Grantville Gazette VI

by Eric Flint

  Frank smiled what he hoped was a reassuring smile. "Jabe, if you break a knife because you were using it as a crowbar, is that the knife's fault?"

  "No, sir. You shouldn't use it like that. It wasn't made for it."

  "Exactly. I think we're not using you the best way we can. I know you can do great things. People who know more than I do told me that making that documentary a few months ago in the time you had was the next thing to impossible. But you went ahead and did it. And did a hell of a job besides."

  "Thank you, sir."

  "You're welcome. Now I'm a general again. Private McDougal, General Torstensson has decided to set up a small press corps and asked me to think of some candidates for it. I think you'd do well serving the USE in that role. Is there any reason why I might be wrong?"

  "No sir."

  "Good." Jackson slid the official orders across his desk to Jabe. "You'll be adjutant to Lieutenant Kurt von Kessel, who'll be in charge of the press division office in Grantville. Congratulations, Sergeant McDougal." Frank stuck out his hand.

  "Sergeant?" Jabe shook his superior's hand dazedly.

  Frank grinned. "Yup. Forgot to tell you—the job comes with a promotion. Report to the map room at the imperial palace tomorrow morning at nine. Dismissed."

  Still in a daze, Sergeant Jabe McDougal saluted and left. Frank chuckled. Jabe was a good kid, as he expected from the son of Pete and Zula. He was also transparent as hell. Frank knew his newest sergeant was thinking of his girlfriend.

  Grantville, Early winter, 1634

  The object of Jabe McDougal's affections was, at that moment, in Grantville staring at a half-empty canvas. Prudentia Gentileschi sighed. She seemed to be lacking inspiration and concentration in equal measure today.

  Jabe had been called to Magdeburg on military matters, and Prudentia missed him. It was their custom to meet at the recently opened Sternbock Coffee House in the afternoon, and Jabe treated Prudentia to dinner at the Thuringen Gardens when his modest Army pay allowed. She felt tense in an odd sort of way, as if she'd been going without something essential—even though they never went beyond holding hands and relatively chaste kissing.

  Their relationship had deepened and grown since October of last year when Prudentia had spent the night watching Jabe edit a documentary about the heroes of the Battle of Wismar. Even before that night, before they knew each other well, Prudentia had appreciated Jabe's thoughtful nature. In her experience it was a very rare trait among the male of the species, up-time or down-time.

  On the night of October 10, 1633, Prudentia had seen in Jabe the soul of a true artist, working in a medium that was about to disappear from the world for a good many years. She hadn't thought that possible from the son of a laborer.

  Her first real meeting with Jabe's parents hadn't gone particularly well. Not long after the Battle of Wismar, Zula decided to move to Magdeburg with her two younger children to be with her husband. Pete had been granted a brief leave in early November to help Zula pack up the house. Mrs. McDougal had only briefly met Prudentia, so she more or less insisted that Jabe bring his new girlfriend to dinner.

  The first problem had been with the food. Zula prided herself on being able to set out a good spread when she had the time. But the traditional West Virginia fare, with an emphasis on lots of gravy, was not to Prudentia's taste. Try as she might, Prudentia couldn't quite hide her dislike of it. Zula was not too pleased at this, but had this been Prudentia's only mistake, it would have soon been forgiven and forgotten.

  The critical misstep came later in the evening. Pete McDougal was still nursing wounds from John Simpson's initial visit to Magdeburg, shortly after Mike Stearns had prevailed upon Simpson to resume his naval career. Pete, at the time, was representing the New United States' interests in Magdeburg. Simpson had been critical of Pete's operation from the start. That events had validated Simpson's criticisms was bad enough. Jabe had told Prudentia that, for Pete, it seemed there was a cloud over him. In his father's mind, Jabe had said, the fact that he hadn't been appointed to one of the administrator positions in Thuringia was all Simpson's fault.

