by Eric Flint
Grantville Gazette
Volume 5
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.
Copyright © 2005 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: 10.1125/0009
First electronic printing, September 2005
Production by WebWrights, Newport, TN
Editor's Preface
By Eric Flint
Well—hallelujah—we managed to get Volume 5 of the Gazette out pretty much on schedule, about four months after the publication of Volume 4. As I said in my preface to that issue, I'm hoping to be able to maintain a triannual publication schedule for the magazine. We should be able to do the same, I think, with Volumes 6 and 7. We've already got all the stories and articles assembled for Vol. 6, and most of the ones we'll need for Vol. 7.
That said, most of the time involved in producing such a magazine is required by the editing and copy-editing process, which takes some time. Still, we should be able to get volume 6 out before the end of the year.
Some remarks on the contents of this volume:
As always, parsing the distinction between "regular stories" and "continuing serials" probably falls somewhere in the category of secularized medieval scholasticism. Just to name one example, Karen Bergstralh's "Of Masters and Men" is essentially a sequel to her "One Man's Junk," published in the last volume. But since there is—yet, anyway—no indication that she's going to be continuing this story, I chose not to put it in the category of continuing sequels.
Yes, you can argue the point. The fact remains that I'm the editor of the magazine and if say the number of angels who can dance on the head of a pin is 15,468,622, then—here, at least—15,468,622 it is.
Ultimately, this is probably a hopeless battle on my part for Literary Clarity. Hopeless, because as time goes on, it's becoming clearer and clearer to me that the assessment I made of the Grantville Gazette in my preface to Volume 4 is indeed correct. The Gazette is, indubitably, that most lowly and despised of all literary sub-genres.
To wit, a soap opera.
Look, let's face it. In the 1632 novels, you get—more or less—The Big Picture featuring the Stars of the Story. In the 1632 anthologies, you get basically more of the same, simply with a narrower and tighter focus and (often but not always) featuring a worthy character actor who gets his or her day to strut on the stage.
What do you get in the Gazette? All the shenanigans of everybody else, that's what. The damn spear-carriers, run amok. Slice of life story piled onto family sagas—functional and dysfunctional alike—and all of it ladled over with a heavy scoop of personal melodrama.
I mean, honestly.
Who cares—just to name one example—if Karen Bergstralh's woebegone blacksmith gets around the oppression of the guild-masters and starts setting up his own successful business? Who cares—to name another example—if the pimply-faced American teenager in Jay Robinson's "Breaking News" wins the heart of the (hopefully not acne-ridden) teenage daughter of a downtime artist who is only remember by art connoisseurs?
(The mother, not the daughter—nobody except scholars remembers the daughter, for Pete's sake, until Jay dragged her out of historical obscurity.)
Shall I go on? Who cares if Velma Hardesty's daughters escape from the Horrible Mother's clutches, in Goodlett and Huff's "Susan Story"? Just to make it worse, from what I can tell about a dozen other writers seem to have become infatuated with Wicked Velma, and it looks like we'll be getting a small cottage industry cropping up of "Velma Gets Her Just Desserts" stories.
Sigh. Not one of these stories deals with Ye Big Picture. Not one of them fails to wallow in the petty details of Joe or Dieter or Helen or Ursula's angst-ridden existence.
Pure, unalloyed, soap opera, what it is.
Fortunately, before I start tearing my hair out over the Lit'rary Disgrace involved, my commercial instincts rally to the rescue. Because, while it is indeed true that soap opera gets no respect from the Illuminati, it's...
Well.
Wildly popular.
So, I brace myself. No, more. I find a peculiar sort of glee in contemplating the fact that a universe I originally created in order to explore some of the alternate possibilities for The Big Issues—democracy, religious tolerance, that stuff—has expanded to include a veritable spaghetti bowl of personal stories that have absolutely no function or purpose than to examine the multitude of ways in which the unwashed masses get about their lives under the changing circumstances.
It's a fitting full circle, I think. Let us not forget that, in the end, democracy is just a form of government—and the only purpose of government (legitimate one, anyway) is to enable the unwashed masses to get about their lives with a minimum of grief and anxiety. That way they can invent, discover, explore and wallow in their own hassles, instead of being saddled with somebody else's.
So, again, we venture into the 1632 soap opera. Hankies can be found on the coffee table, I believe. Yes, I know the guys won't need them. Shirt-sleeves will always do, in a pinch.
Eric Flint
August, 2005
STORIES
Breaking News
By Jay Robison
Rome, Italy, August, 1632
An apprentice escorted Artemisia Gentileschi into the stifling studio. She was expected.
"Maestra Gentileschi, my dear, how pleasant to see you!" Gian Lorenzo Bernini stood in the middle of his studio. The young sculptor's handsomeness was barely diminished by a layer of rock dust. Apprentices and journeymen worked busily on busts and other statuary.
