons he carried a short distance away. He put his rifle into the command staff rack, but kept the pistol in his waistband. He stowed his pack against the trunk of a small willow tree nearby. He slapped the pack to clear the sandy buildup on the canvas, but succeeded only in raising a cloud to further thicken the dust already hanging in the air. Ever-present insectoids buzzed around his head, but he ignored them.

He turned and looked down the rise at the Third Brigade encampment.

The flower-shaped sleeping circles of men were easy to see from this perspective. There were dozens of them — enough to fill the north side of the Canal as far as Abel could see from his position.

Then, something odd.

Farther along the Canal, there was a long line of men stripped down to bare chests. At the head of the line, a man stepped into a spray of water that came from an uplifted section of pipe supported on a wooden framework. He’d seen many such sod pipes before. They bent to a certain extent without breaking and were a staple of the irrigation system in the Valley.

Someone’s redirected the irrigation ram from downstream, Abel thought. After a moment, it came to him what was going on.

They’ve set up a shower for bathing.

The line was moving through at a steady clip, with one man standing under the falling water for a moment, then giving way to the next.

Not a bad idea, Raj said. This might be the last chance to get the stink off them until Progar.

Yeah, with muddy irrigation water, Abel thought. But it did look cool, at least.

Suddenly, around the pipe a cordon formed, a circle of men standing almost shoulder to shoulder. Some had bayonets detached from their rifles. Some had their bows notched, with arrows pointing down but at the ready.

What the cold hell were they up to?

Was there about to be a fight?

Another group of soldiers approached. There were about ten men, and they were trying to bypass the line and get directly in the water. Abel couldn’t hear it, of course, but one of their number stopped and spoke to a soldier in the cordoning circle. The other began waving his arms, then appeared to be shouting. After a moment, the man he was shouting at turned away from the cordon, his hands thrown up in disgust, and went back in the direction from which he’d come. The other line-jumpers followed.

Abel walked down the rise to the shower — slowly, he was in no hurry, and had a halfwatch to spare before the colonel would want him again — and found the soldier who had done the talking. Abel recognized him at once. He was the Monday Company first sergeant.

“Evening, Major.”

“First Sergeant, what was that about?” Abel asked.

“What was what about, sir?”

“That talk you just had with the soldier who turned around and left.”

“Oh, that? He was a First Brigade sergeant, sir. Didn’t you see his triple knots?”

“What did he want?”

“To take a bath.”

“To take a bath?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And this is the Third Brigade sod pipe?”

“Yes, sir. A field-ready high-quality bathing facility.”

“I see. What did you tell him exactly, First Sergeant?”

“I told him to get his stinking carcass and the rest of his trash back to their own camp or we’d gut the lot of them where they stood. I told him I’d see every thrice-damned Third Brigade soldier I’m fighting and dying with through this water before I let a drop of it touch a shitkicker from the First or Second. Sir.”

Somewhere in Abel’s mind, Raj Whitehall was laughing.

“All right, carry on, First Sergeant.”

“Yes, sir.”

Abel strode back up the rise to the command area. When he got there, von Hoff was standing gazing down in the same spot Abel had occupied before.

“What was that about?” he asked.

Abel told him.

The slightest smile crossed the colonel’s face. “I see,” he said. Then the smile became a scowl. “We have a very dirty task to perform, Major. I wish it was going to be that easy to wash ourselves clean.

Von Hoff turned away without waiting for an answer, and went back to the small lean-to he slept under. Having a tarp roof over his head was the only concession von Hoff allowed to his rank.

* * *

Abel sat on the rise for a long time and looked over the Canal as dusk became the dark of night. Soon he could see the lights of Garangipore across the water.

She might conceivably be there.

The Jacobsons had a villa in town, and Mahaut sometimes came up River from Lindron to oversee a particularly valuable shipment.

When she did, he’d often found a reason to come down and meet her. They got away from the compound to one of her maids’ apartments near the River’s edge.

Smooth stucco walls. A scuffed wooden floor with a carpet thrown across it. Fine linen sheets. The odor of hyacinth and lavender.

He would see her on his return. He had to.

He’d almost joyfully given over Cascade to his second and traveled back to Lindron when the reserve call-up had come.

But with her duties and his, they’d only managed to see each other every Mommsen moon or so. But that nine-month taste of being near her had been exhilarating. Only now, instead of cooling with distance, his desire for Mahaut had turned into a constant longing that was always in the back of his mind like the sounds of the night.

Blood and Bones! He should have killed Edgar Jacobson when he’d had the chance back in Treville, saved Mahaut the years of putting up with him. But blowing Edgar Jacobson’s brains out was not the way to Mahaut. He didn’t know the way. Maybe there wasn’t one. But if he couldn’t find it, he would carve the path himself.

Abel wasn’t particularly trying to keep his thoughts private at the moment or to remain in his Hideout. Nevertheless, Center and Raj maintained a diplomatic silence.

 

Paradigms Lost — Chapter 18

Paradigms Lost — Chapter 18

Part III: Photo Finish

August, 1999

Chapter 18: Action and Reaction

“But I thought we would be seeing The Thirteenth Floor tomorrow night,” Syl said.

I winced. Truth be told, I’d forgotten all about our movie plans in the past few weeks, and Verne had made an appointment – after hours, naturally – to discuss several interesting opportunities he was looking into. Given the situation with Verne, I hadn’t yet let Syl in on that secret, and if her unique … sensitivity had clued her in, she hadn’t let me know about it. “Sorry, Syl. How about Saturday evening?”

She shook her head, miffed. “You know my reading group meets on Saturday evening. And Sunday I’m visiting my parents.” She looked at me with a sudden sly smile. “You know, this is the third set of plans we’ve had to cancel in the last couple of months. Are you going out on a date tomorrow, Jase?”

Though there had been a few times I’d been dating in the last few years, thought of going on a date with Verne made me laugh out loud. “No, no. It’s a business meeting, I just forgot about our plans. And of course tonight’s bowling night.” I went bowling with Renee Reisman and not Syl because Syl found bowling utterly boring. “Sorry. Really, how about Monday then?”

“I’ll forgive you… this time,” she said, tossing her long black hair, making her assortment of beads and bracelets jingle with the motion. “But only if you pay for it all this time. Even the snacks.”

I grinned. “It’s a deal.”

“All right.” She glanced at her watch. “Oh! I’d better get moving, Witan and Sherry are going to be waiting for me!”

I went back to work, which right now was mostly research work for people trying to finish up their degrees and a bunch of patent stuff. That made the time both crawl and fly by, a paradox that I didn’t find as amusing as it sounds.

The door jingled and I looked up, relieved to have a distraction. “Hi Renee –” I caught the expression on her face and changed out relieved for worried at the same time I changed my mode of address. “I mean, hello, Lieutenant Reisman.”

She was even grimmer than I thought as she got closer. “Mr. Wood, do you know a Xavier Ross?”

What the hell?… “I did some work for a Xavier Ross, yes,” I said, cautiously. “Why?”

“I need to know everything you said to him, everything you told him.”

I shook my head. “That’s client information. You know I won’t give you any of that without –”

She shoved a piece of paper under my nose.

“– a … warrant. Which this apparently is.” I glanced it over; this wasn’t the first time I’d seen one, but it was the first time I’d had one served on me. “Okay, I’ll get that stuff out. But why?”

“Xavier Uriel Ross disappeared from home — apparently deliberately, as there were signs he’d carefully accumulated both cash and supplies for traveling — a few days ago.”

I swore, something I generally reserved for serious situations. “I told him to go to you.”

“He did,” she said, and if possible her face looked even more grim, set in stone. “LA wouldn’t re-open the case, no matter how hard I kicked them. And I kicked them plenty hard.”

That’s… not good. I started a disc burning for all the information I’d given Xavier. “Do you think they should?”

For a moment I didn’t think she’d answer; she might be here alone but she was still in her “official” mode. But then she shrugged. “Wasn’t up to me. But… yeah, I would have thought so. That was some real interesting evidence you turned up, especially with the erased hard drive and hidden pictures. Usually that does get people to sit up and take notice, and when I talked to the main detective in charge he sounded interested… but after that things just got shut down.”

The disc finished burning; I put it in a case and handed it to her. “Here you go, Lieutenant. This is everything.”

“You got paid three thousand dollars by Mr. Ross, right?”

“Because I gave him a bunch free. I could have charged him another seven easy, and he acted like he had it to spend.”

