by David Weber
She thrust the child back into Gretchen's arms, and raced for the stairs leading up to the radio room. "Who is on duty? Jakob?"
"Yeah, he's up there, Becky. He's—"
No point in continuing, so Jimmy fell silent. Rebecca had already reached the first landing, her footsteps—normally so light—sounding like a herd of stampeding buffalo. They could hear her shouting to the radio operator in the room above. "Quickly! Quickly! While the window lasts!"
Everyone still in the room stared at the baby. The infant returned their scrutiny with one of his own. He seemed a bit puzzled by it all.
Which would not be surprising, of course, since the adults were more than simply puzzled. As the minutes went by, in fact, and the enormity of the event came into clear focus, they were downright aghast.
"We can't let this happen, buddy," muttered Jimmy. "I mean . . . it's like a crime against nature, or something."
"You got that right," said Jeff firmly. He reached over and lifted the baby out of his wife's arms. Then, holding him up, gave the little boy a look of stern resolve.
"Don't worry, kid. We'll protect you. Think of us as your uncles, or something."
"First thing we do is get him a little Caterpillar hat," opined Jimmy. "Then—fast as possible—teach him D&D."
Jeff nodded. "And I'll tell you what, Jimmy. I actually tried to read the Ethics once. Got through the first chapter. This kid is gonna make a great dungeon master."
"You idiots," growled Gretchen. "Think big for once, can't you? If the boy can write great metaphysics, sure as hell he can write great political tracts."
"Teach him to ride a horse, maybe," chipped in Heinrich, ever the practical man.
"Naw, screw that," countered Jeff. "I've still got my dirt bike, y'know. Get this kid up on it—fast as possible, before he's totally ruined. Betcha I can take up a collection and have a little leather jacket made up for him. Then—"
"Oh, yeah!" exclaimed Jimmy. "That's perfect! I even got a spare one at home!"
"—put a Harley-Davidson decal on it. Plastered right across his little chest. For the arms, maybe—"
That was as far as he got. Rebecca, moving in her usual light-footed and graceful manner now, had come back into the room. Just in time to hear the last exchange.
"Hillbillies!" she shrieked. Snatching Baruch from Jeff's hands, she retreated into a corner; clutching the baby to her chest and bestowing upon everyone in the room the glare of a mother determined to save her child from the Devil's horned and cloven-hoofed minions. "You have no respect!"
The next day, the destiny of yet another child was determined; and those of all the world's children poured into a new mold.
When he came to Luebeck's Teuffelsorth Bastion, shortly before noon, Colonel Ekstrom found his king already there; leaning on the wall and gazing out over the Trave River toward the Baltic. The colonel was not surprised. In the middle of a campaign, Gustav Adolf frequently took only a few hours sleep. The king, at such times, seemed to have an almost boundless store of energy.
Ekstrom had not gotten much sleep himself, the night before, and was still feeling the effects of it. As Gustav Adolf's only staff adviser in Luebeck, Ekstrom had been a part of the seemingly endless negotiations which had kept both him and his monarch in Luebeck's radio station until well after daybreak.
The negotiations were over. This initial round, at least. The terms of the bargain were established. Clearly enough, at any rate, to get them through the current war. And perhaps beyond it—perhaps, even, well beyond it.
It remained for Gustav Adolf to make his decision. Yes or no. At the close of the negotiations, the king had announced that he would make the decision only after having gotten some sleep.
The man at the other end had not objected. That also had not surprised Ekstrom. He had never personally met Michael Stearns, but hours of nonstop negotiations give one a sense for such things. Stearns had not only the skill of an expert negotiator, he also had its vital secret: confidence.
Not bluster, not threat. Confidence. Confidence in himself, first. Then, as well, the calm certainty of a man that his demands were just—the core of them, at least—and that he would get what he wanted. Sooner or later, so why not make it sooner and save everyone time and grief and trouble?
The king of Sweden, of course, possessed that same confidence in himself. Until the past twelve hours, Ekstrom would have sworn he had the same calm certainty in the justness of his cause.