  Despite this warning, Prudentia made the mistake of agreeing with John Simpson and saying so out loud to Pete. After all, hadn't the admiral been proven correct? It seemed to her that Pete was being rather prideful. What Prudentia hadn't counted on was how deeply that wound still ran. Attempts to repair the damage from that faux pas were ongoing.

  Hard on the heels of the disastrous dinner with the McDougals was the premiere of the Grantville Ballet Company's production of The Nutcracker, not long before Jabe had been called to Magdeburg. It was the hottest ticket in town, and the only reason they'd even managed tickets for the cheap seats was because Prudentia had painted the large oil painting that hung in the lobby of the auditorium. It depicted Carl Shockley and Staci Matowski in their featured roles. She'd had a half-finished painting on hand that was suitable and could be modified, and she was grateful enough to have her work seen by area notables who might become potential patrons.

  The night had gone quite well. The performance was extremely well received, and as part of her payment for the promotional painting Prudentia had been invited to the reception following the ballet. The reception was attended by the performers and the area VIPs who wanted to meet them. She made several useful contacts.

  On the walk to the Nobilis' house, she asked Jabe what he thought about the performance.

  "It was okay, I guess. Ballet and that kind of stuff has never been my thing. But it wasn't bad."

  "You seemed to spend most of your time eyeing Staci Matowski." Prudentia had meant for that to be teasing; it came out brittle, challenging. Prudentia reflected on her own appearance: long, black, wavy hair; olive complexion; and dark, intense eyes. She didn't consider herself unattractive, but she never had and never would have a ballet dancer's physique. She wasn't terribly pleased to have Jabe ogling the dancers. She wasn't entirely sure why Jabe liked her and so was not completely confident about her attractive qualities.

  Jabe couldn't hide his irritation. "I can't help looking, Prudentia. Those women are in great shape. I'll bet your mother would use them for models if she were here. You should think about it yourself."

  She didn't answer. Jabe continued, "It's not like you weren't eyeing Carl Shockley's butt, yourself." It was a well-aimed thrust. Prudentia flushed and dropped the matter.

  At least her career seemed to be taking off. In spite of the fact that she was not a master painter, Prudentia had received far more offers of work than she could possibly say yes to. She'd painted a study of Jabe at work on his computer, which she'd titled Sculptor of Reality, and had given the finished work to Jabe as a gift. It hung in a place of honor at Jabe's house. When his mother and younger brother and sister joined Pete McDougal in Magdeburg, Jabe had insisted that the painting remain in Grantville with him. Boarders now lived with Jabe in the McDougal home. It was through them that word of the painting had gotten out. The commission for the ballet created even more "buzz," as her up-time friends would say.

  The offers started coming fast and furious after that. Princess Kristina, or at least people on her behalf, had commissioned a painting in honor of Hans Richter and approved the concept sketch Prudentia had submitted. It was tentatively entitled Falcon Astride the World and was still very much a work in progress. Prudentia was working on several modelli, what some might call "oil sketches," showing possible designs. It was one of many works commissioned in honor of the fallen hero, if not nearly so grand as the planned statue that was to dominate Hans Richter Square in Magdeburg. Prudentia's painting would show, in some fashion, Hans astride the imperial palace in the manner of the Colossus of Rhodes. The style she was using was influenced by a comic book Prudentia had seen. Unusually for an up-time comic, it was painted rather than inked, and she quite liked the style. Jabe called it "photorealistic."

  Her other ongoing project was frontispieces for three of Albrecht von Wallenstein's favorite Agatha Chris
tie novels: The Murder of Roger Ackroyd, And Then There Were None and Murder On the Orient Express. Wallenstein's nurse, Edith Wild, had complained that the recently crowned king of Bohemia had read her paperback copies of those particular books to tatters. New editions were being printed and would be presented as a gift from the Jews of Prague to their new sovereign to mark the first anniversary of his glorious reign. The money for the commission came from Don Morris Roth. It was said that Don Morris was founding a university in Prague that would admit women as well as men. Prudentia was pleased he'd remembered her now that he was one of Europe's richest and most important people. Life, on the whole, was good.

