Paula Goodlett, Caroline Palmer,Griffin Barber,Terry Howard,Kerryn Offord,Rainer Prem,David Carrico, Enrico Toro

Grantville Gazette 45

M. Klein Fashion Dolls

Caroline Palmer

Ronneburg Saxe-Altenburg, 1636

Margarethe Klein looked at the half-carved wooden figure on her workbench and tried not to break out in tears. Even though she had been carving dolls since she was a little girl at her parents' knees, she could not seem to create anything that resembled the up-timers' famous Barbie dolls. In fact, her latest effort resembled something like a monster instead of a graceful lady of fashion.

The image she had acquired after months of searching and most of her savings was of little help. The head had been the easiest part, not dissimilar from the heads Margarethe was used to creating for her regular dolls, the poupee des modes she made to order, but the body was beyond her. Because the doll in the picture wore a full length gown, Margarethe had no way of knowing the doll's true proportions, how the joints moved, or her true size.

Gazing at the shiny paper she had taken from the magazine Julius Wolf had sold her, Margarethe fervently wished she had access to the market the merchant had told her of, the one called EBay. It sounded like the miracle from the Lord she needed right now. It was almost, almost enough to make one turn Catholic.

If only she could see, touch, hold a real Barbie or one of those others she had heard called Dollar Store Knock Offs. Once Margarethe had a model, she could do so much! Perhaps she could even create Barbie replicas designed to look like famous people as the magazine had advertised!

Just the thought of presenting someone like Gretchen Richter or Rebecca Abrabanel with a miniature doll that looked like one of them, with Margarethe's mark on the back, made her heart ache with frustration. And her hands itched to see what techniques doll-makers in the future had come up with.

Margarethe thought of the Princess Kristina doll that sat on a stool just behind her. The size of an up-timer doll called an AG (which was even more expensive than a Barbie according to the magazine), it was probably the most ambitious doll Margarethe had created, a slightly idealized version of Princess Kristina. It had cost Margarethe much of her savings to get a color portrait of Princess Kristina and even more time to make the molds and get beeswax to create the princess' face, lower arms, and legs. The expensive angora wool for the hair, not to mention the fabrics a true princess required was beyond her means at the moment and for some time to come.

"If only. If only!"

****

"So did you get them or not?" Agathe Wolf put her hands on her hips and regarded her husband impatiently. Julius was a good man, and a successful merchant, but sometimes (more often since the Ring of Fire) Agathe felt like taking over the business and leaving the housework to her husband.

Julius smiled at her calmly. "Of course I got them! I said I would, even if I had to search to the ends of the earth, did I not? And I was lucky, I happened to meet the famous Frau Higgins herself at the market and her husband gave me an excellent price on them. Discounted on account of Emma's wedding. And they refused to let me buy them a drink in the tavern. Insisted they do all the business in back and wouldn't go in."

Agathe sniffed, not believing a word her husband said. Always, always soft. Julius could charm an Inquisitor of the Holy Office into buying a copy of Martin Luther's Small Catechism and a Lutheran into buying saint's relics, but when it came to collecting money he would accept a blessing from the Lutheran and a prayer from the Catholic and never see he'd been cheated.

"How much Julius? Don't forget there's still the matter of the wedding feast and Emma's clothes and dowry. We cannot let the Brummes think us stingy or poor."

"Don't worry my love, everything will work out, just as it always does."

Everything works out Julius my love, she thought, because you married me. "How much? And if you got these dolls where are they?"

"Be easy Agathe, my love, be easy," Julius said, putting a box on the table. "Here they are."

With a heavy sigh, Agathe tore open the wrapping. "Julius! What in the name of all. How could you have possibly!"

There were definitely two dolls in the box, one a female with breasts so large her tiny waist couldn't possibly have supported them if she had been a human being. The other was a male, thankfully not anatomically complete.

But the woman's leg and one of her hands had been chewed. Her hair had been cut, or styled, to the point where it was a mere stubble. The male doll was in slightly better condition, but had been marked on with several different colors.

"Julius. What. "

"This was all there was, Agathe. I tried, I really did. It took me ages, and all the money I had to buy these. I know they have no garments, but I thought. I mean you're so good with a needle. "

"For mending and embroidery, but fitting clothes? For a figure so misshapen? Honestly I cannot imagine a corset even with the up-timer's materials that would create such a silhouette! I have never seen an up-timer woman, Julius. Do they look like that? They must have to break their ribs! And how could they work like that?"

"I don't know, Agathe. None of the up-timer women I saw had figures like that, nor did I see any of the men who. well. they did seem to be normal in every way if you know what I mean. I did hear of men and women whose job it was to display the latest fashions to merchants. Perhaps this is how they looked."

"I cannot imagine why anyone would do such a thing. It must have been incredibly painful to have your ribs destroyed like that."

"Yes indeed. I must say, my dear, that you are the loveliest woman in the village, especially since all your ribs are intact. I am sure that you will be able to solve this problem and get these dolls suitably garbed for the wedding."

Patting her cheek fondly, Julius took himself off to his business.

Agathe sighed. She knew of course, and so did Julius, that Margarethe Klein, the town dressmaker was the only person suited, but that wasn't the problem. How were they to pay to dress the dolls?

"These are very fine, Master Wolf," said Margarethe as she leafed through the sheets. "You're a gifted artist."

Christoph blushed. "Thank you. Papa and Master Brumme think I should stick with learning business but I've always hoped to be an artist. At least with the new roller printers I can combine the two."

Margarethe smiled. "And you've found something no one else is doing. Every printer in the Germanies is busy printing how-tos and political tracts, but who thinks of fashion? Papa and I had to scrimp and pinch to save for a Higgins sewing machine in order to stay in demand with our noble customers, but how are people to know what they want to wear? And who can afford to go to Magdeburg or Paris for clothes? These days I do more business in dolls to display the clothes than the clothes themselves. Any seamstress worth her salt can rescale a pattern, but it's exchanging patterns in the first place! Your papa has been very kind in helping with the shipping, but. There is so much more I could do! I wish I could create a Barbie doll of my own, a 'doll for the masses' as it were."

She waved her hands in the air in exasperation and longing.

Christoph grinned. "Speaking of Barbies, Mama sent you these." He placed the box on the table in front of them. "Papa bought these in Bamberg from Frau Higgins, but they came unclothed. Mama wants to know. well we are spending a great deal on Emma's wedding and the dowry. "

Margarethe opened the box and stared, blushing a little at the unclothed forms. "You say your papa bought these in Bamberg? From Frau Higgins? Of the Higgins Sewing Machine Company?"

"That's what he said. Well not, from Frau Delia Higgins herself, but from her husband."

"Oh, Christoph, Christoph! Don't you know that Frau Delia of the dolls lives in Grantville, not Bamberg? And according to my information she is a widow and not married at all! Her daughter is the one who's married!"

Christoph shook his head in disbelief. "I cannot. I didn't. What if they're stolen? Mama would have a fit! Then these are not the right kind of dolls?"

"Of a sort." Taking the woman doll out of the box, Margarethe pulled one of the legs out showing him the plastic ball joint. "You see? From my research the true Barbie dolls are made of better plastic and don't come apart as easily. Then there's the 'Made in China' label on the back of the neck. Barbies were made by a company called Mattel. I cannot imagine a manufacturer or artist not labeling their work. I always mark my dolls with an MK even if I'm not selling them. I would say that these are the cheaper kind of doll. Whoever sold your father these at least gave him the 'bang for his buck' as the up-timers say, even if they weren't who they said they were."

"But you could make clothes for them? And perhaps other accessories? And. well. as I said. umm. cheaply."

"I tell you what, Christoph, let's make a deal. If I could borrow these to make patterns to create other dolls like these, then I will make clothes for these, a whole trousseau if Emma would like."

"Is that even possible? I mean. I know you said you wanted to make figures like a Barbie, but we don't know how to make plastic."

Margarethe laughed. "Plastic? Who needs plastic to make dolls? Artisans have been making dolls and other figurines for centuries!"

"Out of what? Clay?"

"Clay, certainly. Clay isn't as fragile as you would think but it's hard to keep painted. Artists use wax mostly, for big projects with a rich patron like a king's burial effigy or a saint for a cathedral. Wood is also good for making dolls, a lot of my poupee des modes are carved wood, jointed if I've got the patronage. Cloth is very good for dolls as well. I do a fair business in cotton or muslin dolls, especially muslin. You cannot imagine the amount of muslin and linen scraps I collect as a dressmaker to use in my dolls. Sometimes I wish I could focus on making dolls instead of sewing clothes for people. Dolls at least don't complain if you poke them with pins."

Christoph smiled. Margarethe's eyes had lit up and it seemed as if her whole face had taken on a glow as well. She was more attractive than he'd realized before, with her straight medium brown hair and blue-grey eyes. It must be hard on her, being all alone in her parents' shop, and he knew she'd been lucky that the area needed a seamstress so she hadn't had to move after her parents had died two years ago.

"Then there's a market for such things?"

"If I didn't have a market I wouldn't sell any. Not every noble can afford to have a toile, or mock-up of a dress sent from Paris like the books say Elizabeth of England did. A doll is easier to ship, easier to make samples for, and easier for the client to see how they would look in the dress. Come let me show you."

Taking him to the back of her shop, she showed him the dolls she had lined up in various stages of completion. She held the Princess Kristina doll out for him to inspect.

"You see? Wax head, arms, and legs, sawdust-stuffed body. Wax or tallow is easier to tint like skin. You can paint clay once it's dry or bake it in before you fire it, but either way you have to seal it."

"You're like a painter."

"Very much so, and like a masterpiece my art is hard to play with sometimes. But if I was able to create a small fashion doll that is easily jointed and has a similar shape to a Barbie doll, then the possibilities are endless." She waved her hands in the air again.

Christoph frowned, turning the Princess Kristina doll in his hands. "I've watched Mama and Emma making candles and soaps, and I see your molds. Wax, as you say is more fragile than wood, and wood is cheaper. You could reproduce your molds and mass-produce your wax parts, but wood is hard to mass-produce with a lot of carving. I know, my sister's betrothed is a printer and a printer's son, and I helped with the new printing device. Bert and Master Brumme spent hours, sometimes days, carving type. Now, with the wringer printer, it takes as long as Bert, Gunther, and I can draw them. What you need, is something that can shape wood quickly. And for that we need a smith."

"We? Since when did this become a twosome?"

Christoph grinned wider. "Since my father used my sister's entire dowry to purchase abused knock-offs from a pair of frauds. Besides, you'll need someone to help with the marketing once you start producing, and then there are clothes patterns that need to be reproduced for sale. "

Margarethe laughed and took Princess Kristina from his hands. "Then I had better get started designing dolls and leave the rest to. what do they call it? Marketing and production?"

"More like marketing and distribution, if I have the up-time words right."

"Mass-produce wood parts? Perhaps if they were larger. like that. " Johan nodded to the Princess Kristina doll that Christoph and Margarethe had brought, carefully wrapped in fabric, next to the plastic dolls.

Margarethe shook her head. "I need wood pieces the size of the smaller dolls, not damaged, like this," she unfolded her picture. "The heads don't need to be so detailed, at least at first. But if we're going to make a Barbie-like doll that a lot of people can afford it needs to be out of a sturdy material like wood and we need to mass-produce it."

Johan tugged his smock and picked up the small woman with a wink. "Not much in the way of clothes, eh?"

"Yes, yes we know. I'm working on it," Margarethe said testily. "But you need to see how she looks."

Johan flexed a leg gently. "Don't bend, like yours Margarethe. The little lady you made for my girl has better joints."

"Those are ball joints, like buttons. I carve those too."

"Need to mass-produce those, too. Could make buttons cheap." Johan nodded. "You can't make feet like that with a lathe like I have, have to be carving. Carving for the details like the face and hands too."

"But you can mass-produce the pieces to be carved?"

"Not now. I've got too much other work to do, and you'd have to wait for after the harvest to get much from the farmers."

"So we are stalled until after the harvest and then during planting. Time, we are wasting. Money, we are losing."

Margarethe patted Agathe's hand. "People have to eat, Agathe. We may be able to survive without more than a kitchen garden but some people don't have a kitchen garden. My prototypes, as the up-timers call them, are finished, both the boy and girl. Now I can work on some patterns for clothes to sell."

Gerta Brumme shook her head. "Even if the farmers are available to work, they don't work for free. We need something to pay them for their work even if these dolls don't sell. What about your big dolls?"

"My grande pandores? The heads are wax or tallow depending on what I can get. I have tubes I fit into the molds so they can go on the bodies easily. I don't make a lot of them, because making the bodies is expensive and so is the wax, which is why I mostly use tallow. I inherited a few from my father and they don't travel well. Too big, unless we ship them in pieces."

"Could we make the heads to sell?"

"We could, but I doubt it would work. Most seamstresses and tailors like to use pandores that resemble the local nobility."

"You have the mold you made for the Princess Kristina doll, couldn't you reproduce it for a. what did you call it?"

"A pandore? I would have to change the scale on the head, which would mean I'd have to carve a new model. The same if we wanted to make any new heads I don't have. Molds have problems though, after so many uses the mold deforms and you have to make new ones."

"So what do we do?"

Agathe cleared her throat and raised her hand. "I think we start with Christophe's fashion books while we send someone to Grantville. After Emma's wedding."

****

"Emma's wedding was amazing, wasn't it, Mama?"

"Hmmph. The Wolfs and Brummes spent a lot of money on the wedding feast. All those individual cakes. "

"Emma said the up-timers call them cupcakes."

"Whatever. Then there were those place cards. Who does Gerta think her daughter's marrying, a nobleman? I can't imagine how they stayed up."

"They were birch. I saw the workers peeling and steaming them," said another woman. "What I wonder is how they got those dolls."

There was a collective sigh of envy.

"The Wolfs must have spent Emma's entire dowry on those. I heard Julius bought them damaged, but I couldn't tell. I bet Julius bought them stolen and had Gunther paint the eyes to hide them from the true owners."

"I thought it was a good touch that Margarethe made them costumes to match Emma and Bert's wedding clothes."

"What I find outrageous, Mama," said one of the young ladies. "Is that Christoph spent the entire feast dancing with no one but Margarethe and Mistress Wolf allowed it. How many other girls like me had to sit out or dance with another girl because of him! It was incredibly rude. And what if he marries her? She's just a seamstress, and an orphan. Margarethe should have sold her father's business and gone to live with relatives like any respectable girl would."

"Well I wonder what exactly young Christoph is doing at Margarethe's at all hours of the day," Master Lukas Gench said. "I believe he visits her very frequently, and without a chaperone. Just like several other of her 'clients.'"

Several of the listeners looked thoughtful.

Her mother patted her daughter's arm reassuringly. "You needn't worry about Christoph marrying that girl, Lottie my dear. Your father intends to make an offer for you soon enough, and with your dowry, the Wolfs won't be able to resist."

"You know what I heard? Emma and Albert left for Grantville the day after the wedding. It must be costing a fortune!"

"Those Wolfs and Brummes are getting above themselves," Master Gench said. "The Americans are giving young people too many unsuitable ideas. What are the Germanies coming to?"

"You want to do what?"

"Make limbs, bodies, like for people."

The up-time researcher blinked and nudged the boy next to her. After whispering in his ear, he shook his head.

"I. Uh. That's. I don't think you can do that. Maybe like Dolly. You know the sheep-clone? Except in scifi. "

Emma stared in confusion and shook her head. "Dolly? Is she related to Brillo?"

"No, no, never mind. Look, maybe we're working at cross purposes, not understanding each other. Why don't you start at the beginning?"

Emma nodded and sat down across from the up-timer. "My parents, they got me and my husband those plastic model dolls, like Barbie, very expensive. "

The girl snorted. "Tell me about it. The girls from the Consortium cleaned up, um, made a lot of money from even the cheap ones. I wish I'd been able to join, but my mom gave all my dolls to my cousin before the Ring."

"My friend, Margarethe, is a seamstress and she makes dolls to help her business. She wishes to make dolls like Barbie, only of wood, but it takes time. What we need is a fashion doll like Barbie that we can produce quickly."

The researcher nodded. "Well. I see. I tell you what, let's look in the craft section."

The craft section of the library was not very large.

"Susanna Oroyan's Designing the Doll has a lot of neat ideas. Your friend might be familiar with a lot of them if she does a lot of doll-making, but it might be worth it to copy the text."

Emma nodded enthusiastically as she flipped through the pages. "Margarethe does do a lot of doll-making in her spare time, especially since her father died. I wish there was some way to copy the pictures. "

"Here, Dawn Hertocher's Two Hundred Years of Dolls might provide you with some ideas about what was done up-time, and so might Douet's Identifying Dolls. But you know, if you wanted to do something really quick, you could do paper dolls or maybe coloring books. I hear the grade schools are crying for them."

"Paper dolls? Why would anyone buy paper dolls? Those are easy to make. Mothers make them with their children for games during the winter. Or you can buy them from a printshop."

"You can buy paper dolls?"

"Oh yes. My father-in-law says they were the second thing Master Gutenberg printed after he finished the Bible. They're expensive though. You have to color them after printing or buy water colors or something to color them with after you buy them."

"Like a coloring book?"

Bert, who had joined Emma, scratched his head. "What's a coloring book?"

The researcher led them to the kid's section and pulled out a thin book. "See? It's a basic outline drawing that kids color in. My teachers used it to teach us to draw inside the lines."

"But how do they color them?"

"Crayons. Oh, right. I forgot we don't have them yet down-time. Let me at least see what I can find out about how to make them."

"The fashion books are doing well," Christoph reported at a business meeting. "But not the coloring books."

"We need something to make them stand out," Julius grumbled. "The printers I sell them to place them on their shelves with the American's how-to guides and the Brillo pamphlets so they get lost. Who wants to buy something they could make at home just as easily?"

"I told you they should have the coloring sticks with them," said Emma.

Julius shook his head. "It would take time and another investment to make them work."

Bert grunted. "Researcher said tallow would work. A bit greasy but with the cheap paper we're using it would be fine."

Margarethe smiled and bounced slightly, noticing Christoph's jealous look at his brother-in-law. "I love this!" she said, just to make Christoph jealous.

Why did Bert have to choose this of all times to make a speech? grumbled Christoph silently.

"Ah, thank you my dear. That was just what I needed after a long trip."

Margarethe smiled. "It is good to see you, Master Gench. You were so kind after Papa died."

"Hardly a trial, Margarethe, child. Your papa was a good man and an upstanding member of the guild. My wife and I shall be proud to take over Calvin's business and welcome you into the family."

She stared. "Take over Papa's business? Welcome me into the family? I. I don't understand."

"Of course you do, child. Surely you've heard your neighbors' complaints? You are a young unmarried woman living alone. Even in this new world the Americans brought, it is unacceptable. Completely unacceptable!"

"I don't. "

Master Gench waved her to silence. "Here is what we shall do. My boy is almost past his apprenticeship. We will post the banns now and you can marry once Rolf has finished his apprenticeship. You will, of course, live with us until the wedding."

"No. I will not marry your son. My papa left his business to me and I will keep it and I will not hand it over to you or your son! Not ever."

"Margarethe, child, I just have your best interest at heart. If you were a seamstress to a noble family, few would question your unmarried state. But the guild cannot allow an unmarried orphan female of your age to continue to operate on her own in a town, and it will not. Either you will marry my son or you will end in a charity institution. Those are your only options."

Agathe cradled Margarethe as she cried.

"And he can do it! He can take everything! Everything my mama and papa, everything my grandparents built. "

"How?" Emma asked. "The guild doesn't have control over who people buy their clothing from? We've always bought clothes and fabric from your family and so have the Brummes."

"They can find other ways. Convince my suppliers to stop selling to me or increase their prices. Vandalize the shop. Convince the city authorities to arrest me on some crime or make me leave town. Undercut my prices until all my customers leave, then bring their prices back up once I'm in the poorhouse."

"Isn't there any relation you could stay with while you work?" Agathe asked. Gesturing to Emma to bring Margarethe a cup of tea while she mopped Margarethe's face with her handkerchief as though she were a child.

Margarethe shook her head. "Papa was an only child. Mama had some family in Altenburg, but it's been years since I heard from any of them."

Emma came back carrying a mug. "Well I don't see why a woman can't run a business on her own if she's good enough at it. Or why a woman has to marry. I'm happy to have Bert, don't get me wrong, but I'll always wonder what I could have done on my own. Papa, what about that woman in Bamberg? The Ram printer? She defied the guild."

"She had a powerful political movement behind her by the time it came to that. Unfortunately, Margarethe doesn't. What do you think, Gus?"

Gus rubbed his head. "As I see it there are three choices. First Margarethe marries Rolf Gench as soon as his apprenticeship is over."

Christoph stiffened. "I know Rolf. He's a fool and a bully. There's a reason why his parents haven't been able to arrange a marriage for him yet."

Gus waved Christoph's comments away. "Second, Margarethe continues to run her seamstress business until the guild shuts her down. Hopefully by then the doll business will have taken off and it won't matter. The third option, if you want to find a better husband than Rolf Gench, and that wouldn't be hard. "

Christoph sat up in his chair, smoothed his hose and pulled his doublet down. Emma and Agathe noticed and exchanged smiles.

". is to stop sewing clothes and concentrate on the dolls. The tailor's guild doesn't have jurisdiction over them, in fact as far as I know no guild regulates doll-making."

"But what happens if the dolls don't take off? And how do I live in the meantime? If I refuse Rolf Gench, his father may go to the town council and find a way to make me leave town. And I can't accept him and then call off if the doll business does well. "

Tears formed again in Margarethe's eyes and Agathe motioned for a clean handkerchief.

"I have an idea."

Everyone looked at Bert, surprised since he rarely spoke.

"Emma and I could rent Margarethe's house and she could live with us or with my parents. It will buy us time to find a good lawyer."

Gus put his hands on his hips. "And just where do you plan to get the money to rent a house? And what happens to the three of you if this business doesn't succeed?"

Bert set his mouth in a tight line. "We'll cross that bridge when we come to it, Papa. But I'm not going to abandon a friend."

Lukas Gench didn't expect the hearing to take long. He was the head of the Tailor's Guild and member of the Town Council, a man of influence in the duchy. And if that wasn't enough, he'd made sure to send an exquisite bolt of his finest cloth and a silver cup to the magistrate. Once he had Margarethe's inheritance and her share in the fledgling doll business it would be easy to repay the Jew money lenders, not only for the money to bribe the magistrate, but for his other debts.

"Master Gench, please present your case."

Lukas bowed and swaggered forward. "Mein Herr, Margarethe Klein is an unmarried orphan, currently residing in this town and holding herself out as a member of the Tailor's Guild. It is my duty as a friend of her late honored father and the head of the guild to see this situation righted. I insist that Mistress Klein be placed under my guardianship so that a proper marriage may be made for her so that she is no longer styling herself as a tailor."

The magistrate nodded and Lukas permitted himself a triumphant smile at Margarethe who sat with Masters Wolf and Brumme and their families on the opposite side of the aisle.

Then the town's Swiss-born lawyer, Walter Boose stood. "Mein Herr, if I may?"

The magistrate nodded again and Boose approached him with a sheaf of documents.

"As you can see, in the Year of Our Lord, Sixteen Hundred and Thirty-Four, Calvin Klein, Master of the Tailor's Guild, applied for and was granted, legal emancipation for his only daughter, Margarethe. As you know, Mein Herr, this law grants a woman the legal rights of a man. "

"Yes, I know. Hmmm. These documents do seem to be in order. Master Gench, do you have any proof that these documents are false?"

"I do not, Mein Herr. I had no idea such documents existed!" It was a lie of course, but since Lukas figured he was on the side of the angels putting that girl in her proper place, it wouldn't matter. Why didn't the magistrate just rule in his favor as he was supposed to?

