by Eric Flint
Those might be challenged. Haygood's new patents fell into the legal gray area that would afflict any up-time inventor. On the one hand, he had created the devices himself since the Ring of Fire. Nobody questioned that. On the other hand, since there had been nothing close to a complete record in Grantville of all patents, trademarks and copyrights granted by the United States of America, who could say? Maybe Haygood had just copied something that he remembered.
Jeff was pretty sure that the courts would rule in Jere's favor, though, if anyone did challenge him. German jurisprudence was every bit as inclined as the American to see possession as nine-tenths of the law. Unless someone could prove that Haygood had swiped his inventions from something already in existence up-time, his patents would stand.
Jeff was sure enough of that to have been severely tempted when Eric Krenz and his partners had offered to bring him into the business. But, after thinking it over, he'd declined.
The problem was twofold. The first, and lesser, problem was that there might be a conflict of interest involved if the commanding officer of a battalion went into business with some of his subordinates, even if the business wasn't launched until they'd all left the army.
Jeff wasn't sure of that. What he was sure of, however, was how Gretchen would react. His wife wasn't normally given to stuffiness. But he was pretty sure that the recognized central leader of the Committees of Correspondence would cast a cold eye on her husband hustling fantasy games.
Besides, they didn't need the money any longer.
Speaking of cold eyes being cast . . .
Jeff scrutinized Krenz's none-too-relaxed posture. "And you got a lot of nerve making fun of your battalion's commander's horsemanship, Lieutenant. Your own equestrian skills would fit right into a Three Stooges movie."
"What are the three stooges?"
"Ah! An aspect of American high culture you've missed, I see. Well, let me be the first to enlighten you. The Three Stooges were a legend, up-time. Three renowned sages, philosophers one and all, whose wisdom—"
"You're lying to me again, Captain Higgins, aren't you?"
* * *
More than a mile farther back in the march, and on yet a different road, Thorsten Engler turned to the man riding next to him and said: "How do you think Eric is getting along in his new post?"
Jason Linn grinned. He was the mechanical repairman who'd replaced Krenz in the flying artillery unit. "He'd have been all right if he'd stayed a grunt. But he went ahead and accepted the commission they offered him. He's an officer now. Officers ride horses. It's a given."
Linn wasn't all that much of a horseman himself, but the redheaded young Scotsman didn't have Krenz's fear of the beasts. And he didn't need any horsemanship beyond the basic skills. He'd be riding the lead near horse of a battery wagon, just as he was doing at the moment.
Thorsten, on the other hand, was riding a cavalry horse. That was expected of the commander of a volley gun company. Fortunately, he was quite a good horseman.
He'd damn well have to be, riding this horse. He'd been given the stallion as a gift just three days before the march began, by Princess Kristina. He didn't want to think how much the animal had cost. He was still getting used to the creature. This steed was about as far removed from the plow horses he'd grown up with as a Spanish fighting bull was from a placid steer.
Jason was a good repairman. He was a blacksmith's son and had gotten some further training in one of Grantville's machine shops after he arrived in the up-time town. He'd been all of twenty years old at the time and eager for adventure.
"Scotland's the most boring country on Earth," he insisted. As vigorously as you could ask for, despite having experienced exactly one and a half countries—Scotland and parts of the Germanies—not counting three days each spent in London and Hamburg.
Still, Thorsten missed Eric Krenz. And he certainly envied his friend's position in the march, way up in front with one of the leading infantry units. Where Engler's flying artillery company was positioned, they were almost choking. An army of twenty-some thousand men, many of them mounted, throws up a lot of dust. As it was, they were lucky they were ahead of the supply train.
"Think it'll rain?" asked Jason, his tone half-hoping and half-dreading.
Thorsten felt pretty much the same way about the prospect. On the one hand, rain would eliminate the dust. On the other hand, everything would become a soggy mess and if the rain went on long enough they'd be marching through mud.
"War sucks," he pronounced, using one of the American expressions beloved by every soldier in the army.
