by Eric Flint
Grantville Gazette X
Edited by Eric Flint
This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to real people or incidents is purely coincidental.
GRANTVILLE GAZETTE X Copyright © 2007 by Eric Flint
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form.
A Baen Books Original
Baen Publishing Enterprises
P.O. Box 1403
Riverdale, NY 10471
www.baen.com
DOI: 10.1125/0023
First electronic printing, June 2006
Production by WebWrights, Newport, TN
Assistant Editor's Preface
Wow! Who knew? Way back in 1999, when people started writing fan fiction for 1632, who'd have thought it would grow like this? This is our tenth volume—and the fifth in 2006. And there's no lack of material for the next volume, either.
Volume 10 includes our first "pro" submission, from Bradley H. Sinor, "On the Matter of D'Artagnan." It's not your grampa's Three Musketeers, that's for sure. Aamund Breivik entertains us with a little, ah, dirty problem in "A Filthy Story," while Virginia DeMarce is rewriting the musical Oklahoma! in her story "Franconia!" A young English lord and a not-yet-famous philosopher are touring Europe in Iver P. Cooper's "Grand Tour," while our Dr. Phil gets a new visitor—or three—in "Dr. Phil's Family" from Kerryn Offord.
Non-fiction for this volume includes Vincent Coljee's "Herd Immunity," along with Kim Mackey's "Crude Penicillin: Potential and Limitations," as well as Iver P. Cooper's "All Roads Lead. . . ." and Anette Pedersen's "The Feast." We have more fiction from Terry Howard, who has written "Star Crossed," and Jose J. Clavell tied "NCIS: Lies, Truth and Consequences" into that situation . . . with an, ah, interesting ending. Richard Evans wonders what's going on in Bern with "The Launcher," while Russ Rittgers gives us the rundown on some illicit activity in "Fiddling Stranger."
Speaking of illicit activity, "None So Blind" from David Carrico shows what happens when the good guys win, while "Little Angel" by Kerryn Offord shows us what happens when they don't. If you don't have the medications down-time that you have up-time, what do you do? "The Prepared Mind" by Kim Mackey gives us one possiblity. Part three of the continuing series "Butterflies in the Kremlin" by Gorg Huff and me continues our take on what's going on in Russia, while "The Salon" introduces a Grantviller no one has heard from before.
Mark Huston's "Twenty-eight Men" brings Grantville tragedy along with hope, and helps us understand some of the many, many things that can go wrong. And things will go wrong, as we all know. But the continuing hope for our relocated Americans is that they'll prevail in the end. Will they? Well, you just never know.
We hope you enjoy the stories
Paula Goodlett and the Grantville Gazette
Editorial Board
FICTION:
On The Matter of D'Artagnan
By Bradley H. Sinor
"Charlton Heston or Tim Curry?" mused Cardinal Richelieu.
Since there was no one else in the room, the chief minister to His Majesty Louis XIII of France was speaking for his own benefit.
Richelieu sat in a large chair behind the huge desk that dominated the room serving as his office. Two candelabra provided more than enough light for him to work. He brought out a pair of small boxes from one of the desk drawers, and put them next to a glass of wine he had poured earlier.
He found himself having to squint slightly to study the boxes. His eyes were good, for a man his age, but not as good as they had been more than a decade before, when Armund Jean du Plessis had first been created a cardinal-prince of the Roman Catholic Church.
The printing on the boxes was in English, a language he had only a smattering of, but it was the pictures on them that really interested him. They were not paintings, but rather what were called photographs, just another in a seemingly unending stream of new terms he had learned since the Americans and the town of Grantville had appeared on the scene.
Richelieu had long been an admirer of art; photographs, however, were far different than any paintings that he had ever seen. They showed what really was, not an artists interpretation.
The photographs were scenes from "movies." As best he understood them, movies were like plays, only they could be watched over and over again—not repeat performances, but the same one, with no differences.
These two movies were of special interest to Richelieu. They were the same basic story, entitled "The Three Musketeers," but each used different performers, and had been made several decades apart. Viewing them was an impossibility, since he had neither the machine to do it—or the power to run it if he had the machine. So, his agents in Grantville had also supplied very detailed summaries of the plots.
True, the movies did exaggerate events—not to mention playing rather fast and loose with actual facts; as had the book, by someone named Dumas. They even included a supposed relationship between Queen Anne and the English duke of Buckingham.
Richelieu, himself, was a character in the story. It certainly didn't hurt his ego to know that he would be remembered nearly four hundred years in the future, not just in the history books but apparently as part of popular culture.
That he found himself portrayed as a villain and schemer didn't bother him one bit. A fact of life he had learned a long time ago was that whether or not someone came off as a villain or a hero depended on who was telling the story.