The magistrate sighed and continued flipping through the documents. Finally he looked up.

"Well. these could be forgeries. "

Lukas glanced at his opponents, not quite able to suppress a smile of triumph. Victory, vindication! Perhaps he ought to have that engraved on a plaque for the wedding.

"Mein Herr! As you can see, the seals of the notary. "

The magistrate nodded. "Still it is highly improper for a young woman to live alone. "

"Mistress Klein is not residing alone." With a flourish, the lawyer presented the magistrate with another wad of paper. "As you can see, Mistress Klein is currently renting a portion of her home to Master Albert Brumme and his wife, an upstanding young couple. Also, there is an affidavit from Mistress Klein's pastor stating that she is a regular attendee at church and. "

Lukas felt his elation disappear. Why hadn't he thought of bribing the pastor as well? It would have meant more money he'd had to borrow against the girl's inheritance.

"Hmmm. well. " The magistrate looked over the pile of evidence that had accumulated on the table. "I need time to review all this evidence in detail. Yes. Great detail. And consult a few people. Master Gench deserves time to review the evidence himself, and perhaps see counsel. Yes, yes. Time. One month."

Lukas smirked at Margarethe, assessing her as Emma Wolfe guided her out of the room. So she'd thought to win easily had she? Well, well. A stalemate is better than a failure, at least for me. He'd been right that this hearing wouldn't take long.

****

"Monstrous! Simply monstrous! That man ought to be ashamed of himself!"

"He smells profit, Agathe, profit he and his family can collect without effort on their part. Those pandores have made us a modest profit and we've started getting orders from the catalogs we sold with them. The little ones Emma calls 'farthing' dolls are beginning to pick up too. And once the farmers start producing a wood Barbie replica, we stand to make a fortune if all goes well. And let's not forget Calvin's house and equipment. She may not be a catch for a noble family, but for us she's quite an heiress."

"Then why have you prevented Christoph from making an offer? I told you when Master Gench started this whole thing what we should have done. If Bert and Emma hadn't moved in with her, those Genchs would have swallowed the poor girl and her fortune up by now."

"And I told you, Agathe, I want to be sure this doll-making venture didn't ruin us. It still could. And then what would we do with an extra mouth to feed?"

Agathe put her hands on her hips, anger making her face red. "We would have a hard-working daughter-in-law with enough skills to help keep us afloat. I want you to announce that you have taken care of the matter by arranging her marriage to Christoph. And if you don't, Julius Wolf, I swear I will!"

Margarethe was crying as Christoph led her into the workroom. Silently, he sat beside her and offered his handkerchief, which she took with a sniff.

"They haven't made a judgment yet, and even if they rule for Master Gench, Papa and Master Brumme can appeal to the duke."

Margarethe mopped her eyes and shook her head. "The duke will never listen. I suppose I could sign everything over to your papa and run away, but Master Gench would find me and force me to marry his son."

Christoph reached out and brushed a strand of hair away from her face. "Margarethe, I have a present for you."

"Oh? For me?"

"Two presents actually, one from Papa and the other from me."

Gently, he opened a cloth bag and pulled out a large hank of angora wool, dyed a soft blonde. "I know you ordered this from the crayon profits, but Mama told Papa she'd never forgive him if he charged. well. family. The salesman called the color 'Kristina Blond' so he was sure it was the right color."

Margarethe stroked the soft wool in amazement, her tears slowing. "Ohhh! Christoph! It's perfect! Softer than I could ever imagine! But you said you had a present for me?"

Smiling he handed her a box. Opening it, Margarethe stared. Laying in the box were two wooden dolls, one boy and one girl.

"I. I made them special. With the knob joints in the arms and legs like Emma's. I painted them too. I know the hair is only paint. "

"Oh. Christoph! They're exquisite! I don't know what to say!"

"Say you'll marry me, and not just to avoid Rolf Gench. Though it would be a massive blow to me if you preferred him. I want a room full of dolls and little girls of our very own to play with them."

Margarethe smiled. "And what if we have boys?"

"We could always expand the business into toy soldiers. But first we have to do a little promotion."

Magdeburg Palace security, plagued by crack-pot religious fanatics, spies, and an ever widening circle of foreign and native enemies, were pleasantly surprised to find that the package contained not a bomb, but a eighteen-inch doll of Princess Kristina holding a miniature Brillo doll and a note:

TO HER ROYAL HIGHNESS

FROM M. KLEIN amp; COMPANY, FASHION DOLLS

Epilogue

"Hurry up! Get that wagon loaded and going!"

"Lukas, calm down!" Hilda Gench placed her arm on her husband's, trying to calm him, but he shook it off.

"Hilda, be silent and get that useless son of yours out here! We need to get out of town as soon as possible!"

"But there's no reason. "

"Of course there's reason, fool woman! Were you deaf when you heard the pastor read the banns for the Wolf boy and the Klein girl? Well, if you did, then you also remember the loans I took to try and get that girl for our boy! Money to bribe the other guild masters, money for the magistrate, not to mention our other debts! If we don't get out of town right now, we're done for!"

Hilda whimpered as Lukas raised a meaty hand toward her. "But Lukas. "

"Go!"

"Men coming," Rolf called from where he slouched in the doorway.

Toward the end of the street, Lukas saw men dressed in the uniforms of the town guard riding toward the house. Ignoring his wife and son, he clambered onto the wagon and grabbed the reins. "I'll write from Prague!"

The Midnight Garden

Griffin Barber

Salim let the door to Baram Khan’s sickroom close before addressing the man who walked out. “Any change?”

The physician started, wheeled to face him. “I didn’t see you there.”

Salim stepped into the light of the candle the man held, and quirked an eyebrow.

The local man shook his head. “No, no change. I must be going. A-another patient, you understand.”

Salim did not blame him for being frightened. Knowing the fate of physicians who failed to save the lives of powerful men in his own nation, Salim could forgive the man thinking Salim might attack him.

Waving him away, Salim turned to look at the door. Beyond it, surrounded by a very few of his remaining loyal servants, the emperor’s envoy was dying a slow, painful death. A week, perhaps a bit longer, and the man would breathe his last and go to his final reward, whatever it might be.

Taking his prayer beads in hand, Salim said a prayer in the darkness to speed Baram Khan’s passage to Paradise. Just because one thought little of another man’s deeds did not make them less likely to attain Paradise. It only showed the unworthy state of one’s own soul.

Hearing a horse in the courtyard below, he stepped to the window at the end of the hall in time to see the physician ride out of the torch-lit courtyard. Good riddance. The man had proved almost worthless, failing, even, to see what was plain to Salim and anyone else with experience of court life: Baram Khan had been poisoned.

It wasn’t even entirely the pompous courtier’s fault he was dying. Baram Khan’s tasters had all died in various mishaps before the envoy even entered the Germanies. Then, understandably angry at being robbed by Grantville’s mercenaries-which the Mughal noble could only see as confirmation of the histories Salim was translating for him-Baram Khan departed the wonders of Grantville before new tasters could be found.

No one knew who had killed Baram Khan but, like everyone else in the man’s entourage, Salim had an idea who it might be.

Salim shook his head. Regardless of the who and the how of the current situation, decisions had to be made.

Rehan Usmani, Baram’s first servant, would want to return immediately to Aggra and report events to Nur Jahan.

Fear seized his heart at the thought. Little could be worse for the Empire and Mian Mir’s hopes than that woman possessing proofs Aurangzeb would, in his hunt for the throne, imprison his own father and murder his brothers.

Baram Khan’s exile on what the court had believed a fool’s errand had led to this much, at least: Salim had the books from the future, he had the pictures.

He could return to Mian Mir and ask the living saint what to do, couldn’t he?

Finding his answer in the question, Salim turned from the window, started for his chamber.

Grantville’s mercenary company might have stripped Baram Khan of everything of value he’d carried on his person, but his servants had passed largely unmolested. Salim still had several small pouches of fine gemstones, and knew where to sell a few.

At least five hours remained before morning prayers. He would pack quickly, walk a couple of the pathetic excuses for horseflesh from the manor and, once out of hearing, be on his way.

A long, dangerous journey lay ahead.

He smiled to think of it.

The siblings had barely greeted one another when the honeybee flew between them to land on the orchid and crawl into the purple folds of the flower, seeking the nectar within and drawing the Prince and Princess to watch in appreciative silence. Long moments passed, the heavy bloom trembling. Eventually the honeybee took flight from the flower, releasing the siblings from stillness much as it scattered the flower's golden pollen.

As the interloping insect disappeared deeper into the gardens, wingbeats joining the hum of the others of its hive, Dara Shikoh and Jahanara leaned back and regarded one another, much as they had many times before and, God willing, would have opportunity to do for many years to come.

Putting away her desire to immediately transcribe the beauty of the bee’s flight into poetry, Jahanara waited for her brother to speak. She noted his smooth brow was furrowed under the gorgeous yellow turban. She had not seen him so troubled since Aurangzeb’s poem had embarrassed him before all the court. Jahanara suppressed a shudder, recalling the events immortalized therein: the great war elephant, mad with rage and entirely out of control, trampling slaves and scattering the Imperial household. Her younger brother Aurangzeb, barely sixteen, calmly sitting his horse while everyone fled. The way clear, Aurangzeb charged the great bull elephant and struck it between the eyes, stinging it so badly it ceased its rampage.

The later poem that shamed those that fled brought mother’s sage advice to mind: “Men, they will always feel the bite of words stronger than steel. Steel kills, but one must live on with the words of others. Remember this, and keep your words like sharp steel, with caution and care.”

Keeping that advice uppermost in her mind, Jahanara folded hands in her lap, waiting. It was not often that their father’s eldest son came to visit, but when he did, it was nearly always to ask the same questions.

“And what of Father, sister mine?”

She smiled inwardly, but not wanting to show how easily she had read him and therefore hurt his feelings, she didn’t let the smile curve her lips. “He still pines for our beloved mother, of course. The only thing he looks forward to is the daily meeting with his advisors regarding Mother’s tomb.”

“His remaining wives?” Dara asked.

She smiled openly. She had been composing a verse this morning, a playful little thing, and used part of it now: “The harem persists in its perennial practices: showing their love of Father and whining at his inattention.”

Dara nodded absently but didn’t return her smile.

It was rare that he missed an opportunity to show his appreciation for her work. Resisting the urge to show her displeasure, she asked, “What troubles you, brother?”

“I wonder what it will take to shake Father from his grief.”

She strangled a sigh. “Must he be shaken?”

“Our family does not sit idle while one man mourns, sister.”

“No, but neither are they gathering armies to usurp Father’s place.”

“Not that we know of, at least.”

“Our friend Mian Mir, in his wisdom, would have you set aside your fear, brother.”

Dara sniffed, “I know. I would argue: it is no sin to fear for one’s family.”

“If you only feared for your family, rather than fearing certain members of it.”

Another sniff, this one companion to a bitter twist of the lips, “It has always been thus for the sons of our house.”

Thinking on the unfairness of that remark, Jahanara refused to let him see how much his self-pity annoyed her. “But our father would have it otherwise, for you.”

Looking through the walls of the garden, Dara whispered, voice so low it nearly drowned in the buzz of industrious insects about them: “Some days, I fear he might have chosen the wrong son. ”

****

The stream, swollen with the last of the monsoonal rains, presented less of a challenge than climbing the far bank, an unstable slope of dark, wet earth. Salim stood in the stirrups as his recently purchased and exceedingly expensive Arab slipped sideways half-way up the bank.

Something pointed made a dangerous whistling as it hummed through the space he’d just left, cutting off all thought of cursing his as-yet-unnamed horse.

He heard the snap of more bowstrings as he heeled his mount up the bank. Powerful hindquarters bunched, released, sending mount and rider surging up over the lip of the ravine and out of the path of the arrows.

Two men rushed from the tree line with spears, another emerging from the wood behind, urging them to the attack.

His horse’s scrambling leap had landed them perpendicular to the charging men. He added their position to the tally of the many things he would have to thank the Almighty for when next he had opportunity to face Mecca.

For now, though, the sword. It hissed from sheath and to hand.

His horse, shying from the shouting men, curvetted. Salim leaned sideways, using the mount’s momentum to bring his curved Persian steel sweeping across in a cut that connected with a spear shaft. Surprising him, the crude iron head flew free and over Salim’s shoulder, wielder staring at the cloven wood stump just above his hand. From the youth’s open-mouthed expression, he was clearly imagining what might have been had the sword struck below where he held it.

The other spear-bearer bored in and stabbed. The blade swept past Salim’s nose by a hand’s breadth.

While the first man stared at his severed spear, Salim’s still-spinning horse clipped his companion with a hoof, folding him with a grunt that ended in a roll down the riverbank.

Mindful of the target he now presented to the archers on the opposite bank, Salim spurred the Arab into flight. He angled away from the track and any additional brigands who might be lying in wait.

He heard the horseman pound into pursuit behind him.

An arrow flew past from the far shore, then another. A third traced a hot red line across his forearm, making him drop the reins. Thanks be to the Almighty, the horse had drawn his own conclusions about where safety lay and ran flat out through the narrow opening among the trees.

Out of sight of the archers, Salim spared a glance for his wound. It would keep. Leaning low over the horse’s neck, he retrieved the dropped rein and glanced behind.

On an inferior mount, the horseman had fallen behind in Salim’s short gallop to cover. Now, however, the tight confines of the trail favored the shorter horse and the rider with more intimate knowledge of the land.

At least the other wouldn’t be able to ride up alongside to strike.

There being nothing for it but to ride, Salim did just that. Long moments passed, the blowing of his horse and the pounding of hoofbeats beneath and behind his only company.

With a suddenness that hurt the eyes, the pursuit exploded from the wood and into bright sunlight. He felt his mount lengthen stride and gain speed, hoping it could see better than he could. Knowing he was gaining distance, Salim kept his face in the mane, hoping to present as small a target as possible in case his pursuer had a horse-bow.

Eyes adjusted, he looked back and saw the other rider was letting his horse slow, giving up the pursuit in a storm of curses.

Bandits, then.

Good. For a moment he’d worried that-despite all the measures he’d taken to avoid it-one of the prince’s rivals knew of his return and sought to kill him before what he carried could be explained.

He let his mount slow to a walk once he was certain the chase was ended. Remaining in the saddle, he spent some time dressing his wound and eating some of the food he’d purchased at the last caravanserai.

Many kos remained between him and Lahore, but he was at last nearing home. Checking the straps of his saddlebags, Amir Salim Gadh Visa Yilmaz rode on, contemplating suitable names for the horse.

****

Her favorite garden was quiet but for the buzz of insects and the musical sounds of water on stone. Most of the court were at Mother’s tomb while the emperor oversaw some detail of its construction. His absence and the oppressive heat left the Red Fort unusually quiet. Jahanara was taking full advantage of that quiet, enjoying a mango julabmost, idly crunching the flavored ice between her teeth while pondering the next few lines of the poem she was composing. The scroll lay ready before her, as were ink and brush.

She would commit nothing to paper until the verse was ready in her mind.

One of the harem eunuchs entered the garden and approached her small pavilion. As was proper, he knelt some distance away and waited to be recognized, sweating in the afternoon sun.

Taking pity on him, she handed the remainder of the julabmost to one of her Tartar guard-maidens and said simply, “Speak.”

“Begum Sahib, your brother’s wife, Nadira Begum Sahiba, inquires whether you are available to come to her sometime this afternoon?”

Sudden concern stabbed her. Nadira was pregnant with Dara’s first child. “Did she say why?”

“It is some matter that Shahazada Dara Shikoh brought to her attention, Begum Sahib. Something between him and one of the amirs of the court,” a brief hesitation and licking of lips, “whose name escapes this witless servant.”

“Oh?”

The eunuch bent forward over his large belly, head nearly touching the grass. “Begum Sahib, I beg forgiveness; it is a worthless slave who forgets too much of his mistress’ business to ever warrant the trust placed in him.”

Jahanara nodded, understanding the subtext quite well-Nadira had not told the slave the name of her husband’s guest, clearly wanting to surprise her. Or the prince himself wanted to limit the ears that would hear the Amir’s name.

Interest piqued, she spoke: “I will attend Nadira Begum once I am finished here. Take word, and know that she will not hear of your lapse in memory from me.”

“You do me great honor, Shahazada Dara Shikoh,” Salim said, bowing low over rich carpets. It was not often a lowly amir found himself invited into the inner chambers of one of the Princes of the Blood. So private was the interview that only the beautifully carved sandstone of a jali separated the men from the prince’s harem. A rare honor indeed.

“It is I who is honored by your fine service in the face of terrible obstacles.” Dara waved a hand at a cushion beside him. “Please, take your ease and tell us of your travels and the fate of Father’s mission to the west and this city the Jesuits claim appeared with a snap of Shaitan’s fingers.”

A wordless sound of surprise escaped the jali at this announcement of Salim’s most recent adventures. Careful not to look too closely at the screen and therefore see the forbidden, Salim crossed to the offered seat and bowed deeply again. Hedecided it was better not to ask who was watching from the harem, assuming the prince would tell him if the prince wished him to know.

So close was the rich cushion to the Dara Shikoh that Salim was suddenly very glad he’d had opportunity to bathe and perfume himself before the audience. He leaned on his injured arm as he sat, wincing as the movement pulled at the wound. He ignored the pain, hoping it had not been pulled open: far easier to replace a bit of blood than the cotton tunic purchased for this interview. Or worse yet, to spill blood on a cushion or carpet worth more than his entire clan’s yearly income.

The prince’s slaves entered and presented refreshments on ornate trays of plate of gold. “First, take refreshment before you tell us of your adventures and the fate of Baram Khan.”

Salim protested, only to have the Dara direct a mischievous grin at the jali while speaking to him: “Salim, allow me to fill your belly before you fill our ears. It will serve to whet our appetite for your news.”

A throaty, musical note of feminine laughter issued from beyond the jali.

Dara ate little himself, but encouraged Salim to try some of the more exotic dishes.

Too nervous to take note of what he was eating, let alone enjoy the delicacies offered, Salim managed to eat a few sweets and was sipping a deliciously cool drink when a soft voice issued from beyond the jali. “The amir is hurt, brother.”

Dara stopped packing his pipe of opium and looked at Salim, brow arching.

Mortified, Salim glanced at his arm. Sure enough, blood stained the sleeve. “It is nothing, Shahazada, a momentary disagreement between flesh and arrow.”

“Arrow?” Dara asked, setting aside his pipe.

He answered carefully. “Robbers on the road, Shahazada.”

“A plague. Some hillmen never learn.”

Salim nodded. “They are a problem in every kingdom.”

The voice returned. “Hillmen or robbers?”

Unsure if he should respond directly to the woman, Salim did not answer.

Another wicked grin from Dara. “My sister, the Begum Sahib, would have an answer, I think.”

Clearing his throat, Salim spoke, “Begum Sahib, not all robbers are hillmen, though it has been my experience that the more successful are.”

Another woman giggled, but the penetrating questions continued through it, “Then you were not attacked by hillmen, were you?”

“I thought them Bhils, from their lack of horses and skill at archery. I would not be before you if they had such knowledge.”

“And you are a proper hillman, are you not?”

Salim nodded. “My village is just this side of the Khyber Pass, Begum Sahib.”

“Pashtun?”

He nodded again. “Yusufzai, yes.” He glanced at Dara, found the young prince looking at him, eyes glittering.

“Our forebear passed through there after many great battles.”

“A similar tale is told in my family, Begum Sahib,” Salim answered, thoughtlessly.

The Princess of Princesses pounced on it. “Similar, only?”

Salim’s heart seized.

“Oh, you’ve done it now!” Dara chortled.

“Stop it, Dara! I will not beg Father to have this man trampled by elephants simply for disagreeing with me on points of history!”

Dara laughed outright, then held his breath.

Salim prayed silently.

The moment stretched like the skin of a drum.

Softly, Begum Sahib spoke again: “Though I might consider going to him if the amir doesn’t answer promptly.”

The prince doubled over on his cushion, laughing hard and loud at Salim’s expression.

“Yes, Begum Sahib. Our family history claims that Emperor Babar took for one of his ten wives the daughter of one of our greatest chiefs, a beauty named Bibi Mubarika. Thus, he and his armies had the way opened for them through the Khyber.”

“Don’t let my little brother-or my father’s generals-hear you say that,” Dara said between fits of laughter.

A delicate sniff from beyond the jali. “Aurangzeb will not hear it from me, Dara.”

Hoping to return the conversation to safer ground, Salim ventured, “It is that marriage, in a roundabout way, which brings me to serve the Emperor’s firstborn, Begum Sahib.”

Dara gestured at his guest. “The amir Salim is also a fellow student of Mian Mir’s teachings, sister.”

Salim nodded. “The saint is wise, and asked me to accompany Baram Khan on his mission.”

Dara looked at the jali. When there was nothing further from Begum Sahib, he gestured Salim to continue.

“Nur Jahan’s man, Baram Khan, is dead. Poisoned by someone in the kingdom of Thuringia. It was done so that he would not bring back word of the future and what happens to this land.”

“Thank you, Sahazada Dara Shikoh,” Amir Salim Gadh Visa Yilmaz said with a bow. The man turned and faced the jali, bowing nearly as low as he had for Dara.

She willfully turned away from the impure thoughts that rose up as she looked into the man’s pale green eyes, aided by the fact that he could not see her strong reaction.

Nadira, sitting beside her, nudged her with an elbow.

She looked at her sister-in-law. A great beauty, she was also a great friend to Jahanara. When Mother died, Jahanara had been left with responsibility of planning Dara’s marriage celebrations, during which she had come to know and appreciate the kind and gentle spirit of her sister-to-be. Such spirit was not common in the harems of powerful men.

Nadira bent close, whispering, not unkindly, in her ear, “Do not make your brother kill the honorable-and handsome-amir for loving what he cannot have, Begum Sahib.”

Jahanara winced.

Obeisance paid, Salim departed with a horseman’s rolling gait.

The Princess of Princesses tried-and failed-to avert her gaze from his strong, broad back.

Nadira giggled softly, shaking her head.

Dara, meanwhile, picked up one of the books the Amir had left behind and muttered, “Fascinating.”

Fingers twitching with the desire to read them for herself, she cautioned him, “And dangerous, brother.”

He glanced at the jali, frowned, “Well, of course.”

“If it is true, how do we present this information to father?”

“If?”

“Well, I haven’t seen the images he gave, and his story beggars belief.”

Dara, more excited than she had seen him since his wedding day, picked up the books and two flat pieces of paper Salim had called “photographs” and walked toward the jali. One of his eunuchs opened the concealed portal, ensuring his master did not have to slow. A few more strides and Dara was standing over his wife and sister.

He handed Jahanara the image. It was on a piece of paper, glossy on one side, no bigger than a large man’s hand. The subject within was of a large white-marble building of enormous size and great beauty, surrounded on all four sides by matching minarets with a great giant onion of a dome in the middle. Lettering in the Latin alphabet, inked in lurid red, lined the top of the image.

Nadira, leaning to look over her shoulder, asked, “What did he say this reads?”

“Greetings from the Taj Mahal! Greatest of The Seven Wonders of the World!” Dara answered from memory, smiling fondly at his wife. “They even have the coloring of the letters the correct red, to honor the family war-tent colors.”

“But what-”

“It is a corruption of mother’s title,” Dara answered her question before it was fully voiced.

Nadira even scowled prettily, “Mumtaz Mahal becomes Taj Mahal? How does this happen?”

“I presume it happens after near four hundred years and across several languages, my love.”

“But how do you know it’s accurate, light of my heart?”

“Father’s plans are set and construction begun.” He tapped the photograph. “Mother’s tomb will look like this, though I do not see the MoonlitGarden across the river.”