Today, however, he was not sure. He studied his monarch for a moment, as the huge king himself was studying the horizon. Trying to find perspective, perhaps, in that great vista.
Gustav Adolf must have heard his footsteps. Without taking his eyes from the horizon, the king spoke.
"Yes, I was right. Best to make this decision after some sleep. Most of all, make it in the sunlight. Richelieu is wrong, you know."
Ekstrom wasn't certain what the king meant by that remark. But he asked no questions. He was quite sure Gustav Adolf would explain.
"Yes, the Ring of Fire was a warning from God. But it was not a warning concerning ends. It was a warning—to the world's princes—of what means He would tolerate. I am quite sure of it, now. It is as clear to me as that horizon."
The horizon was actually a bit murky, as was common for the Baltic this time of year. But Ekstrom understood that the king was not referring to clarity of vision, so much as depth of perception.
He nodded. "So, you will accept."
"Yes," announced the king. "I will accept."
Ekstrom's eyes moved further east along that horizon, in the direction of his own homeland. "Well. We will still have Sweden, of course."
Gustav slapped the top of the wall. "More than that, Nils! Soon enough!" He pointed toward Denmark. "I will have the Union of Kalmar, damn me if I won't. On Swedish terms, this time, not Danish. And just to make sure that drunken bastard Christian understands what is coming—and soon!—I have decided to create a new Swedish peer. There were only twelve, before I made Julie Mackay a baroness. Time to add another."
He turned his head and gave the colonel a very cheerful grin. "I think it has a nice ring to it, myself. Sharon, baroness of Bornholm."
Ekstrom matched the grin. The large island of Bornholm was perhaps the single most strategic position in the southern Baltic. It was also Danish territory.
"Send the message, Colonel. One word will suffice. 'Yes.' "
Still, Ekstrom hesitated. "Are you—" He steeled himself. He was the only royal adviser in Luebeck, after all. True, the king could speak to Torstensson over the radio. True again, Torstensson had advised the king to accept the terms. But Oxenstierna was absent and unreachable, and Ekstrom felt a certain responsibility to try his best to fill the great chancellor's place.
"Kristina—perhaps—"
"Enough, Colonel. I say the answer is 'yes,' and I will not quibble. Besides . . ."
The king returned his gaze to the horizon. "Let the world think of her as a 'hostage,' if they will. I do not. And neither, I am quite certain, does Michael Stearns. I have studied the man, Colonel. Very carefully, these past two years. I do not believe—any longer, if I ever did—in predestination. That, too, is the message of the Ring of Fire. I do, on the other hand, believe in character."
Slowly, and with what appeared to be great satisfaction, Gustav Adolf's eyes scanned the entire vista. "This is a man who killed as few Spaniards as he could, at the Wartburg. Prevented his own people from unleashing poison into the world. Managed to reconcile his most bitter enemy, once the time came and that was possible. Such a man will not murder a child, simply for the sake of small political gains. He might be ruthless enough, but he is not that stupid. Because he understands that certain ends preclude certain means. Or victory becomes a meaningless word."
Ekstrom thought upon it; and found himself agreeing.
"There is more," the king continued. "A 'hostage' is also a pledge. And has not Michael Stearns made that same pledge, to the world? Ple
dged his wife to one nation, and his sister to yet another? There is no triumph without risk, Colonel Ekstrom. Never trust a man who thinks there is. Down that road you arrive at John George."
The king's lips peeled back in a smile which was barely distinguishable from a snarl. "The elector of Saxony, who is about to discover that he is no longer the greatest of Germany's princes. And will soon enough discover—the stinking treacherous swine—that he is no prince at all. I remember all my wounds. Especially those in my back."
He pushed himself away from the wall and gave Ekstrom a hearty slap on the shoulder. "Go now! Besides, think how thrilled Kristina will be at the news. She won't mind at all, I can assure you of that."
Ekstrom didn't have to think upon that. "She'll be jumping for joy," he predicted, smiling himself. "As long as they let her keep a good horse."