  It would be better, though, if she could hear from Jabe. He had gone to Magdeburg with tensions between the two of them still lingering. But unless Jabe was being posted away from Grantville for an extended period, he probably wouldn't write to her. She would just have to wait. With a sigh, Prudentia turned away from the half-finished modello she'd been staring at and opened her chemistry book.

  Magdeburg, Early winter, 1634

  Major Nils Bloss checked his new uniform one more time. The uniform, with the rank of major it denoted, was new. He'd received it only yesterday, along with his current assignment.

  Bloss paused before proceeding through the doors and into the Map Room. He looked around. The imperial palace of the United States of Europe didn't look quite as grand as he expected. Though he'd seen his share of provincial castles and manor homes as an officer in Gustavus Adolphus' army, he hadn't really seen any of Europe's great palaces, so he didn't have much of a basis of comparison. Still, for the palace that the emperor of the USE would have called home if he hadn't been in Luebeck, and where Princess Kristina Vasa currently lived, Bloss expected more. However, one thing Nils Bloss could not deny was that this palace pulsed with energy. It seemed to him like something great was always on the verge of happening here. What the imperial palace lacked in grandeur it more than made up for in sheer action.

  "Sir, would you like me to get the door for you?"

  Bloss snapped out of his reverie and saw a young sergeant standing at attention. The young man had addressed him in German that was quite good, his accent marking him as an American from the future, "up-time," as people said.

  Major Bloss became conscious of the cane that he needed to walk. The young sergeant was in dress uniform rather than work fatigues, so Bloss didn't know his name. He returned the salute and broke the ice.

  "That is most kind of you, Sergeant . . ." Bloss trailed off.

  "McDougal, sir. James Byron McDougal. If you hear people refer to 'Jabe,' that's me, sir."

  The major held out his hand, and the younger man shook it. "I am Capt—, er, Major Nils Bloss. It's a pleasure to meet you."

  The young sergeant opened the door for Bloss, smiling as he did so. "Newly promoted, sir? I know the feeling. And, uh, congratulations."

  Nils and Sergeant McDougal were the first ones there and so made themselves comfortable, telling each other about themselves. The young up-timer was quite shy at first but was soon put at ease. Nils Bloss was the sort of person who never met a stranger, and he'd never had much use for military punctilio. He was interested to hear that Sergeant McDougal had done the documentary that had aired in honor of Hans Richter, Larry Wild and Eddie Cantrell that he had seen while recovering from his injuries. It had been aired many times since its original screening a few days after the Battle of Wismar. News that Eddie was alive and in Danish custody had only added to its popularity.

  "An excellent piece of work, Sergeant McDougal. It is no wonder you are invited to take part in this 'press division.'" Major Bloss said the last two words in English.

  Feeling an affinity with him, Bloss then shared his story with the young man. Nils' father, Helmut Bloss, was a German driven out of Poland. He fled to Sweden where he pledged himself to Gustav II Adolph's predecessor, Johann III, becoming a Swedish Army quartermaster specializing in horseflesh. He found a Swedish bride, and Nils arrived soon thereafter.

  Nils was his father's pride and joy, showing an early talent for horsemanship and learning languages. Fluent in Swedish, German and Polish, Nils was accepted into service by King Gustav and rose to the rank of captain in a light cavalry regiment that also did scout duty. He had been an officer on the rise when he was wounded at the Battle of Breitenfeld in September, 1631. A musket ball in the side and a dead horse falling on top of him had left him near death. The regimental doctor had been quite good—he managed to keep wound fever at bay—but there wasn't much else to be done. Nils had been left in a small Thuringian village when the Swedish army marched to winter quarters. Local villagers took him to Grantville.

  In conversations Bloss had had with Dr. James Nichols during his recovery, he'd gathered that the black doctor—who was not, in fact, a Moor, though he looked very much like one—wished he could do more. With a little regret, Dr. Nichols had explained to Nils that he would never have full use of the injured leg, though he would be able to walk again eventually, with the aid of a cane.

