by Eric Flint
Mantoue nervously moistened her lips before replying. "Father, I can't presume to tell you what to do. However, I need to follow my conscience and must definitely don't want to follow the path of that other future me."
"Anne, do you think that I like knowing that your sister Maria's children are not going to grow up, or that you are going to have a loveless marriage before ending up in a convent after all? Whatever you think about me, I hope that you never doubted my love for you."
Eyes shining, Mantoue stood up and quickly move to kneel before her father and grasp his hands. "Father, your love has never been in question, but I must seek my own path. After all, I'm my father's daughter."
The duke smiled at the pride in her statement and bent forward to kiss her on the forehead before raising her to her feet. "Yes, you are, and in this new world I suppose that I must make allowances for this strange path that you have chosen, but I confess that I'm afraid for you."
De Ventron felt her mouth drop open, but her hopes rose as she watched Mantoue smile tentatively. "Father, does this mean that you are going to let me stay? But how-what made you change your mind?"
"Anne, during my trip here, after I reassured myself that the blasted contraption was not going to fall from the sky and send me to meet your mother before my time, I had a long opportunity to think as I watched the world pass underneath me. It's so beautiful, Daughter, from the air. No frontiers, no death nor pestilence seen from above, just God's creation in all its wonderful glory. I admit that I started with all the intention in the world to drag you back to Mantua, by force if I had to: but I started to contemplate other possibilities for you, for your siblings and me, and then we landed." He stopped and shook his head, grinning.
"Your Admiral is not a subtle man. He made the arrangements for me to fly here despite my known support for the French crown. When I arrived at your airfield, I was met by a carriage and mounted escort under a very polite but very efficient young officer, I think that Strausswirt was the lieutenant's name, and every trooper in her gendarmerie escort down to the carriage driver and footman, every one
… was a young women. The remarkable fact was that on our way here, I saw nary a raised eyebrow; everyone acted like this was a normal occurrence.
"I don't expect that such a thing will become Mantua's custom anytime soon, or even in our lifetimes, but it seems that's the way that the world is moving. Perhaps it will be handy for someone in the family to be well-versed in such things. And let's not forget that with the current Spanish adventures in the Italies and against the Holy Father, the enemy of my enemy becomes my friend."
With a happy shout, Mantoue jumped in her father's lap. For a moment de Ventron did not see a Marine recruit and a startled ruler, but a father hugging his beloved daughter hard, not minding the tears that ran down her face.
"There, there, little one. I was assured that Classiarii-I mean Marines-were made of sterner stuff, so no blubbering, you hear?" he ordered through his own tears.
Mantoue, wiping her face with her hand, stood up proudly in front of her father.
"I was also told that your initial training is almost over, but some kind of final test called the crucible still lies ahead. Are you willing to finish without any of the resources that your birthright entitles you to?"
"Father, I have made my way so far on my own merits and the only title that I have sought or aspire to is United States Marine," she replied with grim determination.
"I see. I think that Capitano Falaguerra is correct, you Marines are as stubborn as the old religious fighting orders and probably as bad as Jesuits. You will make a fine addition to their ranks, my child," he said, smiling before turning serious. "Our ancestors led armies and ruled empires, and now I see that in your veins flows the martial blood of our family. So hear me well and obey: You will complete your training and any other that your superiors deem necessary for you to bring credit to the family name. Swear it on your honor."
"I swear that by God's grace and my sacred honor, I will bring credit to our family," she replied without any hesitation. But then she tilted her head, puzzled. "This means that your idea of the early marriage is out, Father?"
The duke chuckled. "Now, you are acting just like your late mother. Yes, Anne, is off for now. Besides, Don Francisco told me that a young officer with the proper social qualifications and posted to an imperial capital will have great opportunities to, in his words, 'network' with similarly qualified young people of the opposite sex. The rest is in the good Lord's hands. However, Anne, do me a favor and let your hair grow-for the sake of your mother's beloved memory?"
With another happy shout, Mantoue once again landed on the duke's lap and hugged him tightly.
De Ventron, smiling happily, took the opportunity to leave the office. Her departure went unnoticed.
Epilog
The Ballroom
ImperialPalace, City of Magdeburg
United States of Europe
Five months later, in the late afternoon.
The high collar of her dress blues, together with the tight fit of her Sam Browne belt were uncomfortable and, as usual, a reminder of the leather stocks that in the future that would never be, had given Marines their most enduring nickname. It also made de Ventron think fondly of her very comfortable utilities and how long would it be before she could get back into them.
Looking at the scene in front of her eyes, though, she decided that the temporary discomfort was acceptable and much welcome. Their numbers were greatly diminished from those that had started their studies four months earlier. It was the nature of the beast and the price to pay for high standards. Still, the newly commissioned officers of the basic school class 035-03 had lots to celebrate with their family and friends. Only two of the original six women made it to the finish line.
It gave her a special pride to know that the women had been number one and two in overall class standing. If they had been men, they would have been shoe-ins for the coveted troop command slots. Still, their success advanced the cause for all women in general, and perhaps one day, probably not in her lifetime but maybe in the Hudson girls' lifetimes, that too would come to pass.