Tears filled Jahanara’s eyes. To think her father’s grief had carried across the centuries and thousands of kos to peoples so distant caused her heart to ache-not for her father-but for her own fate. She would, as a daughter of her house, never marry, never know the heat of a love that would make a man like her father to grieve so terribly he would build a monument to their love that would last through the ages.

She lowered her head, shamed by the depth of self-pity she felt. It seemed extraordinarily sinful in the face of what the amir had told them the future histories contained: that two of her brothers would be executed-and her father left to wither and die-while Aurangzeb expended the strength of the Empire in bloody attempts to suppress the Hindu religion and conquer the remainder of the sub-continent.

Fear and concern for the future of her family rode self-pity and shame down under flashing hooves. Jahanara cleared her throat. “I am willing to believe the amir, but how do we tell father?”

“Don’t you mean what?”

“No, I mean how.”

Dara shrugged, “I didn’t think he needed to-”

She interrupted: “Father will not be inclined to overlook anything less than full disclosure, Dara. The amir told us that the remainder of Baram Khan’s followers should return within the month.” She gestured at the books. “And that they have more of these.”

“Yes, but-”

She held up a hand. “Father will find out if we withhold information-Nur Jahan will make sure of it-first Aurangzeb, and then Father, will be told what we have learned today.”

Dara sighed so deeply his wife laid a hand on his arm. “I still hold hope that we might yet get Aurangzeb to abandon his religious bigotry and open his heart to Mian Mir’s teachings.”

“An admirable-even saintly-hope, Dara. Unfortunately, there are far fewer saints in the world than sinners.”

As his hired boat turned in toward Agra’s docks, Salim noticed a boat that had departed Red Fort just after his was now changing course for shore. Two armed men stood behind the boatman paddling at the bow, but there was no visible cargo for them to guard, and both looked away when Salim turned his face in their direction.

He leaned over and spoke to the boat’s master, “If you can push the men hard for shore without appearing to, it will mean another rupee for you.”

The boatman, likely experienced with court intrigues, simply bobbed his head and started pulling deeper and harder with his paddle. His men took their lead from him and did so as well. Salim, not wanting to give the game away, looked straight ahead and fished in his sash for the payment.

During the last hundred paces to the dock, his boat had to maneuver around an outgoing craft. Salim took the opportunity to cast a surreptitious glance at the other boat. The distance between them had grown to nearly fifty paces, but he could see one of the armed men was bending their boatman’s ear about closing the distance while the other openly stared in Salim’s direction.

Now certain they were following him, Salim wondered who they served, Nur Jahan, would-be chooser of emperors, or her brother, Akbar Khan, the emperor’s first minister-or perhaps Mullah Mohan, Aurangzeb’s strictly orthodox teacher and advisor?

Not that it mattered if they were sent to do him harm. And, as they were armed and lacking in subtlety, just watching him go about his business didn’t seem likely.

Their lack of skills at intrigue did seem to rule out Nur Jahan, but she might be running short of skilled servants this long after being consigned to the harem with her grandniece.

Asaf Khan was still in favor at court, and therefore had no need of subtlety, but Salim knew of no reason the wazir would want him accosted or killed.

No, the more he thought on it, the more likely it seemed that Mullah Mohan was behind these men. The mullah had no love of Mian Mir’s accepting policy toward the Hindus and other religions of the land, and had tried to get the living saint removed from his position as teacher to Shah Jahan’s children on more than one occasion.

As the boat nudged the dock, Salim dropped payment in the master’s lap and stepped off. The man’s breathless but cheerful thanks followed him as he turned for the crowded market at the foot of the docks. He glanced back as he neared the first of the merchant’s stalls. The men had made landfall and were hurrying to catch up, shoving people out of their way.

Salim merged with the crowds of shoppers, bearers, and traders. The market had the frenetic atmosphere such places took on before the muezzin called the faithful to sunset prayers. Not that all, or even most, of the people shared faith in Allah and his Prophet; but the Hindus of the capital were cautious, not inclined to even the appearance of disrespect toward the religion of their ruler, and would slow or cease business during the hours of prayer. That could pose problems once the call to prayer began.

He lost track of the men within three steps. Hoping they would do the same, he started in the direction of his lodgings. The sun continued its dive to the hills beyond the river.

Salim saw the boy hanging by one hand from the trellis of an inn as he was leaving the market. He wouldn’t have thought anything of the skinny urchin but for the fact the boy pointed straight at him and continued to do so as he moved through the crowds.

“Paid eyes,” he muttered. Were he given to cursing, Salim would have. Instead he quickened his steps, hoping to get out of sight before the boy could direct the men to him.

“There!” It wasn’t a shout, but the word was spoken with an air of command.

Salim turned. It was one of men from the boat. The man was already pounding his way, naked steel in hand. The more distant man was waving an arm, most likely summoning more men.

Breaking into a run, Salim looked for places to lose his pursuers or, if he must, make a stand. Nothing looked promising in the first length of road but he hesitated to take one of the side streets for fear it would dead-end. He held little hope of outrunning the pursuers. Had he a horse, even a nag, under him, things would be different. Afoot though-he could already hear the first man closing the distance.

He picked a spot, decided it was as good as any. Placing his back to a stack of great clay urns, Salim turned to face his pursuer, blade flickering to hand.

The younger man didn’t slow, charging in, howling, “God is great!” as he swept his blade down in an untrained and fatally stupid overhand cut.

Salim deflected the blade to his outside right and twisted his wrist, sending his own slashing across the man’s torso.

Unable to stop, the man ran up the blade and opened his gut to the evening air, battle cry becoming a wail for his mother. The man staggered another step, tripped in his own entrails and fell to his knees.

Salim took a two-handed grip, brought the sword down with all the power of back and shoulders. The blade nearly severed the man’s neck, ending the cries.

As the corpse fell he turned and saw the easy killing of the one had given his other pursuer pause.

Knowing he was done for if the man waited for help, Salim spat in his direction.

The man didn’t respond to the insult.

Salim rolled his wrist. Steel hissed as it parted air, casting a thin line of blood in the dust of the street. By happenstance instead of intent, a drop of blood just reached the other man’s boot.

Eyes went wide with rage. Uneven teeth bared behind his thick beard, the man advanced. Despite his anger, this man was a far more capable adversary.

Salim was forced to retreat, working to deflect several fast and powerful strokes. Timing them, he found an opening and chopped a short hard strike at the other man’s hand. It missed the mark but slapped the inner curve of the other’s sword, sending it out of line.

Reversing direction, Salim stepped close and forced the other man’s sword away. He shot his free hand around the back of the man’s neck and pulled, hard, even as he threw his own head forward and dipped his chin.

Cartilage and bone ruptured under his forehead.

Fireworks exploded and danced.

Blinking, he chopped a blow that had more of savagery than art at his reeling opponent. His sword cleaved the man’s collarbone and hacked through the first three bones of the upper ribcage before lodging fast.

“Heretic!” the man burbled, mouth filling with blood.

Mullah Mohan it was, then.

The dead man collapsed, eyes still full of hate. Salim put boot to corpse to wrest his sword free.

The muezzin called the faithful to prayer as Salim turned and resumed his run.

Father settled himself, the unrelenting white of his robes of mourning making him stand out among the reds and golds of the cushions like a lily among orchids. Prayer beads in hand, he nodded at Jahanara.

Two slaves-selected by Jahanara for their pleasing manner and skill at anticipating the emperor’s needs as much as their desire to serve as tasters-knelt to either side of him, ready to serve the choicest morsels. At her direction, others of the harem slaves entered carrying tray after tray of delights for his meal.

Beyond ensuring the service was faultless, Jahanara spared no thought for the food. Instead she watched Father closely from under long lashes. There were lines on his face and white in his beard that had not been there before mother passed. The thought of Mother, especially at this moment, brought a hollow ache to her spirit.

Instead of turning from the ache, she embraced it, armored herself in it, knowing her mother would approve of her actions today, despite what woe she might bring to Father. And Jahanara had no doubt the plan would add to Father’s woes, just as she had no doubt that what she was about was absolutely necessary for the survival of the family, most especially if her family were to mean more to history than a divisive, degenerate, and despotic dynasty that left the varied nations under their care open to occupation and subjugation by Europeans.

Jahanara glanced down the line of women to her left, those who were not his wives but lived under Father’s protection in the harem. As she had arranged, Nur Jahan was not present due to an upset stomach. It had been the one point of failure of the plan. It was never certain exactly when her woman in Nur’s service could administer the mild poison, and harder still to judge when it would take effect. That difficulty combined with the fact that Dara could not very well linger in the harem led her brother to grant permission for her to speak to father on behalf of both of them.

God, of course, quickly made them glad of their careful plotting. No sooner had Dara agreed to let her speak for him than Asaf Khan, Father’s wazir and their maternal grandfather, had invited Dara to a hunt a few days from Agra. He had only departed this morning, so it had been just barely possible Prasad would find Dara and return in time. Father finished the main courses, began to indulge in a few desserts.

Time was nearly up.

Weeks of preparation and planning had led to this moment. Despite Dara’s absence, she must move forward.

Mustering courage, she spoke. “Father?”

He turned his head to look upon her, eyes warming ever so slightly as they lit on her face. “Yes, daughter?”

“I have something I wish to show you, something important.”

He waved a hand, granting her leave to approach.

She rose and padded to him on henna-painted feet. The slave-girls rose gracefully and retreated to stand with their backs to the wall of the Red Fort.

Father watched her, sad smile making his beard twitch. “You are so like your mother, Jahanara.”

The princess knelt before Father and bowed deeply, smiling in return. “It is good to hear you speak of her without such pain.”

He punched his bearded chin in the direction of the growing monument to his love. “The heart heals as the walls of her monument rise, daughter.” He blinked, spoke to the distance. “Even so, I will never be whole again until we are together in Paradise.”

She bowed her head again, suddenly uncertain.

He sighed, the sound bearing more of quiet contentment than pain. He took her hand. “What is it, beloved daughter?”

“Father, I would show you a picture.”

“Oh?”

“But first- you remember sending Baram Khan on his errand?”

Shah Jahan’s grip tightened on her hand. “To the village the Jesuits reported had sprung into being someplace in Europe?” he asked, a little sharply.

“Yes, Father,” Jahanara answered, wondering if she had not chosen the wrong entry to the conversation. The Jesuits and their hosts, the Portuguese, were only recently returned to, if not favor, then the tolerance of the emperor. The Portuguese and their priests had proved faithless when Father requested their aid in his rebellion against Jahangir and his step-mother, Nur Jahan. Possessed of a long memory, Shah Jahan had ordered punitive raids into the Portuguese colonies along the coast almost as soon as he took the throne, taking many prisoners.

“What of it?” he asked, more calmly, gaze already drifting over her shoulder to the distant site of her mother’s tomb.

She took a breath, dove in. “It did come from the future, as mother’s astrologers claimed.”

His gaze snapped to her face, locking her eyes to his like chains of hardened steel as he snapped questions at her. “And where is Baram Khan? Where is that craven supporter of the pretender to power, Nur Jahan? Does he think to avoid my eternalanger by telling my daughter his report in my stead? I am not the broken man I was when his perfidy was discovered. I will not fail to punish him this time!”

Jahanara, shaken by the heat of him, spoke quickly, “Dead, Father. Baram Khan sickened and died in that far-off land that is host to the village from the future.”

Shah Jahan looked away, sniffed.

Released from his gaze, Jahanara felt as if she had stepped from a cold darkness into warm sunlight. Remembering her purpose, she gathered her tattered calm and summoned her body-slave to bring forward the ‘postcard.’

Father’s anger was not entirely gone. “Who brings his lies before us, if he is dead?”

She took the card. “I beg your indulgence, Father. Decide after you have seen the proofs before dismissing the claims.”

“Who?” he asked, still insisting, but more gently.

“No one you know, Father. He is another disciple of Mian Mir, one who has proven an honest and loyal servant to the living saint and, by extension, your person. He took great risks-at hazard of his own life-to bring word ahead of Baram Khan’s remaining servants.”

Clearly still skeptical, the emperor opened his mouth to ask another question.

Greatly daring, Jahanara spoke over him. “This, Father, is one of the proofs.” She lowered her head and presented the postcard.

His hand left hers, pulled the photograph from her outstretched hand.

She left her hand extended, hoping he would take it again.

Long moments passed in a silence Jahanara barely dared breathe into.

A tear struck her palm.

Jahanara looked up.

Shah Jahan, emperor of the Mughals, cried a river of tears in total silence, postcard in hand.

Sole Heir

Terry Howard

Grantville, Early Spring 1636

"I got a letter today from Wolmirstedt. They wanted me to know that Otto Schmidt died. His shop is sitting empty. They are asking if we're coming back. And, they want to know what we're going to do about Anna," Arnulf Meier announced to his family, and everyone else at the dinner table.

The dining room table seated all ten members, eleven counting the baby, of the three families who shared the house when they were all there at once, which they usually were at supper time. Everyone except Madde and the baby had jobs. Not that Madde didn't work. She had a baby to take care of, plus she kept the common areas of the house and cooked most of the meals for all three families.

All four of the boys worked full-time, or part-time before and after school, in the old mine they, along with Officer Lyndon Johnson of the Grantville police department, leased from the government. They still had not gotten around to mentioning to their parents just how much money they had in the bank from selling the large stash of aged moonshine they had originally found in the mine where they now grew mushrooms, aged cheese, and processed copper for wire. Nor had they ever mentioned what they were doing with that money in the way of investments and business start-ups.

Herr Meier looked at his eldest son Paulus. "You remember Anna. When you were apprenticed to Herr Schmidt we assumed you would one day marry her. She was his only living child so you would eventually take over the shop. You couldn't take over the shop now even if you wanted. You aren't a shoemaker, and you have no interest in being one. And even if you were and even if you did, you aren't old enough.

"But that still leaves Anna. On the one hand, there never was a formal betrothal agreement. So we have no legal obligation to see the two of you married. And, her dowry is a shoemaker's shop which doesn't have enough business to make a living and isn't going to, the way things are. This means, she doesn't really have any other prospects.

"On the other hand-" Arnulf looked at his oldest son. "-the letter made it clear that some people there are still assuming you will marry Anna. The letter also made it clear that some people there feel we have some obligation to take care of the girl. Which, I suppose we do. As much as there was a shoemaker's guild in Wolmirstedt, we are what is left of it.

"So, Paulus, what are you going to do about Anna?"

Paulus looked back at his father. The blank look on the boy's face caused Arnulf to suppress a smile. He knew he had caught his son in an unguarded moment. He was sure his son's face completely and exactly reflected the boy's state of mind. It looked like the thought of marrying Anna, or anyone else at this time, for that matter, was, to his son, a completely unparsed sentence. Arnulf felt certain that, regardless of what things were like here in Grantville, the boy was still used to the idea of men getting married around thirty to women around twenty.

Shortly Paulus spoke, "Father, that is not for me to say!"

Arnulf worked hard at keeping a smirk off of his face. "Son, you can't have it both ways. When I suggested you help me out in the shop and finish learning the trade, you told me you were over eighteen and therefore an adult. You told me you've got a good job working in Officer Johnson's mine with the mushrooms and the cheese. You said that as long as you're paying your share of the rent and expenses, which I have to admit is true for both you and your brother, I don't have anything to say about how you spend your time or your money. I am still trying to figure out how Ebert managed to apply the same logic to stay out of the shop. He isn't eighteen yet. But, now you want to turn around and tell me you are too young to take on an adult's responsibility when it comes to dealing with the hard questions of life. Well, make up your mind. Are you an adult or aren't you?"

Arnulf continued with a solid demeanor and a straight face. "You're legally an adult only because we are in Grantville. Anywhere else in the civilized world, you would be right. It would not be for you to say. But, here in Grantville, up-timers see nothing wrong with a boy getting married as soon as he's out of high school as long as he can make a living. You're out of high school. You've got a good job in Officer Johnson's cheese mine. You can afford to support a wife and kids."

Herr Meier lost the fight at keeping a straight countenance. His face glowed with a smirk like a pig with a secret stash of apples. The three men at the table had figured out, at least in general, what their sons were up to, even if they had no idea just how much money the boys were worth or just how many different businesses they were shareholders in or how much property they owned (besides the house they all lived in), or even where exactly the money had come from in the first place. The boys were paying a reasonable amount of money every week to the support of the families and the three families were enjoying what they all considered to be a very comfortable standard of living. So Herr Meier and the other two fathers had agreed amongst themselves to sit back and wait for the boys to bring it up. But, since he could put his son in an uncomfortable spot without breaking the secret, it amused Herr Meier to do so.

"So there it is." Arnulf recapped the pertinent facts, "Anna is probably assuming you are going to marry her someday. Wolmirstedt is assuming we will take responsibility for the girl, even if there never was a formal betrothal. So! What are you going to do about Anna?"

Paulus blinked. As he thought about it he realized, somewhere, not far from where his id hid from his ego, he still assumed he would one day marry Anna Schmidt. This was perhaps part of the reason why dating was not something he had taken an interest in, no matter how many girls threw themselves at him. He was a plain-looking fellow, and no one had been particularly interested in him before he went into business. Now he assumed it was his money they were interested in. This was a perfectly reasonable reason for them to be interested in him, when one looked at it logically. But, now that he dragged his unexamined thoughts into the light of day, he found that his logic had been corrupted by up-time romantic thought. On the one hand, if they didn't want anything to do with him before, he didn't want anything to do with them now. On the other hand, in another unlit crack or cranny, one that had not been corrupted by Grantville's improbable and improper ways, dating was courting, and he was ten years away from being old enough to have a family of his own and therefore he had no reason to be courting anyone, not to mention the expense of doing so. These were the first assumptions he looked at. His second thoughts were of Anna herself. He hadn't seen her in over five years. His father had collected him from Herr Schmidt's shop on his way out of town. Herr Schmidt had decided to stay and hide and thought his apprentice should stay with him. Paulus tried to conjure an idea of what she might look like now. He couldn't get past the picture of a scrawny redheaded lass standing under her mother's hand, while his father and her father yelled at each other.

Still, the idea that she would one day be his wife was, upon reflection, just as comfortable in the light of day as it was lurking in the dark shadows. His father was absolutely right. He was more than capable of supporting a wife and family. His father had no idea just how true that was. When they had found the stash of aged moonshine they did not tell their parents because they feared their parents would take the money and use it to leave Grantville. Instead they invested it. Now, after all this time, telling them would be difficult.

Paulus blinked again. "If we are going to play this by Grantville rules, and apparently we are or you would be telling me what to do instead of asking, then Anna will have something to say about it. I suppose I ought to go find out."

His father nodded. "I suppose you should."

"But, even by Grantville rules, we'd have to wait. She's not sixteen yet," Paulus said.

"She can get married at fifteen, with parental consent," his brother Ebert pointed out.

Paulus turned to Ebert. "Well, we can't burn that bridge until we get there. If she says yes, we can find her a place to stay here in town and she can work in the mushrooms if she can't find something else, while we work out the details. If she doesn't say yes, then we will see if a stay in Grantville might not change her mind."

Ebert smirked, "What's the point of asking her if you're not going to accept her ans-"

The words, "Shut up Ebert," were accompanied by an elbow in the ribs.

Magdeburg, early spring 1636

Some days Anna could turn her mind off and think of nothing but cutting shoe parts out of the hide in front of her. It made the twelve-hour workday go faster. And some days she couldn't. This was one of those days.

The millwright and the mechanic were assembling a stamping press for cutting uppers like the one already in use for cutting the soles. They might not get as many units out of a hide as they did when they cut them by hand, since they'd be cutting several hides at once, but the savings on labor would make up for the loss on the materials. Besides, they were getting a good price, a very good price, on scrap leather. Once they'd chopped it into tiny bits, the gunsmiths were using it for bluing barrels and they could sell all they had. The cutters and the kids tracing the patterns for the cutters to cut had been told not to worry. "No one is going to lose their job. We'll still be cutting the odd sizes by hand and some of you will move up to other jobs because output will go up."

Her mind went back to the days in Wolmirstedt, when she was a little girl and she had a mother and a father and knew she would one day marry her father's apprentice and keep the house while he kept the shop. Then came Tilly's men. Paulus' father took him and fled. Momma got sick and died that first winter when there was so very little to eat. Her father caught a fever and died just a few months ago.

There was no one to take over the shoemaker's shop. Where there had once been two shoemakers in town before Tilly's men, now the town was about one-fourth of the size it had been before and there wasn't enough business in Wolmirstedt to keep even a single shoemaker busy. It didn't help that the people could buy shoes out of the Wish Book cheaper than her father could make them. With no one to run the shop, Anna moved to Magdeburg and got a job in one of the shoe mills. It was either that or starve. The town council told her they couldn't support another charity case.

Anna's thoughts went from worrying about the future to dreaming the impossible dream, Adolf's dream. Before she met Adolf, she dreamed Paulus' family would return to Wolmirstedt, that they would take her in and she would, in due time, marry him and he would run the shop in Wolmirstedt. Now it was a different dream.

Adolf, his sister, and his mother lived in the same two room apartment she did, along with sixteen other people. He had almost been a journeyman before Tilly's men came through. He was sure he could make a living in Wolmirstedt if he could get one of the heavy machines for sewing the uppers onto the soles like he was running now, and one of the light machines for sewing uppers. He had in mind a style of shoe not found in the Wish Book. He'd seen it in a used clothing store. It was from Grantville and it was a baker's shoe, called a loafer. It was suitable for a townsman who didn't want to wear the heavy work boot like the ones the mill was making for the army, and sure didn't want to wear a wooden shoe like a peasant. He'd have to cart them to market in Magdeburg or somewhere else not run by the guilds. And if anyone ever opened a mill making them, he might be out of business. Still, Adolf had a dream and she and her father's shop were now part of it. When she couldn't turn her mind off, the dream was often the only thing she had to keep her going.

Anna heard voices. One was the plant manager. He was escorting someone through the mill. This meant some bigwig, usually a shoe buyer, sometimes a shareholder. But the bigwig was too young to be a shoe buyer. He was little more than a lad of a boy; he was very plainly dressed to be someone important like a shareholder and yet his voice was oddly, distantly, familiar.

"You can see we are nearly done assembling the new stamping press for cutting uppers. We are expecting a fifteen percent increase in production once the new press is on line. And over here is the old cutting area."

Anna took a second look at the bigwig. Her mouth fell open. "Paulus?" Her hand flew to her mouth. But it was already too late. The name was out. The plant manager turned to look at her with a frown on his face. The idea of someone on the floor addressing one of his guests greatly annoyed him. His people should be concentrating on their work. They shouldn't even notice he was there.

Paulus stopped and stared. No one would call the girl beautiful. But no one would call her ugly either. Mostly she was clearly Anna and that was comfortable.

"Anna?" Paulus answered. "I was just in Wolmirstedt looking for you. They said you'd gone to Magdeburg."

"How did you ever know to look here?"

"I didn't and I didn't think I'd ever find you. So I wasn't even looking. But since I was passing through town I thought I'd see how things were going in the shoe plants." He couldn't help doing a little bragging. "Having stockholders dropping in for a look around from time to time is supposed to be good for keeping the management on their toes."

"You're a stockholder?" Anna could see that the shop manager was starting to fidget on top of turning red in the face. "I've need to get back to work."

"No you don't." Paulus said. "You need to quit."

"Quit? I can't do that! I need this job!"

The plant manager spoke up, "Herr Meier, I would hate to see her quit. She is a good worker. She is on the list for trainees for the new press."

Paulus ignored the plant manager and said to Anna, "No you don't."

"Yes I do! How will I pay my room and board?"

"Anna, you're fourteen. You're too young to be working full-time in a shoe mill."

"Paulus, there are lots of people younger than me working here."

