Grantville Gazette.Volume 22

by Eric Flint

  Vladimir hadn't been particularly extravagant in his investments, or at least he didn't think he had. There was room in his financial structure for occasional delays or even an outright disaster. Most of the time. But not just now. Just now he was, ah, making a movie. "Well, the advances and the movie."

  "Oh! Now don't blame me!" Brandy said.

  "I didn't say a thing," Vladimir protested. "You asked."

  Brandy, or rather Judy the Younger, had introduced him to the producer. Gino Bianchi, a down-timer from Italy who had a great deal of experience in producing plays and extravaganzas. He also had Els Engel to play Rebecca Stearns, Agnes Engel to play Kathy Melton, for whom the Las Vegas Belle was named, and Karl Shubert to play Hans Richter. Der Falke, The Falcon, wasn't really the Hans Richter story, though he had a major role. It was the story of the forming of the USE. In fact they had almost called it The Birth of a Nation, but the mixture of laughter and disgust from the up-timers had killed that name.

  "It's going to make a fortune once they finish it," Brandy added. Der Falke was over budget and behind schedule, in part because the differences between staging a play and making a movie were so great and in part because it was just plain hard to do the air scenes. They knew what they wanted-they had all seen Star Wars after all-but getting it was another matter.

  "I know and we could cover the cost well enough if it weren't for

  …" Vladimir waved vaguely eastward indicating the political events in Russia. "As it is, the money we put into the film, and more, is needed to cover the missing shipment. We've got to find a way to get the goods from Russia to the USE. And I can't set anything up with Natasha because anything I send will probably be seen by Sheremetev before Natasha gets it. If she gets it at all."

  "How much time do we have?"

  "Several months, perhaps three to six. But that's only if we can be sure that we can get the stuff out of Russia. If we can't, we need to start cutting back as soon as possible."

  "Well, I can send a fruitcake," Brandy said, "but given how well secured the Dacha is, I don't know if she will get it. And I don't see how we will know until the stuff shows up or doesn't."

  ***

  "We will be having guests."

  Natasha looked up at Anya's comment. "Guests?"

  "Yes. Representatives from the Ottoman Empire. They have been looking at factories on the Don and Volga rivers and we have been told to be circumspect in what we show them."

  Natasha hated to ask Anya but she needed to know. "What is going on?"

  "The government is looking for new allies in case Gustav Adolph and the USE decide to look east for new lands to conquer."

  "Insanity!"

  "Actually, it's not," Anya said with what sounded like real regret. "You know that Sweden is perfectly willing to bite off pieces of Russia. Our access to the Baltic is now Swedish Ingria and we pay taxes to Sweden on every cargo that sails from Nyen. And peasants run from Ingratioto be serfs in Russia, while the Swedes complain and threaten about their running and our use of Arkhangelsk, even though it's iced in half the year. Suddenly Gustav has all these new weapons, the USE is rapidly becoming the richest, most industralized, nation in Europe… Yet still he complains about our holding back the grain shipments when he knows we lost a quarter of this year's crop to the early storm."

  "But the up-timers would never let…"

  "Let? 'Let' is not a word used with kings, Natasha. Besides, Mike Stearns is not the prime minister anymore. Do you really think Wettin would even try to stop Gustav?"

  "You really don't care about anything, do you?" Natasha spat. "Whatever your master says, you parrot… the party line!"

  Anya looked at her and Natasha realized that their relative positions were not what they had seemed. She was still a princess, but Anya had the ear of a boyar and-for now at least-the most powerful man in Russia. It also occurred to her that pissing off someone with the ear of what amounted to the shogun of Russia might not be the best idea in the world. Since Sheremetev had taken power there had been a purge of the bureaus the like of which hadn't been seen since Ivan the Terrible. The Dacha and the Grantville Bureau had gotten off fairly lightly-in large part because between them they were the goose that was laying the golden eggs. But even they weren't untouched. Boris had lost several people who were considered politically questionable and the Dacha remained under guard.

  Then Anya said, "Actually, I despise him. Both because of what he has done to me and because he is, in general, a nasty piece of work. Unless you happen to be a close friend. However, that doesn't blind me to what he is doing. The Limited Year hasn't been repealed and the bureau men aren't screaming about it anymore. They're too busy covering their asses by kissing his. The purge in the bureaus has been extreme, but it hasn't been entirely political. A lot of the deadwood has been removed and there is greater opportunity for those with more talent and fewer family connections. Peasants aren't just going to look for gold in the mountains, they are finding factory jobs all along the Volga. The jobs suck, but they are better than being a farmer.

  "As to Sheremetev's foreign policy… However noble of character the up-timers may be, they aren't in control of the USE. They have influence out of proportion to their numbers, but those numbers are miniscule. Poland is probably less of a threat to us than the axis of Sweden and the USE. From where we sit, the biggest difference between Napoleon or Hitler and Gustav Adolph is that his army would probably do quite well in a winter war in Russia. He was born and raised in Sweden, after all. If King Gustav should decide to take Poland and keep coming east, we will be facing a force that outnumbers us and outguns us, led by a man who is quite possibly the greatest general of the seventeenth century. We will need allies. All of them we can get.

