Grantville Gazette, Volume I

by Eric Flint

  "Listen to this." Filaret picked up the sheets of paper. "I'll be reading it at the services next Sunday. I'll have copies printed. A lot of fair copies."

  Filaret read:

  Patriarch Filaret's Advisory

  on the

  Ring of Fire

  It is clear through multiple sources that God, in his infinite wisdom, has chosen to take a hand in the conflict among the German States. He provides through this example clear evidence of both His infinite power and His will, that the Roman Church and the Protestants, whether Lutheran, Calvinist, or other peculiar sects, are wrong. God has endeavored to make clear to them that which of their errors is most wrong is not a matter worth fighting over.

  That is clearly God's message to them. But what is God's message to us? It is obvious that we are not in need of the sort of correction the German States required, else surely God would have placed the Ring of Fire here in Muscovy. While His admonishment, gentle as it is, is for the Germans, the gifts which He sent with it are clearly for all the world. Willingly or not, the knowledge the up-timers bring is spreading to all the world. To their credit, the up-timers themselves seem willing enough to share most of the knowledge that God gifted their ancestors and our descendants with. This is an especially gracious gift to Holy Rus. For, while we have been strong in our adherence to scripture and the true faith, circumstances have left us behind the more western nations in some of the more mundane and earthly matters. We have been blocked by Poland from sharing in the technical advances made in the west.

  The czar, in his wisdom, has long had a policy of trying to correct that problem so that we, the true heirs of Christianity and the Roman empire, could maintain the faith in relative safety, while at the same time limiting the corrupting influences from the west. God has smiled on Czar Mikhail's endeavor by providing new skills developed over time; many of them developed right here in Holy Rus. Yet like greedy children we complain "Why an American village? Why not a Russian village?" We know, after all, that in the twentieth-century Holy Rus was one of the two great powers. After studying the history, it is obvious that God chose an American village to protect Holy Rus, especially the church. The Russia of that time had fallen into corruption. For most of the twentieth century the Russian Orthodox Church, in fact all Christianity, had actually been banned. It was to protect us from this corruption that God chose an American village.

  He placed it in Germany to remind us that He sees the whole world and cares about even those who have fallen away from the true church. More than that, He placed it in Germany to remind us that we have to work at it. To remind us not to be too proud to listen and learn from others and to protect us from too much of their direct influence, so that we might learn from them without becoming them. To protect our great Russian culture and still allow us the benefits of the good things they brought with them. As to the German culture, well, they don't really have one so it doesn't really matter.

  "Well?" Mikhail raised an eyebrow. "Is that really why God did it the way he did it?"

  Filaret looked at his son severely for a moment. Then shrugged. "I have no idea."

  "Not exactly what one wants to hear from the patriarch of the church." Mikhail's grin was full of mischief.

  "It wasn't my idea to become patriarch," Filaret complained. "It wasn't my idea to become a monk, for that matter. I'd much rather have been left out of Godonov's revenge."

  "Wouldn't we all?" Boris Godonov had done his level best to exterminate the Romanov family. He hadn't been that far from succeeding, either.

  Filaret shook his head. "God remains mysterious and beyond human understanding. He could have placed the Ring of Fire anywhere from anytime and the same questions would arise: why there, why not here?" Filaret shook his head again. "I'm not by nature a theologian. I have never much cared how many angels can dance on the head of a pin. But God chose to do this while I was patriarch, so I had to come up with something. It had to be something the people could mostly accept. Which was not that easy to do."

  "If it only helps us modernize," Mikhail murmured.

  "It should, I think. The idea is that God was correcting the Germans but giving the gift of knowledge to the whole world. Hopefully, it lets people feel that we aren't barbarians taking German scraps." Filaret grinned. "Besides, to go with it will be the design for the turning plow. A gracious gift from Czar Mikhail. Complete instructions on how to make them and the czar's permission to use them as needed—a gift to all the people."