“He did. Personal bank account worth over twenty thousand — I have no idea where he was supposed to have gotten that much, but his mother was obviously aware of it — and he’d just about emptied it before he left. Withdrawals in cash, too.”

“Jesus. So this kid went missing with over fifteen thousand in cash on him?”

“Yep. You have any idea where he’s gone?”

I grimaced. “You know just as well as I do where he’s probably headed.”

She nodded. “Los Angeles.”

“Where else?”

“All right. You’d better come with me to give a statement, too. You don’t have to,” she emphasized, “but you probably should.”

“Okay, okay.” I started shutting down things for the day. “But since I don’t have to do this yet, at least keep me updated on what happens?”

Renee looked at me, then flashed a momentary smile. “You got it. Now come on, Wood.”

I followed her out, locking the door behind me. Not what I was planning for this evening.

 

The Savior – Snippet 16

The Savior – Snippet 16

PART THREE

The Load

Six years later

The Present

1

Approaching Garangipore

476 Post Tercium

Abel chose a large female dont from the train to ride. The gunny sergeant in charge said her name was Nettle. Abel began his acquaintance, as he always did with a new dont, by feeding her tender, newly grown rushweeds he’d found near an irrigation ditch on his march to the rear. Normally, he would spend at least a halfwatch getting to know a new dont mount. Today, he had only a few moments, but he did his best to woo her with soft words and more rushweeds.

Then he put on the saddle the supply sergeant had issued him, and carefully girthed it on the dont’s inhale. He mounted up and headed back up the line he’d just marched down, setting Nettle to a brisk trot.

It was just past midday and the enormous, self-made dust cloud that engulfed an army on the march had billowed into being. The Guardians marched eight abreast, in four columns of two with a larger space down the middle of varying width — built-in room for give while maneuvering around objects. They stretched across the Road, and, when necessary, marched in the ditches and fields that lined it. Where the road narrowed severely, columns merged, moving through without missing a step or slowing down.

Like the flowing of the River, Abel thought. Or the slithering of a legless cliff viper.

Villagers gathered along the sides of the road to watch the procession, but stayed many paces back. There was awe on their faces, and a certain amount of worry. When a child reached up to wave, or jumped up and down in excitement, parents or relatives would pull the child away and place it behind them. As with a viper in a wicker cage, you did not want to tap too much and make the deadly beast notice you. It might find a way out.

But one could observe from an appropriate distance.

There had not been a march of the entire Corps such as this in over a hundred years. One hundred ten years, to be exact. Abel knew; he’d spent the last four years practically living and breathing military history scrolls. On that previous campaign, the Guardians had been sent to correct a problem in the Delta. The locals had taken to sailing out to blue water ocean. They’d developed a new kind of triangular sail, larger ships, and were even venturing out to harpoon the near-legendary grendels and collect their oil. Grendels were the largest beasts ever seen in the Braun Sea — the size, it was rumored, of over a hundred daks.

According to the scrolls, these sailing folk were of a different stock than the short, mostly dark-complexioned Deltamen who now lived in the area. They had been fair, freckled, and some were said to have flaming red hair.

Abel knew that complexion. He’d seen it before, in the Redlands. Red hair and freckles was the mark of a Flanagan. They inhabited the wastelands to the east of the River Delta and existed in a state of squalor. The Blaskoye looked upon them as subhuman and treated them as animals when they caught one, even occasionally hunting them. The Flanagan tribe subsisted mostly on clams and mussels they gathered along the seashore and cracked open with rocks.

As Abel read the old scroll, it dawned on him where the Flanagans had come from. The people of the Delta, First Family and commoner alike, had been rounded up by the Guardians in a surprise attack. The scrolls were remarkably frank on what happened next. Most had been killed outright, or imprisoned inside enclosures and hastily dug pits. They’d been left to starve to death. Others had been driven into the sea at the point of bayonets. Most of the children who remained had been sold as slaves to a Redlander barbarian tribe of the time.

The very few who escaped had fled east with their families — and these must have become the beach-grubbing, primitive Flanagans.

* * *

The day’s marching pace was relentless. The Guardian Corps had started out from Lindron four days previously and in that time had covered nearly fifty-five leagues on foot. Three brigades, each composed of four one-thousand-man battalions, plus mounted forces, specialist platoons, and a quartermaster’s corps. Sixteen thousand men.

A drop in the sea compared with armies of yore, Center had commented.

You work with the army you have, Raj replied.

Abel could hardly believe it was possible to move a force this large so far and so quickly, but the proof was before his eyes. And they did it all with rifles and three-stone packs on their backs.

The air was hot and sticky. They’d left Lindron, worked their way through the badlands known as the Giants, and arrived in Ingres just four days ago. Now they were headed out the flat flax and wheat fields of Ingres, nearing its border with Treville District. This brought the road close to the River, and the humidity rose with each watch spent marching. The dust cloud glowed a luminous, sun-drenched yellow around the marching men. Fine brown alluvial dust stuck to sweating skin. It got into men’s eyes and scratched its way down their craws so that every swallow was dry and every breath ragged.

Even on a dont, the heat of late ripening time in the land was relentless.

The sun seemed not to move for whole watches at a time, although Abel knew it was progressing west little by little. Center was able to tell him the precise time of day if he wanted, but Abel usually refrained from inquiring. To ask Center the time was to risk hearing a history of galactic timekeeping.

Abel knew enough about how the universe truly worked to feel a stranger in his own world. No one in the Land, nor any of the barbarians in the Redlands, had a notion of the central fact of their own existence: that they were all on a planet that was rotating around its own axis, and traveling around its local star, which was what they called the sun, once per year.

The planet’s name was Duisberg. It had three moons which revolved around it, as the planet itself did around the sun. Some of the stars, the steady-burning ones, were other planets of the Duisberg system. Most were not.

Most of the stars in the night sky were distant suns.

There were other worlds, other men, out there.

Humanity had come from those stars over three thousand years ago. They had arrived in ships descending from the sky and had built a great civilization in the Valley of the River, which was the only easily habitable portion of Duisberg. It was a civilization that, compared to Abel’s own, had been magical and godlike. It was a place where every man woman and child had powers as great as those of Zentrum.

But men were not gods. And that shining civilization had collapsed. The fall had been total and galaxy-wide, the transportation gates slammed shut. Not even Center knew the full cause of the Collapse.

Center had been but a military computer on a planet called Bellevue. The only computational devices that survived the Collapse were those that had been hardened against infiltration by programming viruses or nanotechnological attack on the hardware. Usually this meant a military artificial intelligence.

After the Collapse, star travel ceased. Humanity, scattered across the galaxy, was thrown into a new Dark Age. Generations were born and died in the ruins, and on many worlds there was only a dim memory of a past now translated into myth.

In some places, such as Duisberg, all knowledge of the origins of humanity had vanished.

There was no memory of the time when people had not been inhabitants of the Land. Zentrum had seen to that. The Land was all, and all belonged to the Land. The Land was where civilized people had always dwelled. And then there were the surrounding Redlands, hellish places inhabited by terrible nomads. Devils. Barbarians. Worshippers of the dust with a god named after dust itself, Taub in their tongue.

And down the middle of the Land, feeding the irrigation ditches, flooding the rice paddies, and watering the sugar cane, wheat, flax, and barley fields, was — the River. It was the only river humans on this planet had ever known.

The River was life. It was death. The River was the blood of the Land, and everything depended on it.

And that was the way it had been for three thousand years.

Stasis.

Unending cycles of harvest and planting, threshing and grinding, eating, then planting once again. There was Zentrum’s Law to enforce the Stasis, and Edict upon Edict to guide behavior. These Laws and Edicts were what every child studied in Thursday school.

Certain actions must be always and forever interdict. There were lists to memorize. Only technology which Zentrum approved of was allowed to flourish. A ceramic dish that, Abel knew, had once graced a sophisticated electronic transmission facility and gathered messages from the stars might be used as a cook pot over a simple fire in the hearth of a villager, or as a slop bucket for daks intended for slaughter. Metal of every kind was forbidden but for the great exception: weaponry.

The list of allowed metal objects included the steel action and barrel of a musket or pistol, the lead of a minié slug, and the iron of a bayonet or knife.

All else was forbidden, on pain of punishment and even death.

With minor exceptions, all else was nishterlaub. Even to possess it was prohibited to any except for a priest. Most Landsmen believed in the depths of their beings that to merely touch nishterlaub was poisonous and deadly.