"It is good to see you, Cavaliere," Artemisia Gentileschi said.
"Enough of this 'cavaliere' nonsense, Artemisia. We've known each other too long for such formalities."
"And we've known each other too long for me to believe you didn't know I was in Rome, Gian Lorenzo."
Bernini laughed. "You always did have the measure of me. You are correct of course; I knew of your arrival almost instantly. Come, let's sit on the balcony and talk. It will be more pleasant there."
Bernini motioned to the apprentice who'd shown Artemisia into the studio. "You! Bring wine for Maestra Gentileschi and myself." The young man scrambled to obey.
The two artists spent some time catching up. Gian Lorenzo Bernini was far more adept at making enemies than friends, but Artemisia Gentileschi was a friend. Though Bernini painted a little, it was working the stone that he loved, and Artemisia supposed that the main reason they got along was because the sculptor didn't view her as a rival for commissions. They were also both second-generation artists, a relative rarity. When small talk and nostalgia had run its course, Bernini decided to get to the heart of the matter.
"What is it that brings you to me, Artemisia? Surely not merely to pass an afternoon in conversation, pleasant though that may be."
Artemisia sipped her wine before answering. "I have come to seek your assistance in a matter, Gian Lorenzo."
"Is it money? I keep telling you that miser Philip doesn't pay you what you're worth."
"Money isn't everything," said Artemisia. This was an old argument between them. "There is no small amount of prestige to be had painting for His Most Christian Majesty. And he's not nearly so jealous a patron as His Holiness."
"Jealous Pope Urban may be, but he is generous. Extremely generous. If it is not money, then, what is it you need? And what m
akes you think I can help you and King Philip cannot?"
"You have heard of this new town in the Germanies? Grantville, I believe it is called."
"It is called Grantville," Bernini confirmed. "And it has been the subject of much talk in the papal court. Mostly rumors, and wild ones at that. Its inhabitants are proving most puzzling. They are allied with the Swede, yet by all accounts, there is a Catholic church in Grantville that flourishes alongside Protestant churches and even a synagogue. Its leaders have made no attempt to suppress the Church and even seem to tolerate the open presence of the Jesuits."
"The father-general must be pleased," Artemisia said. "However, it confirms what I have heard, that Grantville is a place of freedom and possibilities."
"You seek to go there?"
"No. I want to send Prudentia there. Facts about Grantville are hard to come by, but it seems that women are not barred from advancement merely because they are women. It will be good for her development as a painter and as a person."
"This, from the only female member of the Florentine Academy of Design?" Bernini's feigned shock was intentionally theatrical.
Artemisia was not in a joking mood, not about this. "You know as well as I what I've had to go through. And you also know that Rome is a snake pit for an artist."
"True enough," said Bernini in a more serious tone. The sculptor didn't even try to deny Artemisia's statement. How could he deny it when he was the snake pit's most poisonous viper?
"I believe I can do as you ask. In fact, there is a most suitable traveling companion for young Prudentia with plans to depart for Grantville very soon."
"Thank you, Gian Lorenzo. I am in your debt."
"Yes, you are. And don't think I will let you forget it."
Grantville, October 7, 1633
James Byron "Jabe" McDougal was having a hard time concentrating on this week's selection for the Grantville "Dinner and a Movie" club. It wasn't because of the selection. Doctor Strangelove was one of his favorites. No, it was Prudentia Gentileschi that was the distraction. From Jabe's point of view, practically everything about the fifteen-year-old shrieked: "out of your league!" She was beautiful—Jabe thought she was, anyway—she was smart, she was funny . . .
She was even famous. At least, her mother was famous, if you knew anything about art. Artemisia Gentileschi painted for cardinals, dukes, even kings.
Tonight's meeting was at Stephanie Turski's house. The group had grown out of an informal advisory committee brought together by Janice Ambler when Janice found herself programming director of the one and only working television station in the seventeenth century. The group still served an advisory function, but had evolved. As Janice firmed up programming hours and policies of the station—it had been christened WVOA-TV and the name had stuck—Dinner and a Movie became more of a group to watch and discuss films that didn't have broad enough appeal to merit a showing on WVOA.
Membership was fluid but there was a steady core of regulars in addition to Janice and Stephanie: Amber Higham, Eric Hudson, Ev Beasley, and Lorelei Rawls were all film buffs, and Father Mazzare and Reverend Jones came when they had the time. Balthazar Abrabanel, fascinated by the medium, also came when his health permitted and his medical duties didn't interfere; and Prudentia Gentileschi. Prudentia had been schooled in painting since she was old enough to hold a brush, and if her mother knew how well Prudentia could hold forth on the use of light and shadow in composing film shots, Artemisia would have been proud indeed. Her perspectives on this uniquely up-time art form were always surprising.