  * * *

  Filaret read about the so called "Old Believers" in the up-timer histories and was disgusted. It would rip the church apart the way that idiot Nikon handled it. There were some arguments about minor matters of ceremony, true. Mostly among scholars—people who probably had too much time on their hands. He couldn't understand why anyone would fight over it. Nikon's scholars were probably technically correct, but it was a "how many angels can dance on the head of a pin" question. Who cared?

  "Have you read this, Ivan Fedorovich?" He motioned toward the book.

  "Yes, Patriarch."

  "Do you have any idea what they were fighting about?"

  "No, Patriarch."

  "Tell me about the small village churches." Filaret needed to know this. He had been in them and authorized them but they were from a different class. Ivan Fedorovich's class.

  "They are the centers of the villages." Ivan Fedorovich was a priest, a fairly new one. "The priest is chosen by the villagers and often helps them with writing letters and such. When villagers get together to celebrate or to mourn, to rejoice or complain, it is the village church where they gather."

  Filaret considered what Ivan Fedorovich was saying as he considered the article on Nikon from the Encyclopedia Britannica 1911. He seriously considered having the young man, who according to the article was twenty-seven years old and might or might not be in a monastery, murdered. "I don't understand. What do the peasants care about whether the priest uses two fingers or three when he blesses them?"

  Ivan Fedorovich snorted and Filaret looked at him with a raised eyebrow. "Won't make any difference." Ivan Fedorovich shook his head and fell unconsciously back into the accent of his peasant village. "Parish priests work for the villages; they're the ones that pay 'em. Whatever this Nikon says, they'll do it the way the villagers want."

  "Oh . . ." Filaret paused, struck by a thought. "That's why." The house-to-house searches mentioned in the article on Nikon. "He took away their priests. He must have. Had them appointed from outside, not hired by the villages." It was starting to fit together. "It wasn't about ritual. It was about control. He would have had the same fight if he had insisted they use two fingers instead of three. The leaders would have changed but not the fight."

  Ivan Fedorovich was nodding. "It must be. It's the one thing that really belongs to the peasants; their faith. The one thing that they control."

  "I'll have to think about this." Filaret thought a moment. "In the meantime, have this Nikon or Nikoles located. Just in case."

  * * *

  Anya watched the balloon with the multi-wicked candles suspended below it as lifted into the air. Pter Nickovich was doing "a preliminary experiment into the lifting power of hot air." In other words, he was playing. It was his third balloon so far; each larger than the last. This one was a tall as a man and as wide as it was tall. And it trailed a series of lead weights. Lifting first one then the next into the air below it. It lifted five of them, then stopped rising, proving that hot air is lighter than cold air. Which any five year old in any peasant village in Russia could have told him. The balloon was pretty enough, she guessed. Pter Nickovich's was holding his "experiment" in a corner behind the main building of the dacha where it would be out of the wind. Which also meant out of the sun. It might have been prettier if his balloon was in the sunlight.

  What had really brought her out into the cold to see it was the idea that, some day, a much bigger thing like this might let people fly. Pter Nickovich wasn't looking at the
balloon; he was writing out calculations. Then he looked over at Filip Pavlovich. "I was right. The heated air lifts a little more than a quarter of an ounce per cubic foot."

  Filip Pavlovich just nodded.

  "I must have the hydrogen you promised me." Pter Nickovich insisted.

  "Yes. Fine. We'll talk about it, but inside." Filip Pavlovich was visibly cold even in the heavy clothing. "Where it's warm."

  Anya smiled, though she didn't let it show. Pter Nickovich was not one to take being laughed at well. As they blew out the candles that were heating the air for the balloon, Anya tried to figure out what was going on at the Dacha. Bernie, the person that this was all about, had had very little to do with the development of the balloon. Nor with many of the experiments that were going on. There was a guy, the son of a fairly powerful bureaucratic noble, who was sitting in one of the buildings, winding wires in a coil. Slowly, carefully making what he said would be a generator of electric. He carefully painted the wire and laid one circuit around the coil, then waited for it to dry before he did the next. He was a volunteer, here because he wanted to be.

  * * *

  "What was it like to live in the future?" Anya asked as much for herself as for her controllers.