Something about the picture of Curry reminded Richelieu of himself, back when he had first come to the church. It was, perhaps, the gleam in the man's eye, which gave an almost predatory, animal look to the man's face. On the other hand, the older man, Heston, with his hands steepled in front of him, projected the quiet dignified look that Richelieu fancied for himself.
"Yes, I think Heston is more me."
"Excuse me, Your Eminence." Richelieu looked toward the door where one of his secretaries, Monsignor Henri Ryan, had appeared. The young man held several thick folios under one arm.
"Yes, Henri?"
"I have just received word that the Italian delegation will be here within the hour." Henri placed the documents he carried in front of Richelieu. "These are the reports on the things they want to discuss with you."
The younger priest stared for a moment at the two movie boxes lying on the desk. His distaste for them was rather obvious. Richelieu made a mental note to have a long talk with Henri about learning to conceal his feelings on some subjects, whether it was the Americans or the Spanish or whatever. That was one of a wide variety of skills Henri needed to develop.
"Very well, let me refresh my memories of these matters, and then bring them in when they arrive."
"Of course, sir." Henri started to leave, but stopped a few steps from the door and turned back toward the desk. "Also, that man, Montaine, arrived, a short time ago, saying he needed to see you."
Richelieu cocked his head slightly. Montaine was not due to report for at least a week. His unexpected appearance suggested that he came bearing news.
Of course, the Italian matter was also pressing.
"Very well. Have him wait in the smaller library. If he is hungry, have the kitchen prepare something. I shouldn't be more than an hour or two at the most. Did he say what he needed to speak to me about?"
"Yes, Your Eminence. He said it was on the matter of D'Artagnan."
* * *
Charles D'Artagnan stared out the window. It was an hour after sunrise and the narrow street below was already filled with people; there were food vendors, merchants, barbers, craftsman and their customers. A woman screaming at a man in a greasy apron, who was selling me
at pies of some kind, caught his attention.
The exchange continued for a few minutes, with invectives flying between the two. The verbal combat only stopped when the woman handed several coins across and the vendor passed her back several of the meat pies. The two parted with smiles and wishes for the best of the day.
D'Artagnan felt something small and furry rub against the side of his hand. He looked down to the window ledge and found himself confronting a tiger-striped kitten who was very vehemently demanding attention.
He reached down and gently picked up the animal. The kitten was not happy with this idea, preferring to be petted rather than held, and struggled to escape his grip even as he began to stroke the animal's temples and then under its chin. The response came quickly, and the kitten stretched out, offering its neck for more attention, showing its approval with some very loud purring.
"Like that do you, little one?"
"I must say, you certainly have a way with animals, my dear Charles." A dark-haired woman clothed only in a sheet stretched out on the bed that filled much of the room. She had raised herself up on one elbow and leaned across the impression in the mattress that, until several minutes before, D'Artagnan had filled.
"I have had a bit of experience with the wilder creatures of the world." He smiled.
"Do you think you can bring out the animal in me?" Charlotte Blackson laughed.
"I'll do what I can," he said, walking back to the bed.
He set the kitten down on a side table, much to the chagrin of the animal. The cat reached out to try to drag his hand back, but D'Artagnan ignored the protests, intent on a different goal now.
He reached over and gently ran his finger along the edge of Charlotte's chin. The gesture brought a purr to her lips and a very inviting smile.
Charlotte Blackson was a beautiful woman. Her husband, a Musketeer, had been killed in the war. While not rich, he had left her well off. Charlotte had, in turn, taken her inheritance and shrewdly parleyed it into much, much more. Now, six years later, she was the proprietor of a dozen businesses and a partner in several more. She had even begun to move into some of the minor social circles of Paris. D'Artagnan had met her a few months before when he had stopped a thief intent on making off with her purse. In spite of the fact that she was more than a decade older than he, D'Artagnan soon found himself enamored of her.
"Yes, you do have a way with animals." Charlotte reached up and wrapped her arms around him. The sheet fell away, its edge dropping over the end table and trapping the kitten for a few moments.
"I try," he said as she plastered her lips against his.
* * *
"So what do you have for me, Montaine?" asked Richelieu.
Montaine was a small man, dressed in shades of brown, with a face that, other than having an immaculate pencil thin moustache, was not unique in any way whatsoever. Two minutes after they had seen him, few people could describe the man; most failed to even notice his presence, which had often proved a major advantage.
He stopped a half dozen steps in front of the cardinal's desk. Montaine never approached any closer than that; it was as if there was a line on the floor that he could not, or perhaps would not, cross.
Richelieu had employed Montaine for nearly four years, but actually knew very little about the man, other than the fact that he was loyal to France, i.e. Richelieu, and he had been remarkably effective in the various tasks that were set for him.