It wasn't until an hour later that it occurred to him that he was denouncing war because of the prospect of moderate discomfort. Not death; not mutilation; not madness brought on by horror. Just the possibility of being wet and muddy. As a farm boy, he'd taken getting wet and muddy as a matter of course—but would have been aghast at the carnage of a battlefield.
Thorsten wondered what had happened to that farm boy. Was he still there, beneath the Count of Narnia riding a warhorse given to him by a future empress and betrothed to a woman from a land of fable?
He hoped so.
Chapter 11
Magdeburg
After he entered the mansion, Ed Piazza took a moment to examine the huge vestibule. Then, he whistled softly.
"Wow. You guys have sure come up in the world."
Rebecca got a long-suffering look on her face. "Just once, I would enjoy hearing someone come up with a different remark, the first time they come here."
Piazza grinned. "You've got to admit, it's impressive. Especially for a simple country boy like me."
Rebecca's look got more long-suffering. " ‘Simple country boy,' " she mimicked. "I doubt you were ever that, Mr. Piazza, even as a toddler. I am firmly convinced you had mastered Machiavelli's The Prince by the age of nine. Judging from the evidence."
"Fourteen, actually—and I wouldn't say I ‘mastered' it. The truth is, I found it pretty boring."
"Why did you read it, then?"
"I was on my Italian ethnic identity phase at the time. I worked my way through a bunch of stuff. I started with Dante. I read the whole trilogy, too, not just the Inferno. Damn near turned me into a lapsed Catholic. Heaven seemed deadly dull. Then I read Boccaccio's Decameron, which I enjoyed a lot. Then I read Petrarch, which killed my interest in poetry for almost a decade. Then I plowed into Machiavelli. By then, though, I was pretty much going on stubborn determination and The Prince did me in. After that, I pursued the search for my cultural roots through the movies. El Cid, The Fall of the Roman Empire, Marriage Italian Style, Arabesque, The Countess From Hong Kong, stuff like that."
Rebecca frowned. "Except for the marriage film—and I suppose the one about the Roman Empire—what is their relevance to Italian heritage?"
Piazza grinned. "Sophia Loren. She's in all of them. I delved into quite a few Gina Lollobrigida classics too, although she was a bit before my time. Then I discovered Claudia Cardinale and Monica Vitti and my devotion to Italian culture became boundless. I even watched Red Desert three times, and that's some ethnic solidarity, let me tell you. God, that movie's dull. Except for Monica Vitti, of course."
"I think I will not pursue this matter any further. Lest my image of you as an urbane and genteel man of the world suffers terminal harm." Rebecca gestured toward a far door. "This way, please. The others are already here."
Ed could hear Constantin Ableidinger when he was still twenty feet away from the door—which was closed, and thick. The former schoolteacher who'd been the central leader of the Ram Rebellion and was now Bamberg's representative in the USE House of Commons was one of the loudest men Piazza had ever met. Ableidinger seemed to find it impossible to speak in any tone of voice softer than a fog horn.
"—he mad?" were the first two words Ed understood, followed by: "What would possess him to do such a thing?"
Melissa Mailey's much softer response was muffled until Rebecca began opening the door. Ed c
aught the rest of it:
"—a shame, it really is. Wilhelm always seemed much shrewder than that."
The discussion broke off as Piazza and Rebecca entered the room. The eight people already present turned to look at them. They were sitting at a meeting table made up of four separate tables arranged in a shallow "U" formation. The open end of the "U" was facing away from the door, allowing the participants to look out of a wall of windows which gave a view of Magdeburg's scenery.
Ed wondered why they'd bothered. There was a lot to be said for the capital city of the United States of Europe. It was certainly dynamic—and not just in terms of the booming industries that produced the smoke and soot that turned the sky gray except after a rainfall. Under Mary Simpson's leadership, Magdeburg was becoming the cultural center of the nation, as well. She and Otto Gericke were also pushing hard to have a major university founded in the city.
Scenic, though, Magdeburg was not. The view through the windows was mostly that of blocks of the functional but dull apartment buildings that housed most of the city's working class; with, in the distance, the ubiquitous smokestacks from Magdeburg's many factories, mills, forges and foundries. It was probably the ugliest urban landscape Piazza had ever seen, except the mills lining the Monongahela southeast of Pittsburgh when he'd been a teenager.