"Yes, but they're not wards of the Wolmirstedt Shoemaker's Guild."

"There isn't such a thing as a Wolmirstedt Shoemaker's Guild."

"Well, there was. It was your father and my father and your father was the guild master. So I guess my father is now. It really doesn't matter. When my father finds out you're working in a shoe mill, he'll put a stop to it. You can't work here if you're going to school in Grantville where my parents can keep an eye on you. So you can quit now and come to Grantville with me. Or you can wait and make my father come and get you. You don't want to make him do that! He won't ask you to quit. He'll tell you to. Then if you don't he'll have them fire you."

Several thoughts and emotions flashed through Anna's mind pretty much at the same time. First was the old dream. The Meier family would not be returning to Wolmirstedt; but, they would take her in and take her to Grantville. They would take care of her, even send her to school, and in due time, she would marry Paulus. This caused her to smile in relief. Secondly she did not want to make Herr Meier angry. This thought linked into the unhappy memories of her own father in a drunken rage as he was so often towards the end. This caused her to wince in remembered pain and grief. Then came the new dream, Adolf's dream. Now the dream would not happen. This thought brought sadness and with the sadness came guilt. For Adolf's dream to work, they needed the shop in Wolmirstedt plus what she could add to the family's savings. How could she turn her back on her new family? She now shared one of the big beds in the apartment with Adolf, his mother and his sister. It was cheaper than renting a cot. When the nightmares came, Adolf's mother would snuggle her and whisper comforting words and prayers in her ear.

When Anna's mind and face settled down what remained was resolve tinged with sadness. "Paulus, I can't. I'm going back home to Wolmirstedt just as soon as we save up enough money."

Shock fought with puzzlement for dominance in Paulus' mind. He'd never really considered the possibility that Anna would say anything but yes. "Anna, we need to talk about this.

"Herr Wiesel," Paulus asked the plant manager, "would you be kind enough to give her the rest of the day off?"

"Paulus, they'll dock me."

"I'd object if they didn't!" he said. "Don't worry, I'll cover it. Go get your coat and meet me in the office. We'll go to an early lunch."

"But, who will do her job?" The manager objected. "We're barely keeping up as it is. I'll end up sending some people home early when we run out of uppers and we'll miss our production goal for the day." He knew he had a winning argument because Paulus had been asking rather critically about missed production goals.

Anna turned back to cutting uppers with a vengeance and was steadfastly ignoring him.

Recognizing defeat Paulus said, "Anna, I'll be here at the end of the day."

Back in the office, Herr Wiesel asked, "If you don't mind my asking, what is your interest in our Anna?"

"I was her father's apprentice. I'm going to marry her."

"Oh? I thought she had an understanding with Adolf."

"What? Who?"

Now her reaction started to make since. The startlement transformed into anger. Anna had other plans. But, Anna is mine! How dare she? But the anger gave way to reason. Well? Why not? We never were formally betrothed. I wasn't there when she needed me. The reason which replaced the anger slid into acceptance. The acceptance became relief. I don't have to look after her. She is going to marry someone else. The relief became sadness. The death of a lifelong expectation was still a death and while it was not a devastating loss it still needed to be grieved. In his grief he thought of three girls in Grantville, each prettier than Anna, who had flirted or at least tried to flirt with him. Still, Anna was his. Am I just going to let this fellow Adolf steal her?

The manager answered Paulus' question, "Adolf Braun, he's one of our machine operators. He's been trying to raise a loan to buy a sewing machine to go into business. They won't sell him the sewing machines on installments because he isn't a master, so they don't consider him qualified. If he can manage to get a loan, the rent would be cheaper out of town. So he's been talking to Anna about her father's empty shop and his family has been saving their money."

"But, he can't compete with a mill." Paulus said.

"He doesn't want to. He wants to make a town shoe instead of a work boot. He wants to buy cut soles and whole hides and his other supplies from us and then he wants to sell his shoes out of our retail store here in town. You remember, we originally opened it to have someplace to sell the seconds we can't send to the army. We're selling out of seconds and we're getting a good rate for firsts going out the door too."

"Would the scheme work?"

"When we get the new press for uppers up and running, we're going to have to cut more soles than we can cut in a twelve-hour shift. So we're planning on opening up a partial night-shift just for running the sole press. If we do that, then we could run enough extra soles to let some go off site. The more soles we cut, the more scrap we can cut up into tiny little bits and from what we're getting for them we could quite possibly turn a small profit from cutting up whole hides. As for the rest of the supplies, the more we buy the better. Even after we charge him a handling fee, we can still sell to him at a better price than he can get anywhere else and it all helps our bottom line. But that would be a matter of policy and I'd have to kick it over to the board."

Paulus smiled. "I don't think it will be a problem as long as you're sure it will be profitable."

"If he pays cash for the supplies and we take his shoes on consignment I don't know why it wouldn't be."

"Well, my father is making a lady's high-heeled dress shoe that is selling well in a dress shop in Grantville. Do you think your retail store would be interested in taking some on consignment?" If they were and his father decided to do it, then, he would have to take on an apprentice or hire help. He might try insisting that Ebert do it and that could cause all kind of problems. Maybe he shouldn't even bring it up. It would mean more money but sometimes there are other things, like domestic tranquility, that need to be considered.

The manager smiled. "Considering who's asking. "

"Yes, I see your point," Paulus said. "Just one more thing, well, two actually. First, would this Adolf be good for her? And by that I mean good to her."

"Yes. Adolf is a fine young man. He takes good care of his mother and his sister."

"Well, I guess the real question in my mind is whether or not this Adolf is up to it."

"If I had the money I'd loan it to him. He's a hard worker, he's level-headed, I have absolutely no doubt he'd make it work."

But still, Anna was his! The relief shifted back into anger and the anger became resolve. He found his answer in a favorite phrase he'd picked up off a Grantviller who bought so many of their fresh mushrooms, The answer isn't no, it's hell no! Dammit, Anna was his!

By quitting time Paulus had calmed down and was prepared to admit that he had no claim on Anna and that he would let her go her own way if that was what she wanted. Still, he was waiting for Anna outside the employee door at quitting time. She was nearly the last to leave. When she came out she was with three other people. The girl, about his own age, was pretty, and was clearly the younger model of the older woman. The male was presumably Adolf. The four of them stood together in a way that somehow said "family." Even in the light of his resolve to let things alone, Paulus found this, for some reason, to be disconcertingly annoying and sighed.

"Anna? Over here." Paulus called. The four of them stopped and spoke briefly. The mother gave Anna a peck on the cheek before sending her off. It was obvious to Paulus that she was concerned. Adolf started to follow Anna. But he stopped when his mother laid a hand on his arm.

"Where would you like to eat?" Paulus asked Anna.

"I've heard a lot about Grantville Ribs with french-fried potatoes and coleslaw," Anna said.

"You've never tried them?"

"We get our meals with the rent. Sometimes it's not very good. More than once dinner has been a big tub of apple peels she'd bought out the back door of some eatery that was making apple pies or something. She just sets the tub down in the middle of the table and everybody digs in. We eat a lot of dumplings, but the meals come with the rent so we don't eat out."

"Well, let's go find ourselves some ribs then." Paulus led her into the office.

"Hey, Herr Wiesel, who has the best ribs in town?" Paulus asked.

"Carry out or eat in?" Wiesel asked.

"Eat in I think. It's a little too cold for a picnic."

"Cheap or fancy?" Wiesel asked.

This left Paulus in a bit of a dilemma. He wanted to say "the cheapest," but he didn't want to look chintzy in front of Anna. He settled on saying, "The best ribs. I'll happily eat at some place cheaper if the food is better."

Herr Wiesel gave him directions and they headed out into the cold.

Anna didn't say anything until they were seated and Paulus had placed the order. They had been shown to a table back by the kitchen and Anna was very conscious of her shabby clothes. Paulus' coat was new, but he had the only coat she could see in the restaurant that had plain leather buttons.

Finally she asked, "Paulus, do you really own part of the shoe mill?"

"Well, I own a quarter of the McAdams Mining Company. And it owns twenty percent of the mill you worked in, along with twenty percent of several other things."

"How did you end up owning part of a mining company?"

"It took a lot of hard work, and then we had some very good luck that landed us with a nest egg. After that it took a lot of common sense, and even more hard work and yes, it is true, even more good luck."

A very anxious Anna didn't press him for a better answer. Instead she asked, "You said the mill I worked in? Are you really going to have me fired?"

"No, but, unless you tell me to take a hike, you really are going to have to quit. I think you should go to Grantville and enroll in school where my parents can keep an eye on you, and then we will get married if you want to when you're old enough. So you'll have some time to make up your mind. I don't think you should stay in Magdeburg alone."

"I'm not alone. And besides, I don't want to stay in Magdeburg and I don't want to go to Grantville. I want to go back to Wolmirstedt," Anna said almost in tears.

He knew for certain what her answer would be but he was, somehow, still, hoping he was wrong so he said, "But there's no one to run the shop and the shop can't make a living."

"Adolf can."

"Adolf Braun?" Paulus asked.

"Yes. Adolf thinks he can make it work if he can get a loan for the sewing machines. He's a journeyman, almost one, anyway. If he can't get a loan, we're saving up to buy one," Anna whispered.

"We?" Paulus asked.

"His family and I. They've been good to me since I got to Magdeburg. Adolf's mother looks after me.

"Momma died four years ago and Poppa took to drinking when things got bad and that made it worse of course. At first when he got drunk he'd beat me. Later, when he was drunk almost all the time he-" Anna had tears running down her face and didn't finish saying what it was her father did when he was drunk.

"So you feel like you're part of a family and you want to take them back to Wolmirstedt and try running the shop."

"Yes, but Adolf can't get a loan. The Wolmirstedt town council won't or can't help. It would be easier if Adolf had his master's papers but he doesn't. If he had them, the machine sellers would sell to us on installments since we have a shop. But their guild-lines require the buyer to be a master, if you want to buy on time."

"Okay, Anna." Paulus found himself, once again angry. At Wolmirstedt for not taking care of her, at Anna's mother for dying and her father for being a jerk, at Adolf and his family for stealing Anna's affections which he thought should be his, at Tilly for turning the world upside down and at the world for letting it happen. He found himself wanting to tell her that what she wanted did not matter, she was coming to Grantville. But it was plain that wouldn't work. "If you want to go back to Wolmirstedt, then I guess it's time we talked to Adolf and see about making it happen."

"Do you think you can?"

"Probably, but I need to talk to Adolf.

"The ribs are here. You rip them off the rack and gnaw them off the bone. The only thing you need the fork for is the coleslaw."

A bit later Paulus asked, "How are the ribs?"

"Good," Anna answered.

"Do you remember the time when-" Paulus wandered off into happier times and kept up the chatter all the way through supper, including a rather fancy desert.

As he helped her on with her coat he said, "Let's get you home and I'll talk to Adolf."

"Can you get him a loan?"

"Probably not. But the mining company should be willing to go into a partnership with you and front the startup cost. I'll have to go back to Grantville and talk to my brother and our partners, but I don't think there will be a problem. It's just another start-up company and it has a good business plan with what should be a better than average return as long as Adolf is willing to work it."

"Oh, Adolf is a good worker. He figures with the sewing machines he can keep ahead of his sister and me cutting out the uppers. Then his mother can take care of the house. Eventually we'll get married, I'll take over running the house from his mother and maybe he can get an apprentice or two."

They never got to the apartment. Adolf was waiting for them in the street outside the restaurant. Despite his mother's wishes, he'd followed them there and waited for them through the meal.

"Anna, is everything alright?" Adolf demanded as soon as he saw her.

Paulus read the hostility and worry written plainly on the man's face. But mostly he took note of the club the man had managed to come up with somewhere along the way. It was in the fellow's hand, hanging against his leg, half-concealed.

"Adolf, this is Paulus. I told you he used to be my father's apprentice and he owns part of the mill. He's going to help us get set-up in business."

"Why?" Adolf barked belligerently, locking eyes with Paulus.

"Because Anna is an old friend. Because my father feels our family has an obligation toward her and I agree." He didn't say, Because it is the first step in a plan to get Anna away from you.

"Paulus can get us the sewing machines," Anna said.

"You can?" a conflicted Adolf replied.

"Yes," Paulus said, "but understand. We're not talking about a loan. We're going to want fifty-one percent of the business. You will run it, we'll help with set up and marketing. You can pay yourself, your sister and Anna the same wages you're making now but we're going to take half the profits."

"Is that fair?" Anna asked.

"I think it is." Paulus nodded. "You're living on wages now, aren't you? This way, you get your living and a nice incentive program, half of the profits. If you don't make it work you can come to Grantville and he can go back to the mill and we can sell the machines."

A surprised Adolf spoke up, "Half of a business is better than none, Anna. At the rate we're going it could take us years to save up the money. If your friend will help us get the loan then I guess we will do it on his terms."

"Adolf? What's that?" she meant the club. "What are you going to do with it?"

"Nothing! Not anymore. But with his telling you that you had to quit and if you didn't he'd get you fired, well, I wanted to talk some sense into him and I thought I might need it to help get him to see things our way."

The next day Paulus returned to the office of the shoe mill. "Herr Wiesel? You said you would loan Adolf Braun the money if you had it. Will you stand by that?"

"What do you mean?"

"If you can get the money, will you loan it to him?"

"Where would I get that kind of money?

"Borrow it and lend it to him at a higher rate of interest, or buy a percentage of the business. If you're sure he can make it work it should be safe enough."

"Who would loan me that kind of money?"

"I think it could be arranged."

Back in Grantville, Paulus and Peter had a chat with the other two partners at lunch time at the high school.

"Look," Paulus said. "Yes, it's too far away for us to keep an eye on it. And I still agree that normally we shouldn't invest more than five percent in anything we can't keep an eye on. But, this is different and it's got a better than average business plan. Yes, we're buying a twenty-six percent share instead of the usual twenty percent share or fifty-one percent share, and we're making a loan to the shop manager in Magdeburg so he can buy a twenty-five percent share, but he's putting his money where his mouth is and is willing to sign for an unsecured loan. Which, really, it isn't. With his job, he's good for it if the business fails. The main expense will be the sewing machines and they're durable goods with a good resale value. The mill is getting new machines and the shop is buying used ones. So the risk isn't that high and it's spread three ways."

"So this is just business?" Ebert asked, "Nothing personal?"

"We do owe her something, Ebert. At least, Papa thinks we do. This way she's not just a dead expense to our family."

"And that's all?" Ebert asked.

"What else would it be?" Paulus asked.

Ebert smirked.

"Shut up, Ebert," Paulus responded.

"Sounds good to me." Peter said.

Ludwig nodded. "It's not that much money and it's not that big of a gamble and Paulus really wants it, so I figure if we go along with it he owes us one, especially if it goes bust."

At this last thought Paulus' countenance darkened.

"It's settled," Peter said. "Let's go get the ball rolling."

"I didn't say I agreed," Paulus said.

"Well?" Peter asked.

"Are you sure this is just business?" Ebert asked his brother.

Paulus just glared at him.

"Actually, it is a good business plan," Ebert said. "I can see us doing a lot of these partnerships between the mill and struggling shops. I've only got one thing to say."

"What?" Ludwig asked.

Ebert got a shit-eating grin on his face and in a singsong voice associated with a grade school playground he said, "Paulus has a girlfriend. Paulus has a girlfr-"

"Shut up Ebert!" a flushing Paulus demanded rather more adamantly than usual.

That night over dinner, Paulus' father asked, "Where's Anna? Did you leave her in Wolmirstedt?"

"No. She wasn't there. But she found me in Magdeburg. She is working in one of the shoe factories."

"And you left her there?"

"I offered to bring her to Grantville but she'd rather go home. She's found a journeyman who thinks he can make the shop in Wolmirstedt work if he can get a couple of sewing machines. The plant manager thought he could too."

"And you think he can get someone to give a loan to a journeyman?"

Paulus, not wanting to admit that he and his partners had the money to make it happen, lied by telling a half-truth. "The plant manager is going to arrange things. They will get the machines and their supplies through the mill and sell their finished product in the mill's outlet store."

Herr Meier wanted to know, "Is she going to marry this journeyman?"

"Maybe, in time. She's still too young to get married. But, he's taking his mother and his sister to Wolmirstedt with him to help make the shop work, so it's all right. And I promised that if they sent Anna to enroll in the accounting program at the high school here in Grantville next fall so she can learn how to run the business, we'd look after her and find her a part-time job and a place to stay she could afford."

"Yeah, right," Ebert said. "She's coming to Grantville to learn to run the business."

Paulus blushed a very deep red and pushed an elbow, rather harder than usual, into his brother's ribs.

"Ouch! Hey, that hurt," Ebert objected.

"Shut up, Ebert!"

Accidental Heroes

Kerryn Offord

Sunday, March 2, 1636

Boom! Crack! Crack!

Dina Frost froze where she was. It wasn't the deer hunting season, so nobody should be shooting in this area-that meant the shooters were probably poachers. Maybe that was what the policemen from the cruiser she and her companion had walked past earlier were looking for. She and Bruno didn't have much to fear from poachers, other than maybe being mistaken for deer. That was one of the reasons both she and Bruno were wearing high-visibility jackets.

"Two guns," Bruno said.

Bruno's comment might have surprised a lot of people who thought he was, to put it politely, mentally challenged, but Dina wasn't one of them. He might have the mental age of an eight-year-old, as the various tests he'd been given indicated, but Dina, as a nine-year-old, felt confident that Bruno was smarter than a lot of kids her age. "Yes, two guns. At least one of them is a modern rifle."

"Repeater," Bruno said before mimicking firing a lever-action carbine with full sound effects.

"Yes, a repeater," Dina agreed. The boom had come from a black powder weapon. The two supersonic cracks had to have come from a modern rifle firing modern ammunition. That meant two, maybe three poachers. Well, she thought, if they'd killed their deer, then they'd be more interested in carrying it out before anybody caught them, meaning they wouldn't be hunting in the valley she and Bruno were heading for. Sure that they'd be safe from carelessly discharged firearms she waved for Bruno to follow and they continued on their way.

They walked on in silence for a quarter of an hour, until Bruno tapped Dina on the shoulder and pointed towards a tree. "Amerikanischer Rotvogel."

Dina knew better than to try and distract Bruno when he was birdwatching. Birds fascinated him, and he could watch them for hours. She pulled a book from her rucksack and settled down to wait until he got bored, or more likely, the birds flew off.

Marcus Acton rammed the barrel of his rifle into the gut of Ned Harris. "Why the hell did you have to snoop around, kid?" He glared at the body at his feet for a few seconds. He hadn't enjoyed having to kill the silly fool. Now he had to find out how much the snoopers knew about his operation. He dug out Ned's notebook, but there was nothing in there to suggest why he was in Marcus' valley. He walked over to the next body. It was another uniformed police officer. An examination of his notebook also came up empty. That left the female. She wasn't in uniform, so she probably wasn't a cop. Wilhelm, one of his two down-timer partners, passed him an official looking identification folder he'd lifted from her body. Marcus felt a sense of foreboding. Flipping it open the badge confirmed his worst fears. "A fucking Treasury agent."

Herman and Wilhelm gathered close to read over his shoulder. "They're onto us," Herman said.

Marcus almost agreed, but a moment's thought had him shaking his head. "I don't think so. If they were, the hills would be alive with Treasury agents." He took a really good look at the female. She'd been a good looking down-timer, but her hands were soft and ink stained. He felt around for the notebook he was sure she would be carrying. He found it easily, and whereas the notebooks of the two policemen had shed no light on why they were here, hers was full of details.

The details were distressingly accurate, but the side comments threaded through the notebook reassured Marcus. "I think we might be in the clear. The dame's obviously a frustrated wannabe field agent who was conducting her own investigation with a little help from the boyfriend."

"But if she was on to us. " Herman said.

"Don't worry, Herman. She'll have kept everything to herself. I'm sure she would have wanted to present the case against us to her boss all tied up in ribbons."

"So what do we do now? We can't leave them here. It's too close to our camp."

That was an understatement. The camp was all of a hundred yards from where they were standing. If he bothered to look, Marcus would have easily seen the shed where their still was quietly bubbling away. "First thing, we need to dump the bodies where they are unlikely to be found, and if they are found, they'd better be nigh on impossible to identify. Start stripping them."

His two companions had no hesitation stripping the dead, but Marcus hesitated over the distasteful task of stripping Ned. It wasn't that he had any real qualms about what he was doing, but the.308 hunting round that had killed Ned had made a real mess of the young police officer. Eventually the task was done. He bundled up the clothes and slid Ned's wallet and identification into a pocket before buckling Ned's issue belt with all its accouterments around his waist. Then he picked the naked body up in a fireman's lift. "Herman, Wilhelm, you ready?"

"Ja!" Herman said as he struggled to lift his man.

Wilhelm, with the woman, had a much easier time lifting her. "Where to?"

"Over the hill. We want the bodies as far away from our camp as possible," Marcus said.

Once they were over the hill and into the next valley Marcus started looking for somewhere to hide the bodies. A mine shaft would have been ideal, but they were few and far between in this particular patch of West Virginia County. So what he was looking for was somewhere where they were unlikely to be discovered for a few years, or at least several months.

"This'll do. Dump them here," he said as he dropped Ned Harris and started pulling leaves and other ground litter over the body. Wilhelm and Herman followed suit. A few minutes later Marcus stood and examined their handiwork. "Okay, that's good enough. Let's go back and see if we can back-track them to where they left their vehicle. That'll be a signpost pointing right to us if we can't move it before it's discovered."

The sound of voices and crashing in the woods interrupted the peace and the cardinals took to the air. Bruno moaned, and Dina had to grab his hand him to stop him running out and confronting the people who'd disturbed his bird watching. Then she distinctly heard someone say "dump them here." There were the thuds of three objects landing on the ground, followed by a period of rustling in the undergrowth, then the voices went away.

Dina was curious. What were they dumping? "Follow me," she told Bruno as she set off towards where she'd heard the objects being dumped.

Bruno spotted the disturbed undergrowth first. He prodded it with his hiking stave, and swept aside some of the undergrowth. His muted squeal of horror had Dina running to see what he'd found.

She immediately wished she hadn't, because Bruno had found a naked body. Dina stared at the body in horror. Those men had dumped a body. Her first instinct was to grab Bruno by the hand and run, but what if the person wasn't dead? She'd never forgive herself if she'd left a man to die. She fell to her knees and brushed aside the ground litter that covered the man, and quickly realized that there was more than one body. She removed more ground litter to reveal three naked bodies.

She was almost sick at the sight of the two men and a woman. The girl and one of the men had enormous exit wounds in their backs. Dina felt for a pulse, but didn't feel anything. Because her hands were shaking so much she checked again by putting her ear to their chests. They were both dead.

The other man, a down-timer she was pretty sure she recognized from when her paternal grandmother called the police after her prized fluffy-white Persian cat had been terrorized by someone spreading nitrogen triiodide crystals around her food bowl, had a much smaller and less gory exit wound, and it was still bleeding. She stared at the trickle of blood for a moment. Surely dead people didn't bleed? She put her ear to his chest, and heard a faint heartbeat. Dina wasn't sure what to do. She had to get help, or the man would surely die. But she couldn't leave him here. Her eyes fell upon her companion. Bruno was strong. He might not have the physique of a bodybuilder, but a lifetime of hard physical labor had given him considerable strength and endurance. "Bruno, can you carry this man back to where we found that police car?"

Bruno nodded. While he lifted the man Dina turned back to the other bodies to make one final check that they were both dead. Confident that they were dead, Dina turned her attention back to Bruno. He could be so single minded once he started something that he would continue doing it until he dropped if someone wasn't there to tell him to stop. She was going to have to keep an eye on him for his own sake.