It was into this world that Abel Dashian had been born. And he might have remained as ignorant and unaware as the rest of the population had his curiosity not taken him one day into a warehouse within a priestly compound in his home district of Treville.

He’d been six years old when he first encountered Raj and Center, arrived two hundred years before as programs written into a capsule that fell from space. Since that day in the nishterlaub warehouse, the computer and the general named Raj had been constant voices, constant presences, in his mind.

Friends. Guides.

Whether he wanted them or not.

They had chosen him.

Their purpose in coming was to lift humanity from the doomed plans of Zentrum.

The three moons of Duisberg, two of them captured, near-miss asteroids, spoke of the danger. Abel now knew that the planet rotated in the opposite direction of the other five planets in the system. Something had reversed the planet’s spin. Something had raised the enormous lava plains that covered most of the surface.

That something was a system full of rocky debris.

This was the great flaw in Zentrum’s plan. A terrestrial computer, Zentrum thought in terrestrial terms. He must be sure that the dark age following the Collapse did not return. His purpose was to provide civil protection. Men may die in their thousands, but all was justified if dynamic equilibrium was maintained.

Nothing could ever, ever change. Any change would inevitably lead to another Collapse.

Yet those star travelers upon entering the system had immediately seen the flaw in Zentrum’s plan.

Disaster would return from the sky, like clockwork. The outer portion of the Duisberg system, its Oort cloud, was an asteroid-laden nightmare. Center had detected this on his approach, and barely made it through undamaged. Perturbations could send storms of asteroids inbound toward the sun. It had happened over and over again in increments of single digit thousands, sometimes only hundreds, of years. Much of the surface of Duisberg was a cratered ruin.

The asteroids would strike. All humanity would be wiped from the planet one day if they didn’t develop proper defenses — advanced defenses. It was only a matter of time and the roll of the universal dice.

The only hope was a return to science-based civilization.

The only hope for that came from the voices in Abel’s head.

Voices he still wasn’t sure were real. He’d spent years pondering the impossible dilemma of knowing for certain. Center and Raj seemed real. They could, if they wanted, control his body, even kill him.

That didn’t mean they weren’t his own mental creations.

What if it’s all me? What if they’re all me. What if I’m as benighted as any village beggar, babbling to some nonexistent phantom?

Who was to say that even his perceptions were his own? Maybe the voices let him see only what they wanted him to see. He could be quite insane and not know it.

He’d learned much about the history of the Land. It was unarguable that Zentrum’s plans had provided stability for many periods of relative peace. The price humanity paid was eruptions of barbarity and slaughter from the Redland tribes.

At those times, the tribes swept in and the old aristocrats were replaced with new overlords. These changes were called the Blood Winds.

Yet even after the Blood Winds blew, the system remained intact. The Land had a way of taming even those who arrived in conquest.

Even in his moments of greatest doubt, there was one fact that kept Abel from wholly dismissing Center and Raj as voices.

His mother.

Her death when he was five.

Five.

The idiocy of her dying from a toothache. A cavity. Practically nothing. A tooth out, and then a week later, she was gone.

Center and Raj had told him — taught him — that there was a way for this sort of death to never happen again.

Whatever exasperation the familiar drone inside his mind might produce, however much he might wish to adopt the more sophisticated approach of the Academy, Center and Raj offered him one thing that the Academy never had: the chance to avenge his mother’s needless death. A chance to punish the being who had kept the means of her salvation out of the world as a matter of misguided principle.

 

1636 The Viennese Waltz – Snippet 03

1636 The Viennese Waltz – Snippet 03

“King Albrecht must let us collect our rents and taxes from our lands. To do otherwise would be to declare before all the world that he doesn’t respect the rights of his nobles. But, with my uncles in Vienna and serving in Ferdinand II’s court, he is pointing out that he is not required to allow those monies to go to people who are actively at war with him.”

“But you’re not actively at war with him,” Judy the Elder said, nodding.

“Quite right. I am living here in Grantville, a prince in name, but acting as a businessman and not holding any government post for any state. I can collect family rents, tithes and taxes. My uncles can’t, not for lands that are in Bohemia or Silesia. Then there is the matter of my Aunt Beth. She is the duchess of Cieszyn, a duchy in Silesia. Aunt Beth is involved in two lawsuits in the Holy Roman Empire, one with the empire itself and one with my uncle, her husband. Aunt Beth is living in her duchy and daring Uncle Gundaker to come see her there. She appealed to King Albrecht on both cases and he has found for her in both cases. She, in return, has sworn loyalty to King Albrecht.”

“What are the cases about?” Judy the elder asked.

“In a sense both are about her being a woman. There was a privilege granted by King Władysław II Jagiellon to Duke Casimir II of Cieszyn in 1498, under which was secured the female succession over Cieszyn until the fourth generation. Aunt Beth is the fourth generation or her older brother was. Ferdinand II insists that she was disqualified by her gender. The lawsuit with Uncle Gundaker involves the wording of the marriage contract and who is the duke or duchess of those lands. And, as I said, when King Albrecht took Bohemia, she appealed both cases to him as her new liege. Albrecht confirmed her as duchess of Cieszyn. She swore fealty to him and has dropped all persecution of non-Catholics in Cieszyn.”

“Good for her,” Judy the Younger said.

“I agree, though I prefer not to say so in my uncle’s hearing,” Karl said.

“Makes sense. There’s lots of stuff I don’t like to talk about in front of Sarah, because she gets all high and mighty.”

“Judy,” Judy the Elder said, warningly. But Judy the Younger just grinned.

“Still, it seems simple enough,” Sarah said. “You appeal to King Albrecht about your rights and collect your rents.”

“Would that it were so simple. There are other issues. Among them that some of our lands are in the Holy Roman Empire — what’s left of it — and openly giving fealty to King Albrecht would be an act of treason against the empire. Not to mention the fact that both my uncles are in the service of the emperor.”

“Would it be taken that seriously?” Judy the Elder asked. “I’m no historian, but I seem to recall that it was . . . is . . . pretty standard practice to have part of the family on one side and the other part on the other, to cover all the bets, so to speak.”

“Yes, we do, so to speak, cover all the bets and the kings and emperors know it. But we are expected to be as discreet about it as we can. More importantly, we are expected to pay our taxes. By each side.”

“How unreasonable!” Judy the Younger said. Then laughed.

“My thoughts exactly,” Karl agreed. “Ferdinand is bringing considerable pressure on my family to support the government. And the family, in turn, are asking me to send them the money to do it with. It would be very convenient for me to not have that money available.

“It has always been my intention to invest in the family lands in Bohemia and Silesia. However, my plan was to do it gradually, in a systematic way, once the armies were out of the area. Now I need to rush things a bit and I am in need of advice.”

“What sort of advice?” Judy the Elder asked.

“What should I buy? Who should I buy it from? Understand, it’s not necessary that everything I buy be shipped immediately. In fact, it would be better in some ways if it were delayed. It will be more likely to get there if it waits till some of the armies have moved out of the area. At the same time, I have no desire to spend a great deal of money and then have the company I’m buying these products from go broke.”

“Part of that includes areas where it would be illegal for me to help you,” Mrs. Wendell said. “I can tell you what you need to buy but not which company to buy it from. It’s simply too easy for a conflict of interest to rear its ugly head if I recommend specific companies. This is a case where public officials have to be like Caesar’s wife, because any suspicion that we were endorsing a company for personal gain, or even for the general gain of Grantville, would endanger the whole industrialization project.

“The Grantville Better Business Bureau maintains a list of companies and their reputation. Beyond that, Sarah and Judy can probably tell you quite a bit about the economic health of most of the companies that are likely providers.

“As to what you will need, to a great extent that depends on the situation in Bohemia and Silesia, and that’s getting a bit far afield for my expertise. But, in general, the first issue is transport because good transport makes everything else easier and its lack makes everything else almost impossible. Whether that means Fresno scrapers for improving roads, small steam engines for barges, light rail, even wooden rail to get you through the next few years till you can replace it with steel, depends on your terrain and situation. There are also issues of where the roads should go, which depends on your relations with the neighboring landlords. It’s not going to do you that much good to put in a road if the goods are going to be stopped at the border anyway.”

 

Trial By Fire – Snippet 33

Trial By Fire – Snippet 33

Part Two

December 2119

Chapter Fifteen

Washington, D.C, Earth

When Downing returned to the conference room from the fresher, he started. Opal Patrone was there waiting for him.