Then again, those same working class districts were what gave the Fourth of July Party a political hammerlock over the city and province of Magdeburg. So there was a certain logic to the seating arrangement.
"Where's Helene?" asked Charlotte Kienitz, one of the leaders of the Fourth of July Party from the province of Mecklenburg. She was referring to Helene Gundelfinger, the vice-president of the State of Thuringia-Franconia.
"She should be here by mid-afternoon. She had to sort something out with the abbess of Quedlinburg." Ed got a wry smile on his face. "Who's here visiting Mary Simpson and Veronica Richter, so Helene has to deal with them too."
Melissa, seated at the far end of the tables, barked a little laugh. "I swear, I've never seen anything that generates more wrangling over details than schools do. That's one thing the two worlds on either side of the Ring of Fire have in common."
There was an empty seat next to the mayor of Luebeck, Dieterich Matthesen. After removing a notepad and placing it on the desk, Ed set his briefcase on the floor, leaning it against one of the table legs. Then he pulled out the chair and sat down.
By the time he did so, Rebecca had resumed her own seat. "To bring Ed up to date on what everyone was discussing when he came in, we have received word from reliable sources that Wilhelm Wettin and his Crown Loyalists plan to impose the most sweeping possible variation of their citizenship program. What is sometimes colloquially referred to as Plan B."
James Nichols, sitting next to Melissa, grunted sourly. "Otherwise known as The Bürgermeister's Wet Dream."
"Or the Hochadel Folly," added Anselm Keller. He was an MP from the Province of the Main, and was sitting next to Albert Bugenhagen, the young newly elected mayor of Hamburg. To their right, on the table that form the left end of the U, sat the two remaining attendees at the meeting: Matthias Strigel, the governor of Magdeburg province, and Werner von Dalberg.
Von Dalberg, like Melissa Mailey and James Nichols and Charlotte Kienitz, held no governmental position. His prominence in the Fourth of July Party stemmed from the fact that he was universally acknowledged as the central figure for the party in the Upper Palatinate. Given that he'd had to maneuver with the provincial administrator, Ernst Wettin, and—much worse—the Swedish general Johan Banér, he'd had to be a skilled politician as well as organizer. The political situation for the Fourth of July Party—every political party in the USE, actually—was always tricky in those areas that were still under direct imperial administration.
As of July 1635, there were eleven established provinces in the United States of Europe. The heads of state of each of those provinces, whether elected or appointed by the emperor or established by traditional custom, sat in the USE's upper house, the House of Lords. ("The Senate," in the stubborn parlance of the CoCs.) As such, all eleven of them added the official rank of senator to whatever other posts and positions and titles they held.
Those eleven provinces were:
Magdeburg, which was the name of the province as well as the capital city. The province's head of state was an elected governor.
The State of Thuringia-Franconia, whose capital had formerly been Grantville and was now Bamberg. Like Magdeburg, this state elected its own governor, although the title of the post—president—remained that of its predecessor, the New United States.
Those were the only two provinces that had a fully republican structure and elected their own heads of state. Not coincidentally, they were the strongholds of the Fourth of July Party and the Committees of Correspondence.
There were three provinces whose heads of state, while not elected, were established by the provinces themselves. Like Magdeburg and the SoTF, these provinces were entirely self-governing within the overall federal structure and laws of the USE. They were no longer, or had never been, under direct imperial administration.
They were:
Hesse-Kassel, still governed by its traditional ruler, Landgrave Wilhelm V. The Landgrave, along with his wife Amalie Elizabeth, were prominent leaders of the moderate wing of the Crown Loyalist Party that now controlled the USE Parliament and whose leader, Wilhelm Wettin, was the newly elected prime minister.
Brunswick was also governed by its traditional ruler, Duke George of Brunswick-Lüneburg. However, since the duke was now serving as the commander of the USE army's Second Division and was marching this very moment into Saxony, the province was being managed by one of his subordinates, Loring Schultz.
