Ring of fire II (assiti shards)

by Eric Flint

  Knefler glared down at him. "You will have to answer for your actions. Prove your innocence."

  The boatman's sneer was magnificent. "To the contrary, Your Mightyship. This is Thuringia-Franconia, or have you forgotten? You have to demonstrate my guilt, not the other way around."

  Knefler was so angry he started waving his arms. "Even the silly fucking Americ-ah, the up-timers-accept such a thing as circumstantial evidence."

  "Fine. There is the circumstantial evidence that we were hired to take rafts down the river to Halle to pick up a consignment of goods for early delivery to Magdeburg. Said deed being committed in Gerhard Pfrommer's tavern on the waterfront in Jena, by an man unknown to anyone there who approached Gerhard asking for reliable boatmen and was pointed to us at a nearby table."

  The sneer didn't waver once. "Said table, I might add, being right in the middle of the tavern-crowded, it was, that time of evening-so that any number of people heard the whole thing. He paid for the rafts, in addition to our labor. Bought them from Rudi Schaefer, also at the tavern, in a discussion also overheard by plenty of people. Good rates for the rafts and good pay for us, too, with a bonus for an early departure."

  He took his right hand from his hip and gestured at the rafts. "So, we did. Why in the world would we refuse? I could show you the money. Still have almost all of it."

  He made no movement to do so, of course. Even in Thuringia-Franconia, no sensible workman would gratuitously show money to an officer.

  Stymied, Knefler went back to glaring at the rafts. "Describe the man who hired you," he commanded.

  "Again?" The boatman's squint now verged on sheer melodrama. "Perhaps you should add more rosemary to your diet. It's good for the memory, they say."

  "Describe the man again!" screeched Knefler.

  Shrugging, the boatman did so. The description was identical to the one he'd given when he first came ashore. A handsome man, a bit taller than average, broad-shouldered, appeared to be well-built. Wasn't armed with a sword but carried himself like a nobleman. Long dark hair, dark brown eyes, a complexion that was not quite dark enough to be called swarthy but came close. Olive, you might call it. Maybe he was an Italian.

  He wore fancy apparel, the most noticeable of which items were a red coat, expensive boots, and a feathered cap. The feathers were very large. You couldn't miss the fellow in a snowstorm. He spoke German-old-style, not Amideutsch-with something of an accent, at least to the boatman's ear. No, he had no idea what accent it was. There were dozens of German dialects, even among native speakers of the tongue. How was he to know? The man paid in good silver, which was a lingua franca accepted anywhere.

  Finally, Knefler released the boatmen. He gave up trying to force them to return to Jena when their leader pointed out that he would then be taking responsibility for reimbursing Rudi Schaefer for the price the rafts would bring in Magdeburg. That being, of course, standard business practice for the disposal of rafts, and well-established in law.

  So, off the boatmen went, as cheery as could be. And why not? They'd been well paid to do nothing more strenuous than guide empty rafts following the current downriver. As work went, about as easy as it gets.

  After they pushed off, Knefler snarled to Reimers: "First thing I'll do when we get back is teach that little whore a lesson. She'll learn the price for cursing an officer."

  One of the soldiers cleared his throat. "Ah… Captain. I don't think-"

  "Silence, Corporal Maurer!" bellowed the sergeant. "The captain gave you no leave to speak."

  Maurer was suitably abashed, and shut up. Knefler sniffed at him and went for his horse.

  About an hour later, on the ride back to Jena, Maurer drew his horse alongside Reimers. "Sergeant, you know who that girl was?" he asked quietly, after looking ahead to see that Captain Knefler was too far away to hear them.

  Reimers smiled. "Denise Beasley. The daughter of Buster Beasley."

  The poor fellow seemed confused. "But… if you knew that… remember the time…"

  "This is why you are a mere corporal and I am a lofty sergeant," said Reimers. He nodded toward the captain in front of the little column. "Do you want the shithead for a garrison commander?"

  The expression on Corporal Maurer's face was answer enough.

