by Eric Flint
Thomas had been puzzled and a bit disappointed by Quinn’s choice; although the Englishman had been unwilling to admit it openly, the up-timer had promise as a soldier. And if twentieth-century assumptions of what soldiering meant had hindered him a bit at first, Larry had shed those misperceptions shortly after the jaunt to Austria. North expected that with that leavening experience, Quinn’s up-time military service with the West Virginia National Guard would stand him in good stead. Indeed, as the Hibernian Company expanded into the Hibernian Battalion and made the acquisition of near-up-time capabilities its hallmark characteristic, North had more than once wished that Quinn would become a regular at the Gardens, once again…for professional reasons. Although North had infinitely more field experience, Quinn had been trained to use rapid-firing weapons at both short and long ranges. The relevant tactics that had been drilled into the American by rote were unknown in this world—and Thomas’ evolving unit had urgent need of such knowledge. Far more than the Englishman was able to acquire from his assiduous viewing of—not to say addiction to—the movies that the up-timers had brought with them.
Quinn drew up to North and extended a hand. “It’s good to see you again, Colonel.”
“It won’t be if you insist on being so bloody formal, Larry.”
Quinn smiled. “Okay, Thomas. So, you’re on your way to Biberach.”
“Evidently you can read a copy of my orders as well as I can. Which means you also know that I’m to see to the safe establishment of the first airship ground facility there.”
“Which you just finished doing in Nuremburg.”
“Yes. Dull work. Indeed, the only noteworthy event since leaving Grantville is finding you riding around in the same patch of country we are. Pure coincidence, I’m sure.”
“There’s no fooling you, is there, Thomas?”
“No, Larry, there isn’t.” North smiled. The excessively earnest and often anxious young man of two years ago had grown up a great deal: he was as easy in his banter as he was in his saddle. “And although your appearance here is a mystery, I suspect I can be sure of one thing: that I’m not going to like the reason for it.”
Larry grinned crookedly and urged his horse to resume its shambling progress toward Biberach, pulling ahead of the formation. He cast a meaningful glance at Thomas.
Who thought, Great. Just great.
* * *
The reason for Larry’s decision to precede the column at a confidentiality-ensuring distance revealed itself soon enough. And it also explained why the pace he was setting was a leisurely one: according to the latest news, Biberach’s town fathers had suddenly reversed their decision of three months ago and were now refusing to host the aerodrome.
“And how did you hear about this problem when even I haven’t?” North asked.
Larry hooked his thumb back at the smaller rider who had been with him, and who was now trailing behind Hastings. “That guy, Kurzman, arrived in Nuremburg about three days after you left. I got there a day later and heard the news from him. He was the USE factor for establishing the aerodrome in Biberach.”
“And what reason did the burghers give him for changing their minds?”
“That’s part of the problem: they didn’t. He had been staying down there, doing the groundwork, gathering the necessary supplies and fuel—”
“Some of which we need to take on to Chur in the Alps, I suppose you know.”
Quinn nodded. “Yep. And then, about six weeks ago, the regular confabs with the big shots ceased. No sign of a problem; Kurzman just figured they had pretty much ironed out the last of the wrinkles and were in a holding pattern until you arrived. Then ten days ago, the burgers show up at his inn and tell him that unfortunately, the arrangements must be rescinded. No timetable for resuming discussions, no reason. Just the implication that Kurzman had no further reason to remain in Biberach and therefore, shouldn’t.”
“My,” observed Thomas, “such friendly people. I suspect they’ll be welcoming us with garlands. Of slip-knotted hemp.”
“Doubtful, but not impossible.”
“Larry, you were not supposed to agree with me. As the sunny-dispositioned American, your role is to dissuade me from my excessive pessimisms and ensure me that Everything Is Going To Be Just Fine.”
“Sorry.”
“Yes. Well, I wouldn’t have believed you anyway. So Kurzman went up to the aerodrome in Nuremburg?”
“Right. Figured they’d have a radio. Ran into me the day after he arrived, told me his sad story, and here we are.”