She'd taken a dozen steps before she realized she'd have to guide the adults back to the other bodies. She broke some twigs and set them in the ground as an arrow pointing to the tree before hurrying to catch up with Bruno.

Bruno started to follow the path along the ridgeline they'd used on the way up, but Dina felt that it was important to get back to the police car they'd passed earlier in the day as quickly as possible. So she led him straight down the steep slope, marking their route as she went.

When they made it back to the police car Dina checked the door. Just as she'd feared, it was locked. She stared through the window at the radio. She needed to get to that to call for help. Bruno could easily to smash a window, but that wouldn't help, as the radio wouldn't work without power, and you needed the key to turn on the power. She stared at the radio, so close, but so far away. Then she remembered her uncle producing a spare key that had been wired to the chassis of his police cruiser after the officer with him had managed to lock the car with the keys inside.

It wasn't the same vehicle, but surely the police wouldn't hide a spare key on just one of their cars. She dropped to the ground and started searching. She found it the hard way, spiking her hand on the wire. She tried to undo the wire, but it was too strong for her small hands. She slid out from under the cruiser. "Bruno, I need you. Put the man down and come here, please."

She directed Bruno to the key and he was able to quickly free it. Moments later she had the door open and the ignition on to power the radio. "Mayday! Mayday! Officers down!"

Mimi Rowland, a police dispatcher, responded almost immediately-asking her to identify herself.

"This is Dina Frost. Me and Bruno heard some shots, and then some men hiding some bodies. I think one of them is Officer Heilmann. He's still alive, but he needs to get to the hospital."

"Whoa, girl. Slow down. Take a deep breath and say that again, slowly."

Dina did as she was told. This time making it clear that she thought Officer Heilmann might be the casualty they'd brought back, and not one of the men dumping the bodies.

"Do you have a badge number for the officer?" Mimi asked.

"He's not wearing a badge, Mrs. Rowland. None of them had any clothes on. They were shot and their bodies hidden." Dina bit down on her knuckles as she remembered seeing the bodies and the bloody wounds.

"Where are you now, Dina?"

"I'm in cruiser four, just off Salt Lick Run, below the cemetery."

A new voice came over the radio. "We're sending a couple of squad cars, Dina. Until they arrive can you get Bruno to carry Officer Heilmann clear of the cruiser, somewhere where you can all hide? Do you understand? I want you to get well clear of the vehicle and hide until we get there."

Dina easily recognized her uncle's voice. "Why do you want me to hide, Uncle Estes?"

"Just do as I say, Dina. I want you to get away from the car and hide until we arrive."

Dina hung up the microphone and stepped out of the car. She saw Officer Heilmann's body lying on the ground at Bruno's feet, and suddenly she knew why Uncle Estes wanted her to hide. She picked out a clump of bushes that might be a good hiding place and directed Bruno to pick up the man and follow her. She wanted to run, but she couldn't, because that would just cause Bruno to panic.

Marcus finally stumbled out onto a road, and there, hidden under a tree, was a police cruiser. He and his companions approached it. Wilhelm grabbed the door handle. Marcus was all ready to tell him not to waste his time when the door opened. That was unexpected. Surely the cops wouldn't have left it unlocked. Then he realized the radio was on, and he heard "Salt Lick Run" being mentioned. He listened a little more in growing horror as he heard various voices announcing they were converging on the place he was standing. "The cops are on to us. Run!"

"How?" Herman asked as he chased after Marcus and Wilhelm.

"I don't know, but the radio is alive with cops saying they're heading this way." Marcus stopped to look around, just in case he could see anyone, He couldn't, but in the distance he could hear the sound of sirens. Normally he wouldn't have worried, as police sirens weren't unknown even this far out of town, but this time he knew they were probably headed his way. "Back to the boat. It's our best bet to get away."

Dina was worried. From their hiding place under a bush more than fifty yards from the police cruiser they'd had a good view of the vehicle. She'd been scared enough when the three men appeared, but Bruno's reaction had terrified her. He'd curled up into a protective ball and was muttering and moaning in fear.

The wail of sirens signaled the approach of two pickups. They skidded to a halt within sight of the cruiser and a dozen armed policemen and a dog emerged. Dina identified her uncle and ran up to him. "Those men scared Bruno, Uncle Estes."

"What men?" Estes asked.

"Three men came out of the trees and looked around the car. One of them opened the door of the cruiser, and then suddenly the three of them ran off."

Estes' fingers dug into Dina's shoulder until she winced and shook his hand off. "Sorry." He turned to the gathering officers. "Erika, take half a dozen men and see if Pluto can track them." He gently pushed Dina to arms length and crouched down to her eye level. "How are you?"

"I'm okay, but I'm really worried about Bruno and the man we found."

"Show me," Estes said.

Dina led him to the bush where Bruno was still huddled into a tight ball beside the naked body of Gottlieb Heilmann.

"That's Gottlieb alright," Estes announced as he crouched over the body checking for signs of life. Moments later he looked up. "Haggerty, Steinfeldt, get over here."

While Blake Haggerty and Heinrich Steinfeldt carried Gottlieb to the load bay of one of the pickups, Estes quickly checked over Bruno before resting a hand on Dina's shoulder. "I need to get back to my men. Will you be all right here with Bruno?"

She nodded numbly and wrapped her arms around the tight ball that was Bruno and bit her lips to keep the tears at bay. She was vaguely aware of her uncle walking off and the sounds of vehicles coming and going. A few minutes later her uncle tapped her gently on the shoulder. She looked up to see an ambulance officer beside her uncle. "Yes?"

"Do you think you can guide us to where the bodies are hidden?" Estes asked.

Dina gently disengaged herself form Bruno and got to her feet. "Bruno needs me, but I left a trail. I can show you where we left the woods." She led her uncle to the point she and Bruno had left the woods. A few feet into the woods the path they'd taken could be easily seen.

"We should be okay from here," Estes said. "You go back and look after Bruno."

She did as she was told, pausing only for a moment to watch the two men from the white van climbing into clean overalls. They were police forensic technicians. "One of them opened the driver's door, and slammed it shut with his hand against the frame before they ran off," she called out helpfully.

"Thank you," the senior forensics technician called before turning his attention to the door in question.

She watched them puffing powder over the door for a few seconds, but Bruno was still a concern. She left them to it and hurried over to where Bruno was hiding.

Marcus was breathing heavily when he got back to their camp. "Herman, grab everything of value from your quarters and put it on the boat with the stuff we took from the cops. Wilhelm, you come with me."

While Herman headed for their living quarters Marcus and Wilhelm headed for the shed where their still was located. Marcus pointed to the full barrels. "Start loading those onto the boat."

While Wilhelm started rolling away the first of the barrels Marcus went through the shed looking for anything that could connect him with the facility and tossed it into the flames under the boiler. He then rolled the remaining full barrels of alcohol out of the shed before tipping a partly filled barrel over to fill a jug, which he used to splash alcohol around the shed. With a last jug of nearly one hundred and seventy proof spirits in his hand he turned the gas burners right up and lit a candle, which he touched to the alcohol splattered walls. Then he headed for the cabin Wilhelm and Herman been living in. He splashed the contents of the jug around before dropping the candle onto the bedding, where it ignited the alcohol. Sure everything was going to burn, he headed for the boat.

In the distance Dina could see a black cloud forming as her uncle and his party returned carrying two body-bags between them. The bags were loaded into an ambulance, and it headed off. Dina started to worry that she and Bruno had been forgotten as first her uncle, and then the other policemen drove off, leaving just the forensics team, who were also preparing to leave. She jumped to her feet and hurried over. "Are you going to take us home?" she asked.

"What the. "

From Georg Meisner's shocked reaction to her appearance Dina concluded everyone had completely forgotten about her and Bruno. "You aren't going to leave me and Bruno here, are you?"

"The Fraulein is correct, Herr Meisner," Martin Dorrenfelde said. "We can't leave them here."

"I know she's right, but we are not going back to town." He sighed heavily. "Get into the van. Herr Chief Richards can decide what to do with you."

The motor started first time, and soon Marcus was steering a course that would take them as far away as possible from the now merrily burning campsite. He was upset at losing such an ideal location, but the precious cargo of alcohol, the weight of which was threatening to sink the boat, mitigated the loss a little. "She was a nice little earner," he muttered.

"What do we do now?" Herman asked.

"You sell this last load and go to ground. There's nothing back there to connect any of us to the camp, or the dead cops."

"It's a good thing you were there today," Wilhelm said.

Marcus could only agree with the man. If he hadn't been around his two colleagues would probably be in police custody right now singing their tiny little heads off.

At the top of Salt Lick Run a number of police vehicles were parked on either side of the road and armed police were milling about as Sergeant Estes Frost tried to organize them. He broke away from them and approached as Martin drew the forensics van to a halt. Estes walked around to the passenger side and tapped on the window, which Georg wound down.

"We've found a camp, but they torched everything before they left. Do you still want to have a look?

"Yes, thank you."

Dina poked her head through the gap between the front seats. "Uncle Estes. You forgot all about me and Bruno!"

All color drained from her uncle's face and he muttered something she was sure was either a curse or a swear word. She consigned the word to memory, so she could look it up later.

"You and Bruno stick with me, but don't get in the way."

Dina dragged Bruno out of the truck and together they formed up, not quite at the "heel" position, but very close to it. When Estes moved, they moved. They followed Estes up over the hill and down the other side. They followed him to the water's edge, where Chief Press Richards was standing.

Press took one look at Dina and Bruno and swore. Dina pretended she hadn't heard him as she added it to the growing collection of words to be looked up. She waved. "Hi, Mr. Richards."

"Hi, Dina." Press pulled Estes Frost to one side to talk. Every so often either he or her uncle turned to look at her. Finally, it seemed as if Press had come to a decision. "Dina, we can't spare anybody to take you home right now. Can you keep out of trouble until I have someone to spare?"

Mindful that she didn't really have a lot of choice, Dina nodded. "Will it be all right if I look around for milkweed plants?"

"Sure. Is that what you were out looking for today?" Press asked.

"Yes." She looked around the campsite, paying special attention to the still burning shed that someone had built in the middle of a patch of milkweed that would have been worth over a hundred dollars.

The house on Gray's Run looked quiet and peaceful as her Uncle Estes drove the police car up the drive a couple of hours later. As the vehicle rounded the final corner she could see the reception committee that had assembled. There had been little chance that the story wouldn't have broken before she could get home, so Chief Richards had arranged for the office to call home for her, to pass on that she and Bruno were unharmed. Dina touched her uncle on the shoulder. "There's no need to tell mom and dad that me and Bruno saw the men, is there?"

"Well. "

Dina could see her uncle was about to launch into a speech about how her parents had a right to know, so she preempted him. "And there's no need for me to tell Mom that me and Bruno almost got left behind."

Estes stared hard at Dina for a few seconds before a smile flashed across his face and he held out his hand. "It's a deal. So what do we tell your mom and dad?"

Dina put her small hand into his and shook it. "We don't lie, because lies are always found out."

Estes nodded. "So we tell them the truth?"

She nodded. "Just not all the truth."

"You're associating with the wrong people, Dina."

Dina switched her gaze between Estes' eyes and the hand holding hers and raised her brows.

He saw it and grinned. "Enough of that, let's get this over and done with."

Dina had been sent off so her mother could get the real story from Uncle Estes. She knew that because she'd hung around long enough to hear her mom ask exactly that question. She left them to it. Mom was going to freak out when she heard that Dina had discovered three dead bodies, but it wasn't as if Dina hadn't seen dead bodies before-the Croat raid of '32 had taken care of that. She just had to hope that her uncle didn't let slip that she and Bruno had actually seen the murderers when they discovered the police car. That would really freak her mom out. And probably result in all sorts of restrictions being placed on her wanderings.

That reminded her. Bruno had freaked out pretty badly himself when he'd caught sight of the murderers. Why? She wondered. She'd seen Bruno scared before, but never that scared. She probably couldn't just ask him. She'd have to work it into a conversation sometime, but not right now. Not while the memories were too fresh. She needed Bruno to calm down before she asked, because she couldn't risk him freaking out like that again. Mom would be sure to ask uncomfortable questions.

Marcus Acton walked up the drive to his home, his rifle, in a rifle scabbard, slung over his shoulder, a fishing rod in his left hand, and a string of fish he'd caught hanging from his right. His wife was waiting for him at the door. He held up the string of fish. "This evening we eat," he joked.

"That's better than last week." Jocelyn kissed him, carefully avoided the string of fish. "There's been a shooting out on Salt Lick Run. The radio's been full of it."

Marcus glanced vaguely in the direction of Salt Lick Run. "I didn't hear anything. What happened?"

Jocelyn shrugged. "Other than that there was a shooting, and that three people have been taken to hospital, the police haven't said much." She edged the fish away and hugged Marcus. "I'm glad you're safe."

"Me too," Marcus said as he dropped a kiss behind her ear. "I guess we'll get the full story on the evening news."

Later that evening Marcus sat down with his family to watch the news. He wasn't disappointed. The fires he'd lit had totally destroyed the cabin and the distilling shed. It'd also burned a few of the barrels stacked around the back of the shed. It was all good stuff. With that much damage the chances of the police finding anything to connect him to the camp were negligible. He was sorry to lose the site, but with the girl from Treasury learning enough to sniff around they would have had to shut down the operation sooner or later anyway.

It came as a shock that one of the cops had survived, and the news that the bodies had been found by some snoopy kid didn't go down well.

"Dina Frost deserves a medal," Jocelyn said.

"But it was Bruno who carried the policeman out," ten-year-old Bailey Acton said.

"Who's Bruno?" Marcus asked.

"He's a guy that works for Dina's mother's aerial photography business. He goes around with Dina a lot."

"How old is this young man?" Jocelyn asked.

Bailey shrugged. "I dunno. Maybe mid-twenties."

"Celeste Frost lets her daughter hang around with a man in his mid-twenties? I don't believe it."

"The retard's no risk, mom. He'd never hurt his precious Dina. The guy practically worships her."

"We do not call people 'retards' in this household, young man."

"But he's real stupid, Mom. I heard that he'd been left to chop up some firewood, and when he didn't turn up for dinner they found him still chopping wood, even as it grew dark."

"We don't go around calling people stupid either, Bailey."

"No, Mom."

Marcus let the family squabble pass over his head as he stared at the television screen. Two people had found those bodies even though he'd been sure nobody would discover them for months, if not years. How did they find them? And so quickly? Dina and her friend would have had to be close by when they dumped the bodies. That thought raised the possibility that they'd been seen. He worried about that for a while. Officer Heilmann had seen them before he was shot, but that had been from over a hundred yards away. The girl had had an inexpensive down-time telescope, but Marcus didn't think they'd seen them before he and Wilhelm shot them. It was just such a damned shame Wilhelm's shot hadn't killed the guy, then he wouldn't have any worries.

He tuned back to the TV when the Grantville police chief appeared. He snorted in disbelief when Press Richards claimed that they were pursuing several lines of inquiry and that arrests, although not imminent, were expected soon. That was all so unlikely.

"What's so funny?" Jocelyn asked.

Marcus gestured at the TV screen. "Press Richards. How often have you heard the police claiming they expected to make arrests soon?"

"Too often." Jocelyn turned his head. "Promise me you won't go out that way until they catch whoever it was."

He leaned closer and kissed her. "I promise." It would be an easy promise to keep. With the site compromised there was no reason for him to go out that way. Besides, he'd be spending his spare time looking for somewhere new to set up.

Wednesday, March 5

Marcus was threading a pipe when his boss tapped him on the shoulder. Linda Jane pointed to two policemen at the door of the workshop. "The police would like a word with you."

He blanked out for a moment. Could they have found something that connected him to the deaths on Salt Lick Run? But it was only for a moment. He glanced down at the half-complete job he'd been working on. "I hope this won't take long," he called out to the policemen.

"Just a few minutes of your time, Herr Acton," Heinrich Steinfeldt said.

That didn't sound like they had anything. He grabbed a rag and wiped his hands on it. "You want to talk out in the sun?"

"Sure," Blake Haggerty said.

Once outside Marcus led them to a sheltered spot in the sun. "So, how can I help you?"

Blake flipped open his notebook. "We understand you were out on the RingLakes yesterday?"

"That's right. I usually go out fishing on Sunday if I can get away. Caught half a dozen fish yesterday."

"How far did you go?" Heinrich asked.

"Go? On the water?" Heinrich nodded. "There's this nice little nook on the south side of the Gray's Run peninsula-the fish seem to love it there." It was also a long way away from the campsite. He mentally complimented himself for his superior thinking and planning. By having a stash of gas there the boat rental's records would show he hadn't consumed enough to even put him close to where the still had been.

"Did you see anything suspicious?" Blake asked.

"I was fishing," he said. "When a guy's fishing the only thing he worries about is what might be happening on the end of his hook."

"True!" Blake muttered sheepishly. "So you didn't see anything?"

"I saw a cloud of smoke a bit after midday. I think it might have been the fire they showed on TV last night."

"Maybe," Heinrich said. "Just a couple more questions. Our information is that even though you were fishing, you had a large caliber hunting rifle with you yesterday?"

"You bet I had a rifle with me yesterday. I had a bad experience a few years ago when I got treed by a wild hog." Marcus shuddered dramatically. "There ain't no way I'm going out without something that can deal with a pig. That bastard hung around all day and most of the night. Never again." The story was even the truth, as too many people would be happy to tell them. It'd taken a while to live down that little experience.

"Didn't you have a handgun?" Blake asked.

"Sure, but a little.380 ain't much good against a three hundred pound boar. It just pissed him off."

"What kind of rifle do you own?" Heinrich asked.

"You name it, I've got it," Marcus joked. "But if you mean what did I take out with me yesterday, that was a civilian version of the M-14." He shrugged. "It's a bit too much gun, but I'm a lefty, and bolt-actions and levers can be a real pain."

"A couple of years ago you installed a valve on a wellhead out on Salt Lick Run?" Heinrich asked.

Marcus nodded. "Sure. The Hart brothers wanted to tap a local wellhead rather than haul gas in for the still they had at their little primer manufactory. They had all the proper permits for it, so I installed a tap."

"This was a pipeline?" Heinrich asked.

"Nope, just a tap so they could fill their own bottles. They weren't using enough gas to justify the cost of a pipeline."

Heinrich flipped his notebook closed. "Thank you for your time, Herr Acton. If you think of anything. "

"Call the police. Sure." Marcus shook hands with both officers and watched them walk off. That hadn't been so bad, and it seemed he'd covered his tracks well. A glance at his watch had him hurrying back to work. The client expected his bio-gas reticulation system to be ready for him by tomorrow, and there was still a lot of work to be done.

Dina walked into the police department and straight up to the reception desk and asked if she could see her uncle.

"Sergeant Frost is very busy," Eva Bernhardt said. "And shouldn't you be in school?"

Dina sighed. Adults had one track minds. "It's lunch break.Can you tell Uncle Estes that I need to speak to him, please? It's important."

Eva looked askance at Dina, but she did pick up the internal phone and called her uncle. "Sergeant Frost, your niece is at the desk and would like to talk to you. She says it's important." She nodded absently as she listened. "Yes, of course." She put down the phone. "Do you know where Sergeant Frost's desk is?" Dina nodded. "Very well, he's expecting you."

"Thank you," Dina said before hurrying off. She made her way to the office her Uncle Estes shared with several other officers. He was sitting down, papers spread all over his desk.

"I know you well enough to know you'd only ask to see me about something important, so take a seat and tell me."

Dina climbed onto the hard wooden chair and sat looking at her uncle. "Bruno recognized two of the men."

"Dina, I know you think a lot of Bruno, but you were both too far away from the car to see their faces."

"Bruno didn't have to see their faces close up to recognize them, Uncle Estes. He says they are his brothers," she said as if that explained everything.

Her uncle's eyes widened, and he reached for a clean sheet of paper and a pen. Do you have their names?"

"Wilhelm and Hermann." She shrugged. She knew that wasn't what her uncle really wanted, but it had been difficult enough getting that much out of Bruno.

"And their surname? Come on, surely if they are brothers, they should have the same name as Bruno."

"Bruno doesn't have a surname, Uncle Estes. At least not one he knows. He's only ever answered to Bruno."

Estes sighed. "What does he know about them? Are they older or younger than him?"

"They're older. They were really horrible to him when he was growing up. That's why seeing them scared him so much."

"How much older?"

"Bruno thinks they were about ten years older. They were always bigger than him when he was growing up." Dina really hadn't liked what she'd heard about Bruno's brothers. They sounded like a pair of real bullies. She'd never be that mean to her little brother.

"And how old is Bruno?"

Dina had to shrug again. "We don't know. Mom's best guess, based on the work history she's been able to back-track, is that he's about twenty-five."

"So we're looking for two men in their early- to mid-thirties."

"And fairly new to Grantville, because me and Bruno were out that way last year, and there was no shed in that spot."

"You were heading for that site?"

"They built their shed right on top of a really good patch of milkweed me and Bruno were going to harvest."

Suddenly the office went quiet. Dina looked around at the blank faces staring at her. "The latex you get from the milkweed is worth over a hundred dollars a gallon," she explained. "Of course you have to collect a lot of milkweed to get that much latex."

"Of course you do," Estes muttered as he got to his feet. "Well, there's not a lot we can do about your information unless you can give us a name. So for now, we'd better see about getting you back to school before you're missed. Come on, I'll give you a lift."

Dina followed her uncle, who was joined by Sergeant Fleischer. She was doing up her seatbelt when Erika Fleisher looked over her seat. "Dina, we appreciate your coming in to tell us what you've learned."

"But it's not much good because Bruno doesn't remember his family's name," Dina muttered.

"I'm afraid not," Erika agreed.

Dina stared blankly at the road ahead. There was one way to identify Bruno's brothers, and that was having him see them again. She started plotting how she could arrange that.

April 1636

Marcus cut the engine just as the boat started to ground. He hurried forward, grabbed the anchor, and jumped for shore. He grounded the anchor and then pulled the boat up onto the shore until it was firmly beached. It was the first time he'd returned to his old moonshine camp since the beginning of March when he'd killed two people. He removed his rifle from its scabbard, loaded five rounds into a magazine and clicked it into place before slinging it over his shoulder. It was time to explore.

The old cabin where Herman and Wilhelm had lived was a burned-out ruin. He nodded in satisfaction at the sight before moving on to the shed where they'd had their still. The fire he'd set there had left even less behind than the cabin fire. No doubt the gas had had something to do with that.

The still and all the gear they'd been forced to leave behind in the mad dash to evacuate the site were all gone, but he'd expected that. If nothing else, the police would have removed the still just to stop other people getting it.

He gave the site one final walk-around before returning to the shore. He traded his rifle for his fishing rod and found a spot on the shore where he could cast without catching his line in the trees. The wounded cop was improving, but from what he'd heard on the grapevine, was unable to give a description of Marcus or the Kindorf brothers. The most the cops had learned from Officer Heilmann was that they were looking for three people. Good luck to them with that bit of information. The cops seemed to have hit a dead end, meaning he was home free, so he might as well see if he could catch lunch.

The events of the previous month had resulted in Dina's activities being severely curtailed. She was behind in her latex collection, so today she and Bruno were carrying over fifty pounds of plant matter between them as they emerged from the woods around Deborah. She was hungry, and no doubt so was Bruno. Dina checked her purse, and taking full account of the money she should earn from the milkweed they carried, decided to divert past the bakery. They emerged with a sticky bun each.

They found somewhere to sit. Dina dug a couple of bottles of water out of her rucksack and passed Bruno one before drinking from hers. It was a warm April afternoon, so she leaned back on a tree trunk and watched the world go by while she ate her bun.

"Wilhelm!"