“You’re early, Major. To what do I owe the honor?”

“Closed museums.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“The museums are closed. The public buildings are off-limits. Congress is in seclusion. DC has become one dull city.”

Downing grimaced. “As long as the Arat Kur continue to consider it more dull than Jakarta, I’ll consider it a blessing.”

Opal’s jaw came out in a truculent, fine-pointed wedge. “At least in Jakarta we’re fighting the bastards directly.”

“Except, Major, that too many of the bastards are our own people, taking the traitor’s coin from either the megacorporations or President-for-Life Ruap.”

The door to the conference room opened again. Trevor walked in a step ahead of Elena, who was carrying a mostly empty shopping bag.

Downing’s first impulse was to cross the room to Trev, but their parting on Barney Deucy had been anything but warm. And although all the reports indicated that Trevor had been turned over by the Arat Kur in “excellent condition,” one could never be sure if Nolan Corcoran’s son was simply playing the role he was expected to play: the bluff, impregnable ex-SEAL.

So, uncertain what to do, and once again awkward with the people he loved the most, Richard leaned both his hands on the conference table and said, “Welcome home, Trevor. It’s good to have you back, safe and sound.” Neither seeing nor hearing any contradictions to the happy assumptions of that greeting, Downing turned to Elena. “Christmas shopping for Connor?”

“Trying to,” muttered Elena, “The stores have almost nothing left in them for a thirteen-year-old boy, and even less staff to find it for you. And there’s still a lot of panic: most streets are empty and most offices are closed. But look who I met coming into this building.” She smiled at Trevor.

Who smiled back–somewhat wanly, Richard thought. Is he tired, still infuriated at me for turning his father’s body over the Dornaani, or some combination of the two? “No worse for wear after the debriefings with the intelligence chiefs and the POTUS, Trev?”

Trevor shrugged. “No. Although the Arat Kur treated me better than the intel folks. You’d have thought I was an enemy agent.”

“It’s the way they’re trained to think. You’ve been in the enemy camp and come as the messenger bearing their new terms for our capitulation. You’re damaged goods to them, I’m afraid.”

“Well, I didn’t enjoy being their chew-toy for my first day home.”

“So, the Arat Kur treated you more civilly?”

Trevor quirked a smile. “Actually, in some ways, they did. The one who found us–or rather, the Arat Kur that Caine and I found–wasn’t a bad little guy. For a scum-sucking alien invader, that is.” Trevor saw Opal smile, returned it. Perhaps a little too broadly and readily, Downing thought.

“You are referring to the Arat Kur named”–Downing checked his palmtop–”Darzhee Kut?”

“Yep. Most of the other Arat Kur were standoffish, but still polite and careful in their treatment of us.”

“You haven’t said anything about the Hkh’Rkh, though.”

Trevor looked sideways. “If Caine and I had been their guests, I think we’d have been lucky to get bread, water, and a shared head. Hell, I think we’d have been lucky not to be shown out the nearest airlock. Fortunately, Yaargraukh was there–our Advocate from the Convocation–and he talked them out of their initial blood frenzy. But most of them never really changed their opinion of us.”

Opal’s eyes were on his, unblinking. “Given Hkh’Rkh hospitality, I’m just glad that the Arat Kur made sure both of you survived that misunderstanding. But–no offense, Trevor–why did they send you back? You’re a soldier: Caine was our Speaker at Convocation, almost a third ambassador. Shouldn’t he have been the one the Arat Kur sent back with new terms?”

Trevor avoided her sustained gaze. “Actually, that’s kind of why Caine insisted on being the one to stay behind. And he managed to persuade Darzhee Kut to support it, too. I told them they were wrong, but–”

“But Caine convinced Darzhee Kut that your military career made you just that much more annoying to the Hkh’Rkh?” asked Opal. “Put you that much more at risk than him?”

Trevor nodded, his eyes still evasive and uncomfortable. Downing looked away, being the only person other than Trevor who possessed the prerequisite knowledge to understand his deeper levels of guilt. And you fought–hard–to stay in Caine’s place, didn’t you, Trev? You had to, because if the worst happens, then Connor loses the opportunity of ever meeting his father, and Elena loses the possibility of marrying the man she still obviously loves. But Caine outflanked you, found a way to prevent you from taking the danger on yourself. And it’s eating you alive that he did.

Opal still looked vaguely worried. “Trevor, Caine is all right–isn’t he?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Trevor said, feigning a dismissive wave. “He may be safer than any of us. After all, he’s sitting up in orbit with the Arat Kur, not down here in their cross-hairs. Not that the Hkh’Rkh wanted to keep him around, but they didn’t have any choice in the matter. Because they are so significantly technologically inferior to the Arat Kur, they’re clearly playing second fiddle. That’s probably annoyed the Hkh’Rkh from the moment they agreed to conduct joint operations, which is only possibly because they’re being carried piggyback.”

Downing started taking notes. “What do you mean by that?”

“Well, the Hkh’Rkh lack the shift range to attack our space with their own shift-carriers. So their constant chest-thumping about how they are self-reliant, dominant warriors makes about as much sense as a six-year-old in a booster seat claiming that he’s driving the car.”

“Ouch,” said Opal with a grin. Which, once again, Trevor swiftly answered with one of his own.

Which, once again, worried Downing. “And how do the Arat Kur feel about the Hkh’Rkh?”

Trevor shrugged. “They didn’t say and we knew not to ask. But, from the interactions I saw, the Arat Kur aren’t completely comfortable with their allies. Darzhee Kut made it pretty clear that his species is highly conflict-aversive. Harmonizing with each others’ opinions and emotions seems to be one of their strongest social drives.”

“Apparently that doesn’t include harmonizing with other species.”

Trevor rubbed his chin. “You know, I thought that at first, too. But Caine sensed highly receptive attitudes in some of them, and I’m not so sure he’s wrong. They do seem to get along better with us as individuals than they do with the Hkh’Rkh.”

The irony got the better of Downing. “Then why the bloody hell did the Arat Kur attack us?”

Trevor shrugged. “We didn’t get into that. Not an officially sanctioned topic of conversation, I suspect. Speaking of official topics of conversations and war plans, when I was in the Oval Office, there were some veiled references to us counterattacking their fleet out at Jupiter. Any word on how that went?”

Downing nodded and activated the room’s main display. “We just got this thirty minutes ago.” He aimed his palmcomp at the screen, thumbed a virtual button, leaned back, and suppressed a sigh.

The screen flickered to life, showing the long keel of a naval shift carrier. The crook-armed midship hull cradles were almost empty; the carrier’s complement of cruisers, frigates, sloops and drones was deployed elsewhere in the inky blackness that filled the rest of the screen. They were probably not that far away–some less than a hundred kilometers, probably–but at that range, even the largest battle cruiser in Earth’s entire military inventory would not show up as anything other than an inconstant star, its brightness altering slightly as it changed its attitude or applied thrust. Along the bottom of the screen, white, block-letter coding indicated that the perspective was from the ESS Egalité.

The curved white expanse of one of the few still-docked hulls rose higher into the frame as it cast off from the shift-carrier. Elena cleared her throat. “Perhaps everyone else knows what we’re looking at, but I’d be grateful for a little context, please.”

“That’s a cruiser, El, Andrew Bolton class,” Trevor answered. A pair of tapered arrowhead shapes rose up from underneath the cruiser itself: two sleek remoras emerging from beneath the thick body of a bull shark. Trevor resumed his narrative. “Those two streamlined boats are the newest sloops in the Commonwealth inventory; the ‘Gordon’ class. Sloop is now a slang term, though. Navy acronymization has relabeled them as ‘FOCALs’: Forward Operations Control and Attack Leaders.”

 

Polychrome – Chapter 05

Polychrome – Chapter 05

Chapter 5.

He did it. He DID it! For a moment, Polychrome was so filled with joy that she could do nothing but dance in the darkness, the song in her heart echoed by the Music of the Spheres, trying to give to her dance the ascending glory and defiant, mortal pride and courage that glorious City represented. She laughed, and saw his face looking up at her as she floated lightly in the air, and for a moment, she wondered at what she saw there; he seemed transfigured by her own joy, his blue eyes exultant yet wide and filled with something she could not quite recognize, something that made her miss a step, stumble subtly, an uneven movement that a mortal might not notice, but that was the clumsiest motion she had made in centuries.