  Reimers' ensuing chuckle had very little humor in it. "Sadly, the current fuck-up is probably not enough to get him discharged. But we can hope that his temper is still high when we get back to Grantville, so the idiot goes to chastise the daughter and discovers the father in the way. If we're lucky, we might even get to watch what happens."

  It took Maurer a few seconds-he was pretty dull-witted himself, truth be told-but then he started smiling.

  "Oh."

  Kelly Aviation Facility

  Near Grantville, State of Thuringia-Franconia

  The take-off wasn't too bad, actually. Lannie would have been in the air force except Jesse Wood didn't want any part of his drinking habits. But he did know how to fly, as such.

  Denise suspected that "as such" probably didn't cover all that a pilot needed. But it was a done deal now, so there was no point fretting over it.

  "That way," she said, pointing. "It's called 'southeast.' "

  "You don't gotta be so sarcastic."

  Fortunately, she'd thought to make sure they had a map before they took off. Lannie and Keenan, naturally, hadn't thought of that. Apparently, they thought Denise could navigate by feminine instinct or something-which was a laugh, since feminine instinct when it came to directions was just to ask somebody, and who was she going to ask up here? A fucking bird?

  The map was on the grimy side, like most things in Kelly Aviation. At that, it was better than the seat she was sitting on.

  Printed across the top of the map, the ink a little smeared, was a notice that read: Property of Kelly Aviation. Unauthorized Use Will Be Prosecuted.

  "How'd you talk Bob into letting you use the plane whenever you wanted?"

  "Well," said Lannie.

  Behind her, Keenan cleared his throat. "It's an emergency, you know."

  "Oh, perfect," said Denise. "The first recorded instance since the Ring of Fire of plane-stealing. I betcha that's a hanging offense."

  Lannie looked smug. "Nope. I checked once. Seems nobody's ever thought to getting around to making it a crime yet."

  "See, Denise?" added Keenan. "Nothing to worry about."

  They even seemed to believe their own bullshit. Amazing. Did the jack-offs really think that somewhere in the books there wasn't a provision for prosecuting Grand Theft, Whatever We Overlooked?

  But…

  This was kinda fun, actually. Except for having to help Keenan attach the two bombs underneath. The bombs weren't all that big, just fifty-pounders, but they were still a little scary. What had been even scarier was watching Keenan do it. He belonged to the what-the-hell-it's-close-enough school of craftsmanship. Fine for chopping onions; probably a losing proposition over the long haul for munitions-handling.

  Still and all, it was done. Denise couldn't remember a time she'd ever worried about water under a bridge. Now that she'd almost reached the ripe age of sixteen-her birthday was coming up on December 11-she was pleased to see no signs of advancing decrepitude.

  Chapter 8. The Cuirass

  Near the Fichtelgebirge, on the edge of the Saale valley

  Janos Drugeth was trying to keep his temper under control. Despite his demands-he'd stopped just short of threatening his charges with violence-the up-timers had wasted so much time arguing over which items could be left behind that there had been no way to resume the journey until the next morning. And then, the idiots had wasted half the morning continuing the quarrel before they finally had the two intact wagons reloaded.

  But, at least they were on the move again. Luckily, the USE garrison at Hof seemed to be sluggish even by the standards of small town garrisons. There'd been no sign at all that they were searching the countryside. They'd be a small unit, anyway, not more than
half a dozen men with a sergeant in command. Perhaps just a corporal. As was the rule with sleepy garrisons in a region not threatened directly by war, they were mostly a police force and would spend half their time lounging in taverns by day and conducting desultory patrols of the town in the evening. The only time they'd venture into the countryside would be in response to a specific complaint or request.

  It was even possible that they didn't have a radio. The up-time communication devices were spreading widely, at least in Thuringia-Franconia, but from what Janos understood of their operation-"reception" seemed to be the key issue-the sort of simple radios the Hof garrison would most likely possess might not be able to get messages sent across the Thueringerwald. Not reliably, at least.

  So, hopefully, the delay would not cause any problems.

  At the edge of the forest, on a small rise, he paused to let the wagons go by. Then, drawing out an eyeglass, scanned the area behind them.

  Nothing, so far as he could tell.