Meanwhile, she enjoyed the look of total contentment on the face of Her Grace Second Lieutenant Anne de Gonzague de Mantoue, USMC. As she, the young prince Oginskis, and her father Duke Charles-surrounded by more relatives and noble retainers than she could shake a stick at-admired the Toledo steel blade of the Mameluke sword presented to her on behalf of her other siblings. After Mantoue's frail sister Benedicte and Father Benito pinned on her gold bars, de Ventron had given kudos to the duke and his family for risking more air travel to see Mantoue graduate. With his daughter a solid number two in her class standing, His Grace and her family could be justifiably proud of her. Looking on beside them stood Captain Falaguerra, the new head of the Duchess' bodyguard in Magdeburg. The jury was still out as to whether his new posting was a promotion or a punishment.
The number one graduate, class valedictorian, and a surprise for many, Lieutenant Angelina Rainaldi stood proudly with her naval officer husband, members of her "other family" in the JAG office, and Gunther and Brunei Schlosser and their child. Rainaldi's daughter, Charlie, was completely fascinated with her mother's butter bars as she rested in her arms. De Ventron smiled at the homey scene.
Mantoue's identity had remained sort of a secret until today, and it had been necessary to provide the young duchess with a battle buddy and a roommate that was already aware of her real persona and background. Like many, de Ventron had been surprised when the Sergeant Major pushed forward Rainaldi's name for consideration. But during the basic school, she had demonstrated an inner strength tougher than Toledo steel. Now, it seemed that too had been another of Hudson's leap of faith moments.
"Penny for your thoughts, Captain."
De Ventron almost jumped out of her skin at the unexpected comment and frowned at "the legend" himself, resplendent in his dress blues with full medals as he stood beside h
er. "Sergeant Major, one of these days you are going to give me a heart attack," she protested.
He grinned down at her. "Captain, you're too young to worry about that. Besides, I've got good news for you."
She raised her eyebrow in query and disbelief, making him chuckle.
"I just saw Noah Wilson back at the barracks leading his new recruit platoon in an impromptu serenade to his wife. They were singing-very off-key I might add-a lullaby, and Kimberly Ann was beaming with happiness. So I think that we can assume that the rabbit croaked. When did you and Gunther bet that it was going to be?"
"Summer, and a boy-I think that we have the first of the two conditions down pat," she said, ecstatic at the news.
"Darn, spring and a girl for me. Oh, well. So tell me, Annette, when are you going to do something about Friedrich?"
At first, de Ventron did not register his question, happy for the good fortune of her friend. But suddenly, it dawned on her and she turned to look at Hudson with mouth agape and a look of horror.
"How… how do you know?" she stammered.
"Easy. You two make calf eyes at one another every time one of you isn't looking-rather pathetic, if you ask me."
Startled at his insight, she could only stare at him as her cheeks burned and then blurted the first thing in her mind. "Duke, even if I was interested, there is that thing about fraternization."
He grinned. "Funny. Scuttlebutt says that both ONI and the former Nasi organization, impressed with the way you handled the duchess situation, are vying for your services, ma'am. Regardless which you choose, it would mean that you will transfer to the naval staff and a different chain of command. I see that the opportunity is there."
De Ventron looked around until she saw von Brockenholz making his rounds around the room, congratulating the new graduates and their families. She allowed herself a moment to admire the dashing figure he cut in his uniform and felt a glow that warmed her insides, but then her practical side tried to assert itself. "Even if it was allowed by the circumstances, Sergeant Major, I don't feel that it's in the cards at this time. We must accept God's will."
He snorted. "Oh, really? By my estimate there were over two hundred boots in that parade ground that day and you picked up the only one that could be your replacement in the regiment-and the one that needed your help the most. Me, I think that the Lord moves in mysterious ways but if he gives you a chance, you better take it, ma'am. You deserve it and so does the colonel. Think about it."
De Ventron nodded and weighed the idea, finding it not bad at all. Perhaps it's time to moveon, she thought. So perhaps tomorrow, I can start making the rounds around ONI and the new USE CIA organization-Lord, I'm going to miss Francisco – and explore what they have to offer. But she knew that regardless of the outcome of her research, Mantoue was in for a heck of a steep learning curve as her assistant. I hope that she hasn't set her heart on doing too much "networking" for the foreseeable future, and particularly not with too many young princelings, she thought smiling and then noticed Hudson's frown. "Penny for your thoughts, Duke."
He looked at her with a sly smile. "Just thinking, in all my years in the Corps, up-time and down-time, I never expected to see an honest-to-God duchess in our ranks.
De Ventron withheld the crack on the tip of her tongue about his own nickname and looked back at the proud Marine lieutenant and her family. "Better get accustomed to it, Sergeant Major. That Duchess is now a leatherneck."
***
To Marines, past, present and future.
Thanks to Mic Sjostrom for the suggestion of Anne as a character, and his genealogical expertise. Thanks also to Virginia DeMarce for general information, Janice James-Watson and Leonard Hollar for proofreading. All mistakes, of course, are mine.