Chapter 52
Mary Simpson was relieved to see that Mike Stearns showed up for the soiree in the imperial palace properly dressed. True, he'd promised her he would, but . . .
There was at least a part of Mary Simpson left which was uncertain about the peculiar creature known as Mike Stearns. Who knew when the man might suddenly choose to present himself before Germany's princes dressed as an uncouth barbarian?
But, he hadn't. Properly dressed, indeed.
She examined him for a moment, as he stood in the archway after having been announced by the stentorian-voiced majordomo. It was not hard to do so, since Mary did not have a milling crowd swirling around to obscure her view of him. The whole room had grown still and silent the moment his entrance was announced.
There were perhaps three hundred people in the great hall. Most of the crowd consisted of the princes who had thrown themselves in with Hesse-Kassel's Crown Loyalists, along with their wives and closest relatives. Perhaps two dozen people from Magdeburg's new class of prominent manufacturers and merchants, looking somewhat uncomfortable and out of place in that glittering noble assemblage. A handful of top officers in Gustav's army, led by General Torstensson, along with the three top officers of the U.S. Armed Forces—her husband the admiral, General Jackson and Colonel Wood. Sharon Nichols and her father James, who had just arrived this morning in Magdeburg. Veronica Dreeson, looking very uncomfortable and out of place.
Fortunately, the abbess of Quedlinburg had taken the old lady under her wing as soon as she arrived, along with keeping an eye on the rambunctious Princess Kristina. The sight of the abbess and her two companions—a young princess and an old commoner—caused Mary to shake her head slightly with bemusement. Of all the strange things in 17th-century Germany, perhaps the strangest for her had been discovering a Lutheran abbess, governing an institute of noble bluestockings who took no religious vows; also governing an independent territory of her own which had given her a seat in the Reichstag and then in the Chamber of Princes; a cousin of the Saxe-Weimar brothers; and fearsomely intelligent and well-educated to boot. Spending some time in the abbess' company, as Mary had done for the past period, had dispelled whatever lingering suspicions she might have had that the people of her new world were inferior to those of her old one. She'd have given her eyeteeth to have had the abbess working with her in Pittsburgh.
There were a few other notables present. The three most important of which were: Ed Piazza, who had arrived in the city with James Nichols; Wilhelm Saxe-Weimar—or Wilhelm Wettin, as he was now calling himself; and Otto Gericke. Gericke was a scientist, engineer and government administrator in his early thirties. One of the few survivors of the slaughter in Magdeburg in 1631, he had been appointed to oversee the city's reconstruction. Mary Simpson had grown very fond of him in the past few days. Gericke had an artistic streak in him as well, and was always receptive to her ideas and proposals.
He looks good, Mary thought, as she inspected Mike. Then, forcing herself to be completely honest: No, he looks superb.
He did, too. The tailor she'd sent him to had managed to combine Stearns' insistence on a certain "plebeian simplicity" with as splendid a fabric and cut as that worn by any of the princes in the room. Mary was quite certain that, soon enough, the style would be copied throughout much of Germany. It was almost bound to be. Style and fashion were always determined, in the end, by the world's most powerful and prestigious people.
Which, today, Mike Stearns was—and looked the part. If the garments he wore had none of the sheer splendor of those being worn by the princes, the lack was more than made up for by the imposing nature of the man who wore them. Stearns was tall, very well built, and had the kind of face which, if not precisely handsome, exuded the manly vigor and self-confidence that made the term "handsome" a moot point.
Princes who look the part are almost always handsome by definition. Taken feature by feature, after all, Gustav II Adolf himself was not a particularly attractive man. One could claim that he had a beak of a nose, was usually overweight, on and on—none of which made any difference at all. Put the king of Sweden in a room, dressed for the occasion, and he would instantly dominate it.
Such were the rules in Mary Simpson's world, at least. And she thought the same rules, perhaps diluted and adjusted, would apply in all worlds. But she gave the matter no more thought. Tonight, she was in her world again. And knew that, at least for some time, she would be able to remain there. The relaxation which that knowledge produced gave her, effortlessly, the ability to project her own proper persona for the occasion.