But there is still so far to go, she reminded herself, and took hold of her joy. It was still there – at long last, they could at least begin, the hope was not gone – but they had to move, and move swiftly. She extended her hand. “Dance with me, Erik.”

He stared at her and blushed. “Um… Dance? I wish I could, but me dancing with you would be like trying to get a hippopotamus to do acrobatics with a dragonfly – the hippo would look ridiculous and the dragonfly might get squashed by accident.”

She laughed and took his hand. “Oh, I am sure you are not quite that bad, Erik, even if you have never danced in all your life. And really, it’s necessary.”

He took her hand gingerly, as though afraid to break her, and she extended her fingers, gripped tightly. “I am not a porcelain doll, Erik Medon, nor a dragonfly to be crushed easily. Now follow the motions.”

He’s definitely never danced as I know it, she thought, as he tried to follow her steps. But he does have some sense of rhythm, not entirely unschooled in musical beats…

Erik seemed to finally recognize the movements, at least in essence, following the music as it followed her. Not perfect, not nearly so graceful as even one of the Storm Guards, but not so bad as she had feared or he had implied. “So… this is necessary?”

She smiled at his puzzled expression. “Very necessary. You see, only by dancing our way through the sky will we be able to reach my Father’s realm. He cannot send another of his Bows here to the mortal realm, not so soon after the last; there are many reasons for that. But I have my own magic that – if you allow it, if you are part of it – can bring us where we need to go.”

“Dance through the sky?” he repeated incredulously, eyes still fixed upon hers as they had been ever since he took her hand. “Poly, really, there’s just no way that could happen. Not with me, two left feet and all.”

She giggled and swept one hand outward. “But Erik… you already are doing it.”

He glanced down and gasped, stopping for a moment, forcing her to continue to dance around him. Beneath them a ghostly, circular rainbow light rippled like a spectral dance floor, but beneath that lay air, hundreds, thousands of feet of air, sparkling lights like faerie itself dusting the land below. She laughed aloud at the wonder in his face, and again as she saw neither fear nor denial but a blaze of joy like the dawn in his face. “We’re flying!”

“Air-walking, dancing in the clouds, yes, even flying, Erik, that we are, on and within that which is my middle name, as long as you have the heart to see it with wonder as I hear in your voice.”

“Within… the glory,” he said, wonderingly. “Polychrome Glory…” His eyes met hers again for a bright needle-sharp moment, and then he seized her hand and led her in a dance, a crude dance but one of energy and sincerity that she cheerfully threw herself into wholeheartedly. “Oh, Polychrome, you… you have no idea. To fly among the clouds… this is one of my dreams. Since I can remember!”

His joy was contagious and echoed her hope, and she saw the glory following his feet as it followed her own, resonating between them as though he had, somehow, always known. Erik glanced ahead and his own smile broadened. “Can we dance to the top of that tower, Lady Polychrome? Will I be able to make it that far?”

In the silver of moonlight and the approaching deep rose of dawn, a mighty thunderhead loomed in the distance, an argent mountain of misted rubies. “That far and farther, Erik, for beyond that a thousand miles and ten lies the castle of my Father – a thousand miles, and closer than a few heartbeats.”

He said nothing, but his eyes shone, and for a moment she saw how he must have looked ten, twenty, perhaps even thirty years before, sharp gaze filled with wonder and a happiness unadulterated by any doubt or fear.

But as they climbed the misty billows, leaping from one height to the next in a dreamlike series of leaps, she saw a flicker of light to one side, far away. Dim and small, but the violet-against-darkness was unmistakable. A Tempest.

“Erik… we must keep our eyes open. Remember what I said about my journey here.”

It was odd; for a moment, she could have sworn that his face lit up more as he realized the implications. But it might have been her imagination, for his expression became grim almost instantly. “You saw something?” He glanced around, eyes scanning the area.

“Only one, and far away. It may not have seen us yet. And they would be scattered far and wide now, knowing that I may travel far from my landing spot ere I return. But I am afraid we need be on our guard. You… are not a warrior, I could see, and I will have to defend you if they catch us.”

His jaw set, his mouth opened as if to argue; but, despite the pride she saw in his face, she also saw him force it down. “I… guess you would.”

That was not easy for him. He probably thinks of me as a fragile mortal girl. “But I’d rather we not have to worry about that.” She led the dance, off to the side of the thunderhead, now reaching the crest. “The sun will rise soon, and while they can function in daylight, their senses will be dulled and – with luck – we shall be able to evade their notice.” She took stock of the situation, the distance they must travel, what songs and steps she might take to find the shorter path between the mortal and faerie worlds, nodded. “Just promise me – no matter what you think is the proper or right course – that you will do as I say if the time comes.”

Reluctantly, he nodded. “All… all right.”

She stood still for a moment, looking to the East; the bright line of sky abruptly brightened and a single beam of sunshine speared out, illuminating them and warming her, casting their shadows like arrows into the vast Western distance. “Then,” she said, with a sharp smile and hearing the music echo her resolve, “let’s go!”

 

The Savior – Snippet 15

The Savior – Snippet 15

5

Mahaut left Edgar’s bedside the next day and did not return. He was past the crisis point, and now would only require several weeks of recovery. She was not looking forward to having him around the Lilleheim compound. His official appointment was as House Jacobson factor in Garangipore, although it was understood that a staunch family retainer named Mahler did the actual work of grain transshipment from the Canal to the barges traveling up and down the river.

Edgar had spent the last two years living permanently in Garangipore, with the agreement that Mahaut would visit him occasionally to keep up appearances but would remain in Lilleheim most of the time. There was a large family block of buildings in the town, and Edgar had a palatial apartment within them. He was more often to be found in the area brothels and gaming houses than at home, as Mahaut knew from several sources that she cultivated to keep her informed of the business matters at Garangipore.

And now, apparently in the bedrooms of First Family matrons.

Mahaut was beyond being shocked by Edgar’s behavior. The trouble now was how to contain the damage. A war between families would do no one any good, especially if those families were as powerful as the Eisenachs and the Jacobsons.

She called one of those sources of information to her, a grizzled, nondescript man named Jeptha Marone. For over a decade, he’d been a traveling trader for House Jacobson. He’d started out as a wagon driver, and worked his way up as Benjamin Jacobson, and now Mahaut, had discovered that he had that rare combination of trustworthiness and wiliness that was most needed when there was business that had to be conducted quietly. He had also done a stint in the Regulars and was handy with gun, knife, and fists.

Marone stepped into Mahaut’s anteroom and bowed. As always, he looked very nervous to be anywhere near a land-heiress’s quarters. At least officially. He’d done enough snooping in them to be quite calm when the visit was unofficial — and unannounced.

“Trader Marone, we need something done, and we need it done with the utmost discretion. Will you take some wine?”

“No, Land-heiress, thank you,” he replied. His voice was surprisingly high-pitched for one with such gruff looks. “How may I be of service?”

“There’s a child. At least, we think there is a child. First, I want to find out if this child exists, or if it is the product of Edgar’s imagination.”

“Establish if there is a child,” Marone said. He liked to restate his instructions carefully, and he wasn’t afraid to ask for clarification. “What child is this I am to find or not find, Land-heiress?”

“It is the child of Betta Eisenach of House Eisenach. She is married to the first cousin of the Family pater. She’ll either be in Garangipore, or perhaps she’s gone to Lindron. I gather that’s where she’s from. She would go there especially if there is a child and she needs to enter into confinement. I do not think they will want this child known to the world, so it is not going to be the easiest thing to find out what it is or where it is.”

“If it exists at all?”

“Yes.”

“Very well, Land-heiress, I am to find the child’s location.”

“And sex.”

“I am to find if the child is boy or girl.”

“Yes, Marone. Most important of all, however, is this. I want you to find out what House Eisenach intends to do with that child. I want to know if they plan to keep it, kill it, or give it away. This will be the difficult thing to ascertain. I’m going to place substantial funds at your disposal for use in obtaining this information, however.”

“Find out ultimate plans for disposition of the child,” Marone said. “This is a matter of importance, and expenditure of the necessary funds needed to obtain the information is preapproved by the Family.”

“You have it, Marone. Do you think you can do it?”

Marone bit his lower lip and shuffled a bit, considering. “It may prove difficult, Land-heiress. Especially since House Eisenach does not want any of this to come to light. But I think it is not impossible. And whom do I report this to when I’ve completed the assignment, your grace?”

