by Eric Flint
“Not with us, no,” replied Beckworth. “But they told us to tell you that the Petrel will be coming down soon with some of that stuff. They’ll be bringing Walter Goodluck to take over from you, too.”
“Good deal,” said Tom. “Walter’s got experience with this sort of thing, which I sure as hell don’t.” He turned to Noelle. “Are you in overall charge of this clusterfuck? Pardon my Anglo-Saxon.”
She smiled. “If it makes you feel any better, Rita’s language was even worse than yours when she got the news.”
“My wife’s language is always worse than mine, when she gets pissed. Difference between being raised High Church Episcopalian and really low church hillbilly. And you didn’t answer my question.”
“It’s not actually clear to me exactly who’s in charge of the Magdeburg.” Noelle nodded toward the three Dutch officers clustered around the controls in the forward end of the gondola. “If you ask them, they’ll insist they’re just the guys running the airship, not the ones giving the orders as to what it’s supposed to do.”
Now she pointed above her head, indicating the envelope of the airship. “Bonnie Weaver and Heinz Böcler are up there inside the hull, and they’re even more adamant that they’re not in charge either.”
Tom scratched at his beard. “What about you?”
“Be serious. I’m just the bride getting a lift.”
“I’m getting a bad feeling about this,” Tom muttered.
Noelle’s smile took on a distinctly evil tinge. “At a guess—yup. I’d say Mike’s calling you into Linz in order to put you in command of the Magdeburg.”
“Dammit, I’m an artillery officer.”
“You need to qualify that statement, Major Simpson,” she said. “You’re an artillery officer whose commanding general is your brother-in-law and you’re stranded in the year 1636. In case no one told you, right smack in the middle of the Little Ice Age and the Era of Absolute Nepotism.”
“The seventeenth century sucks.”
“Exactly what your wife and I were just saying.”
Linz, capital-in-exile of Austria-Hungary
The Gustav taxied to a stop just a few yards short of the not-so-small crowd waiting to greet its passengers. Either the pilot had a lot of confidence in his skill or he had a blithe attitude on the subject of Austrian aristocracy, pureed. Knowing air force pilots fairly well by now, Mike figured the answer was both of the above.
The crowd itself was more cautious. Even after the propeller stopped spinning, no one moved toward the aircraft.
Mike chuckled. Leave it to the lowly coal miner to be the one to observe proper etiquette. Then—moving quite boldly, he thought—he strode toward the aircraft.
The passenger door was already opening and Gustav Adolf was emerging. Mike wasn’t surprised that the emperor hadn’t waited for someone to open the door for him and place the suitable disembarking gear in place—which, in this case, was no more elaborate than a sturdy four-legged stool. Gustavs might be able to lay claim to being the premier warplanes of the era, but the things were no larger than a Cessna 172 Skyhawk or a Beechcraft Bonanza.
The empty weight of the plane was less than a ton. A Gustav carried a pilot and three passengers with a small cargo space in the rear of the fuselage. Or, alternatively, the craft would carry a small payload of bombs or rockets instead of the passengers.
Like a Beechcraft Bonanza and unlike a Cessna Skyhawk, the Gustav was a low-wing aircraft. So, once he got the door open, Gustav Adolf had to clamber over the wing in order to get onto the ground. It was a bit of a drop, though, which was the reason for the courtier who was now hurrying forward with the disembarkation stool in his hands.
The emperor didn’t wait for him, though—which, again, didn’t surprise Mike. Gustav Adolf was a big man, who tended to gain a lot of extra weight when he wasn’t on campaign. That said, he was also quite muscular and athletic and was only forty-one years old. So, allowing for the heft involved—no one would ever mistake him for a gymnast—he got down onto the ground in a fairly nimble manner.
He’d already spotted Mike and now strode forward to greet him, ignoring the courtier who had to move rather nimbly himself to keep from being trampled under by the imperial progress.
“This was your idea, wasn’t it, Michael,” he stated, when he came near.