  "Natalya Petrovna," Anya said, "I take no joy in the thought of war with Bernie's people. But I learned at an early age that what I want doesn't control what happens."

  ***

  "Bernie seems to think so, but our research has shown that you spend much more in fuel for moving the same weight with heavier than air craft," Grigorii Mikhailovich explained rather more fully than Filip Pavlovich Tupikov thought was really necessary.

  "Bernie?" Lufti Pasha asked.

  "A member of our staff hired from, ah, central Germany," Filip said. Bernie was gone while the Turks were visiting the Dacha. This was for three reasons. First, the Turks didn't officially acknowledge that the Ring of Fire had happened. They knew about it. Filip imagined that every beggar in Istanbul knew about it. But they didn't acknowledge it. So, it made it easier for the delegation if he wasn't there. It would help to avoid slips of the tongue. The second reason was that it would be much easier to keep the topics of conversation to what they were doing and avoid giving away technical details of how they were doing it if Bernie wasn't around. At least it was supposed to. Filip gave Grigorii a look. And finally, Bernie was just likely to say something stupid about the Turks and their presence if he was here. He had been difficult to live with since Anya's promotion and the revelations of her previous job.

  "I understand." Lufti Pasha smiled at Filip. Clearly a man who knew how to play the game. "Will we be meeting him?"

  "I am afraid not," Filip said. "He is supervising the installation of a phone system at Dedovsk." Not that the phone group needed Bernie's supervision. "Now, if you will come this way, we will show you the chemistry labs, where we do not attempt to turn base metals into gold. Rather we make dyes and medicines… and if we can get better access to your naphtha, we will be making fuels and plastic materials."

  ***

  "Send him a jar of Sophia's special borscht," Anya said. She was getting just a little tired of Natasha unloading on her about the actions of Sheremetev. It wasn't her fault that he wanted to make the point that Vladimir was still under his authority even in Grantville.

  Natasha looked her, clearly confused. "What?"

  Amateurs, Anya thought. "Like the onion apple pecan cake." She watched as Natasha went so pale that she wo
uldn't even need the white pancake makeup that, in spite of everything, was still popular in Russia among the upper class. It was quite enjoyable to see. "Surely you didn't think I wouldn't know?" Anya kept her voice light and even managed to put a bit of surprise in it. Sort of like a teacher explaining to a student that yes, she was aware that two plus two equals four.

  "Sheremetev? Does he…"

  "No, I don't think so. Your sister in-law seems quite a bright young lady. The cakes are good because it is quite unavoidably obvious if they are tampered with. All that crust. And, considering the list of ingredients, it's unlikely that anyone would filch one to eat at home."

  "Then how?"

  "The hole in the middle! You failed to eat the evidence… which is understandable, I guess. But you also failed to crumble up the cake remains, which was just plain stupid!"

  "Who examines table scraps?"

  Anya looked at her. Could Natasha really be that naive? Then she realized that in just that one place, Natasha could be that naive.

  "I'm sorry, Princess, truly I am. I didn't realize how sheltered you have been." Anya paused then spoke in as dry and dispassionate a voice as she could manage. "People who live on the border of starvation examine table scraps as automatically as breathing. We do it in the hopes of easing the constant pain in our bellies. And we keep right on doing it even after the threat of starvation is gone. It becomes a habit that can stay with us the rest of our lives. At least, it has with me. Besides, when my time at the edge of starvation ended, my time of training began. There, failure to notice things was severely punished. I never knew what I was supposed to notice so I tried to learn to notice everything."

  Anya had spoken more than she'd meant to. Which didn't invalidate her training or experience. She still watched Natasha, noting the reaction. It wasn't understanding that she saw in Natasha's face, but perhaps the first realization that there might be something in Anya to understand. That the labels "spy" and "traitor" weren't all it took to define Anya in her totality. And that, in turn, sparked a realization in Anya that there might be more in Natasha than was encompassed by the up-timer expression "rich bitch."

  It wasn't much, but it was a beginning. It was unlikely that Natasha and Anya would ever become bosom buddies. However, something approaching mutual respect might be possible. Perhaps even an alliance of sorts. Even so, that was for later. For now…

  "Actually, I doubt that the restrictions on your brother's exports are aimed as much at you or him as they are at the king of Sweden. What are capacitors used for?"

  "Radios mostly, the ones we're sending. A few of the really big ones are probably for use in power plants or the big radio stations," Natasha said.

  "So, command and control of their armies and propaganda?"

  "If you want to look at it that way, I guess."

  "Believe me, that's the way His Most High Excellency looks at it." Anya shrugged. "Not that he objects to inconveniencing your family. I'm told that having to deal with people he can't control upsets his liver. And you aren't that popular with most of his support group." Quite a few members of the boyar class had gone from being dismissive of the Dacha and what it might produce to resentful of the Yaroslav's semi-exclusive control of the technology. Not that even semi-exclusive wasn't overstating the case. Aside from the part given over to the government and the rights sold to other groups, more than half of the stuff produced in Russia based on information from Grantville and the Dacha was produced without license. A blacksmith would get a good look at a new plow or a scraper and copy it on his own. Glass works were springing up all over the place and who was to say where they got the formula they were using? Ice houses, using natural and manmade ice, canning and freeze drying plants were also springing up. And the list went on.