“To me,” Mahaut said. “I will deliver the gist of it to Pater Benjamin.”

“As you say, Land-heiress Jacobson,” said Marone with another bow. “It’s my pleasure to serve the House, as always.”

“You do us honor,” Mahaut replied.

And you grow richer in the process, she thought.

Which wasn’t such a bad thing, considering that Jeptha Marone had six mouths to feed back home, and a seventh on the way, if the gossip around town were true. Tana Marone had been seen at the Lilleheim baker’s with quite the bulge showing under her linens — a bulge that hadn’t been there two months before.

Marone took another bow and made his way out.

“And what are you going to do about this child?” said Benjamin Jacobson, stepping into the antechamber.

Mahaut started out of her thoughts. “Pardon me, Pater. I didn’t know you were there.”

“The question stands.”

She rubbed her eyes and checked her fingertips to be sure a smudge of kohl had not come off. “It isn’t up to me. It’s up to you.”

“No, this one I am leaving to you. We will go with your decision.”

“Then I don’t know,” Mahaut replied. “I will try to do whatever is best for the house as I see fit, but that will depend on the circumstances. If you wish me to handle this, you’ll have to trust me, Pater.”

“I have nothing but trust in you, daughter-in-law,” Benjamin replied. He shook his head and sat down in the chair that Marone had refused. “But this situation that Edgar has put us into is dangerous. I saw a feud among Firsts when I was younger. It was between House Dupree and House Freemont. So much blood. Three friends of mine dead and floating in the Canal as carnadon fodder. The only thing they ever did to deserve it was to be born in the wrong place and time.”

* * *

A month later, Edgar was back on his feet and stalking around the compound like a pent-up wolverdon. He wore a sling around the injured arm and complained when he wasn’t permitted a dont to take out riding. Benjamin had forbidden the stablehands from giving him a mount, but this didn’t stop Edgar from railing at them and striking a stable boy viciously with a hand whip.

Mahaut tended the boy’s wound, which was ugly but not too severe — although the whip’s lash had only missed the boy’s eye by a finger’s width.

Oh, yes, Edgar Jacobson is back, she thought.

 

1636 The Viennese Waltz – Snippet 02

1636 The Viennese Waltz – Snippet 02

Chapter 2: Send Money

June, 1634

Liechtenstein House, outside the Ring of Fire

“It’s a letter from your Uncle Gundaker.” Josef Gandelmo, Karl’s tutor, financial manager, and companion, handed him the letter across the desk.

Karl opened it and read. “The family wants me to increase their allowance.”

“That’s hardly fair, Your Serene Highness.” Josef’s voice held quite a bit of censure, but at least a touch of humor as well. He moved over to the sideboard and gestured to the drink bottles.

Karl shook his head. He still wasn’t happy with the down-time version of Sprite and had never been all that pleased with beer or wine. “I know. But it does seem a bit strange how the world works. Gundaker wants five hundred thousand guilders in silver. Which is insane. Granted, silver is worth more in Vienna. It might even be profitable to ship silver to Vienna and dollars back here. If they had any dollars worth mentioning in Vienna. But they don’t.”

“I suspect His Imperial Majesty is putting considerable pressure on your family and if your family’s access to its wealth is problematical, His Imperial Majesty’s lost two-thirds of his tax base. The wealthier two-thirds,” Josef said.

Karl nodded. “Somehow, I don’t think my neighbors in Grantville are going to be all that thrilled with me if I start sending silver to fund Ferdinand’s armies. For that matter, Wallenstein — who is King Albrecht now — won’t be thrilled and he can cut off access to the better part of my assets. Frankly, it would be better politically if I didn’t have the money . . . at least not in cash.”

Josef snorted. “You should do more business with the Barbie Consortium. I’m sure they would be happy to relieve you of your cash . . . Ken Doll.”

Karl looked at Josef, then leaned back in his swivel chair and grinned. “You know, that’s not a bad idea.”

“I was joking, Your Serene Highness.”

“I know, but I’m not.” Karl gave Josef a serious look. “Josef, that letter was delayed. I didn’t receive it for at least a week from now. A month would be better. Meanwhile, get in touch with both Judy Wendell’s, the younger and the elder.”

Seeing his look, he added: “No, Josef, I don’t intend to defy my family and my emperor. But I’m walking a tightrope here, with Ferdinand II on one side and Wallenstein on the other. I can’t send cash. It would raise too many red flags. If I don’t send anything, it will raise red flags on the other side. I will send an authorization for the family to borrow against family assets in Bohemia and Silesia. Those assets will have considerably more value if they are the planned recipients of up-timer sweet corn, new plows, stamp presses, sewing machines, and anything else I can think of or learn from Mrs. Wendell. For the rest, I can’t send it if I don’t have it, and the Barbies might be just the group to invest those funds in ways that will make them temporarily unavailable. Go, Josef. Make your phone calls.”

Wendell Home, Grantville

Judy the Younger, irrepressible as always, said, “I don’t know how you do it. Somehow that outfit works on you.”

Karl smiled, gave her a little bow, and followed her into the living room where her mother and sister waited. She waved him to the couch. Karl was wearing dark-red calfskin riding boots with a bronze down-time made zipper replacing the laces. Zippers had become all the rage since the Ring of Fire; at least, for those who could afford them. Tucked into the boots were dark brown pants with embroidery in red and gold. A white linen shirt was covered by a gold lamé waistcoat and a dark green morning coat with the same red and gold embroidery. Both the vest and the morning coat had zippers as well. This was all topped with a beaver cowboy hat, which Karl took off and set on the end table once he was seated.

“So, what’s so important, Prince Karl?” asked Sarah Wendell. She was wearing the down-time version of a women’s business suit, a divided calf-length skirt and a matching jacket, with a high-collared blouse, all done in various shades of blue.

“I find myself in an unusual position,” Karl admitted. “For complicated reasons, I find it would be much better if I temporarily had a great deal less cash on hand.”

“I have to ask.” Judy the Younger grinned. “What complicated reasons?”

“My uncle wants me to send him five hundred thousand guilder in silver.”

Judy tut-tutted. “You people don’t know anything about money.”

“Be nice, Judy, or I’ll send you to your room,” Judy the Elder told her daughter.

“I note, however,” Karl said, “that you didn’t disagree with her.”

“Well . . .”

“It’s perfectly all right. I have come to believe that, to a great extent, our knowledge of money is on a par with our knowledge of medicine.” Karl sighed. “The truth is that three years ago my family knew more, or at least as much, about money and finance as anyone in Europe. And Kipper and Wipper were, I believe, less the result of avarice than of ignorance.”

Judy the Elder was giving Karl what he could only describe as a doubtful look.

“It’s true, ma’am,” Karl said. “I’m not saying that avarice played no role, but my family minted money using less silver and after only a short while, no one trusted it. You people mint money out of no silver and everyone trusts it.”

Sarah cleared her throat. “Ah . . . why does your family want you to send them eighteen to twenty million dollars in silver? I mean, well, extravagant lifestyle or not, that’s a lot of money.”

“It’s not lifestyle,” Karl said. “It’s politics. Most of my family’s lands are in Bohemia, Moravia and Silesia. When Albrecht von Wallenstein declared himself the king of Bohemia, he effectively conquered my family’s lands. We hold those lands in fief from the king of Bohemia.

 

Trial By Fire – Snippet 32

Trial By Fire – Snippet 32

“So it is a hostage.”

“In a manner of speaking. We have no wish to take living hostages.”

“Just a monetarily valuable one.”

“Yes, to say nothing of its being unprotected. It is a veritable gift for us and for the megacorporations we shall appoint as our partners and indigenous overseers.”

Riordan’s look of relaxed interest in the conversation seemed to fall away momentarily. His eyes opened slightly wider, his lips parted. Then, as fast as it was present, the expression was gone.

Darzhee Kut stopped the recording. “I could not read Riordan’s last change in facial expression. I have insufficient experience with humans.” Because the Hur caste’s elders would not let me study more than a few of their most harmless visual broadcasts. “So I put this recording before those who might have more insight than I. I ask you, therefore, what did that look signify? Surprise, or something else?”

No comments. He turned to Yaargraukh. “Is it true that you spent considerable time with this human?”

Yaargraukh nodded, still staring at the screen. “I know him.”

“Then tell me, what is this? Surprise?”