Most recently, the Tyrol had voluntarily joined the United States of Europe. The agreement made between the Tyrol's regent Claudia de Medici and the USE's envoy Philipp Sattler was that a regency council would be set up under Dr. Wilhelm Bienner, the chancellor of Tyrol, for Claudia's two minor sons. Under the new constitution of the province, they and their heirs would be "hereditary governors."
Four provinces had heads of state who had been appointed by Emperor Gustav II Adolf. However, they were no longer under direct imperial administration and were at least technically self-governing:
Westphalia, whose administrator was Prince Frederik of Denmark. He'd been appointed in June of 1634 as a result of the Congress of Copenhagen. They were still wrangling over the title. Frederik wanted "Prince of Westphalia" but the emperor was reluctant to agree and preferred "Governor." Gustav Adolf would probably give in eventually, though, since his misgivings were general in nature whereas the Danes—both Frederik and his father Christian IV, the king of Denmark—were quite keen on the matter.
The Province of the Upper Rhine, whose administrator was Wilhelm Ludwig of Nassau-Saarbrücken. He'd also been appointed in June of 1634 during the proceedings at Copenhagen. Wilhelm Ludwig, not of royal birth, had been happy enough to settle for the title of governor. His position as the Upper Rhine's head of state was something of a formality, anyway, since he was spending most of his time assisting his father-in-law in Swabia. The actual management of the province was in the hands of his deputy, Johann Moritz of Nassau-Siegen.
The "self-governing" aspect of the remaining two provinces in this category was questionable, since their official head of state was the emperor himself. Gustav II Adolf, never loath to use medieval precedents, had cheerfully appointed himself the duke of both Mecklenburg and Pomerania.
The provincial independence of Pomerania was pretty much a myth. For all practical purposes, Pomerania was still being ruled by direct imperial fiat. True, Pomeranians did elect members to Parliament. But all of them were vetted by the Swedish chancellor, Axel Oxenstierna. Insofar as the province had any independent politics at all, it tended to be a bastion of the reactionary wing of the Crown Loyalists.
Mecklenburg was quite different. That province had been transfo
rmed in the course of the civil war which had taken place there following the Dreeson Incident. With a handful of exceptions, the nobility had fled the province. The Committees of Correspondence were now as dominant on the ground as they were in Magdeburg and the State of Thuringia-Franconia.
A couple of provinces were "self-governing" in the sense that they could elect representatives to Parliament: the Province of the Main and the Oberpfalz. But their heads of state of state were still appointees of the emperor and answered to him directly. The administrator of the Province of the Main was the Swedish general Nils Abrahamsson Brahe. The administrator of the Oberpfalz was the new prime minister's younger brother, Ernst Wettin.
The provinces were split politically. The Province of the Main was solidly Crown Loyalist whereas the Upper Palatinate leaned toward the Fourth of July Party.
Two more provinces would have fallen into the category of "heads of state, not elected, but established by the provinces themselves," except that their rulers had betrayed the emperor when the Ostend War broke out. That, at least, was how Gustav Adolf saw the matter. Needless to say, the rulers of Saxony and Brandenburg—the electors John George and George William—had a different view. Within a few weeks, the dispute would be settled on the battlefield—and most people figured Gustav Adolf would emerge triumphant.
What would happen then was a matter of speculation. In social and economic terms, Brandenburg was much like Pomerania: relatively backward, with poor farmland and not much in the way of industry. Berlin's position as Germany's premier city was still a long way in the future—and, in the new universe created by the Ring of Fire, might never happen at all. In the year 1635, the city's population was no greater than twelve thousand people.
Furthermore, the elector of Brandenburg was Gustav Adolf's brother-in-law. The emperor was influenced enough by his wife—more precisely, was reluctant enough to upset her—that while he would certainly depose George William he wouldn't strip his family of its political position. The elector would be forced into what amounted to house arrest, and his fifteen-year-old son Frederick William would become the new elector—or, more likely, the new duke. With the effective collapse of the Holy Roman Empire, the title of "Elector" was now meaningless. Until Frederick William reached his majority, of course, Brandenburg would actually be ruled by a regent appointed by the emperor. That might very well wind up being Sweden's own chancellor, Axel Oxenstierna.