Thomas considered the American from the corner of his eye. “And why were you in Nuremburg to begin with, Larry? Rather far from Grantville.”
“Well, yes. About that. I’m actually preparing to travel even farther from Grantville. Much farther.”
“About which you can say no more.” Larry’s response to Thomas’ jocularity was a somber nod, causing the Englishman to reassess: so Larry is down here for some other reason, found out about this snag, was retasked to handle it. Probably via radio in Nuremburg. Which means that Larry has become a confidential agent for Stearns, or Piazza, or both. Poor sod. Aloud: “So fate redirected you to me.”
Larry looked at Thomas. “No: I was coming down here to find you, already.”
To find me? Well, this is becoming far too personal for comfort. “And to what do I owe the honor of your undisclosable interest?”
“Well, I can disclose some of it: I’m interested in hiring four of the men in this unit. For a little job I have.”
North raised an eyebrow. “I’m always interested in new business contracts—but not pertaining to men already in the field. Take up the matter of appropriate staffing with my business partner, Liam Donovan.”
“I already have—and with Ed Piazza. From what I understand, you’d be quite pleased at the deal they struck.”
North stared at him, appalled. “You’re going to take the men from me. While I’m in the middle of an operation.”
Larry stared at the fleecy clouds overhead. “Now would I do that?”
“Of course you would.”
To which Larry had no rebuttal other than a sheepish smile.
When they stopped to water the horses, take a brief meal and rest, North’s temper was even enough to resume the conversation.
“Which four of my men are you taking, Larry?”
Quinn answered around a mouthful of bread. “Templeton, Volker, Winkelmann, and Wright.”
How nice: cherry-picking the very best among the regulars. Which means Larry had detailed advice from—“Donovan made the recommendations?”
Quinn chewed, nodded.
“So why are you still riding with us, then? Why not depart with your human loot, you pirate?”
“Because—as you no doubt suspect—I’ve also been asked to help resolve the situation in Biberach. And that will give me a chance to see the four men in action.”
Thomas’ eyebrows rose. “‘In action’? Do you suspect it was foreign influence that undermined Biberach’s commitment to the aerodrome?”
Quinn shook his head, gnawed on a small wedge of cheese. “Nope. Stearns and Piazza have pretty much ruled that out. The likely culprits lack sufficient motivation to go to the trouble of trying to sow dissension in our ranks. Bavaria’s preoccupied with internal post-war problems, Austria has adopted a posture of cordial entente, and it’s hard to see what the French would stand to gain. Besides, if there was an attempt at subornation by a foreign power, it would probably be aimed at the disgruntled Catholic population of Biberach. But Kurzman reports that all the burgermeisters—both Protestant and RC—were in lock-step about rescinding the aerodrome deal.”
“But you’re still expecting that our men might see some ‘action’?”
“Well, given how they tossed Kurzman out on his ear, there’s no knowing just how unfriendly a reception we’re going to get.” Quinn popped the last morsel of cheese into his mouth. “And besides, if the town fathers won’t reconsider t
heir decision, it’s not like we’ve got a lot of options regarding what we have to do next. Biberach has been using our seed money to gather the oil and ethanol that’s needed farther south at the aerodrome you’ll be establishing in Chur. And Biberach itself is at the transport sweet-spot the airships need. It’s less than one hundred miles to Chur, and not much more to Nuremburg. That makes it the essential hub between the two, given the airship’s operational range.”
North frowned. “Essential? What about other nearby towns? It’s not as though the region is sparsely settled. Quite the contrary.”
Quinn shook his head, moistened his finger, and ran it around the paper that the cheese had been wrapped in. “Other locations have already been considered. Ulm isn’t stable enough, either economically or politically; they didn’t get spared by the Thirty Years’ War the way Biberach did just after Grantville fell out of the future into Germany. And Buchau and Schussenried are too far south.”