  He was about to put the eyeglass away when his lingering animosity caused him to bring it back up and study the wagon they'd left behind, the way a man might foolishly scratch an itch, knowing he'd do better to leave it alone. It was still quite visible, being less than half a mile distant.

  The only good thing was that at least they'd left the road by then and been making their way across a large meadow toward the forest when the wagon axle broke. Janos had ridden back to the road while the up-timers squabbled to see if the wagon was visible from there. The terrain was flat, but there was enough in the way of trees and shrubbery and tall grass to hide it from the sight of anyone just passing along the road-at least, to anyone on foot the way most travelers on that small country road would be. Someone on horseback would be able to spot it, if they were scanning the area.

  Other than that…

  What a mess. He'd tried to get the up-timers to repack the wagon with the goods they were leaving behind, so that if someone should happen to come across it they might assume the owners had just gone off to get assistance. If so, they'd either go about their business or-better still-they'd plunder the unguarded wagon. In the latter eventuality, of course, they'd hardly bring the attention of the authorities to their own thievery.

  But, no. Careless in this as in seemingly all things, the up-timers had simply strewn the goods about. Anyone who came across it now would assume that foul play had transpired.

  Nothing for it, though. Sighing, he started to put the eyeglass away. Then, catching a glimpse of motion in the corner of his eye, looked back again.

  Two horsemen were approaching the wagon. Not locals, either, since each of them was leading a pack horse.

  He brought the glass back up. But even before he looked through it, he could see the flashing gleams coming from one of the riders. That had to be armor, reflecting the sun.

  "What the hell are you doing?" asked Noelle.

  Eddie shook his head and finished untying the cuirass from his pack horse. "You said it yourself, remember? 'That's got to be them!' Very excited, you were."

  He started putting on the cuirass. "Do us both a favor and hand me the helmet."

  When she just kept staring at him, Eddie looked up at her. "Think, Noelle. These are 'villains,' remember? Not likely to surrender simply because we yell 'stop, thief!' "

  She stared back in the direction they'd spotted the wagon. Then, put her hand on the pistol holstered to her hip. "I thought…"

  "Have to do everything myself," Eddie grumbled. Now that he'd gotten on the cuirass, he took the helmet from the pack. "I remind you of two things. First, you can't shoot straight. Second, while I can-"

  He finished strapping the helmet on and started clambering back onto his horse. An awkward business, that was, wearing the damn cuirass. Eddie was trained in the use of arms and armor, but only to the extent that the son of a wealthy merchant would be. He was no experienced cavalryman.

  "While I can," he continued, now drawing the rifle from its saddle holster, "you will perhaps recall that due to Carol Unruh's penny-pinching, the only up-time weapon I was allotted was this pitiful thing."

  Noelle studied the rifle. "It's a perfectly good Winchester lever action rifle." A bit righteously: "Model 94. They say it's a classic."

  "A 'classic,' indeed." Eddie chuckled. "The gun was manufactured almost half a century before the Ring of Fire. Still, I'll allow that it's a sturdy weapon. But it's only a.30-30, it has no more than six cartridges in the magazine, and while-unlike you-I can hit something at a respectable range, I'm hardly what you'd call a Wild Bill Hitchcock."

  "Hickok," she corrected. "Hitchcock was the guy who made the movies." She looked back in the direction of the wagon. There still didn't seem to be anyone moving about, over there. "You really think…"

  He shrugged, planting the butt of the rifle on his hip and taking up the reins. "I have no idea how they will react. What I do know is that if they see a man in armor demanding that they cease and desist all nefarious activity, they are perhaps a bit more likely to do so. I'd just as soon avoid another gunfight at the Okie Corral, if we can.

  " 'OK,' she corrected. 'Okies' are sorta like hillbillies."

  "And will you desist the language lesson?" he grumbled. "Now. Shall we about be it?"