Mike nodded. “I proposed it, yes. No one objected, though.”
Gustav Adolf smiled. “Such a diplomat. As good as your wife, sometimes. What you mean is that no one objected once you explained—I imagine you shaded the truth a bit, in the process—that my seizures are not too frequent and don’t usually last very long. Provided I had the world’s best doctor around, I could manage. Speaking of which…”
He turned back toward the airplane, from which another passenger was emerging. It wasn’t Doctor Nichols, though, but his companion Melissa Mailey. “Companion” was the word they’d settled on for public consumption, although Melissa was still prone to referring to herself as “James’ squeeze,” on those not-infrequent occasions when she felt like goosing proper society. James had proposed marriage to her on at least three occasions that Mike knew of, but Melissa had always declined. The issue, she’d explain, had nothing to do with her sentiments toward James himself. It was simply that she already felt like enough of a sell-out being regarded by most people as in some way analogous to a duchess or some such grotesque personage. The least she could do, she figured, was uphold some small smidgeon of scandal.
By the time she emerged onto the wing and had herself turned around, tentatively waving one foot in the direction of the ground, the courtier had placed the stool in position to receive that foot. But Melissa, despite being slender and in reasonably good condition for a woman in her early sixties, was no athlete at all. Sure of herself in the face of any social or intellectual challenge, she was always a bit tentative when dealing with a physical one.
Gustav Adolf stepped back to the plane and extended his hand. After giving him a quick smile of thanks, Melissa took the hand and got herself down on the ground with that royal assistance.
Mike almost laughed, hearing the little hiss of disapproval coming from the mob behind him. Well, not exactly “disapproval,” since one couldn’t very well disapprove of a voluntary action on the part of an emperor. The sound managed to mix scandal with astonishment, overlain by a soupçon of censure.
Melissa herself was oblivious to it all. Even five years after the Ring of Fire, the woman’s soul was still saturated with the egalitarianism of her upbringing and personal inclination. She’d seen nothing more remarkable in Gustav Adolf’s offer of a helping hand than the natural action of a polite younger man toward a woman two decades older than him. The fact that the man himself was (a deep breath needed to be taken here) the Emperor of the United States of Europe, King of Sweden, High King of the Union of Kalmar, Lord Protector of Bavaria—he’d probably be adding something like Overseer of Lower Silesia before the year was out—was irrelevant to her.
The look on the face of the courtier who’d put down the stool and extended his own hand was priceless. Mike really had a hard time holding down the laugh that almost produced in him.
No sooner was Melissa sure of her footing than she looked up and glared at Mike.
“I suppose this was your idea also?” she demanded.
He frowned, wondering what…
“Don’t play the innocent with me, Michael Stearns! I remember your jackanapes from high school, don’t think I don’t. My skeleton may be starting to creak but my brain isn’t.” She jerked a thumb in the direction of Gustav Adolf. “He wouldn’t have come up with the notion that I had to come along. Not on his own, anyway, even if he was the one who had me frog-marched onto the plane. Fine, figuratively speaking. Meaning no offense, Your Majesty.”
The last sentence had about as much sincerity in it as there was moisture in the Sahara Desert.
Mike glanced at the emperor and spotted the look of amusement in his blue eyes.
�
�Michael is actually quite innocent in the matter,” said Gustav Adolf. “It was his wife who gave me the idea, at the same time as she recommended Gretchen Richter’s new title of ‘Lady Protector of Lower Silesia.’ She was quite right, though. Having you join us in the defense of Linz will impart an additional legitimacy to the enterprise, at least in the minds of that portion of our population whom tact prevents me from labeling the surly and disputatious rabble.”
The last phrase came with a wide grin; wide enough to remove any sting from it.
Melissa was now glaring at him. Then, back at Mike.
“Your wife!” she said accusingly. “Rebecca! That woman schemes more than—than—” She groped for a suitable historical analog.
Gustav Adolf, with the benefit of a classical education sadly absent in Mike’s native West Virginian schools, provided it:
“Queen Olympias of Macedon, perhaps, or Empress Theodora of Rome—no, I have it! Lucrezia Borgia.”