“Yes, surprise. But also comprehension.”

“What? I do not understand.”

Yaargraukh aimed a single calar digit at the frozen image. “He has realized something, and tried not to reveal that he was surprised–and that it was you who gave him useful information.”

“But even if that is true, why should Riordan conceal his surprise? He must know we will not release him until after the invasion is complete and the beachhead is secure.”

“Undoubtedly.”

“So then why conceal his realization, his reactions? What does he hope to achieve?”

“I do not know. Perhaps it is merely habit.”

“But you think not.”

“I think not.”

“Can we trust him?”

Yaargraukh opened his mouth–

But Graagkhruud spoke first. “Clearly not. At the Convocation, he was the one who attempted to lure Yaargraukh himself into a trap, into a module that ‘malfunctioned’ and exposed them both to vacuum.”

Yaargraukh raised a claw to interject, his black eyes retracting somewhat–

–and Darzhee Kut knew the clarification the Advocate was about to offer: that Riordan himself had almost been killed by the “malfunction.” Every account of the incident made it clear that Riordan had not been aware, let alone the architect, of that assassination attempt. More likely, he had been the actual target.

But First Fist had no interest in allowing Yaargraukh to make that distinction. He spoke too swiftly and loudly to be interrupted. “And now, most recently, while traveling under a diplomatic transponder, Riordan fired upon your ship. It was a cowardly and duplicitous ruse. He and Corcoran should have been executed the moment they came aboard.”

Darzhee Kut averted his eyes. “As I reported, their explanation of the particulars of the incident involving the diplomatic transponder signal has satisfied us all.” Hu’urs Khraam bobbed once.

First Voice’s crest rose slightly. “It does not satisfy me, nor do their convenient ‘retirements’ from being warriors.”

Yaargraukh’s neck swiveled deferentially. “It does sound odd. Yet, I know this Riordan. He is an honorable being.”

Graagkhruud’s retort was instantaneous. “He is a being only insofar as he makes noises like language.”

Darzhee Kut saw Yaargraukh’s earflaps shiver as though they were going to close. Among the Hkh’Rkh, this reflex meant that he had heard something which was embarrassing, uncouth, or disgusting, and had just barely managed to suppress a more dramatic display of that repugnance. It was probably in reaction to his superior’s blunt bigotry. A bigotry which, by extension, would also tend to categorize the Arat Kur and all other non-Hkh’Rkh races as beings. Fine allies, indeed.

But Graagkhruud was not finished. “And honorable? This Riordan creature lied when he hid behind the safety of a diplomatic flag and then attacked.” Graagkhruud reared up. “But a lie does always reveal one truth: that he who tells it is a liar.”

“If we know it to be a lie, yes,” countered Darzhee Kut. “But we do not know this. Besides, Riordan is not a warfighter; that is his companion’s skill.”

First Voice intervened. “You err, Speaker Kut. I have heard Riordan speak, have learned something of his deeds and how he thinks. He is more a warrior-human than most of those who wear the uniforms of that caste. And your own report indicated that it was him, not the true warrior, who carried a weapon when they boarded your disabled ship.”

Yaargraukh’s voice was quiet but so slow and measured that it attracted more attention than a shout. “Still, I find no fault in this person’s honor.” Darzhee Kut leaned back, as did the other Hkh’Rkh. In his own tongue, Yaargraukh had not used the word “being,” the Hkhi term for most exosapients, who, although intelligent, had no place in the honor code hierarchies which determined personhood. Rather, Yaargraukh had used the word “person,” which not only implied a sapient recognized as having a mind equal to their own, but as a creature capable of accruing honor.

“The Advocate blasphemes–or betrays us.” Graagkhruud breathed, his crest rising. “I cannot tell which.”

Darzhee Kut closed his eyes against the strain upon his patience. “This cannot, and need not, be settled here. Caine Riordan is a senior emissary of his people, and he is our guest, not our prisoner. We would, however, be pleased and grateful if you were to leave some of your warriors with us to provide security for the humans while they are on our ship.”

“I was not aware that those who are truly and genuinely guests need to be chaperoned and monitored by armed guards. Perhaps you, too, feel them to be something other than guests. Something more akin to prisoners.” First Fist let his breath out through his nose, the mucus therein warbling and fluttering grotesquely.

Darzhee Kut let his eye covers slide shut for a moment. Harmonize with the greater purpose. Embrace the differences of the Old Family Hkh’Rkh–at least in this moment. “Honorable Graagkhruud, perhaps our ways are different in this. Here is our way: we presume that the humans are, and will behave as, diplomats while with us. But since we could be wrong, we must take steps to minimize what damage they might do should their actions show them to be saboteurs. For this reason, and for their own protection, as well, we require that they have a security escort.”

First Voice stood. “You will have your ‘security escort,’ since you seem uncertain of being able to guard unarmed prisoners yourselves.” His crest flattened and he did not bother to look back down at Hu’urs Khraam before he turned and left. Graagkhruud’s exit was equally abrupt and without acknowledgment of his Arat Kur hosts. Yaargraukh stood, opened his hands and showed Hu’urs Khraam his palms in what was a military show of respect, and then strode quickly after his superior.

Darzhee Kut interlocked his claws, looked down for a moment, then up at Hu’urs Khraam–who was already looking at him. “What is your opinion of the Hkh’Rkh, Darzhee Kut?”

“I hesitate to reply, First Delegate, for I can only sing the notes I truly hear.”

“I asked you to come today so you could sing just such notes.”

Darzhee Kut spread his claws slowly. “Their reaction to our emissaries bears out our fears regarding the Hkh’Rkh as allies. They are intemperate, impatient, occasionally dismissive of crucial details. They are strong but inelegant in their thought and intolerant of difference. I do observe however, that the Advocate, who is also a member of a New Family–a lower class among the Hkh’Rkh–has few of these detriments.”

“Let us dig to the first stone of the foundation. Can we trust them?”

“To keep their word? Yes, absolutely.”

“And to perform the tasks as they must? For if upon landing, they are tried by a sharp insurgency, they must be firm but restrained in their response. Do you think they can achieve this?

“Esteemed Hu’urs Khraam, I do not know. Some, such as Yaargraukh, could. Some, such as Graagkhruud, cannot.”

“And First Voice?”

“He has wisdom, but its melodies are often lost amidst the old rhythms of his heritage and his legacy as the scion of the greatest of the Old Families. I feel his common sense is great enough to perceive the wisdom of what Yaargraukh says, but I fear that his pride is too great to hear it over the roar of Graagkhruud’s exhortations to pursue honor and total war.”

“I fear this as well. But, if the humans accede to our terms, we shall depart quickly, and our allies will not need to restrain themselves for long. Happily, our swift victory will give them little opportunity to err.”

Darzhee Kut wriggled slightly in his couch. “The humans might agree to negotiate, but they will not agree to the Hkh’Rkh terms. Indeed, I fear they will not even agree to ours.”

“But to surrender 70 Ophiuchi would only show reason, wisdom.”

“So might we see it. But the Hkh’Rkh would see it as proof of fear and lack of resolve–which is just how the humans themselves will see it.”

“This makes them akin to the Hkh’Rkh.”

“I wish to sing notes that ever harmonize with yours, esteemed Hu’urs Khraam, but I think you will find that particular estimate of the humans to be incorrect. They are very different from the Hkh’Rkh.” He paused, looked at the image of Caine Riordan’s focused and carefully unemotional face frozen on the screen behind him. “They are very different indeed.”

 

1636 The Viennese Waltz – Snippet 01

1636 The Viennese Waltz – Snippet 01

1636: The Viennese Waltz

by

Eric Flint, Paula Goodlett and Gorg Huff

Chapter 1: Family Issues

June, 1634

Liechtenstein House, outside the Ring of Fire

Prince Karl Eusebius von Liechtenstein watched Istvan Janoszi smile nervously as he was ushered into the oak-paneled room. It was perfectly clear to Karl that Janos Drugeth’s minion didn’t want to be here.

“What can I do for you, Your Serene Highness?” Istvan asked.

Karl held up a cut-crystal glass with a light yellow bubbling liquid in it, swirled it around for a moment, sniffed, took a sip and made a face. “The latest attempt at producing Sprite still leaves something to be desired.” Karl waved Istvan to one of the padded leather chairs he had in his study and continued. “But you don’t care about that. Nor should you. What you care about is recruiting up-timers to go to Austria. And yet, at last report His Imperial Majesty Ferdinand II doesn’t believe that up-timers have anything of real value to offer the world. Or has that changed since last I heard from my uncles?”