“What? Just another ten miles or so—”
“Thomas, these blimps have really tight range limits. Biberach is already a little too far from the Nuremburg aerodrome—by about five miles or so. So pushing the aerodrome farther south would endanger the airships. A bad alpine headwind pushing against you could mean a forced landing in a field—or worse. And if Biberach is actually a little closer than it needs to be to Chur—only eighty miles—well, let’s just say the place you want the most margin for error is when you’re actually entering or leaving the Alps. Far more surprises there than in flat-land flying. Or so I’m told.”
Thomas shrugged. “Well, I suppose that ties it, then. And since Biberach has the safest market south of Nuremburg, it’s the logical cachement hub for the fuels these airships need.”
Larry nodded. “It’s also the best town in terms of being receptive to our polydenominational culture. Although there’s no love lost between Catholic and Protestant, they’ve managed to maintain a joint government. Not always with perfect equity, of course. Three years ago, the Swedes gave the Protestants the upper hand—a position they’ve used to beat up on the Catholics a bit. But it’s still a joint government, say what you will. That’s a hell of a lot better than most other places.”
“Well, Larry, I suppose Biberach is the pearl of great price, then—particularly given recent news.”
If Quinn heard the leading tone, he didn’t let on. “Oh? What news?”
“The news coming out of Italy. That the Spanish cardinals are getting singularly restive. That Naples seems to be an armed camp squatting upon an incipient rebellion.”
Quinn checked the belly straps on his saddle. “And your point would be?”
“Well, I’m sure Mssrs. Stearns and Piazza might find it somewhat reassuring to be able to initiate a fast transalpine connection to Italy in such tense times. Given all the up-time friends they have down there.”
Larry turned to face North and smiled. “Let’s ride, Thomas.”
* * *
An hour later, they drew within sight of Biberach’s walls, but on the advice of Kurzman, stayed on the west bank of the river Riss. Larry Quinn looked at the narrow ribbon of water and made a remark about creeks being promoted to the status of rivers in Germany.
Kurzman nodded, but stuck doggedly to sharing his recommendations. “Herr Quinn, you should choose only a few men to go into Biberach. A large number will not be welcome. Nor will I.”
Thomas raised an eyebrow. “So we are to expect the singular joys of bivouacking in the delightfully moist fields of early spring?”
“Nein, Herr North. You vill go to Ringschnaitt. It is the little village just to the west, beneath the walls of Biberach. A farm village; a garden and dairy market for the town, ja?”
“And do you particularly recommend any of Ringschnaitt’s fine establishments for our custom?”
“What?”
Thomas slowed his Amideutsch, pruned out the idioms of his youth. “Will we be more welcome in some barns than others?”
“If you haff money, you vill be welcome.”
“Ah, well that simplifies matters. Hastings?”
“Sir?”
“You will procure lodgings for our men. Rations, as well. Double-guard, and everyone stays within the perimeter.”
“Are we expecting trouble, sir?”
“No, but we do not want to be surprised by it, either.”
Larry cocked an eye at North. “And where will you be, during all of this?”
“Why, with you, of course,” North scoffed. “You don’t think I’m going to trust you to the tender mercies of the locals on your own, do you?”
“Or let me have the sole enjoyment of a warm taproom and hot food?”
“That, too.”
After having settled the detachment in Ringschnaitt and enduring multiple rehearsals of the titles and names of the various town fathers with Kurzman, Thomas had Finan and Volker accompany them over the Riss and toward the entry known as the Ulmer gate. As they approached, the long shadow-finger of the portal-straddling tower held them in its narrow gloom, pointing the way home for a trickle of workers and older farm-children.
Volker grunted as a small group of more somber, muttering youngsters pushed a produce-vendor’s handcart toward the purpling blue of the eastern horizon.
“What is it, Volker?” asked Thomas, wondering when the guard at the tower was going to get around to challenging them.
“Those kids. They’re Swiss.”
“Swiss? All of them.”
“Ja. Spring workers, down from the Alps. Usually about ten to fourteen years old. Folks send them down here along the Jakobsweg to make money. Not enough work up-country at this time of the spring, but plenty down here.”