"I have located the man you are seeking. His name is actually Charles de Gatz-Casthenese. His mother's family was named D'Artagnan. He is from Lupiac, but he was raised in Gascony and came to Paris just over a year ago. He has been calling himself simply Charles D'Artagnan. He has not made a secret of who he is, but has not gone out of the way to make it known either."
"Indeed," Richelieu prompted.
Montaine nodded. "He attempted to get into the Musketeers, but was turned down, I believe because of his lack of military experience. However, he was able to secure an appointment with the Royal Guard."
"Continue."
"From the reports I have seen he has proved to be quite the gifted swordsman. He also turns out to not only to be good with his sword, but also knows when to fight and when to walk away. I suspect his superiors have an eye on him for eventual promotion."
"What of the other three men I asked you to find?"
"Oh, yes. I'm afraid I have bad news in that area. I could find no trace of anyone by the name of Athos, Porthos or Aramis currently serving in the Musketeers. From the way they were described in that book you gave me, I should have been able to find them, or at least someone who had heard of them. It's really a pity; the story makes them seem the sort of fellows I would have liked. However, I have found some very young men, barely in their teens. Issac de Porteau, Henri d' Aramitz and Armund de Sillegue d'Athos d'A'Autevielle. I suspect they may have been the ones that this Dumas fellow modeled his characters on. They are all relatives, to one degree or another, of the commander of the musketeers, Monsieur de Tourvelle. So I did not inquire too extensively. I can, should you require more information on them."
"Unnecessary." De Tourvelle was a man that Richelieu knew of, quite well. He bore watching and could be either friend or foe to the cardinal, depending on the needs of the moment.
Perhaps it was true that the Athos, Porthos and Aramis of the movies and the book might not exist. It was entirely possible that those three were indeed simply characters who had been invented for the purposes of these entertainments. However, that did not mean they might not eventually still be of use to him.
"Have you actually met this D'Artagnan?"
"No, Your Eminence. I didn't feel that wise at this time. I have learned enough about him to know that this young Gascon is someone that you might do well to be wary of. He would not be easy to control and could end up being very much of a loose cannon."
Richelieu had come to trust Montaine's opinions. But he had also learned that there were times when you wanted someone who was not easily controlled, so this young man might suit him quite well. "Very well. Bring him to me, but do it quietly. I do not want the world to know of my interest in this man. Not quite yet."
"That might prove difficult. If it were a formal summons he would come, of that I have no doubt. However, D'Artagnan seems to have an agenda of his own and I do not see it allying with others, even you, sir," said Montaine.
Richelieu meditated for a few moments on the man's words, then took a single sheet of paper and began to write on it, adding a large daub of hot sealing wax to the bottom of the page into which he placed not only his official church seal but that of the chief minister of France.
"You must wait until the chance offers itself and bring him to me. If he is indeed as stubborn as you suggest you may have to persuade him." Richelieu passed the paper to Montaine. "This may be of assistance. I will trust in your discretion about when and how to use it."
* * *
D'Artagnan stood quietly in the doorway of an abandoned storefront. This was not the best part of town. From the look of the grime on the windows and the rust on the shutters, this place could have been shut up for decades. That suited D'Artagnan's needs perfectly.
From here he had a clear view of the Flying Pig, a tavern just down the block, and few would be able to see him, even if they were standing directly in front of him. A covered lantern sat at his feet. To add to his camouflage, D'Artagnan had left his uniform in the wardrobe at Charlotte's home. Tonight was not a night to be known as a Royal Guardsman.
No, tonight was a night for personal matters.
The Flying Pig was a low dive at its best. At its worst, it was a dump. The clientele asked no questions and only demanded to be left alone to muddle their dark thoughts in cheap wine and nearly tasteless ale.
D'Artagnan had gone into the Flying Pig twice, two times more than he would have wished. The smell inside the building reminded him of a charnel house or a battlefield long after the fighting was over, when the crows held fo
rth. It was not a place that, even in the darkest of moods, he would willingly seek out.
Yet the Flying Pig fit the man he was seeking like a glove
D'Artagnan had watched his quarry enter, small forms that seemed to be fleeing from the moonlight that filled the street. At just past ten o'clock the tavern door opened and two men emerged. Both were short and round, their clothes the color of sand stained dark after a rainstorm. Neither man was steady on his feet. It seemed a miracle that they both didn't end up face down in the mud.
They stopped, for a moment, almost directly in front of his hiding place, then moved on. One of them began to sing, very badly.
D'Artagnan came up behind them in a few steps, grabbed both and slammed them hard against each other. Then he dragged them backwards, kicking the door of the abandoned shop open and pulling them inside. By the time the door had swung shut he had both of his prisoners on the floor.