Turn Your Radio On, Episode Six
Written by Wood Hughes
Chapter Nineteen
May 1634, Grantville, State of Thuringia-Franconia,
United States of Europe
Janet Rogers, the News Director of VOA was at her wits' end. "Jesus, Dee! Hilda can't get any work done for all the callers asking if the war is over yet. Isn't there any way to pull in the reins on that crazy preacher?"
"I don't see how," Deanna Dee replied, "But don't pull your hair out and strew it all over the VOA studios because of him. There's no requirement in the contract keeping him from practicing his faith. Unfortunately, we just didn't realize that prophecy played a big part in the Pentecostal faith when we made the deal with them. We certainly didn't think they'd go off the wall and start prophesying the end of the war.
"The thing about it is, Fischer has been like a rock star for us. He's brought us huge audiences that have carried over to all areas of our programming. We probably have at least ten times as many people listening now as we did when he started up that radio show."
"But it's… it's irresponsible!" Janet cried out in a desperate tone. "We've got crowds gathering out front waiting to hear us announce the war is over at any minute!"
"Yes, I know." Deanna Dee shook her head in agreement. "That's the problem with rock stars. Sooner or later, they start to break up the furniture."
Janet's shoulders slumped. "I think I miss the disco demonstrators."
Deanna Dee laughed. Then she asked, "Have you wired your stringer reporters in Magdeburg and following the front?"
"Yeah, I telegraphed all of them first thing this morning after realizing what was happening outside. We've heard back from Kurt and Shultz in Magdeburg. The crowds are even worse there. They've surrounded the War Department and had to be driven away from the gates of the Navy yard.
"Only a couple of the reporters in the field have checked in. They only acknowledged receipt of the telegram. My guess is that they are outside our coverage area by now, so it shouldn't affect the armies yet."
Deanna Dee rocked back and forth in her chair for a moment, then mused, "Well, I know John is must be blowing his top right now. I wish he wasn't on the road. We need him."
Augsburg
"And, exactly HOW do you know this self-proclaimed prophet, Der Fischer, Herr Garb?"
Marco could feel the attention everyone else in the room now focused on him. If they had been a bit younger, rather than the old, venerated financial lords of Augsburg who did not normally show their emotions on their faces, their collective jaws would have been resting on the floor.
"It's really quite serendipitous actually, Herr Geuder. My daughter in Grantville is seeing the good Reverend… socially that is."
From the head of the table, Wilhelm Fugger cleared his throat. As a remote relative of the long-dead Jacob "The Rich" Fugger, he was the first among the equals in this meeting. "Herr Garb, your daughter Constanzia seems to have a nose for getting to the heart of matters, doesn't she?
"First, she provides us with an amazingly accurate vision of where the American investment market is heading, and now, in her spare time I gather, she becomes socially acquainted with a prophet."
After the laughter subsided, Marco responded with a smile. "Yes, my daughter has always had the gift of discerning what was not obvious to the rest of the family. Seriously, that is why I dispatched her to Grantville in the first place. These Americans, they are so practical. They have refined this democracy of theirs to such a state that they don't know how to be devious with matters of business. They don't fear the dangers of passing around critical knowledge, even though they think they do. In a culture like theirs, I had a sense that Constanzia would find out which way the winds would be blowing out of Grantville."
"You certainly have convinced me, Herr Garb. Bravo!" Fugger looked out the window for a moment as he considered his next words. He had a strong family resemblance to his paternal ancestors. It was accentuated by the painting of his Jacob the Rich by Albrecht Durer hanging on the wall directly behind him.
Again, Fugger cleared his throat. "It's no secret that my family's investments have not fared well during this war. All of us are being squeezed by the Swedish occupatio
n of Augsburg and our business is hampered by all these checkpoints the Swede has put into place throughout the Palatinate.
"We've agreed that we would rather join this United States of Europe with its new economy than continue with the Holy Roman Empire, but we've got to end the occupation as soon as possible. I don't give a damn about this Fischer's confessional beliefs. I do believe that he is in the process of becoming a very strong leader in the USE. If we can start to influence him, maybe he can force the Swede to give us our own state. Then, we should be able to guide this prophet to the 'right' side of our issues."
The other bankers and wealthy merchants in the room looked around at each other, and seeing general agreement, looked back at Marco Garb, still somewhat in wonder as how he had managed to get such an accurate read of the impact of American skills and culture so quickly.
"Then it's settled, Herr Fugger, gentlemen." Marco lifted his leather briefcase onto the table and inserted his notes back into it, "I will go back to Grantville and personally meet my daughter's good friend Fischer… and begin his education on the broader issue of financial self interest."
Magdeburg, Magdeburg Province, United States of Europe
Friday night was children's night at the Magdeburg revival. There were hundreds of children gathered around Fischer as he finished up his children's sermon and handed them over to Sister Jennifer for the closing song. As he picked his way through the children, all seated cross-legged on the ground surrounding him, he was surprised at how attentive they had been.