Bruno's horrified whimper jerked Dina back to the present. She checked Bruno. He was pale, almost white, and he was staring at a man sitting at an outdoor table.

Dina studied the man. He looked vaguely similar to one of the men she'd seen looking at the police cruiser, but then, so had a lot of men she'd seen since then. However, this was the first one Bruno had reacted to. She pulled out the camera her Aunt Lettie had lent her. She was looking at him through the viewfinder when he looked up and stared straight at her.

Click.

The man looked from her to Bruno. Suddenly he got to his feet, dropped some money on the table and hurried off.

Dina wanted to follow him, but a glance over her shoulder told her Bruno was in no state to be left alone. Movement out of the corner of her eye turned into a waitress heading for the vacated table, no doubt to recover the money Wilhelm had left under his glass. The glass! She ran, getting to the glass just before the waitress.

"What are you planning on doing with that glass, young lady?" Dee Fisher, the co-owner of Tip's demanded.

Dina edged closer and whispered. "I need to call the police. That man might be one of the men responsible for murdering Officer Harris." She could have mentioned the dead girl and the other officer, but they were both down-timers, and even after all this time a lot of up-timers, especially those around Mrs. Fisher's age, didn't seem to see them as being equal to up-timers.

"What makes you think he might be one of the people responsible?"

"Me and Bruno saw them." Dina immediately realized what she'd said and hastily looked around to see who might have heard. No one seemed to have heard, so she edged closer. "But you mustn't tell Mom that."

That drew a grin from Dee before she glanced at the glass. "You're thinking of fingerprints?"

Dina nodded.

"Okay then, you look after the glass while I call the cops."

"Thank you, Mrs. Fisher."

Dina had a box seat to watch Georg Meisner, the senior forensics technician, first lift the fingerprints from the glass and then compare them with the prints he'd taken from Car Four.

"Well," he said to the eager ears surrounding him some time later, "it looks like we have a match."

"You're sure?" Press Richards asked.

"Pretty sure, Herr Chief Richards, I've got nine points of similarity." Georg pointed to a spot on one of the prints with a pencil. "That loop there matches the loop here. And. "

"Okay, so you're pretty sure of a match. That means we have a suspect at last." Press smiled at Dina. "Good work." Press turned his attention to the six by three inch photograph of a man looking straight at the camera. "Is that as big as you can make it?"

"Yes," Georg said. "The man's face is actually a very small part of the negative. I believe Fraulein Frost was over fifty feet from the subject when she took the photograph."

Dina nodded that this was correct.

"Right, run off a couple of dozen copies and we'll start circulating them." Press turned to Dina. "We owe you a heap of thanks. I don't know how we can ever repay you."

"Cash, gold, negotiable bonds." Dina smiled at the shocked look on Chief Richards' face. She'd been dying for a chance to use that phrase ever since she heard her Aunt Lettie use it. It'd sounded so cool.

Marcus was standing on the sideline cheering Bailey's Little League Soccer team on with the rest of the parents. Right then Bailey emerged from the melee of nearly twenty nine-year-olds with the ball at his feet, jinked past the goalie, and dribbled the ball into the goal. He turned, proud as could be, to search for his family. The moment he located them he ran straight for them.

"I scored! I scored!" Bailey said as he launched himself at Marcus.

Marcus caught him, and hugged his son. "You were brilliant. The way you ran round that goalie, he didn't stand a chance."

"Daddy!"

Okay, so maybe he was spreading it on a bit thick, but he was proud of his son. He ruffled Bailey's hair and sent him off to rejoin his team.

"It was a good thing you were here to see his first goal," Jocelyn said.

"Yeah, I wouldn't have missed it for anything, but doesn't Britney have a pony club gymkhana next week?" he asked, looking down at his daughter.

"You remembered!" Britney squealed.

"Of course I remembered." He crouched down to her eye level. "Would I forget my favorite girl's big competition?"

Britney threw her arms around his neck. "You're the best daddy in the world."

Marcus hugged his little girl tightly, then swung her over his head so she could sit on his shoulders.

He was still carrying her on his shoulders when the final whistle was blown and everyone started to move towards the bus stop.

"Have either of you seen this man?"

Marcus glanced over to see a police auxiliary handing Jocelyn a photograph. He looked over her shoulder. It wasn't a great photograph, but anybody who knew Wilhelm Kindorf would easily recognize him. "Sorry, he doesn't look familiar. What's he wanted for?"

The auxiliary shrugged. "I don't know. We were just issued the photographs and sent out to see if anybody knew who he was and where he might be found."

Jocelyn handed the photograph back. "Sorry, I don't recognize him either. Is he dangerous?"

The auxiliary nodded. "That much we have been told. If you see him, don't approach him. Don't even try to follow him. Just call the police."

"We will," Marcus said.

They boarded the bus. Marcus found a seat for Jocelyn and the kids, but he had to stand. On the trip home he constantly looked down on his family. Every now and again Jocelyn would look up and smile at him. He thought about that photograph of Wilhelm and what it could mean. If the police caught Wilhelm, then he stood to lose everything he held dear. He had to do something about the Kindorfs before the police found them. The trouble was, he didn't know where they were staying.

"A penny for them!"

The inquiry jerked him back the present. He tried to smile at her, but his problems seemed to be growing. "They aren't worth that much."

"Then you won't mind telling me for free."

"I've forgotten," he said, hoping to put her off. But for some reason Jocelyn was like a dog with a bone. She kept trying to get him to tell her what he'd been thinking. How could he tell her he was worried about being arrested for murder? He could feel his temper rising.

"Come on, tell me."

He snapped. He didn't quite hit her, but Jocelyn saw the intent in his eyes and drew back in horror, and Marcus bolted. The driver must have seen him in the mirror, because he was braking and had the door open before Marcus got to it. He ran from the bus as if his life depended on it.

Ten minutes later Marcus came out of his blind panic and started to worry about where he was. Back up-time he'd known Grantville like the back of his hand, but there had been a lot of new buildings go up since then. One thing was clear. He was not in one of the more salubrious areas of Greater Grantville. He looked around for landmarks. Locating a hill he thought he recognized, he worked out the direction he needed to take to get back to the main road and started walking. He wasn't lonely. He had the memory of the white, terrified faces of his family in that moment of anger to keep him company.

The sun was starting to set behind the hills and the street was starting to get dark as he turned yet another corner in his search for the main road. He heard a voice, and located a uniform. Never had he been so glad to see a policeman. He hurried towards the man.

He was close to the policeman when suddenly two men appeared at a door. The policeman ordered them to halt, and they responded by opening fire with hand guns. Marcus dived for cover just as the policeman was hit and fell, spilling his revolver as he hit the ground. Marcus thought about the two armed men heading his way and dived for the revolver.

He thumbed the hammer back even before he had a proper grip of the weapon and brought it up. The lead gunmen were less than a dozen yards away when Marcus started shooting.

Boom! Boom! Boom! Boom! Boom! Boom! Click! Click! Click! Click!

Marcus was still trying to shoot when a hand grabbed the revolver and pulled it from his hands. That panicked him, and he fought for the gun. There was a short struggle before it dawned on Marcus that the person he was fighting was in uniform. Suddenly reaction set in and he lost the ability to stand. He would have fallen but for the policeman catching him and lowering him gently to the ground. Shaking violently he wrapped his arms around himself and tried to shut out the rest of the world.

He was vaguely aware of activity around him. Someone wrapped a quilt around him, and he muttered his thanks. He couldn't take his eyes off the two men lying on the ground a few yards from him. They were dead, and he was alive. Suddenly his stomach heaved, and he barely managed to get his head out of his lap before he threw up. A moment later he heaved again.

"Rinse your mouth out with this," a kind voice said.

Marcus looked up to see a female police officer holding out a mug of something. "Thanks." He sipped the warm brew. It tasted like the light soup that the canteen at work usually had simmering. Feeling brave he had another sip. Slowly he became aware of the world again, and discovered he was sitting in a puddle. He started to move to get out of it when the smell hit him. He felt the heat rising in his face as he realized he'd soiled himself.

"Don't be embarrassed. It's a natural reaction," Sergeant Erika Fleischer said.

"That's easy for you to say. I've still got to get home. ah, shit!" Marcus suddenly remembered why he was out here and not safely at home with his wife and kids.He dropped his head in shame.

"Are you all right?"

"Depends on what you mean by all right." Marcus tilted up his head to look the policewoman in the eyes. "You're probably wondering what I'm doing out here."

"We were sort of wondering that," Estes Frost said.

Marcus looked for the new arrival. "Hi, Estes. I had an argument with Jocelyn. On the bus of all places. I lost my temper and nearly hit her. Bailey and Britney were there." He shuddered. "The look on their faces. " He tried to shake away the memory. "Anyway, I panicked and ran." Marcus looked around and snorted. "And I got lost. That's a joke, isn't it? I got lost in Grantville, a place I've lived nearly all my life. Then I saw a cop." He looked around and noticed the policeman whose gun he'd used was gone. "Is he okay?"

"Thanks to you, he's got a good chance," Estes said.

"What about them?" Marcus gestured to where ambulance staff were loading the bodies onto gurneys.

"They're both dead," Estes said.

"I killed them?"

"You had help. Sergeant Tipton also fired at them."

"What happens now?"

"We take you back to the station to take a statement and get you all cleaned up," Estes said.

A hot shower and a change of clothes, even if they were just a pair of police issue coveralls, made a lot of difference to how a man felt, but nowhere near as much as hearing that the two dead men had been Herman and Wilhelm Kindorf. The relief that they were no longer a threat hanging over his head had brought back his appetite with a vengeance and he'd had no trouble demolishing the bowl of stew he'd been given. He was just wiping the bowl with some bread when someone sat down at his table. He looked up to see a vaguely familiar face. "Hello?"

The young woman smiled and slid a business card across the table to him. "Sergeant Fleischer said you might want to talk to me."

Marcus pulled the card closer and read it. "Dita Petrini, licensed professional counselor." He flicked it back across the table. "I don't need a shrink."

"I'm not a shrink, I'm a counselor. I help people deal with issues. The police call me in every time there's a shooting, especially when there are fatalities. Sergeant Fleischer said you were pretty shaken up."

Marcus remembered how he'd spilled his guts and stared hard at the woman. "I bet she said a hell of a lot more than that."

Dita smiled. "Maybe. But I can help you, Marcus." She pulled a pamphlet from her bag. "You almost hit your wife on that bus, Marcus. You have anger management issues. I can't help you unless you want to be helped, but think of your family." She placed the pamphlet under Marcus' nose and got to her feet. "Think of your family."

Marcus stared after the woman. He saw her stop to chat to several police officers before leaving the canteen. Then he looked down at the pamphlet she'd left behind. It was entitled "Dealing with anger." He started to read it, and recognized himself in the case studies.

A paper bag landed on his table with a thud. "They've hosed the worst of it off. Are you ready to go home?" Estes Frost asked.

Marcus peeked into the bag and saw his dirty clothes. "I guess I better see if I've got a home to go to," he said as he shoved the pamphlet into one of the coverall pockets and got to his feet.

"You do. You wife called when she heard the news."

"I don't deserve her," he muttered as he picked up the bag containing his damp clothes.

"So do something about it."

Marcus put a hand in his pocket and felt the pamphlet Dita Petrini had given him. If he still had a marriage to save, then he'd call her tomorrow.

Marcus felt his heart jump when he saw Jocelyn and the children lined up on the veranda. He held out a hand to Estes. "Thanks."

Estes griped his hand firmly. "No, thank you. But for you we might have lost Officer Schulze."

"I hate to disillusion you, Estes, but everything I did out there I did for me."

"Sure, I understand that. But if you hadn't been there Schulze might be dead."

Marcus climbed out of the car, with his bag of clothes held to his chest. He waited for Estes to back out and go wherever he was supposed to be going. Jocelyn and the children hadn't moved. Scared of his reception, he crossed the drive and walked up to them, stopping just short of them. "Hi."

Suddenly he had three warm bodies slammed into him.

"I was so worried about you," Jocelyn said.

"The man on TV said you're a hero, daddy," Britney said.

That made him feel guilty. He gently pushed Jocelyn away so he could crouch down. He dropped his bag of clothes and laid a hand on each of her shoulders. "Heroes don't terrify their own families, Britney. I'm sorry I scared you back on the bus." He turned to Bailey, who hadn't said a word yet. "And I'm sorry I scared you, too." He felt in his coverall pocket for the pamphlet and held it up for Jocelyn. "I'm going to call her tomorrow."

Jocelyn looked at the pamphlet and tears started to well in her eyes. "Let's go inside."

The House on Gray's Run

Dina Frost sat with the rest of the household watching the latest news on TV. They'd just announced the identity of the two men killed in a shootout with police. Marcus Acton, Bailey Acton's dad, had once again been proclaimed a hero. She sighed. Bailey was going to be unbearable at school on Monday. Still, it had been good to hear that Bruno's brothers would never hurt him again. She glanced over to see how he'd taken the news.

She had to smile. Bruno, with his one track mind, was every cat's favorite person. Right now he was carefully running a comb through the long fur of the household's catriarch. He'd been doing it for the last half hour, and it didn't look like Queenie was going to tire of his ministrations any time soon. Bruno didn't seem to care that his bullying brothers were dead, but she was glad they'd received their comeuppance. There was still the third man, but Dina was sure the police were doing everything they could to catch him.

Cadence: A Continuation of the Euterpe Stories

Enrico Toro, David Carrico

Grantville

March 1635

The doorbell rang. Elizabeth Jordan looked up from the sink where she was peeling carrots. "One of you get that," she called out.

She heard Leah's feet go running across the floor. For a small girl, she had such a heavy tread that her steps were unmistakable.

The door squeaked on its hinges, and she heard seven-year-old Leah squeal, "Mr. Giacomo!"

Elizabeth's heart first jumped, then sank. Memories unreeled themselves in her mind.

August, 1633

Elizabeth had been sight-reading two of Erik Satie's Tres Gymnopedies at the piano in the high school auditorium. The music had demanded the sound and touch of the grand. And as usual, she had been so focused on the music that she hadn't heard the door at the rear of the auditorium, nor the steps down the aisles. Consequently, the applause that sounded when she finished the second piece took her by surprise, and she almost gave herself whiplash when her head whipped around to see who was clapping.

It was Victor Saluzzo, the high school principal, and two men dressed in down-timer clothing of a style she hadn't seen before.

"Gentlemen, may I introduce you to Mrs. Elizabeth Jordan, our music teacher?" Victor had said.

That was her introduction to Girolamo Zenti and Giacomo Carissimi. Zenti was obviously a man's man; bold, strutting a little, and with sufficient charm and charisma to woo the Venus de Milo, missing arms and all. But Carissimi had intrigued her. In both appearance and manner, he had reminded her of Douglas Drake, the Ohio farm boy who had been in most of her college classes; quiet, tongue-tied most of the time, and usually shy, though he had a baritone voice to die for. He had stared at her in every class they were in, and whenever she looked at him, he would blush and look away. But he wasn't creepy; just somehow oddly sweet.

Doug never managed to ask her for a date before she started going with Fred. From time to time, she regretted that.

Somehow, even at the very moment their eyes first met, this Carissimi fellow had the same effect on her that Doug had had.

That was where it began.

March 1635

"Mom," nine-year-old Daniel appeared in the doorway to the kitchen, "it's Mr. Carissimi."

Fall 1633

Before long, Elizabeth had found herself acting as Giacomo's mentor and teacher in the arts of music as the twentieth century had known them. She was amazed at him. He was like a musical sponge. It didn't seem to matter to him, if it had something to do with music, he wanted to know it. Music theory, music history, form and analysis; lives of composers, it didn't matter. Even the concentrated notes that Marla Linder had made available from her sessions with her band of German musicians didn't slow him down.

But his greatest passion was for the piano, the single instrument that came back from the future that the down-timers would be most affected by. Giacomo certainly was. He would spend hours every day working on it, playing scales and etudes, building technique and muscle memory.

Then, at some point, he started improvising. And that was where she was caught.

March 1635

Elizabeth very gently laid the carrot and the peeler down on the cabinet by the sink, rinsed her hands off under the faucet, and dried them carefully. She placed the dish towel back on the rack, then stood facing the window over the sink.

Fall 1633

The library resources and her own college textbooks had given Elizabeth a sketch of Carissimi's life in the future that would never be. And it was impressive. She resolved in her own heart that his biography in this new future would be even more impressive. Yeah, she had to admit to herself, that perhaps this second chance at Doug Drake meant something to her. In any event, she began to spend more and more time with Giacomo, pushing him harder and harder, giving him more and more to learn and less time to learn it. He had become her challenge.

March 1635

"Mom?"

She took a deep breath, then turned and followed Daniel toward the front door.

Fall 1633

And so the time passed. Elizabeth didn't neglect her family or her children. But every so often her husband Fred, the deputy sheriff who had become the West VirginiaCounty's expert liaison with outside the Ring of Fire law enforcement organizations, would ask her why she was spending so much extra time at the school.

And sometimes he would ask her what she was thinking about when she was staring off into space.

She never told him much about Carissimi, only that he was a down-time music teacher who needed to learn about the up-time music. She didn't think he would understand.

When Fred started spending more and more time out of town, it was actually a bit of relief.

March 1635

Giacomo looked up at her from where he knelt talking to Leah. That was one of the things Leah adored about him, that he would always put himself on her level to talk to her.

October/November 1633

And then the commission came for Giacomo to write the music commemorating the death of Hans Richter. She was bound and determined that this would be the first great piece credited to his name after the Ring of Fire.

Zenti came to her, and said that Giacomo was having trouble focusing on the music he was trying to write, because of the piano workshop next door. "Bring him here," she told him. "Fred is out of town for a week."

So Giacomo moved into her house that night. The kids were there, but Fred wasn't. And she didn't care.

The next two days were like heaven to Elizabeth, working with a talent of Giacomo's level. He was a man on fire, and she caught fire from him. Her passion for this work, this Lament for a Fallen Eagle, was the equal of his. As he described the arc and flow of it, she grasped it intuitively. And God, the music that he dictated to her!

At the end, Giacomo held a wonder, a joy, in his hands. And she had helped him create it.

March 1635

"Giacomo," she said, hands behind her back. Nothing more.

December 1633

The performance of the lament had been beautiful. Giacomo had wanted Elizabeth to sing the solo at first, but she had convinced him to ask Marla Linder instead. Elizabeth could have sung the solo, and sung it well. Part of her really wanted to do exactly that, but. Marla's voice was better than hers, and what mattered was giving Giacomo the best performance he could get. And at the performance, Marla had justified Elizabeth's belief in her.

Afterwards they were both on cloud nine, Giacomo because the performance had gone so well, and Elizabeth because his reputation was increasing.

They spent a lot of time together; singing, playing, laughing.

Some days she forgot to miss Fred.

March 1635

He looked up at her, and stood.

"Elizabeth."

January 1634

And then came the letter from Italy, telling Giacomo his father had died. Zenti came and got her. Fred was gone again, so Elizabeth made arrangements for the kids to sleep over at friends, and went with Zenti to the house the two Italians shared.

She had never seen a man in so much pain before. The lines on Giacomo's face looked like they had been graven deeply with chisels, and his eyes were so dark they looked like someone had put black holes in his eye-sockets. She gave him wine, and he choked on it and sprayed it across the room. Then he began to weep. She was so tempted to take him in her arms like one of her own children, and cradle his head against her breast, but she just sat and held his hand while the storm of tears took its course.

Elizabeth asked him about his father. He told her, story after story after story, all filled with love and affection for a man she'd never see.

That touched her, in an unexpected way. Giacomo had always been a gentle and caring man. Now she saw that he was, in his own way, a deeply loving man.

March 1635

"Kids, go finish your homework. I need to talk to Mr. Carissimi for a minute."

Spring 1634

Giacomo decided to write a Passion in honor of his father, one based on St. Matthew's Gospel. Elizabeth began to spend more and more time at their house, watching him write, taking musical dictation, singing parts with him when he would play new pieces of the passion for Zenti and his journeyman and apprentices.

He took such joy in writing the work, so much love for his father flowed from him, that at times Elizabeth felt like a fly trapped in honey. Other times she wondered if she were a moth, circling a candle flame, dazzled by the light but drawing closer and closer to the fire.

The passion was finished in March, and scheduled for performance over Easter weekend. Giacomo went into whirlwind rehearsal mode with instrumentalists and the choir of St. Mary's Church. Elizabeth watched, waiting for Giacomo's greatness to be publicly displayed again, hungering for the display of his talent in the service of love.

March 1635

She got unhappy looks from Daniel and Leah, but they knew not to make a fuss in front of others, and trailed off into the back of the house.

April 1634

The performance of the passion went extremely well. Afterward, elated, she let the children run free while she waited for a chance to speak to Giacomo without crowds of people around him. When the opportunity came, she praised him, and they laughed, and she called him her pet nickname for him, Jude. Whenever she saw him, "Hey, Jude" came to mind.

Then something changed. She didn't understand what, or how, or why, but something changed. Giacomo's gaze sharpened somehow, and locked on hers, seeming to flow into her soul. He raised a hand, and brushed her cheek with one finger; just barely touching her.

It wasn't the first time Giacomo had touched Elizabeth. Many times they had touched hands during piano lessons, or marathon music writing sessions. Often he had patted her shoulder. Or they would brush against each other walking down hallways or sidewalks. But those had all been contacts between fellow workers, fellow musicians, fellow seekers after the holy grail of music.

This was different. Now Giacomo saw Elizabeth as a woman, and had given her the lightest of caresses. No mistaking it for a simple touch; it was a caress.

At that moment, Elizabeth leaned toward him, wanting to feel the touch of his hand again, always. She would have gone with Giacomo anywhere.

"Mommy!"

The genuine alarm in Leah's voice acted like a plunge of ice water. Elizabeth whirled to rescue her daughter from the chance of a serious fall from the organ loft. The moment that Leah was safe, her mind inexorably showed her what would happen if she turned to Giacomo.

In that moment of clarity-in that very precise instant of time-Elizabeth saw the hurt she would cause Fred, and her children, and her friends and family if she went with Giacomo. And even the hurt she would cause him if she did so.

It was the hardest thing Elizabeth had ever done to reject Giacomo then.

But she gathered her children's hands in hers and left him standing in the nave of St. Mary's Church. Alone.

March 1635

"So why are you here?" Elizabeth asked after a long moment of silence.

Late May 1634

Elizabeth avoided Giacomo after that. She knew that people noticed, but no one seemed to be saying anything about it, so she didn't either.

Then she heard the news. It took her a day or so to muster the courage to see Giacomo again, but on Friday afternoon, she went to his classroom after the school day was over. He was packing his document case. He stood and they looked at each other.

"So, when were you going to tell me?" Elizabeth asked.

Giacomo shrugged. "Tomorrow, I thought."

She walked over and sat down in one of the student desks.

"Master of the Royal Academy of Music, huh? That sounds like a great gig." She tried to keep her voice light.

"I think it will be," he responded.

There was another period of long silence.

"So when will you leave?" she finally said

"Around June first." Giacomo looked at his hands. "I have to make some arrangements, and pack up what I will take and give away what I won't."

More silence.

Finally, she stood up and said, "Good luck."

"Thanks."

Elizabeth stepped over and held out her hand, but before Giacomo could reach to take it, she suddenly threw her arms around him and kissed him fiercely.

After a moment, Elizabeth broke the embrace and pushed back. She looked down at the floor, then looked up with a wry grin on her face.

"It would never work between us while I am married, and I won't leave Fred."

She struggled to keep her voice calm.

"You are Euterpe," Giacomo said after a moment. "You are my muse. I am my best because of you."

Elizabeth shrugged.

"Thank you for that compliment," she replied. "But I think you will have a new muse now. I think Princess Kristina will be your muse from now on, one way or another."

