Grantville Gazette-Volume XIV

  Grantville Gazette, Volume 14,

  November 2007

  by Grantville Gazette Staff

  This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this magazine are fictional, and any resemblance to real people or incidents is purely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2007 by Grantville Gazette

  A 1632, Inc. Publication

  Grantville Gazette

  P. O. Box 7488

  Moore, OK 73153-1488

  "The Anaconda Project, Episode Three" Copyright © 2007 by Eric Flint

  "Bats in the Belfry" Copyright © 2007 by Garrett Vance

  "School Days, School Days, Dear Old Golden Rule Days" Copyright © 2007 by Terry Howard

  "Songs and Ballads" Copyright © 2007 by Virginia DeMarce

  "Stepping Up" Copyright © 2007 by Jack Carroll

  "Stretching Out, Episode Three, Maria's Mission" Copyright © 2007 by Iver P. Cooper

  "Cinco de Mayo . . . er, Der Fünfte Mai" Copyright © 2007 by Edith Wild

  "The New Romantics" Copyright © 2007 by Kerryn Offord

  "Joseph Hanauer, Part Three: All Creatures Stand in Judgement" Copyright © 2007 by Douglas Jones

  "Mrs. Schumacher" Copyright © 2007 by Gorg Huff and Paula Goodlett

  "Gearing Up" Copyright © 2007 by Sean Massey

  "Jenny and the King's Men" Copyright © 2007 by Mark Huston

  "Radio Killed the Video Star: Mass Communication Development in the 1632 Universe" Copyright © 2007 by Jay Robison

  "Metallic Fusion: Putting it Together in 1632" Copyright © 2007 by Kevin H. Evans

  "Second Hand Help" Copyright © 2007 by Vincent W. Coljee

  "Sounding and Sextants, Part One, Navigational Instruments Old and New" Copyright © 2007 by Iver P. Cooper

  What is this? About the Grantville Gazette

  Written by Grantville Gazette Staff

  The Grantville Gazette originated as a by-product of the ongoing and very active discussions which take place concerning the 1632 universe Eric Flint created in the novels 1632, 1633 and 1634: The Galileo Affair (the latter two books co-authored by David Weber and Andrew Dennis, respectively). This discussion is centered in three of the conferences in Baen's Bar, the discussion area of Baen Books' web site. The conferences are entitled "1632 Slush," "1632 Slush Comments" and "1632 Tech Manual." They have been in operation for almost seven years now, during which time nearly two hundred thousand posts have been made by hundreds of participants.

  Soon enough, the discussion began generating so-called "fanfic," stories written in the setting by fans of the series. A number of those were good enough to be published professionally. And, indeed, a number of them were—as part of the anthology Ring of Fire , which was published by Baen Books in January, 2004. ( Ring of Fire also includes stories written by established authors such as Eric Flint himself, as well as David Weber, Mercedes Lackey, Dave Freer, K.D. Wentworth and S.L. Viehl.)

  The decision to publish the Ring of Fire anthology triggered the writing of still more fanfic, even after submissions to the anthology were closed. Ring of Fire has been selling quite well since it came out, and a second anthology similar to it is scheduled to be published late in 2007. It will also contain stories written by new writers, as well as professionals. But, in the meantime . . . the fanfic kept getting written, and people kept nudging Eric—well, pestering Eric—to give them feedback on their stories.

  Hence . . . the Grantville Gazette. Once he realized how many stories were being written—a number of them of publishable quality—he raised with Jim Baen the idea of producing an online magazine which would pay for fiction and nonfiction articles set in the 1632 universe and would be sold through Baen Books' Webscriptions service. Jim was willing to try it, to see what happened.

  As it turned out, the first issue of the electronic magazine sold well enough to make continuing the magazine a financially self-sustaining operation. Since then, nine more volumes have been electronically published through the Baen Webscriptions site. As well, Grantville Gazette, Volume One was published in paperback in November of 2004. That has since been followed by hardcover editions of Grantville Gazette, Volumes Two and Three.

  Then, two big steps:

  First: The magazine had been paying semi-pro rates for the electronic edition, increasing to pro rates upon transition to paper, but one of Eric's goals had long been to increase payments to the authors. Grantville Gazette, Volume Eleven is the first volume to pay the authors professional rates.

  Second: This on-line version you're reading. The site here at http://www.grantvillegazette.com is the electronic version of an ARC, an advance readers copy where you can read the issues as we assemble them. There are stories posted here which won't be coming out in the magazine for more than a year.

  How will it work out? Will we be able to continue at this rate? Well, we don't know. That's up to the readers. But we'll be here, continuing the saga, the soap opera, the drama and the comedy just as long as people are willing to read them.

  — The Grantville Gazette Staff

  The Anaconda Project, Episode Three

  Written by Eric Flint

  Chapter 3

  Fortunately, they were hungry—or James might have spent half an hour instead of three minutes making wisecracks about Lord and Lady Roth and the way they bid fair to make pikers out of any European aristocrats barring maybe the odd emperor here and there. He didn't even make one wisecrack about the food being kosher.