  "I don't know." Bernie shrugged. Anya had noticed he did that a lot. "Funny thing, I never thought much about the future when I was living in it." He snorted. "I was in no hurry to grow up. There was no real need. I had a pretty good job. Enough money for most of what I wanted. Never found the right girl, but had a lot of fun looking."

  Bernie paused a moment and his eyes got a distant look. "I think that was what hit me so hard about the Ring of Fire. It wasn't that I lost family. I lost my future."

  "Your future?" Anya leaned back in her chair and considered. "I don't understand."

  "Yep." Bernie nodded. "Losing your future isn't like losing your kids or your wife or stuff like that. You feel like a jerk complaining about it, but I couldn't help it. Like everyone else, I was in shock at first. I just couldn't come out of it. People started doing things. Things that mattered. President Stearns, Jeff Higgins . . . everyone was making it work and I was still sitting around doing what I was told. The same old Bernie. No direction, no drive."

  Anya let Bernie talk.

  "I just couldn't think of anything useful to do. Then Vlad and Boris offered me this job. I had no idea if I could do it, but I couldn't take much more of Grantville. It wasn't home anymore, but it was too much like home." Bernie looked at Anya blearily. "Know what I mean?"

  Anya had no idea but she nodded anyway.

  "I think the trip out was the first time I had been sober for three days running since the Ring of Fire." Bernie certainly wasn't sober at the moment, but she got his point anyway. Bernie preferred beer to vodka and the truth was had rarely been drunk since he had arrived at the Dacha. He barely drank at all by Russian standards, which were the only standards Anya had.

  Anya thought about what Bernie had said. It sounded like he had had his life all planned out but just didn't realize it. She hadn't considered what it would be like for the outlanders from the future. She wondered briefly what it would be like to be sent four hundred years into the past. Briefly, because she had no real idea what the world had been like four hundred years ago.

  "And now?" She wanted to keep the outlander talking.

  "Now, I'm too busy to worry about it that much." Bernie grinned. "Too much to do. The Nerd Patrol is always hitting me with new questions and I spend so much time reading and helping out that there isn't that much time to mope anymore. That's the secret to a happy life, kid. Have something to do. Better something that matters. But something."

  Anya didn't dispute that, but she didn't believe it either. To Anya happiness was not having people tell her what to do. Maybe being able to tell others what to do. It was the unattainable, being boss, not servant. Russian village life was noble life writ small. There were differences but clan was very important. The status of your family within the village was all important.

  Grantville

  "Well, the problem is that it's not like we could repossess it." Dori Ann Grooms hesitated a moment and Vladimir saw the blush rise. "I'm sorry. That really wasn't the best way to put it, Herr Yaroslavich. What I mean was that your collateral is simply too far away for the Bank of Grantville to accept it as surety for a loan. It's not like it was in the old . . . ah, new . . . back up-time. We couldn't send a lawyer to dispossess anyone who was living in this village, could we?"

  Vladimir nodded. He'd thought that might be the answer, but it had been worth a try. He needed more money, cash on hand. Most of his family's wealth was tied up in land. Much of the rest was tied up in the Dacha research center. "Do you have any suggestions, then?"

  Dori Ann shook her head. "Edgar said you might have better luck with the Abrabanel Bank. Seems like they've got agents everywhere."

  * * *

  Cousin Rafael's secretary ushered the Russian prince into the office, close the door and left, while Don Francisco Nasi sat in a corner and grinned.

  "Ah . . ." Vladimir was clearly unprepared to discover that Don Francisco would be sitting in on his conference with the distant cousin who headed their bank in Grantville.

  Don Francisco waved him down. "I'm not here to interfere in your business with Cousin Rafael, Prince Vladimir." He smiled at the look on Vlad's face. "Yes, I am quite aware what knaiz means."

  "Then you do understand that I will not . . ."

  "Betray your people? Please. Do I look like a fool?" Francisco waved away the whole idea. "All that is going on here is that when I learned of your appointment with Rafael, I decided to take the opportunity for a semi-private meeting. But I am more then willing to wait my turn. Please go on with your banking."