Giacomo shook his head.

Elizabeth stepped closer, rested a hand on his cheek, and whispered as the tears began to trickle from the corners of her eyes, "God go with you, Jude. Be well, be happy, be magnificent. And think about me from time to time, if you can stand it."

She left the room then, expecting to never see him again.

March 1635

Giacomo gave a very Latin shrug. "I needed to come confer with Master Wendell and Master Atwood about some of the Grantville Music Trust matters, and I wanted to read through the church music libraries again and see what I can use." Another moment of silence, then, "And I miss the children. " He swallowed.". and I miss you."

To see him again, to hear him say that, tore at Elizabeth's heart. Oh, how she wanted to embrace him. But she couldn't. He started to shift position, and she held up a hand. He froze.

"Nothing has changed, Giacomo. The answer to your question is still 'No.' Understand?"

Carissimi looked down, and nodded.

Despite the pain, it was still good to see him. He still looked like Doug Drake, and he was still the same gentle man he had always been.

Elizabeth gave a small smile, and said, "The kids miss you, too. You're welcome to stay for dinner." He looked up in surprise. She held her hand up again. "But that's all, and you leave before they go to bed."

He nodded again, this time with a little lighter expression.

"Come on, then. You know where the piano is."

Giacomo headed for the music room. Elizabeth returned to the kitchen to finish the carrots. She found herself humming along with the music that poured from the piano. She couldn't even be mad at herself for her spirits being lighter than they had been in months.

Dinner was simple; a piece of smoked ham, carrots and some green beans that someone had canned and given her last year. But the meal was almost festive, as Daniel and Leah competed for Giacomo's attention. Elizabeth found herself smiling again as she watched them. They really did like the Italian master, and he obviously liked them as well.

Once the kids were through pushing green beans around on their plates, she sent them back to the music room to finish their homework. Giacomo drifted along behind them, and the piano began singing again while she cleared away the dishes to the kitchen.

Just as the last of the dishes were placed on the counter, the doorbell rang again. Wondering who it could be at this hour of the night, Elizabeth headed for the door. Her heart sank when it opened to reveal Preston Richards and Harley Thomas framed in the doorway, both in uniform.

"Press? Harley?"

"Can we come in?"

A chill settled in her soul.

"Sure. We're back in the music room."

They followed her. Daniel and Leah, both sprawled on the floor, looked up from doing their homework. Giacomo was seated at the piano, but he stilled his hands as soon as he saw who was with her.

"You know Signor Carissimi. He. "

". wrote the song about Hans Richter's death." Press reached out his hand. "I haven't had the pleasure, before. Pleased to meet you. Um. " He looked at the children.

"Whatever it is," Elizabeth said through the gathering cold shroud, "they'll need to know. Bad or the worst?"

"The worst," Press admitted. "They're bringing him back."

She sat down on the end of the piano bench. "What goes around, comes around, I guess." She clasped her hands together so tightly that her knuckles were white. "Last week. Last week I was actually feeling-sort of good, maybe even a little bit smug-that Fred was over there in Ohrdruf. Safely away from what happened at the hospital and the synagogue. As safe as a man could ever be, in his line of work."

She gestured vaguely with her hand. "I'll need to call Jenny Maddox at the funeral home, I guess. To be expecting him. I don't know who else, really, since Reverend Wiley is dead."

Elizabeth felt Carissimi stand up behind her. "Orval McIntire," he said. "The man who preached the state funeral. Admirable eulogies-the ones he delivered for the mayor and your minister. Stay with Daniel and Leah. I will call them both. That much of the burden, Elizabeth, I can take from your shoulders."

Both kids looked scared, and Leah was crying. Elizabeth could hear Giacomo making the first phone call. She opened her arms, and the kids came to her, huddling together within the circle of her embrace. She felt the tears starting in her own eyes as she looked at the two men who had brought the bad news, and who obviously wished they hadn't had to.

"What happened?"

Press shrugged. "We haven't received a full report yet, but what we know at this point is he fell off a roof and broke his neck."

"What was he doing up on a roof?" Elizabeth demanded.

Press shrugged again. "From what we can tell, he was doing some kind of protective over-watch on people that were being persecuted by some of the citizens of Ohrdruf. He seemed to have slipped and lost his grip, and. " Press stopped for a moment. There really wasn't anything else he could add to that. Elizabeth's stomach churned as she thought of that fall. "I'll let you know as soon as we know more," Press finally finished.

"Please." She bent her head over her children, all she had left of Fred, and let her tears mingle with theirs.

The doorbell rang again, and Harley answered it. That was the beginning of neighbors, friends, and family coming to see if they could help.

The next days passed in a blur. It took longer to schedule the funeral than normal, because they had to wait for Fred's body to arrive from Ohrdruf. There was a constant flow of family and friends. She and the kids were never left alone. In her lucid moments, she understood that and was thankful for it. And the food kept coming. Everyone brought something: ham, roast beef, potatoes, vegetables, breads; even desserts, although the cost of sugar these days made those really extravagant.

The nights, however, were very dark, and very lonely. More than one night found her crying herself to sleep, muffling the sobs with her pillows. And more than one night found her facing her guilt in the darkest hours before dawn-guilt that she had not loved Fred like she should; guilt that she had chased another man, that she had been unfaithful. Yet in the cold light of dawn, she always knew that whatever her thoughts, when it came to the test she had been faithful to her vows. More so than Fred had been, she suspected.

The one constant theme in those days-the one thing that Elizabeth always remembered afterward besides the feeling of being possessed by ice-was that Carissimi was always near. Not hovering; not butting into meetings with the family or the consultations with the funeral home and the minister; not intruding or obtruding in any way. But always near.

Finally the day of the funeral arrived. The funeral home Cadillac arrived to take Elizabeth and the children to the church for the memorial service.

The service went as well anyone could desire for that kind of thing. It was a closed casket service. Jenny Maddox had suggested it, given the state of Fred's corpse on arrival at the funeral home in Grantville.

The music was beautiful. Orval McIntire did an excellent eulogy, and his recitation of the promises of eternal life and the resurrection were of some comfort. But the hole in Elizabeth's life was still there when he was done.

Daniel and Leah, one on each side of her, were her main concern at that moment; the one silent and still, the other gripping her mother's hand like an iron clamp and sniffling occasionally. At the end, they walked with her to the Cadillac for the ride to the cemetery.

The old-fashioned graveside service was brief. Orval said the final words with grace, and they lowered the casket into the ground. Elizabeth stood and picked up a handful of dirt from the mound at the side, and poured it into the hole.

"Goodbye, Fred," she said, tears trickling down her cheeks, almost like liquid ice.

Afterward, Elizabeth stood to one side with the kids in the cold wind, and accepted the final condolences of those who had come to the graveside service. As the last of them gave her a hug and turned away, she became aware of one last figure, standing well behind the canopy that had sheltered the attendees.

"Jenny," she said. Jenny Maddox stepped over from where she had been waiting by the grave. "Would you take the kids to the car, please? They're getting cold, and I need to talk to someone."

"Sure," Jenny said.

They almost had to peel Leah's fingers from Elizabeth's hand, but she finally let go upon the iron-clad promise that her mom wouldn't take very long. As Jenny led them to the waiting limousine, Elizabeth walked over to face Giacomo.

He spoke first, after an obvious hesitation. "I am sorry for your loss, Mrs. Jordan."

"Thank you, Mr. Carissimi," she replied in like kind.

"If there is anything I can do to help, please, let me know."

"Thank you for everything you have done."

They looked at each other in the cold, in the silence.

"The answer is still 'No,' you know," she finally said.

He looked offended. "I would never have asked you at a time like this."

"I know." And she did. But she had still needed to make it clear.

He looked around, then looked back at her with a twist to his lips. "There are others, however, who will think you fair game. I am surprised that they are not lined up here, to make their offers for your house and body."

That jolted Elizabeth for just a moment. "And they would get a 'No' forever."

There was curiosity on Giacomo's face now. "Why? They could give you a very comfortable life, and raise your children well."

Elizabeth smiled. "First, to paraphrase a Grantville expression, I've soared with eagles; I'm not about to tie myself to a turkey."

Giacomo chuckled at that.

"And second, I have some things to do, some things to take care of. I've got to get my head on straight." And I've got to lightning-rod some guilt out of my soul, she said to herself.

Another moment of silence, broken finally by Elizabeth. "Actually, there is something you can do for me."

Giacomo looked to her with expectation.

"In six months come see me."

A look of hope began to form on his face.

"Then you can ask me your question."

The smile that crept onto his face was like the dawning of the sun. The first hint of warmth came to Elizabeth from that smile.

Ein Feste Burg, Episode Six

Rainer Prem

Foreword:

While our friends in Eisenach have “wonderful nights,” and the deconstruction of the Wartburg still goes on in the spring of the year 1634, we need to rewind to the summer of 1632 and meet some other people who will eventually become involved in the project, too.

The following story is inspired by the novel El ingenioso hidalgo Don Quixote de la Mancha written by Miguel de Cervantes Saavedra, published in the year 1605, and one of the biggest bestsellers in Europe in the first quarter of the seventeenth century.

Chapter 7: The First Sally

Y asi, sin dar parte a persona alguna de su intencion, y sin que nadie le viese, una manana, antes del dia, que era uno de los calurosos del mes de julio, se armo de todas sus armas, subio sobre Rocinante.

Vnd ohne vorwissen einiges Menschen / ohn entdeckung seines Vorhabens / auch da? jhn niemand sahe oder seiner gewahr wurde / waffnete er sich eines Morgens vor der Sonnen Auffgang an einem der hitzigsten Tage des Hewmonats mit seiner gantzen Rustung / stieg auff seinen Rossubrall.

So, without giving notice of his intention to anyone, and without anybody seeing him, one morning before the dawning of the day (which was one of the hottest of the month of July) he donned his suit of armour, mounted Rocinante.

Grantville, New United States

July 1632

Marshall Ambler left his home before dawn. Dressed in a duster and an old Stetson, he saddled the horse Ruben Nasi had bought for him, and led it out of the stable. The leftovers from a job in the 80s, an old theodolite and a ranging pole, were firmly attached to his saddle, along with some clothes and all the achievements of civilization not available down-time. When they reached the street, Marshall mounted his steed and steered it along Buffalo Creek.

By the time the sun rose, he was already past the Ring and on the road to Rudolstadt. There he would meet his prospective assistant Melchior Nehring, Secretarius at the court of Duke Johann Ernst of Saxe-Eisenach, who in turn was, according to Ruben, his new employer.

Although Marshall had made use of the months since Ruben had contacted him to practice riding, he was sure that he would have to take a longer rest in Rudolstadt. Ten miles for the first ride would certainly be enough for his posterior.

For me there's no impossible,

I order, bind, forbid, set free

Grantville

Two months earlier

As on most evenings Marshall Ambler, teacher at Grantville Tech Center, was sitting on a bench in the Thuringen Gardens, boasting about his model railroad and the Germans around him hung on his every word. In the last year, he had started the tradition to demonstrate his railroad table only to the three best students after each class test, and so the word had spread among the down-timers about the great honor.

While he was rattling on about the differences of the gear transmissions of German and American diesel engines, he noticed a strange face. It looked like a Spaniard, or one of these Ottoman Jews who had the Grantville money business under their control.

Later the man approached. "Good evening, Mr. Ambler," he said in nearly accent-free English. "My name is Ruben Nasi, and I have a business proposal for you."

Marshall noticed that the man didn't try to shake hands with him. Most of his health problems only showed up when he was near fellow Americans or in one of the modern houses of Grantville, but some habits die hard. Marshall still avoided shaking anybody's hand, and if this man knew that, he perhaps knew still more about him.

"Okay, let's hear it," he said.

"Not here. What about taking a walk together?"

A secret proposal! Sounds like another Grantville spy. But for whom?

Aloud he said, "Why not? It’s private enough in my apartment. Want to see my railroad?"

"That's exactly the point," the Jew answered.

Marshall squinted at him. "Oh, no! I won't sell it. Never!"

Nasi lifted his hands defensively. "Sorry, that wasn't my intention. Please accept my apology. I was referring to your expertise, not to your property. But I would really like to see that marvel."

Marshall could see the Jew's eyes examine the locks and grilles of his basement apartment. And the man even didn't hide it.

"I can see you have invested much in your safety. It seems you are a cautious man."

Marshall shrugged. "Sure. Is that good or bad?"

"Oh, it speaks very much in your favor. We need a cautious man. And, if I may speak frankly, one who likes us 'down-timers' more than he's fond of the Americans."

The Jew looked in Marshall's eyes with a questioning look on his face.

"Get on with it!" Marshall now started to wonder where this was going.

"We want to build a railroad."

Marshall's eyes widened. "Now, that's interesting. And who's 'we'?"

"Hmmm. 'We' are people who have money and estates. I heard that is the first precondition to building a railroad."

Uh-huh. A bunch of German nobles! They've found a new hobbyhorse.

Aloud Marshall said: "But that's not enough. You'll need steel, a whole lot of steel. And there isn't much of it in this world at the moment."

"At the moment, this is true," Nasi confirmed. "But that will change. Everything will change, and we don't want to be left behind.

"I've read books on railroad companies, and it seems they always needed years between the decision and turning the first sod. And we don't even have a company. Only a vision." He pointed to Marshall's model railroad. "A vision of trains."

"Well, that's a model railroad. I never worked on the real thing. You understand the difference?" But something nagged at him.

"Haven't you seen The Flight of the Phoenix? I have," Nasi said.

Oh yeah, I'm the German model plane builder, and you're the Americans to get out of the desert with a real plane.

"Sure, but that's the movies, not real life."

The Jew grinned. "Do you doubt your own expertise? In the Gardens it sounded otherwise."

Marshall didn't hesitate a second. "No! On paper I know everything."

Nasi shrugged. "You don't actually need to build a train now. We want you to investigate on the possibilities. We need someone who knows about it. And not only from the books. You're an engineer; you know what is important and what isn't."

Marshall frowned. "And if I accept, hypothetically, what do you think, I should do? Where do 'we' want to build this railroad?"

"Do you know the Via Regia, the High Road?"

Marshall's frown deepened. "From Frankfurt to Leipzig? Through the Vogelsberg and the Rhon? Two hundred miles for a start? You're kidding."

"And what about the Thuringian part of it? At the moment we are not interested in Saxony or Hesse."

"Hmmm." Marshall went to his bed and seized a large folder from under it. He opened it and revealed a stack of maps. He had bought any railroad map of the world he could get. Starting with England, Germany was second.

"This is the Thuringia Railroad in the old timeline." He pointed to the cities. "From the Werra via Eisenach, Gotha, Erfurt, Weimar, Apolda, Naumburg to Wei?enfels. It's rather flat, not a single large river. Towns like a bead chain. It's a good place to start."

"And we didn't even know if it's good or bad." Nasi beamed. "And we don't have such a map. Each city you mentioned is a day's walk for an ox team, and how long with the train?"

Marshall shrugged again. "Twenty miles? Forty minutes with the Adler, that was the first locomotive in Germany. At the time of the Ring of Fire it would have taken about ten minutes."

"So the gain is larger if we build the first railroad, than all they managed afterwards. Reducing the complete east-west trip through Thuringia to three hours instead of five days. That's wonderful."

"But we still haven't enough steel. We can't build it now." Marshall straightened. "But you're right. We can start it."

"See?" Ruben smiled. "Now you said 'we' yourself. It seems that railroads have this influence on men. Deal?"

Marshall extended his hand. Ruben's smile widened when he took it.

"Deal."

Happy the age, happy the time, in which shall be made known my deeds of fame.

Rudolstadt, County of Schwarzburg-Rudolstadt

July 1632

When Marshall approached Rudolstadt on the gravel road, he could see Schloss Heidecksburg sitting on a little hill on his left. It was by far the largest building in the little town. And he could see that the owner obviously felt it was not large enough. A scaffold on its left side showed clearly that the current count intended to enlarge it farther.

Another way to spend excess money.

He turned right and shortly after reached the inn "Zum Adler," easily recognizable by the iron eagles on poles over the roof. Here Melchior was supposed to wait for him.

"Willkommen in Rudolstadt, Sorr."

Marshall scrutinized the young, glasses-wearing, portly German while he noticed Melchior scrutinizing him, the tall, gaunt-featured, almost-fifty American.

The American had no problem understanding the German greeting. Marshall had lived in Nuremberg in the late 1960s, working for the U.S. Army and teaching the German civilian employees engineering and safety guidelines. He knew that "Sorr" was meant to be "sir."

"So you're my 'tour guide' for the next few months, Melchior?"

"Yess, Sorr. It will be an honor to serve you and show you every nice corner of three duchies and a Catholic bishopric under Swedish occupation."

This was a description of a less than hundred miles' journey. In West Virginia, they could have stayed in the state for more than twice the distance, and West Virginia only ranked forty-first by size among the U.S. states.

In fact, the whole of Thuringia was smaller than even Hawaii, but at the moment consisted of about twenty different principalities in more than thirty separate areas. Two Reichsstadte-free Imperial cities-several parts that belonged to Hessians or Saxons, tiny pieces belonging to the Brandenburgers or God-knows-who. And of course, any of that could change any day.

So crossing only four borders on this journey was a rather small number.

Marshall stopped his thoughts from straying too far away and concentrated on the current point.

"Do you have the supplies I wanted?"

"Oh, yess, Sorr. Fresh food, soap for washing, thick woolen blankets for the nights and a tent. And the maps-" He wanted to fetch them from his bag, but Marshall stopped him.

"Not here, not now. I think we should take advantage of the good weather and ride at least one more hour. We ought to reach Kahla before noon, and along the Saale we won't need maps."

Marshall was not completely happy about staying in the saddle for another hour, but they were still too near Grantville, and a visitor might recognize him on his confidential mission. So he decided to keep moving.

Gasthaus zum Stadttor, Kahla, Duchy of Saxe-Altenburg

"Yess, Sorr, Count Tilly stayed in this inn last year on his way to Breitenfeld," Melchior loudly commented on the paintings on the walls of the inn. "We Germans are not much concerned if he's friend or enemy. In fact, that may change from one day to another. Martin Luther also slept here in 1524, and Emperor Charles the Fifth when he wasn't emperor yet."

Marshall looked around. The inn was built-according to a sign on the outside-in 1491, and had apparently not been cleaned since then. But that was something he had to live in tonight and live with in the future. He could have stayed in Grantville, but had decided otherwise.

"So you can now show me those maps you have. There apparently hasn't been an American in here yet."

The "maps" were obviously not meant to show the exact distances, but only all the villages that existed in the different principalities. When he compared them to his much less detailed version, he could see that even the angles between the towns didn't fit his map.

"This 'cartographer' was more of an artist than a surveyor," he commented.

"Oh, these are only the overview maps. We can get more exact ones in any of the Amter."

Yes, the district administrations should know exactly how many taxes to collect from which village.

"Who cares? It will be an adventure, anyway."

"Adventure?" Melchior said doubtfully. "I hope not. This area is not like your Wilder Westen. The towns in Thuringia have been here since the eighth century, when Karl Martell, grandfather of Karl der Gro?e-that's the man you Americans call Charlemagne-fought against the barbarian Saxons and founded many towns here."

Melchior shook his head. "No, since the Imperials have gone, this is a really boring part of Germany. Farmers, craftsmen, and shepherds; students and professors in the big towns, that's all you'll find here."

"Okay, so we won't stir them up. Do you think we can reach Jena today? My butt's not as sore as I thought."

Weimar, Duchy of Saxe-Weimar

September 1632

Durchlauchtigster Hochgeborener Herzog, Furst und Herr.

O Serene, Highborn Duke, Prince and Lord,

To Your Highness most humbly I allow myself to report that the news of a Spanish attack against Eisenach have reached Weimar, and the citizens are shocked, because one year of peace has induced a little economic recovery here like in most of the Thuringian principalities, and so the people thought themselves safe from the terribilites of the war, but now they are talking about forming a militia to secure at least the gates of the city, which in my humble opinion is completely futile.

But most of all I humbly want to inform and instruct Y.H., that we luckily and with God's protection reached Weimar after having successfully exploriret ways for the prospective iron path from Jena and Naumburg to this place.

In Jena we started in the park at the Saale the citizens call "The Paradise", for Mr. Ambler had detectiret this name in his books as the name of the railroad station in Jena, and we found that here are few problems to build at least a small "through station," for the line between Rudolstadt and Naumburg. The station, where goods can be loaded and unloaded, the so-called "switching yard," has to be built somewhere else.

And since the way from this park into the directio of Weimar is completely blocked by the city center of Jena-including the Collegium Jenense-he thought that the citizens might be much more pleased when the branching of the lines would happen south of their town, so another train station at the Erfurter Stra?e which leads to Weimar might be appropriate.

After having stayed in Jena for two weeks we pr?cediret to Naumburg, and explored a way from there via Apolda to Weimar, which we reached in late August. I include the exact path Mr. Ambler thinks suitable with this letter to Y.H. Also a path from Jena to Weimar is includiret.

Tomorrow we will start anew along the road to Erfurt to the west. I will write my next letter when we have reached Erfurt.

ActumWeimar, Sonntag den 12. / 2. 7bris 1632

Your submissive and humble servant,

Melchior Nehring, Secretarius

Between Monchenholzhausen and Bu?leben,

Near Erfurt, Archbishopric of Mainz

September 1632

Day was dawning when Marshall and Melchior left the inn and continued their journey.

Don Quixote had not gone far, when out of a thicket on his right there seemed to come feeble cries as of someone in distress, and wheeling, he turned Rocinante in the direction whence the cries seemed to proceed. He had gone but a few paces into the wood, when he saw a mare tied to an oak, and tied to another, and stripped from the waist upwards, a youth of about fifteen years of age, from whom the cries came. Nor were they without cause, for a lusty farmer was flogging him with a belt and following up every blow with scoldings and commands, repeating, "Your mouth shut and your eyes open!" while the youth made answer, "I won't do it again, master mine; by God's passion I won't do it again."

Marshall knew that corporal punishment was custom in the seventeenth century, but his twentieth-century attitude to morality forced him to intervene. Carefully, he told himself.

"Guten Morgen, mein Herr," he said with the little sound of arrogance he had acquired in the last two months to sustain the image of a "noble on his grand tour."

The farmer saw him, then saw the "servant" who followed him, and seemed to decide to treat him as a noble.

"Guten Morgen, Hochwohlgeboren," he answered and bowed.

"May I ask, dear man, what has enraged you so much?"

"This-" the farmer groped for words.

"— young man," Marshall helped him smiling.

"Ah, yes. This boy. I have been so gracious to him and his sister when they arrived nearly naked last year. I fed them and dressed them, and how have they thanked me? Run away, first his sister, and now this ungrateful wretch."

"I told you," the boy's voice came from behind. "She has not run away. She was abducted. By a bandit. And I want to free her."

"What a romantic adventure," Marshall said. He could nearly feel Melchior flinching behind him.

"Don't believe him, mein Herr. He's a liar," the farmer interjected.

"Why don't you let him go, when he wants to?" Marshall asked. "He will surely try again."

The farmer frowned. "He owes me money. For the shoes and the clothes. And when he tries again, I will have him thrown into the Schuldturm."

"Perhaps there is another way," Marshall said, and noticed that Melchior grimaced. "We need a stable hand, and perhaps I can assume his debts. Of how much do we speak?"

"Twenty Thaler, mein Herr."

"That's too much," the boy interjected. "We have worked for a whole year, and haven't been paid at all."

"Is he right?" Marshall asked sharply.

"Oh, hmmm, sorry. I forgot. But he still owes me two Thaler."

Marshall frowned. "I'm rather sure, that for a debt of two Thaler, no judge would throw him into debtor's prison.