  It was true that the Yaroslav family generally got it first. That early access made it possible for them to arrange partnerships with merchants and manufacturers that were producing significant profits. As they had gained in wealth, they gained enemies among the great families.

  Natasha nodded agreement. "Do you think the exports are a danger to Russia?"

  "It's not that important," Anya said, "not when compared to the information your brother provides the Dacha. "

  "Do you think you could…"

  Anya was already shaking her blond head. "Not a chance. Whether it's to bring Vladimir to heel, send a message to Gustav or because he just wants more silver where he can get his hands on it, Sheremetev isn't going to change his mind about it. You will have to find a way around the restrictions." She considered a moment, then continued. "I would suggest going through a Polish merchant. Someone who is friendly with Sheremetev and has connections with one of the banks in the USE. Not an Abrabanel but perhaps an Abrabanel connection."

  "That will take time to set up and Vladimir needs the goods now."

  "Does he need the goods or just assurance that they will be coming?"

  "The goods would be best, but assurance would probably work."

  "You'll need to send him that bottle of borscht then."

  Anya watched as Natasha tried to work out why she was helping, then gave up the effort. "Why?"

  "Bernie!" The word exploded with rather more force than Anya would have preferred. Since Sheremetev's revelation they had barely spoken. Anya had no idea how to deal with the situation. Because, for the first time she could remember, she cared what someone else felt about her. Not with her head, but with her heart.

  Natasha was looking at her, head tilted like some sort of inquisitive crow. Or perhaps a vampire getting ready to dine, if the half smile was any indication. "Do you want him back or want him dead?"

  Anya took a breath to get herself under control. "I know whose fault this is and it's not Bernie's."

  "Whose fault is it?" Natasha seemed truly curious.

  Anya's first response was that it was her fault. That was what had prompted her comment. But she had really had very little choice. Telling Bernie the truth would have been dangerous to him and, especially, to her. Even if he had accepted it and tried to keep her secret, Bernie was not a good liar. Besides, by the time she had any reason to tell him it was probably already too late. So… Sheremetev? His fault? No, not really. He was just doing what any boyar class player might be expected to do and if he hadn't, she never would have met Bernie in the first place. Fate? God? Anya believed in God, but the god she believed in was an autocrat like Sheremetev, even more difficult to please and more likely to punish than the caring, beneficent being Bernie believed in. Anya had long since given up any hope of satisfying the God of Abraham or looking to him for succor.

  Which brought Anya back to… "Mine," she said with a certain finality. Whatever the other factors, Anya knew that she had betrayed Bernie's trust.

  ***

  Natasha was expecting Anya to blame Sheremetev. She was expecting justifications, excuses, reasons why Anya had been forced into what she had done. And by now she knew enough to realize that there would have been quite a bit of truth in them. Some things Leontii had mentioned about Anya and her family. The cold, simple "mine" was the last thing she expected. She had to regroup.

  Bernie hadn't exactly been a joy to be around since the revelation of Anya's spying. Nor had Anya been. But…

  Natasha wondered… could it possibly be? True love? Could Anya, cold as she was, truly be in love with Bernie?

  "You want him back, don't you?" Natasha asked.

  There was dead silence for longer than Natasha could have imagined.

  "Yes." Anya's voice was soft. "I do want him back."

  Natasha thought for a few moments. "Bernie isn't… subtle, Anya. He may realize that you didn't have a choice, but he may not. Have you talked to him at all?"

  "Talk to him how? The moment he sees me enter a room, he's back out the door. I think he's only eating because the women in the kitchen are slipping him food so he doesn't have to come inside."

  "Hm. I could, perhaps…"

  "You'd talk to him for
me?" Anya looked hopeful.

  "Depends," Natasha said. "What can you do for me? And my brother?"

  Embassy house, outside the Ring of Fire

  The heavy, opaque glass jar arrived with a note explaining that Natasha's Aunt Sophia, having received and enjoyed the Apple Onion Nut Cake, had decided to reciprocate by sending Brandy a jar of borscht from her old family recipe. This statement was followed by a list of ingredients which would make a maggot vomit. With a post script from Natasha. "Vengeance is mine.:-)"

  "At least, thank God," Brandy muttered, "We don't have to really eat this stuff."

  "It would only be fair," Vladimir said. "After all, Natasha eats the cake."

  "Yes, but the cake is actually good. The name just stinks." Brandy held the jar of borscht at arm's length. "Unlike this soup, which stinks to high heaven. And beyond."

  They were alone in the kitchen-which wasn't an easy thing to arrange. Servants were all over the place, all of the time. Even at three in the morning, you were likely to find someone awake and doing something. Brandy had told Tate Garrett, their chef, that they needed some privacy. Tate managed to figure out a way to keep Kseniya, the priest's wife and their housekeeper, out of the kitchen overnight, even though it involved Tate producing something extra-special for breakfast. And it also involved owing Tate big time, at least according to Tate.

  "Maybe we should have dumped it down the toilet…"