  For his part, Nils was just grateful he didn't lose his leg and was ecstatic at the prospect of being able to walk again, even with a cane. Between the surgical repairs Dr. Nichols was able to make and the special exercises he had to do during his convalescence, he recovered more function in his injured leg than he'd dared hope. The Americans even had a wonderful medicine, "marijuana," to help manage the pain of recovery. He rather liked how he felt while taking it, though he was usually quite hungry afterwards.

  Nils looked up and saw that he and Sergeant McDougal had been joined by a young lieutenant—German, by his looks—and a young woman with the single stripe of a private first class on her sleeve. She looked like she could be Russian.

  "I managed to learn English fairly well during my recovery, even to read it and write it," said Major Bloss, winding up his life story. "I was always singled out for my scouting reports. I suppose that's why I was picked for this duty."

  "Don't you miss campaigning?" asked Kurt von Kessel, the lieutenant, after he'd introduced himself. "I'm happy to serve any way I can, of course, but I'd rather be on the line. In battle."

  Major Bloss smiled wryly. "A part of me misses campaigning, to be sure. Especially with His Majesty. But let me tell you, Lieutenant, battle loses its romance when you have a sore ass and people are shooting at you. Or when your dead horse lands on top of you."

  "If you ride well, I find it is much easier on your backside, sir," said the young woman. Her blue eyes sparkled with humor. Despite her Russian looks, she spoke German with a distinct Swedish accent.

  "True enough, Private . . ."

  "Anderovna, sir. Svetlana Anderovna."

  "True enough, Private Anderovna. Though I pride myself on having an excellent seat. It could be, however, that my bottom is bonier than most peoples'."

  Bloss's joke at his own expense brought general laughter. He scanned the room and did a quick head count. All the recruits were here; it was time to get down to business.

  * * *

  Private Svetlana Anderovna listened to Major Bloss with rapt attention. Most of the meeting was spent explaining the structure of the newly formed Joint Armed Services Press Division and what was to be expected of them. They were to draft press releases for area newspapers; they would provide positive and morale-boosting stories to make the military look good; they would answer questions from the press when needed; and finally, they would be the first line of defense for the inevitable scandals. Their other major duty would be to clear all requests for interviews with any uniformed personnel, regardless of rank.

  "From the rawest, newest conscript all the way up to General Torstensson, that's the rule," said Major Bloss. "For the most part the lieutenants or their adjutants in the local offices will have authority to approve or deny requests for personnel stationed in their area. Any interview or statement requests for the General Staff should be handled by myself and the press division staff here in Magdeburg."


  John Sterling, on loan from General Jackson to help with the meeting, handed out assignments. Magdeburg had the largest press office, with six assigned personnel, including the major. Grantville would have four people, with the others being scattered by twos and threes throughout the USE. Where possible, the press division offices would have personnel with fluency in German, English, and Swedish. Svetlana looked at her assignment. She was being posted to Grantville! She would be their resident Swedish speaker.

  She left the next day with Lieutenant von Kessel, Sergeant McDougal and a German private named Drucker. Svetlana Anderovna couldn't believe she would at last be coming to Grantville. She had been dreaming about this place for a very long time, ever since rumors of its arrival and its role in King Gustavus' great victories had reached the Swedish farm where she'd grown up.

  Svetlana, Sveta as she was usually called, was the illegitimate daughter of a prosperous Swedish landowner. Her Russian mother had been hired by Anders Jensen to tutor his four sons; a casual dalliance between the two of them resulted in Svetlana's birth.

  Her mother died when she was five, but despite that Svetlana's childhood hadn't been terrible. Her relationship with Anders' wife wasn't warm, but the woman treated her well enough. It might have been different if she hadn't been a girl. Svetlana had long suspected that her father's wife tolerated her only because she posed no possible threat to the inheritance of her sons. But toleration didn't mean that Mrs. Jensen took special care with her upbringing and education, and Anders didn't care enough to go against his wife. There was no tutoring in the arts or other feminine pursuits for Svetlana Anderovna.