  Of course, he might not have noticed anyway. But Melissa did, and after the meal was over she gave Morris a little smile.

  "I see even you can bend a little. Smart move, if you ask me."

  Morris was back to being defensive. "I didn't eat pork in the old days, even if I never had any use for most of those silly kashrut rules. Here . . ."

  His wife gave him a mildly exasperated look. "To start with," she said, "we didn't really have any choice. Things are changing in Prague, but there's still no chance of Jews, even very rich ones, getting Christian servants. And even if you could, you couldn't trust them not to be spies working for somebody else. So all the servants in the house, including the cooks, are Jewish—and the only way they know how to cook is kosher."

  She shrugged. "So, I persuaded Morris that it just made sense to make a virtue out of the business. You know how Jews are, Melissa, even if"—she gave Nichols a skeptical glance—"James is probably awash in goofy notions. Most of Prague's Jews, and certainly all of the rabbis, know that Morris' theological opinions are radically different from theirs. But Jews don't care much about theology, the way Christians do. They care a lot more about whether people maintain Jewish customs and traditions and rituals. And since we now do—"

  "Not all of the customs," said Morris, half-snarling. "I was born Reform, raised Reform, and I'll damn well die Reform. No way I'll ever start meals with a prayer thanking God for not making me a woman. Not to mention—"

  "Husband, quit it," snapped Judith. "We follow most of them, and you know it perfectly well. And you also know that between that and the fact that all of Bohemia's Jews depend on you to keep them in Wallenstein's good graces, everybody is being friendly to us. Even the rabbis, most of them."

  She gave Morris an accusing glare. "And don't pretend otherwise! You even like some of those rabbis."

  "Well . . ."

  "Admit it!"

  "Fine. Yes, I like Mordecai and Isaac. But they're—they're—"

  He made a vague motion with his hand. "Not exactly just orthodox rabbis. It's more complicated. More . . ."

  "Many-sided?" asked Melissa. "Full of potential, not just limits?"

  Seeing her triumphant look, he scowled. Then, transferred the scowl t
o the servant Rifka when she entered the dining room.

  Timidly, seeing her employer's expression, she drew back a pace.

  "Oh, stop it, Morris!" snapped Judith. "He's not glaring at you, Rifka. He's just glaring the way he always does when one of his pet prejudices develops legs and starts walking around on its own instead of obeying his orders."

  She added a winning smile to settle the young woman's nerves. "What do you need?"

  "Ah . . . nothing, Lady Judith. It's just that some people have arrived and insist on speaking to you immediately."

  "And that's another thing I miss," muttered Morris. "Doorbells, so you'd know when somebody was at the blasted door."

  "House this size," James muttered back, "you'd need a foghorn."

  Judith ignored both of them. "Please, show the visitors in. We've finished eating anyway."

  * * *

  When the newcomers entered the room, Morris' expression darkened still further. Melissa's, on the other hand, was full of good cheer.

  "Well, I do declare. Red Sybolt, in the flesh. We were just talking about you, as it happens. Or rather, I was. Morris was trying to evade the subject."

  "What subject?" asked Red. "But, first, some introductions." He gestured to the four men who'd come in behind him.

  "You know this big fellow, of course." Pleasantly, the very large man standing just behind him nodded at the people at the table. That was Jan Billek, one of the central figures of the Unity of Brethren, the theologically-radical church led by Bishop Comenius which, in another universe, would be driven into exile and eventually become the Moravian church in America.

  Red's hand indicated the two men standing to his left. "And these are Krzysztof Opalinski and Jakub Zaborowsky. My kind of guys, even if they're both Polish szlachta. Finally—"

  He clasped the shoulder of the last man, a burly fellow wearing a rather exotic-looking costume, and pulled him forward. "And this here's Dmytro Fedorovych."

  Sybolt grinned cheerfully. "He's a Cossack, of all things. Well, sorta. They're not exactly Cossacks yet, you know. He tracked me down while I was in Lublin with Jan here, doing nothing we need to discuss at the moment. He heard I was connected to the Prince of the Jews in Prague, and insisted I take him there and make the introductions. That's you, Morris, if you didn't know."

  Morris was practically ogling Fedorovych. The fact was, for all his belligerent talk on the subject, the Jewish jeweler had been born and raised in America. Melissa didn't think he'd ever actually met a Cossack in his life.

  "Oh, my," said Judith. She indicated the many empty chairs surrounding the huge table in the dining room. "Please, gentlemen, have a seat."

  Morris keep staring at Fedorovych. Wondering, apparently, if the savage Cossack even knew what a chair was in the first place. Melissa almost laughed.

  As it happened, despite the rather outlandish outfit—she thought it was probably derived from Tatar or Mongol apparel—Fedorovych took his seat quite gracefully.

  "And to what do we owe the pleasure of this visit?" Melissa asked them.

  "What do you think?" said Red. "Word's out that Wallenstein appointed Morris to grab half of eastern Europe for him—"

  "Already?" demanded Morris. "Dammit, who blabbed?"