“Yes, her! Them.”
James Nichols had come alongside and gave her arm an affectionate squeeze. “For whatever it’s worth, hon, I’m glad to have you here.”
She gave him a look that somehow combined affection with displeasure. “Yeah, sure. In bed, it’s great. But sooner or later other aspects of nature will call.”
She went back to glaring at Mike. “Go ahead. Tell me the plumbing in Austrian palaces—even in Vienna, much less here—is up to snuff. Go ahead, I dare you!”
“Well….”
“What I thought. Dammit, I’m too old for this.”
Chapter 49
Prague, capital of Bohemia
Francisco Nasi contemplated the expression on the face of his youngest employee, Denise Beasley. He was of two minds on the matter she had raised. On the one hand, there could be several advantages to following the course of action she proposed.
On the other hand…
He now looked over to the third person in the room, Denise’s mother Christin George, and spent a few seconds contemplating the expression on her face.
Which was, in a nutshell, worried—a sentiment that matched his own. Denise Beasley was a young woman of much intelligence, great energy, and even greater boldness. Over time, she could become a real asset to his work. In the short run, however, her weaknesses tended to cancel her strengths. She relied too much—much too much—on her native wit, and was erratic when it came to intellectual pursuits and her own education. Still worse, her energy and boldness all too readily spilled over into recklessness.
In truth, her best friend Minnie Hugelmair was—had been, perhaps; her fate was still unknown—a much more useful employee than Denise herself.
Still…
He considered, for a moment, the possible advantages to sending Denise to Linz, as she was requesting.
Only for a moment, though. The deciding factor was the face of her mother. Not the worry in the face, but the face itself. Christin George was one of those women whose physical beauty did not disguise the intelligence beneath. In some ways, she reminded him of his distant cousin Rebecca Abrabanel—and, as had been true when he first met Rebecca—Francisco found her immensely attractive.
Unfortunately, he couldn’t afford to succumb to that attraction, which was all the more difficult to resist because he was fairly sure the attraction was mutual. By this time, more than four years after he’d left Istanbul to cast his fate with those of the time-displaced Americans, Francisco had shed most of the unthinking attitudes of his youth and upbringing. The idea of marrying a gentile was no longer unimaginable to him—in fact, it wasn’t even especially outlandish.
But he couldn’t do that while pursuing the goal that he had set himself when he moved to Prague. He’d told everyone at the time—everyone except Morris and Judith Roth—that his motives in doing so had been purely personal. Make a lot of money doing what he knew best, which was intelligence-gathering and influence-peddling. (Call it espionage, if you insisted, but the work was much broader than that.) Find himself a Jewish wife in the largest, probably the wealthiest and certainly the most cosmopolitan and sophisticated Jewish community in the world.
In reality, he’d come to share the Roths’ purpose—find a way to avert the horrendous Chmielnicki Pogrom, the coming slaughter of Jews in Poland and Ruthenia that had been the worst episode in Jewish history between the destruction of the Second Temple and the Nazi Holocaust of the twentieth century.
In the world the Americans had come from, the pogrom had begun in 1648, as an offshoot of the Cossack rebellion against the Polish-Lithuanian commonwealth. And while it was a mistake to assume that something would automatically happen in this universe because it had happened in that of the up-timers, the social, economic and political factors which had led to the Chmielnicki Pogrom were just as prevalent in this one and just as difficult to change.
He had discussed the project with the Roths for hours on end. And while much was still obscure and uncertain, some things seemed clear enough.
First, the key was Bohemia, with its large Jewish population and its close relationship with the new Bohemian regime.
Second, whatever Francisco or the up-time couple might think in the abstract of Wallenstein’s overweening imperial ambitions, they could be harnessed to their purpose.