  Then for a while Francisco mostly watched as Vladimir and Rafael discussed banking matters. Oh, he put in a comment here and there. "Vladimir's Dacha has already produced half a dozen products that are being licensed to various groups in Muscovy. Are you sure, cousin, that speculative venture is the right description?" Which got Francisco a dirty look from his cousin. And a curious one from Vladimir.

  Then some time later. "Paper rubles with the printing in the hands of the Duma. No disrespect intended, Vladimir, but the czar's cabinet isn't exactly known for its restraint."

  "A lot if that was simply not being aware of the consequences. Printing gobs of money would not benefit the great houses."

  "If they realize that and if they care." Rafael said. "Printing gobs of money as you put it may not be good for the economy but in the short run it can be very good for the printers. Even if they show restraint, determining the amount of money needed to run the economy with out causing hyper-inflation is no easy task. Not even with computers. I can't avoid the conclusion that accepting payment in the czar's paper would be a speculative investment. I really have to insist on New US Dollars."

  So it went for about two hours. Francisco mostly watched the exchange, and kept Rafael from skinning the Russian prince too badly. Vladimir wasn't as good at this as he apparently thought he was. But, finally, agreement was reached and Vladimir was provided with a letter of credit.

  At which point, by prior arrangement, Rafael excused himself and it was Francisco's turn. "The reason I invited myself to your meeting was that I wanted talk to you about where you think the CPE and Russia are headed."

  At first Vladimir demurred, pointing out that mostly his mission had to do with information that was mostly free for the asking, from the National Library and the Research Center.

  Nasi grinned. "That is true enough, but incomplete. Yes, your shop is getting most of its information from the research center, but you are also involved in what the up-timers call 'industrial espionage.' For instance, the sewing machine that went to Moscow with Bernie Zeppi was accompanied by rather copious notes on how it was made and what machines would be needed to make more."

  Vladimir smiled. "The twins were more than happy to explain how it was done
. It isn't like I broke into their factory in the middle of the night and stole the designs."

  "And Fedor Ivanovich Trotsky, whose last name has such unfortunate connotations? Is he also staying within the bounds of law?" Nasi laughed at Vladimir's expression. Trading Boris for Fedor Ivanovich had not been a good deal. "Never mind. He is not very good and we aren't that worried about him. The largest danger he represents is that he will report rumor as fact. But please consider my offer. There are things I won't tell you, but I won't lie to you unless absolutely necessary. All I ask from you is the same courtesy."

  * * *

  "Vlad." Brandy waved the letter. "What precisely is a clan?"

  "Huh?"

  "Your sister is talking about clans. I'm not sure what she means." She handed him the letter and waited impatiently as he read it.

  "Clan seems a fairly good word." He pursed his lips like he wasn't quite sure. "I think I would say family connections, but I am not sure. From what I understand your government frowns on what you call nepotism, right?"

  Brandy nodded, wondering where this was going.

  "Muscovy is different. Nepotism is an institution of government."

  Brandy giggled, thinking he must be exaggerating to make his point. But Vlad was looking serious, even concerned. "You don't mean literally?"

  Vlad nodded, looking a little shamefaced. "Yes. If a person whose extended family is of lower rank is placed over a person whose family is more highly ranked . . ." Vladimir hesitated. Brandy had seen it before, both in Vlad and other down-timers. She had even done it herself, trying to explain things like the Goth style of dress. It wasn't just that the concept was missing, it was that there were half a dozen interrelated concepts that were all a bit different from the down-time concept.

  "A person's rank in Muscovy is determined by three things," Vlad finally continued. "His personal rank in the bureaucracy, his family's rank and his inherited rank. However, they are all at least somewhat mixed together. My family is small but descended from independent princes. Because it is small and doesn't have a lot of connections to other great families, it's fairly weak. In my case, that is somewhat counter-balanced by the fact that I am the prince. But a cousin of mine, if I had one, would be of significantly lower rank than a cousin of Ivan Borisovich Cherkasskii, because the Cherkasskii family has connections by marriage to many other great families. Also, because the Cherkasskii family has served in the government of Muscovy for many generations and counts several boyars among it ancestors.