  "Could have been Wallenstein himself," said Red. "It's a tossup whether he's shrewder than he is vainglorious. Relax, willya? When I said 'the word was out,' I only meant in selected circles. Mostly Jewish circles. The most likely culprit for the leak is you, actually. Or rather, the servants who overheard you talking about it. They'd have passed the word into the Prague ghetto and from there . . ."

  He smiled. "In case you hadn't figured it out already, what with you being the Prince of the Jews, all the Jewish settlements in the towns of eastern Europe are connected to each other. The point being, the word's out, and these gents want to dicker with you."

  He turned toward the very handsome young Pole named Krzysztof Opalinski. "You can start the dickering with these two. The reason they know about it is because I'd already gotten to know them while engaged in that business we don't need to discuss, and I told them myself."

  "We don't care about Wallenstein's aims on the Ruthenian lands," said Opalinski. He gestured to his partner. "Jakub even less than I do, being as he is from the area himself."

  Jakub Zaborowsky had a twisted smile on his face. "My family's szlachta like Krzysztof's, true enough. But his family is prominent and well-off and we are dirt-poor, as Red would put it." The term "dirt-poor" came in English, easily blended into the German they were all speaking. "I think we'd do better off back in Poland, if the situation was changed. The only ones who do well in Lesser Poland are the magnates, even if most of the szlachta there try to console themselves with the sure knowledge that they are of noble blood while they spend their days dealing with hogs and money-lenders like any peasant does. Mind you, I have no great belief you could ever get those ignorant Ruthenians to do anything but drink themselves into a stupor, but so be it. They'd be Bohemia's problem, not ours."

  Opalinski spoke again. "So we will not contest that issue with you. Indeed, you will have our blessing, even to a degree our active support. Strip away their Ruthenian estates, and half the magnates who have Poland and Lithuania under their yoke will lose most of their wealth and influence."

  For the first time, he came into focus in Melissa's mind. The easy and effortless way he said "under their yoke" was the tip-off. In Melissa's experience—which had been quite extensive in her youth—the only people who could whip out phrases like that as naturally as most people talked of the weather, were dyed-in-the-wool radicals.

  "And who, exactly, is 'you'?" she asked.

  The handsome young Pole sat erect, looking stiffly proud. "We are members of the newly-formed Spartacus League of the Republic of Poland and Lithuania."

  His partner Jakub, who seemed either less full of himself or simply blessed with a good sense of humor, smiled ironically. "We took the name from Rosa Luxemburg's revolutionary organization. She was a Pole, you know, and a Jewess. Even if the history books mostly talk about her in Germany."

  James Nichols rubbed his face. "I swear, no virus or bacillus who ever lived is as contagious a vector as those fricking books in Grantville."

  Melissa smiled back at Zaborowsky. "Out of idle curiosity, which unlikely tomes did you find in Grantville that said anything about Rosa Luxemburg and the Spartacus League. I wouldn't have thought the public library—much less the high school's!—would have carried any such books."

  Both Poles looked at Red. For his part—very unusual, this was—the UMWA man looked almost embarrassed.

  "Well . . ."

  After a moment, Melissa's jaw sagged. "You swiped them! From my library."

  "Oh, jeez, Melissa, I don't think loaded terms like 'swiped' are called for here. What the hell, you were locked up in the Tower of London for a whole year. Not as if you'd miss them any, until I got them copied and put them back."

  Melissa glared at him. Then, glared at Nichols.

  "Ease up, dear," he said mildly. "I didn't give him permission to come into our house and take the books. First I even knew about it."

  The gaze he gave Red was every bit as mild as his tone of voice. "Odd, though. I never imagined you had second-story burglar skills."

  "Me? Oh, hell no." Red was back to his normal cheery self, the momentary embarrassment having vanished like the dew. "But I know some guys who do."

  To Melissa, he said: "And since you asked, the three books in question were a biography of Luxemburg, a collection of her writings, and a history of the German Social Democratic party." He coughed into his fist. "Among others, of course. I gotta tell you, for someone like me, you got far and away the most useful library in Grantville. Anywhere in this here world."

  "You could have asked!"

  "You were locked up in the Tower, like I said," he replied reasonably. He gave James a glance. "And since I figured he was likely to get stubborn about it, you not being a
round to say yes or no for yourself, and since he wasn't hardly ever in the house anyway what with spending every waking hour at the hospital, I figured it was just simpler all the way around to borrow them for a while until I could get copies made."

  Melissa didn't know whether to swear at him or laugh. In the end, she did both. "You lousy fucking commie!" she exclaimed, gurgling a little.

  He shrugged. "I prefer the term 'revolutionary socialist,' myself, although I certainly won't squawk at 'Bolshie.' But fair's fair. From now on, Melissa, you can borrow anything of mine without so much as a by-your-leave. What's mine is yours, as they say."

  "You don't own anything, Red," said James, in that same mild tone of voice. "Except the clothes on your back, which wouldn't fit Melissa anyway."

  "Well, of course not. What kind of agitator goes around hauling lots of trunks and suitcases with him? I got exactly what fits into a reasonable sized valise. Still. The principle's the same."