Karl waited to see if Istvan would lie. He ought to know better but he was probably a bit off his game.

“Prince Ferdinand would like an up-time car and someone to take care of it.”

So. Not a lie, but not the whole truth either. “And?”

“And what, Your Serene Highness?” That was a weak response.

“And does his imperial father know? And why the Fortneys? And what happens to the Sanderlins and Fortneys when they arrive in Vienna under Ferdinand II’s eye? For that matter, what happens to Prince Ferdinand when they arrive?”

“That’s a lot of ands.”

“I have more, but start with those.” There was nothing at all soft or gentle in Karl’s voice. He didn’t appreciate people playing games with his friends.

Istvan was a reasonably brave man but he swallowed, then began to explain. “No. As I understand it, the emperor doesn’t know. He is very ill and not expected to last more than another couple of months.”

“Less than that if they bleed him, which they probably will,” Karl agreed. “Go on.”

“His Imperial Highness, the prince, does not wish to distress his father.”

“But he wants to get them there as soon as he can, without upsetting the emperor. His Imperial Majesty is quite unreasonable about the Ring of Fire and all that it implies, I know. I have gotten chapter and verse on that from my uncles in Vienna,” Karl said.

“Yes, Your Serene Highness. As to the Fortneys, they will be hired because Ron Sanderlin insisted.” Istvan seemed about to continue but didn’t. Karl noticed, but wasn’t sure what it meant.

“And aside from the car, which I don’t doubt Ferdinand does want,” Prince Karl said, “he also wants all the technological transfer he can manage. I take it from your comment that there is no great rush to get them there.”

“Not exactly, Your Serene Highness. I think most delays will happen on the road before we reach the Danube. So I would like to have them at the Danube and waiting before the emperor . . .”

Karl moved to a seat across the coffee table from Istvan and sat down. “And then have them wait where until he dies?”

“Regensburg.”

Karl nodded. Regensburg was a good stopping point. “My interest, which you should feel perfectly free to put in your next report to Janos, is mostly in the Fortney family because of business connections. They asked me what they should take to Vienna and I wanted to know what their situation was likely to be before I advised them. Given what you have said, I will advise them to take as much as they can carry. That will be all.”

Istvan got up and started to leave, but Karl thought of something else. “No. Not quite all. Another of those ‘ands’ I mentioned. How much is Ferdinand paying for the cars? For that matter, how much is he paying the mechanics?”

Istvan winced, then said, “One million American dollars for the car. They insisted on American dollars.”

The prince snorted a laugh. “I imagine they did. You didn’t try to get them to take HRE reserve notes, did you?” There were two new versions of HRE reichsthaler that had been tried since the Ring of Fire. The first were Holy Roman Empire notes based on the principles of the federal reserve notes that the up-timers issued, commonly called American dollars. Those notes had been rejected by anyone who had any choice in the matter at all, and had lasted only about eight months. While they had never actually been recalled, they were effectively out of service by mid-1633. Prince Karl Eusebius von Liechtenstein had never found it necessary to take any, but his uncles had found it unavoidable. The second notes, the silver-backed HRE reichsthaler, had been more successful and had some value even in the USE. It was, in theory, a note issued on a full reserve depository, exchangeable on demand for 0.916 up-time ounces of silver, the equivalent of a Bank of Amsterdam guilder. However, a lot of people in the USE seemed to doubt that claim, or were simply unwilling to take HRE silver-backed reichsthaler to get the silver. So the HRE reichsthaler was trading at about half the value of a Bank of Amsterdam guilder.

****

“Welcome, Mr. Sanderlin, Mr. Fortney, and company,” Prince Karl said graciously as the gaggle of up-timers arrived in his foyer. “I would greet you all as you deserve, but it would probably take too long.” Karl ushered them all into his larger sitting room and motioned them to the conversation area with its delicate chairs and tables.

“Thanks for talking to us, Your Serene Highness,” said Ron Sanderlin. “I didn’t know you were involved with this.”

Karl waited as people found chairs then answered. “I’m not, or at least I wasn’t until Judy Wendell called me about it. After that I called Istvan Janoszi to find out what was going on. I understand you’re selling your car, or at least a car, to His Imperial Highness.”

“Yes, to Prince Ferdinand,” Sanderlin agreed. “And he hired me and my uncle to look after it. Frankly, it seems pretty weird. One car and two mechanics, unless Janoszi finds another car to buy. They didn’t even squawk too much when I hooked Sonny in on the deal.”

Karl noticed the slightly shifty expression on Sanderlin’s face when he mentioned Sonny Fortney, but made sure his expression stayed politely curious. “And why did you invite Mr. Fortney in on the deal?”

“Well, partly it was because Ron knew I was looking for a different job,” Sonny Fortney said, in a sort of slow drawl that suggested he wasn’t the sharpest tool in the shed. But Karl had met his daughter Hayley and couldn’t believe that the father of a girl like that was slow-witted. “Partly it was because Ron was a little nervous about taking his family so far from Grantville all by themselves. Like I’d be able to do anything if your folks decided to roast us all on spits.”

“I assure you, sir, we’ll not roast you on spits,” Karl said with great dignity, then added, “Deep frying, that’s the way to prepare up-timer.”

Sonny Fortney gave Karl a slow grin. “See, Ron? I told you they was civilized.”

“What sort of job are you looking for, Mr. Fortney?”

“I’m a steam-head, Prince Karl. And interested in railroads.”

“I’m sure that Prince Ferdinand will find use for your skills, Mr. Fortney. But you’re here to learn about Vienna and what you might want or need there?”

“Yes, Your Highness,” Ron Sanderlin said.

They spent the next few hours chatting about what might be of use to the two families who were moving to Austria.

*****

“My parents are kidnapping me!” Hayley Fortney wailed over the phone. Hayley wasn’t quite fifteen.

Judy the Younger Wendell, who had just turned sixteen a month ago, held the phone away from her ear for a moment but she still heard in the background, “Hayley! It’s nothing like that and you know it. Your father got a good job. That’s all!”

“Like I said,” Hayley continued. “My parents are kidnapping me. I need to know what to take to freaking Austria!”

“I don’t have any idea, but I think I know who to ask.”

“Who?”

“Prince Karl.” Karl Eusebius von Liechtenstein had been the Barbie Consortium’s main financial backer since his return from Amsterdam at the beginning of the year.

“The Ken Doll?”

“He’s from there. He should know what they have and what they need.”

“Okay,” Hayley agreed, sounding less panicked. “But he’s the Ken Doll. You know, stands around looking pretty and giving us money.”

Which was a patent untruth. Prince Karl Eusebius von Liechtenstein was anything but a Ken Doll. He was, in fact, the head of his family — his rather wealthy family — in the Holy Roman Empire, an acquaintance of His Majesty Ferdinand II as well as His Royal Highness Ferdinand, who would probably become Ferdinand III in the near future. Prince Karl was indeed rich, and smart enough to let others with more financial acumen manage that wealth.

“Sure, but he was a royal prince before that. Besides, I think Sarah has the hots for him.” Sarah was Judy’s older sister and the source of Judy’s information when back in late 1631 Judy had organized her friends on the Grantville Middle School cheerleading squad into the Barbie Consortium.

“What about David?”

“She’s still dating him. Too. I didn’t think Sarah had it in her.”

Apparently even juicy gossip about Judy’s older sister wasn’t enough to distract Hayley for long. “Never mind that. I know he’s a prince and you know that just means one of his ancestors was a successful crook.”

“His dad, actually,” Judy explained unnecessarily. “And both his uncles, one way or another. Don’t you pay attention to anything but nuts and bolts?”

“Nope,” Hayley said proudly. “The rest is just paperwork so I have the nuts and bolts I need.” Which was another patent falsehood. Hayley was the Barbie Consortium’s mechanical “genius” though she wasn’t in the same class as Brent and Trent Partow in Judy’s opinion. But she was not really ignorant of what the rest of the Barbies did.

Judy wisely let it pass. “Karl will know what opportunities there are in the sticks.” It didn’t occur to Judy Wendell that there was anything odd in calling the capital of the Holy Roman Empire “the sticks.” To her, civilization had arrived on Earth with the Ring of Fire and she lived in its center. As soon as she was off the phone with Hayley, she called Karl.