  Noelle hesitated, for a moment. She considered riding back to Hof and trying-

  No, that was pointless. When they'd arrived in Hof early this morning, the garrison had still been asleep. Sleeping off a hangover, to be precise. All except the corporal in charge, who'd still been drinking. They'd be as useless as tits on a bull for hours, yet-and the traitors were almost into the Fichtelgebirge. Noelle was pretty sure there was no way she and Eddie would be able to get the garrison to go into the forest. That meant trying to get help from the soldiers at Saalfeld, and that was at least thirty miles away. By the time they got there, convinced the garrison commander to muster his unit, and got back, at least two days would have passed. More likely three, unless the garrison commander at Saalfeld was a lot more energetic and efficient than most such.

  Two days, maybe three. Given that much lead time, it was unlikely they'd ever find the defectors. The Fichtelgebirge and the Bohemian Forest it was part of wasn't a tall range of mountains, but it was heavily wooded. Mostly evergreens, too, so they wouldn't get any advantage from the trees having shed their leaves. Assuming the man in charge, whoever he was, knew what he was doing-and there was no evidence so far that he didn't-he'd almost certainly be able to shake off their pursuit. There was enough commercial and personal traffic back and forth across the forest between Bohemia and Franconia that there would be a network of small roads-well, more like trails, really, but well-handled wagons could make their way through them. After the passage of two or three days, especially if the weather turned bad, it was unlikely they could figure out which specific route the defectors had taken.

  "It's now or never, I guess." She started her horse into the meadow. "I'll do the talking. You just look fierce and militaristic and really mean and not too smart. The kind of guy who shoots first and lets God sort out the bodies, and doesn't much care if He gets it right or not."

  "There!" hollered Denise, pointing across Lannie's chest out of the window on his side of the plane. "It's them!"

  He looked over and spotted the wagon immediately. "Yup. Gotta be. Keenan, you get ready to unload when I tell you."

  "Both bombs?"

  "Better save one in case we miss the first time."

  Denise wondered if they actually had the legal right to bomb somebody, without even giving them a warning. No way to shout "stop, thief!" of course, from an airplane doing better than a hundred miles an hour.

  "Why don't we just call in their position on the radio?" she asked. "That way… you know. We could ask somebody up top how they want us to handle it."

  "Well," said Lannie.

  Behind her, Keenan cleared his throat. "The radio don't exactly work. Bob took some of the parts out of it so's we could-"


  "Never mind," she said, exasperated more with herself than anyone else. She should have known better than to get into the plane without double-checking that all the details were up to snuff.

  She'd once hitched a ride with Keenan Murphy into Fairmont, just a few weeks before the Ring of Fire. First, the tire had gone flat. Then, after borrowing a jack from a helpful driver passing by, which Keenan needed to borrow because he'd somehow or other lost his own jack, he discovered the spare was flat. Then, after the still-helpful passerby drove him to a nearby gas station where he could get the tire fixed, they'd continued the drive to Fairmont until he ran out of gas. Turned out the fuel gauge didn't work and Keenan had lost track of the last time he'd filled up the tank. She'd wound up walking the last three miles into town.

  As for Lannie-

  But there was no point in sour ruminations. Besides, what the hell. She had expansive opinions on the subject of "citizen's arrest." Why should the lousy cops get special privileges? If she'd heard her dad say it once, she'd heard him say it a million times.

  "Now," commanded Janos. While Gage and Gardiner got off the wagons and untied their horses, he looked down from the saddle at the up-timers gawking up at him.

  "Wait here," he said curtly.

  "I got a gun!" protested Jay Barlow. As if that needed to be proven, he drew it from the holster at his hip. "Way better than that ancient piece of shit you're carrying, too."

  Janos looked at the weapon Barlow was brandishing. It was what the up-timers referred to as a "six-shooter," a type of revolver, which the man had drawn from one of those holsters Janos had seen in the so-called "western movies." The ones slung low, for the "quick draw," tied down to the thigh.

  Naturally, it was pearl-handled.

  With his soldier's interest in weaponry, Janos had made inquiries during his weeks in Grantville. The man named Paul Santee had been particularly helpful on the subject of up-time firearms. On one occasion, when Janos had asked about "six-shooters," Santee had explained the careful distinctions to be made between serious revolvers and the sort of "Wild West bullshit pieces" that some of the town's more histrionic characters favored.