Third, Bohemia was not strong enough on its own for what Morris Roth called “the Anaconda project,” but it was now allied not only with Austria—that mostly removed a possible barrier—but also with the United States of Europe. The USE was probably already the most powerful nation in Europe, and if it could defeat the Ottoman Empire, or even just hold it at bay, it could prove an enormous asset to their purpose.
Marrying an American like Christin George would probably aid in that regard, but not very much. There was already the great marriage tie between the Americans and Europe’s Jews, in the persons of Michael Stearns and Rebecca Abrabanel.
No, much more important was the task of solidifying his prestige and informal authority with Prague’s Jewish community. The Roths had already accomplished a great deal in that regard, but they were handicapped by being viewed as outsiders. Jews, yes—certainly; no one in Prague doubted that—but such an odd pair of Jews! They adhered to something they called “Reform Judaism,” whatever that was.
It would be up to Francisco, that part of the project. Which meant that, more than anything else, he needed to find a proper and suitable Jewish wife. He’d begun the needed measures some time ago and he thought at least one of the possibilities might soon come to fruition.
So.
“No, Denise. There is no point in your going to Linz.” He held up a hand to forestall her gathering protest. “There is nothing you can do to help Minnie—assuming she’s even still alive, which she may well not be—and if you’re willing to use your head, you know it as well as I do.”
“But—”
“No,” he said forcefully. “Denise, I shall be blunt. I don’t trust you—not on this subject. You’re likely to do something rash, which will achieve nothing except put yourself at risk.”
“Honey, listen to him,” Christin said softly. “He’s right.”
Denise slumped down in her chair, arms crossed over her chest. “What am I supposed to do, then? Just sit here, twiddling my thumbs?”
“By no means,” said Francisco. “I do have a job for you—but it’s in Lower Silesia, not Upper Austria. I need you”—he now looked at her mother—“and you, Christin, if you’re willing, to set yourself up in Breslau. There’s nothing you can do in Linz, but the situation in Lower Silesia… Oh, now, that’s becoming very interesting indeed.”
Christin George was a woman in her mid-thirties; which was to say, far more attuned to matters of a practical nature than her teenage daughter. “Who’s footing the bill? And who takes care of our house while we’re gone?”
“As to the first, I will cover all expenses involved. As to the second, Eddie will be travelling a great deal—he’ll be flying you to Breslau as soon as they’ve e
stablished an airstrip—but he’ll be resident in Prague. He can maintain your house for you. I will provide some additional funds for the purpose.”
Christin nodded. Then, cocked her head slightly and regarded Francisco with a look that seemed both amused and… regretful, perhaps?
“It’s a deal,” she said, rising from her chair. “Let’s go, Denise. You’ve got your marching orders and—what am I, by the way, Francisco? A sub-contractor or your direct employee?”
“Sub-contractor, I think.”
“Chiseler. That way you don’t have to pay for a pension or medical benefits.”
Nasi smiled. “I don’t pay my employees a pension or medical benefits—no one does—although I will cover all costs if they’re injured on assignment. The same will go for you, of course.”
“That’s right, I keep forgetting what year we’re in. 1636, AD—or, what year is it to you Jewish folks?”
“5396,” he replied.
“Either way, the side benefits are lousy.”
By then, still looking sullen but obedient, Denise had risen and was opening the door. A second later, she’d passed through. Her mother made to follow but, at the door itself, she turned around.
She had that same odd expression on her face. “Just so I know, since I’ve begun to wonder lately—am I correct in assuming this means we won’t be starting to date? Ah, that means…”
“I understand the colloquialism.” He nodded. “Yes, that’s what it means. If it matters, I’m not too happy about that myself. But…”
She raised a hand, forestalling the need for any explanation. “I get it, Francisco. The needs of the cause, and all that. If it matters, I can’t say I’m happy about it, either. But I understand the situation. Good luck—and I really mean that, by the way.”
A moment later she was gone, closing the door behind her. Francisco went back to his desk and sat down. He spent perhaps a minute contemplating the closed door. Then, sighed, and ran fingers through his hair—which was still black, and still full. He was only thirty-five years old, after all.