The discussion of Dr. Strangelove was winding down when the phone rang. Stephanie answered and handed the phone to Jabe. It was the duty officer at the barracks. Jabe was ordered to return as quickly as his feet could get him there.
"Sorry, everybody," Jabe said. "I need to go."
"I need to go as well," said Prudentia, in her heavily accented English. "Signor Nobili does not like me to be out late."
"I'll take you there," said Jabe. "You shouldn't walk alone."
Prudentia's responding smile had an undertone that embarrassed Jabe a little. Mostly because he was quite sure she wasn't fooled at all. In point of fact, Grantville's streets were quite safe, even at night—and Prudentia knew it just as well as he did.
However . . . She didn't seem to mind.
Prudentia's arrival in Grantville had been overshadowed, first by Mazarini's visit and then by the Croat raid and its aftermath. Artemisia Gentileschi wasn't a household name in a town like Grantville, certainly, but Father Mazzare had known who she was. So had Balthazar Abrabanel. He had recalled some rumors that Prudentia's grandfather Orazio had relocated to England from his native Rome, but if that was true Balthazar had never crossed paths with the man.
Before long, Prudentia Gentileschi was a minor celebrity—much to her embarrassment. Living arrangements were soon made, with Tino Nobili agreeing to provide lodging. Though Artemisia had wanted her daughter to be educated in Grantville, it was soon determined she already had an education which surpassed almost all Grantville's down-time citizens, and more than a few up-timers as well. In the end, Prudentia became a part-time student, mostly taking courses she chose for herself, and assisted the art and art history teachers in Grantville. In return for the latter, she was given a modest stipend to supplement the money her mother had sent with her.
Jabe and Prudentia spent most of the walk to the Nobili home in awkward silence, or even more awkward small talk. Jabe knew he was caught in the painful limbo between friendship and romance. The worst of that limbo, of course, being the fact that he had no idea if Prudentia felt the same way—and had no better idea how he might try to find out.
Even with an up-time girl, Jabe would have been too shy to try for a goodnight kiss, unless the girl was practically waving flags at him. With a down-timer like Prudentia, he didn't have a clue how he'd recognize a waving flag even if he saw one.
At the Nobilis' door, they bid each other good night. Jabe spent the walk to the barracks alternately cursing himself for blowing his chance with Prudentia—if there'd been one at all—and wondering what was going on.
* * *
At the barracks, Jabe had to fight his way through a gaggle of reporters surrounding Captain Henderson Coonce. Coonce looked more than a little resentful and Jabe didn't suppose he could blame him. The captain was in charge of basic training. No one had said anything to him about being a press liaison as well.
Normally Frank Jackson would be doing this, but Frank was in Magdeburg. The army had no officers above the rank of captain currently stationed in Grantville. That meant Henderson Coonce was the ranking army officer in town. That meant he had to deal with the press. Rank may have its privileges, but at the moment Captain Coonce was obviously thinking only of its curses.
"I'll tell you one last time," Coonce growled. "You'll have a brief statement after I tell my men what's going on. Anyone doesn't like that can leave right now, before you get an MP escort. And I ain't answering questions after the statement. We'll have more for you, soon as we get it."
Coonce meant to be intimidating and it mostly worked. It did not, however, work on Joe Buckley, who had the well-deserved reputation of being the most aggressive—some would say obnoxious—reporter in Grantville.
"Don't you think the public has a right to the news, Captain?"
Coonce looked like he wanted to use Buckley's guts for garters. "You think you're more important than the families, Buckley? They get told first."
Buckley, for a wonder, gave up pressing for answers. After the reporters started leaving, Jabe walked up to Coonce and came to attention.
"Took you long enough, Private," Coonce grumbled.
"Sir. I had to escort Miss Gentileschi back to the Nobilis' house, sir." Jabe stared straight ahead, still at ramrod attention. Someone other than Jabe could have seen the girl home, of course, if it had to be done at all, which it didn't. Fortunately, Coonce didn't pursue the matter.
"At ease, Priv
ate McDougal. You're not too late."
They went inside and Jabe found a seat in back with the other enlisted personnel. Officers and noncoms sat up front.
"This is gonna be short and sweet, people," Captain Coonce said. "Earlier today, the Danes tried to take Wismar. We turned 'em back and they took heavy losses. They cut and ran."
He let the cheers die down, then continued: "We took our own casualties, however. I can't tell you who yet, and that comes straight from the top. Things are dicey right now, but General Jackson will be flown back to Grantville, hopefully in the next couple of days. I imagine we'll all know more then. Dismissed."
With that, Henderson Coonce strode out to face the press once again. From what Jabe could catch from his muttered grumbles, the captain was expressing severe reservations concerning the wisdom of the Founding Fathers when it came to the much-overrated value of freedom of the press.