And so she did, sweeping forward through the crowd. The official hostess for the event, and one who was already starting to be called, here and there, the "Dame of Magdeburg." Her hands outstretched, the supple professional smile firmly in place, and her eyes—without seeming to—quickly doing a last inspection of her troops.
The landgravine's in place. Excellent. Didn't expect any less, of course. Amalie's such a smart woman, thank God. The abbess is keeping Veronica and Kristina sheltered. Good, good. Hesse-Kassel has a huge crowd pinned to the Nichols, père et fille. Splendid.
"Prime Minister Stearns! So delighted you could come!"
She gave not a moment's thought to the title. The majordomo, of course, had presented Mike with his full set of titles: President of the United States, prime minister of the United States of Europe. But that was all much too complicated for the purpose of this evening's soiree. Soon enough, in any event, Mike would be resigning as president and Ed Piazza—having gone in quick succession from secretary of state to vice-president, after Frank Jackson's resignation from that post—would succeed him until new elections could be held.
Everything was in flux anyway, Mary knew. It would take months, no doubt—more likely a year or even more—for all the fine points to be settled. Even the names of the territories would have to be changed. The United States of old—that of which Grantville was the capital—would need to be distinguished from the new federation which had almost the same name. A federation of which it would become a mere province. True enough, the largest and most powerful province in the new nation, and its center of gravity—but still only a province. No longer enjoying semi-sovereignty, although more in the way of provincial power than the American states had retained in another universe. But still, formally at least, distinguished from all the others—except probably, the soon-to-be-created province of Magdeburg—only in the fact that when he entered it, the hereditary king of the United States would do so as the captain general.
Mike had insisted on that small formality. But Mary understood perfectly well that he had done so only to smooth the way for his own government to ratify the agreement he had made with Gustavus Adolphus. "My folks'll get stubborn if they can't keep claiming we're still a by-God republic," he'd told her, smiling crookedly.
She'd had her doubts, true. Personally, she thought the whole thing was a bit silly. The cranky quirks of hill people; almost superstition. But she'd said nothing, simply nodded. That much Mary had learned. She would not again make the mistake of second-guessing the judgment of a man whom she had concluded was Europe's shrewdest
politician. Not least of all because, whatever her reservations about this or that detail of the settlement, she approved of the thing as a whole.
Once again, Mike Stearns had turned a stumble into a self-confident stride. Not for him, falling on broken glass. Forward, not down. Always forward.
For all practical purposes, Mike and Gustav had carved out a new and very real nation out of a goodly portion of the Confederated Principalities of Europe. A compromise, on both parts. It would remain a monarchy, whose king ruled as well as reigned—but only within constitutional limits. Being fairly well-versed in history, Mary thought of it as roughly equivalent to the situation in her own world's England in the late 18th century. The Vasa dynasty would rule; but only within the limits set—and continually reshaped—by a new world's versions of Pitt and Burke.
A compromise, yes—but one with room to grow. Already, Wilhelm V had resolved to cast his own fate into that new mold. He would remain landgrave of Hesse-Kassel. But he had already summoned a constituent assembly—membership to be determined over the next few months—whose job it would be to provide the new province of Hesse-Kassel with a constitution. That new province of the United States of Europe would have a different structure than Grantville's province, of course. As would all of them, variations on a tune. But it would be subject to the same national laws, which set sharp limits to the power of princes—and gave major incentives to those princes shrewd enough to turn a sow's ear into a silk purse.
Which Wilhelm V certainly was. So long, at least, as he kept listening to his wife Amalie and his close friend Wilhelm Wettin. He would certainly be shrewd enough to make sure that the coming constituent assembly would be dominated by Hesse-Kassel's productive classes.
George, the duke of Calenburg, was practically licking his chops. His province contained the Wietze oil field—and the Abrabanel interests had already agreed to open a provincial branch of their bank in his capital city of Hannover.