Quinn stared, shook his head.
Thomas noticed. “Not common in your time, I take it?”
“Kids that young sent a hundred miles from home to work for someone else? That would probably have been breaking about a hundred up-time labor laws.”
Thomas shrugged. “You would perhaps have preferred them a bit older, so that the girls might be pressured to provide more than field work?”
Quinn’s voice was low and hard. “As if ‘employers’ like that are picky about age, anyway.”
Volker spoke up. “Sirs, it is not as you are thinking. The children travel in groups, and go to families they have worked with before. Mostly.” He fell silent as the officers stared at his ominous addition of “mostly.”
Quinn asked, “But you’re not from around here, are you, Volker?”
“No, sir, but a cousin from Nuremburg traded down here, knew people who had traveled the pilgrim’s route—the Jakobsweg—all the way down to Santiago de Campostela in Spain. The custom of child-workers from the Alps is traditional. It is no more subject to abuse than similar traditions.”
Thomas nodded back toward the gate; they were so close that they could make out the facial features of the single guard. “The town militia certainly doesn’t seem to be worried about trouble, does it?”
“No, indeed,” agreed Quinn quietly.
That was about the same moment that the armed worthy at the gate noticed the four armed men approaching. He flinched, pulled himself upright, and, almost as an afterthought, reached behind him and produced a weapon that made Thomas stare, and then grin. “Oh my,” he muttered out of the side of his mouth toward Larry, “they are clearly ready for all threats from any quarter.”
Quinn was silent as he kept moving towards the man who was brandishing a tarnished arquebus in a poor parody of stalwart readiness. Rather than asking who the newcomers were, or their business, he nervously proclaimed, “Biberach is under the protection of King Gustavus Adolphus of Sweden and the United States of Europe, and is garrisoned by the men of General Horn.”
Thomas shrugged. “We certainly do not dispute those facts.”
This left the gate guard—such as he was—speechless.
As Larry produced their respective papers and explained the reason for their visit to the town
, Thomas continued sizing up the guard. Who, he confirmed quickly, was not really a guard at all. An ill-fitting cuirass and helmet from the prior century were the only clear military gear upon him. Although uniforms had been little known before the up-timers began to spearhead their adoption, the garb of soldiers was nonetheless distinct from that of townsmen and workers: it was generally more rugged and furnished with belts and straps from which to hang items needed in the press of combat. Gloves were not uncommon, nor was a variety of camping tools that could double as secondary weapons in a pinch.
None were in evidence on the man at the Ulmer gate. Dressed as a tradesman—possibly a weaver, from the look of him—he lacked the lean look of a soldier, and was utterly without the wary businesslike posture and tendency towards taciturnity. He was all too glad to discover that the four oddly armed men before his town’s gate were in fact legitimate emissaries of the greater powers to the north; his sudden and relieved volubility were arguably the clearest of the many signs that he was merely a townsman impressed to temporary duty as a gate guard.
Thomas nodded at the now-forgotten arquebus leaning against the gatehouse wall. “You know,” he observed sagely, “I am told those work best when there’s a lit match somewhere nearby. Preferably in the weapon itself.”
The civilian stopped, stared, and then blushed. “I am as much a guard as you men are weavers.”
Thomas frowned. “Then why are you on guard duty? Where is the town watch? Better yet, where is the garrison that General Horn left here?”
“Well,” said the fellow, leaning on the gun-rest as he spoke, “the garrison was actually put in place by General-Major von Vitinghof three years ago, although he was only in town for one day. Most of the work was done by an assistant of his, Hauptmann Besserer, who left twenty Swedes in charge. There were also thirty German soldiers: Lutherans, mostly from Ravensburg.”
“And where are they?”
“Gone.” He waved west. “Back with Horn, fighting Bernhard, I suppose.”
Larry frowned. “And there were no replacements sent?”
“Yes, but they came late. And not many of them. They contracted plague on the way to us”—he crossed himself ardently—“and almost half were dying as they got here. The rest were very weak.”