"But you know what? I'll pay these two Thaler, and since you seem to be a reasonable man, I'm sure you'll want to do business with us. We need to buy food, and a mule or donkey, so the boy won't slow us down."

Beyond a doubt, Sancho, we must have already reached the second region of the air, where the hail and snow are generated; the thunder, the lightning, and the thunderbolts are engendered in the third region.

Waidbauerhof, Bu?leben, near Erfurt

The same afternoon

Marshall sat down on a bench with young Andreas Becker. It seemed that the boy and der Waidbauer, the woad farmer, were on rather good terms, once the debt was paid.

"So tell me, Andreas, what's this about 'arriving nearly naked'?"

"I think I'll have to start a little earlier, sir. When the Swedes came into Erfurt after the battle of Breitenfeld-"

"That was last September?" Marshall interrupted.

"Yes, sir. September 30th-or 20th by the Protestants' calendar-they entered the city. My papa was very furious when he heard that. He was a member of the city council and had always been against paying so much money to the Imperials to leave Erfurt in peace.

"But now he feared that the Lutheran 'Wettin Johanns' as he called them would use the opportunity to seize Erfurt from His Excellence the High Reverence in spite of the peace treaty of 1530.

"So he left home to 'stop these crazy barbarians' he said. And he never returned." The boy's voice got muffled by his tears.

People who had noticed the event called it an appalling accident. Jakob Becker had really tried to stop the Swedes.

He was so furious; he stepped in the way of Wilhelm of Saxe-Weimar's horse, who had led the marching in to the city hall to accept the mayor's surrender. He called the Wettin dukes in particular, and all Protestants and Swedes at large many names that the witnesses didn't want to repeat. Wilhelm only shook his head, Becker was shoved aside and the Swedes moved on.

But he was still shouting, and suddenly one of the cavalry horses shied, kicked out and hit him exactly in the chest. The people said he was dead before he fell to earth. A Swedish medic even tried to help him with no success.

"When our neighbors, who had been witnesses, came to our home on the bridge-"

"Bridge?" Marshall interrupted the boy.

"He's referring to the Kramerbrucke-the merchants' bridge, sir," Melchior answered with his tour-guide voice. "It was built three hundred years ago with houses on both sides of the street, but it existed as a market place two centuries earlier."

"And we had our own house," this was the first time the boy showed some eagerness. "Mama worked as seamstress downstairs, and we all slept upstairs. And we even had-how do you Americans call it? — a water closet."

"Ja," Melchior commented. "A hole in the floor, where the shit can drop directly into the Gera. And what about the winter?" He shuddered. The boy laughed.

"Okay," Marshall sent an approving gaze to Melchior, but then turned back to Andreas. "Then what happened?"

The boy took a deep breath. "When they came and told what had happened, Mama panicked. She said we should flee to her relatives in Techstedt or Pechstedt-I had never heard of them and I could not exactly understand the name of the village. And we had to run now.

"She took Maria by her hand and left the house. I had to run after them. We left the city and walked over the fields. Mama didn't want to use a road.

"After an hour or so a thunderstorm was coming up. Black clouds towered higher and higher and then it started pouring water. The soil turned into mud, but still we walked on and on.

"And then we reached the Linderbach. I didn't know that the creek was called that name then. And I wouldn't have recognized it, had we been there before. It was a black and raging current. No bridge; no chance to cross."

The boy stopped, apparently overwhelmed from the pictures in his memory. Then his voice got completely flat.

"But Mama tried. She slipped. She fell. Her head hit a boulder, and then she disappeared in the water. Maria wanted to run after her, and I could barely hold her. Then I took her in my arms; and we cowered down and cried together until the rainstorm ended.

"And then we walked on. We had lost our shoes in the mud. We had torn our clothes. When we reached the farm, we collapsed in the yard." Andreas' voice was choking.

Then he straightened. "Der Waidbauer was very nice to us. But he told us that he had nothing himself and he could not feed two more mouths easily.

"He didn't know either Techstedt or Pechstedt, and there are two villages called Bechstedt, and there is Eichstedt, and I even don't know the name of Mama's relatives. So if we wanted to stay with him, we both had to work for food and lodging and the shoes and clothes he bought for us.

"He asked for Mama downstream, but on that day the Linderbach not only killed her, but also made the bridge on the road to Weimar collapse. People thought her body had probably been washed all the way down into the Unstrut.

"So we settled down here. I worked in the stable and on the fields, and Maria sewed and mended and embroidered. Until the day the outlaws appeared."

"'Outlaws'?" Marshall asked quizzically. "You mean like 'Robin Hood and his Merry Men,' that kind of outlaws? And you called this 'a boring part of Germany,' Melchior."

Melchior shrugged. "Shit happens, sir. Former Imperial mercenaries, perhaps."

"No, Herr Nehring," the boy said. "They are real bandits, criminals. At least their chief. He visited my father once, some years ago. At that time his name was Wilhelm Schontal."

Papa had told him that the man was a Catholic from Hanau, and was wanted for murder there, for killing a Calvinist tax collector.

He swore on the Bible that it had been in self-defense, and that there was a conspiracy going on against pious Catholics. So the auxiliary bishop of Erfurt granted him asylum.

That lasted until the day when the Kanonikus of St. Mary's was found dead and some very nice pieces of the church treasury had disappeared along with Wilhelm. And nobody heard of him afterwards.

"But this spring the farmers talk about a Catholic 'Robin Hood,' who robs the wealthy Lutheran merchants on the High Road to Leipzig, and gives their money to the poor. Exactly as told in the old ballads."

"Ha!" shouted Marshall. "You're joking."

"No, sir. They don't make presents, but they pay generously for food and other supplies they buy from the farmers. And their captain uses the name Guillaume de Beauvallee."

Melchior's lips moved, when he repeated the name. "That's 'Wilhelm Schontal' translated into French!"

"Yes, Herr Nehring. That's what I thought, too. And I told the woad farmer about what that man had done in Erfurt. But he didn't believe me.

"And last week the outlaws appeared here."

Andreas had managed to hide in the stable when they turned up, but Maria unsuspectingly left the farmhouse, and froze when she saw the captain of this troop. She had been only nine years old when Schontal had visited Jakob Becker and his family in his house. But she obviously remembered that short, sturdy man with his enormous black mustachio, who had frightened her the first time she had seen him.

The next day Maria was missing. Andreas was sure that Schontal had something to do with it, but he couldn't convince the woad farmer. The farmer was adamant that Maria certainly had run away to find her mother.

"So I had no choice, I had to find her. But my search for her ended soon afterwards in the thicket, where the woad farmer found me."

A field near Erfurt

Some days later

"Guten Morgen, meine Herren," Melchior greeted the peasants who were harvesting flax in a field.

Not being accustomed to be addressed so courteously, the men stopped working, straightened and examined the scenario before them: A chubby young man with glasses on a mule, a tall, haggard, oddly-dressed man behind him on a large horse, and the obviously young stable hand on another mule holding the reins of a third mule.

"I am the guide for my master, Mister Marshall of Ambler, Lord of America, on his grand tour through Europe. He has heard that a distinguished buccaneer by name of Guillaume de Beauvallee has made his camp somewhere around here, and he-" At this point Melchior showed a grimace of resignation and disgust, "-wants to make his acquaintance.

"Are you, o honorable rural workers, by any chance able to fulfill his desire, and tell us the location of this encampment? An appropriate gratification will be awarded."

The men looked at each other, obviously trying to make a sense from this flood of pretentious words. Then one after another, each shook his head.

Marshall and Melchior had carefully devised this scene to reveal the hideout of Schontal and his gang. Melchior had declared that he was not completely convinced that these bandits had indeed abducted Maria. Marshall, however, had convinced him that he would not give up until he knew the facts.

Either nobody knew, or nobody dared to tell.

****

Shortly after the three continued on their way, Marshall heard a shout from behind. One of the peasants they passed was running after them. They stopped and turned.

"I know it," the man gasped. "How much?"

He obviously didn't want to share his knowledge and the reward with the other men.

"One Groschen," Melchior said.

"One Thaler," the man replied.

"Melchior," the arrogant voice of Marshall came from behind. "Don't bargain. But we'll return, if the information turns out to be wrong."

"Yess, mein Lord," Melchior answered and looked questioningly in the man's eyes.

"Mein Lord," the man echoed. "I will not betray you, I don't dare to."

The old windmill near the road between Bechstedt and Isseroda was the bandits' hideout. The Imperials had killed its owner two years before, and since then apparently nobody had dared to reopen the mill because the old miller’s ghost still dwelled there.

Yeah, a haunted mill, Marshall thought, always a good pretext to keep the superstitious natives at distance.

Schontal and his gang had taken possession of the mill, and used it as their headquarters. It was far enough from the High Road to be hidden from view, but near enough to start their raids from here.

When Melchior heard this, he uttered the mysterious words "So we will have to fight the windmills, too."

Marshall looked at him, and decided not to pursue the odd comment, except to say: "We will possibly fight at the windmill, but by then we better have a good plan to emerge unscathed."

Either I am mistaken, or this is going to be the most famous adventure that has ever been seen.

Windmill at the road from Bechstedt to Isseroda

Near Weimar, New United States, CPE

Next morning

Maria Becker left the windmill where the Hessian murderer and his cronies kept their supplies. With all the power of her twelve-year-old muscles, she dragged a sack of flour down the ramp. The thugs wanted bread for breakfast, so she had to start the dough now.

Suddenly she saw a man on a horse. A tall, haggard man, wearing a strange kind of suit. He had something like a lance in his right hand, and a hat with a big brim on his head. The bandits had apparently noticed him, too. Schontal had already gotten up and now went to meet the strange man, holding a pistol casually in his hand.

Marshall slowly approached the windmill on his horse. The bandits were sitting at a campfire, where something was cooking in a pot. Their horses were tied to some stakes in a meadow nearby.

Most of their guns could be seen strapped to their saddles some yards away, but some of the men nevertheless had wheel lock pistols and sabers lying close at hand.

When they noticed Marshall, they grabbed their weapons. A short, sturdy man with an enormous black mustachio and a pistol in his hand rose and took several steps forward.

Noticing that Marshall was obviously unarmed apart from the ranging pole he had removed from its sheath and now was holding upright like a lance, he started to smile. It was a sneering, arrogant grin.

He bowed deeply before Marshall. "Guillaume de Beauvallee, a votre service," he said, but the following words gave away his thick Hessian dialect. "Whom do I have the honor to meet on this wonderful morning?"

"I'm Marshall Ambler, and I've come-" He pointed to the young girl, who had just left the windmill, and who hauled a large sack. "-to retrieve your captive."

"Oh, yes." The bandit's grin was now only sardonic. "You, and which army?" He waved about with his pistol. His cronies laughed joyfully.

"Mr. Bill Bo-valley, I don't need an army, as long as I have my magical instruments with me." He lowered the ranging pole; its point was still several yards away from Schontal, but now pointing to his forehead. "So please drop all your guns and make your way back into whatever rat-hole you have crawled out of."

"Oh, so you are one of these mythical 'Americains.'" He lifted his pistol and carefully aimed at Marshall's upper body. "But do you know what I think? I think-"

Nobody would ever learn what thoughts really crossed his mind at that moment. A muffled crack split the quietness of the morning, and a red flower bloomed on Schontal's forehead.

The fact that the back of his head blew away at the same time added to the absurdity of the event. Marshall could still see a kind of puzzlement in his eyes, when Schontal slowly fell on his back. The same puzzlement now showed on the faces of his cronies.

Marshall changed the aim of his pole to the next of the bandits, who had not yet brought his pistol to the ready. "Do I have to repeat this lesson or will you drop your weapons and run?"

Suddenly the expressions on the bandits' face changed from puzzlement to horror. All of them dropped their pistols and sabers and began to flee.

Melchior rose from behind the little mound where he had hidden before sunrise. It was only fifty yards from Marshall's actual position, and though Melchior had practiced with the up-time hunting rifle only for a week, he had developed a very good aim, at least at short distances.

He held the gun still, ready to react if one of the bandits changed his mind and returned. But they still were running as if pursued by a dragon.

When they had disappeared behind the next grove, Marshall whistled, and Andreas appeared with the mules. As soon as the boy saw his sister, he jumped off his mount and ran to hug her. The girl was still stunned by the bloody dreadful event, which had happened before her eyes. But when her brother reached her, she managed a little smile.

"Come on," Marshall said. "We don't know how long they need to regain composure and return here. So let's gather their belongings and then make like a tree and leave."

Then, smiling at the girl he said, "Maria, do you think you can ride a mule? Or do you want to ride with me?"

Ask a girl whether she wants to ride on a horse, in Ancient Egypt, Rome, Germany or West Virginia, and the reply is always the same.

Maria extended both arms, and Marshall lifted her on his horse's back before his saddle.

Melchior and Andreas gathered the horses and saddles of the bandits, and all together started to Weimar.

Weimar

Some days later

When all the bureaucratic formalities had been completed, and the children sent to Grantville with a representative of the duke of Saxe-Eisenach, Marshall and Melchior again started into the direction of Erfurt.

"Perhaps," Marshall said thoughtfully, "we'll find more adventures in this 'boring' county of yours."

"El ingenioso hidalgo," Melchior muttered.

"What?"

"Nothing."

Oh, never, surely, was there knight

So served by hand of dame,

As served was he, Don Quixote hight,

When from his town he came;

With maidens waiting on himself,

Princesses on his hack

Chapter 8: On the Right Track

Grantville, New United States

April 1633

The Orient Express came into Penn Station and stopped at platform seven, just when the Hiawatha, hauled by a streamlined class A, was departing from platform ten. The passengers would have been very unhappy for not catching the connecting train south, but fortunately all this happened only on Marshall Ambler's large model railroad.

The dignitaries from the Thuringian towns stood around Marshall with gaping mouths. They had heard that the up-timer was about to give a "presentation on rail operations," but this was not in the least what they had expected, if they had expected anything.

But certainly they hadn't expected the giant table with many trains moving simultaneously, starting and stopping as if by magic. Steam trains steaming, passenger coaches lit, signals changing colors.

"And this," Hieronymus Bruckner, the Ratsmeister of Erfurt cleared his throat. "And all this is a picture of up-time reality?"

"All things considered, yes," Marshall answered. "Much compressed in space and time, of course. Model trains try to show everything on the available space, what normally happens hundreds of miles apart. And I have locomotives from eras that are over one hundred years apart."

"Can I," Andreas Cotta, the Burgermeister of Eisenach, interjected, "see one of these 'locomotives' close up?"

"Of course." Marshall pushed some buttons, and all trains came to a halt. He seized the streamlined Hudson that had drawn the Twentieth Century Limited and handed it to Cotta.

The man carefully took it in one hand. "It's not hot."

"Yes, all the 'steam' engines are driven by electric power on the model railroad."

"But," Cotta wondered, "They were steaming."

Marshall laughed. "That's a simple trick. They burn drops of oil to produce some smoke. When you wait for ten minutes, they'll all stop smoking but still move."

Cotta pointed at the large drivers of the steam locomotive and then to one of the tiny figures on the platform. "Are these wheels really as big as a man?"

"Yes, but often they are much smaller. Usually the larger the wheel, the faster the steam locomotive can go, roughly."

"And you want to build such a thing in real?" Johannes Evander, the mayor of Weimar, asked from behind.

"No, not in the next ten or twenty years. Locomotives that big weren't built in the old timeline before the 1880s. That's over fifty years after the first train ran.

"Here," he took the much smaller model of a Climax from a branch line. "This is roughly what I have in mind." The geared engine had two trucks with two axles each, and the wheels were much smaller than the Hudson's.

"What you can't see here are gears under the original engine distributing the power evenly onto all eight wheels. This type of locomotive runs smoother on bad track and doesn't strain the tracks as much as a normal 'rod' engine. It could even run on wooden tracks with special wheels."

"And what are these colored engines?" Bruckner tried to come forward. "They have no chimneys."

"We had three different types of engines up-time." Marshall took a large red V200. "This is a German Diesel engine. It ran on oil like the APCs you all know.

"And this,"-this was a green Swiss Be 6/8-"has the nickname 'crocodile,' and was originally driven by electric power like all the model trains here. Do you see the rods on the top? They take the electric power from wires above where it can't hurt people."

"And why," Andreas Gompracht, Oberster Ratsmeister of Gotha, wondered, "don't you build electric trains? Electric power is much cheaper than coal."

"We'll do it, just not now." Marshall pointed to the electrified track, where the crocodile had run before. "The wire and the poles supporting it must be made of lots of copper and steel, and steel is our scarcest resource in the moment. Moreover, each of the smaller locomotives needs about twenty tons-four hundred Zentner-of steel. The bigger ones up to a hundred tons. It's simply not yet available.

"They'll need an enormous amount of electric power, so we will have to build larger power plants before we can start to electrify the lines. So, we'll have to stay with steam for now."

Higgins Hotel, Grantville

The next day

The Conference Hall in the Higgins Hotel was bursting at its seams. Not only with the delegations of the Thuringian towns, which the new railroad line was supposed to connect, but also delegates from many other villages had appeared.

The Ernestine dukes had a small entourage each; and that meant at least twenty more people. Even some envoys of the Catholic Church from Erfurt had shown up, although all of the archbishop's properties in that county had been dispossessed by the Swedish king.

Marshall had never encountered so many people in such a small location before. The plan had been to reduce this run by meeting far away in Grantville, but the need to announce it publicly had spread the news widely.

Okay, I've put up with worse things.

Melchior appeared in the small side room. He had checked the big names on the list. "They are all here. And 'all' means-"

"Yes, I can see it. At least one man from every farm along the prospective route."

"Yes, and from even farther away. But the invited guests are all here. We should begin now." His face showed a little impatience.

"Oh yes. Cross your fingers!"

Melchior frowned. "Why should I? There are no witches here; at least I hope not."

"What do you Germans do to wish someone luck?"

Melchior folded his thumbs and closed his fingers around. "Press the thumbs."

"Okay, do it. I'll need it."

****

Marshall marched to the speaker's desk, and tapped on the mike several times. Partly to check its function, and partly to silence down the audience.

"Ladies and gentlemen," he started in English by custom. Then switched to German. "Meine. Herren." He corrected himself as he saw that the room was solely filled with men. "My name is Marshall Ambler and, on behalf of the shareholders, I want to inform you all of what we have planned since last summer."

He turned and nodded to Melchior. The young man pulled at a rope, and a curtain opened before the back wall.

Now everyone could see a large map of central Thuringia. A black line connected Jena with Weimar, Erfurt, Gotha, and Eisenach; finally ending at the Werra.

In large letters, the title "Jena-Eisenach Eisenbahngesellschaft" stretched over the whole map. Below this title, the map showed the coat of arms of the five towns and the three Ernestine duchies-now states of the NUS.

"This is our target: We will build a railroad along this line. The towns and people whose coats of arms are shown here have signed the company contract today. All of them bring estates or cash into the company, and there will be a bond to raise at least another ten million dollars from everyone who is willing to invest into the future of Thuringia."

Millions of questions and answers later Marshall threw himself onto the couch in his apartment. The shareholders and prospective investors were still discussing what they had learned during the buffet at the hotel, but he had excused himself. The air had been getting too bad for his allergies.

The itching reminded him how everything had begun. In the early 1970s after returning from Nuremberg where he had worked for the U.S. Army he had started teaching engineering and drafting in Fairmont. There he met the newly divorced Janice O'Keefe, who shortly afterwards became Janice Ambler, and then he moved to Grantville.

They wanted to have children, but it didn't work. And since Janice had two already from her first marriage with Dennis Haygood, she blamed Marshall.

Oh, not openly, but he could see how she more and more kept a distance from him, and more and more dived into her work. With the deterioration of their marriage, began the deterioration of his health.

First came headaches. He had examinations but they couldn't find a cause. Then his skin began to itch at different places. He had more examinations, and allergy tests, with again no results.

When he started coughing every time he entered the school building, he decided to quit his job in Fairmont and teach in Grantville's new tech center.

The next step down came when he noticed that the itching and coughing and the headaches all got worse whenever he met Janice.

Okay, he thought, let's visit a couch doctor. Perhaps all his woes were psychosomatic, derived from an emotional problem.

Some thousands of bucks later, he noticed that nothing got better. One of the other doctors had spoken about "Multiple chemical sensitivity." That meant a kind of super-allergy against everything, but nobody else believed that this disease even existed.

Whether this was true or not, it could only get better when he tried to avoid all possible sources of chemicals. This included scents and bleaches in clothing detergent, tobacco smoke, perfumes, and so on.

In short, Grantville and his wife. He asked Janice to stop smoking, and she did it. He asked her to stop using perfumes, and she did it. He asked her to stop using scented detergent, and Janice exploded.

"You hypochondriac, you idiot, you- Do you think the whole world turns around you? Can't you even consider another person beside yourself? Best you hide in a cave and let the entrance collapse."

Since he also could not prevent cars from driving through the town, he quit his job in the Tech Center, moved into the basement of their house, which already contained his model railroad, installed an air washer and airtight seals at the doors. Fortunately, he had a part-time job writing a regular column for the Industrial Engineer, and there were enough mail-order companies to keep him alive.

The doorbell rang. At first, Marshall didn't want to get up, but then decided otherwise. Only few of the people at the hotel knew where he lived. It was not probable that one of them would appear now.

When he opened the door, Janice was standing there, an embarrassed expression on her face that he hadn't seen for several years.

"Yeah, what do you want?" he asked.

"To talk with you. Can I come in?"

With a big gesture, he invited her. She hadn't been in his apartment since-was that in 1995? Three hundred sixty-two years from now. A long time.

She sat down in an armchair. He sat down on his couch again.

"So what?" he demanded.

"I saw you at the hotel. Not directly, but on tape."

"And?"

"You looked well. You look well. And you looked happy. It seems you've found something."

Marshall smiled. "Thanks. Finally, I've found something worth living for and working for. Is that, what you came to say?"

"Marshall, I know we got on poorly the last few years, and we both know that we are both to blame for it."

Then she saw him frowning. "Okay, I admit, I'm to blame for a big part of it. I buried myself too deep in my work, after you buried yourself in your apartment-or your sickness buried you-be that as it may.

"But you should have looked yourself in the face in these years. Even now when you opened the door, you scowled at me. I simply ran out of steam." She laughed ironically when she used that figure of speech in front of the big model railroad.

"And what is your point?"

"My point is that I am happy when you are. Really. You were never happy during the last ten years, and me either, every time I saw you. I'm not saying anything about getting together again; that train has definitely left the station."

Now both laughed.

Janice had to have the last word. "I wanted to tell you that from my point of view, you're on the right track."

Marshall laughed, rose, and extended a hand. "Truce?"

Janice rose too, and looked astonished at his hand. "Since when are you shaking hands again?" Then she smiled, took his hand and pumped. "But yes, truce!

"And now tell me about your Don Quixote adventure, your fight against the windmills, and the kids you saved from these bandits, and adopted afterwards."

Marshall grinned. "I had no idea how that would go around.

"I wouldn't call them exactly 'adopted,' and there isn't really that much to tell. I visited them yesterday; they live with a German family and go to school. Since I was constantly traveling, I haven't seen them all that much.

"Now that may change. I'm in charge of the R amp;D facilities of the railroad company in Jena now, so I can come over on weekends."

GrantvilleTechCenter

Next morning

"Yes I know," Marshall admitted. "I should have stayed longer."

Ambrose Salerno scowled at him while nodding.

"Hey," Marshall continued. "It was end of school year when I left. I finished everything I had promised. And in the meantime so many down-timers have arrived here able to substitute for me. You have the real living William Oughtred here. You don't need me to teach the children the usage of slipsticks.

"You know that I didn't feel well. My asthma was getting worse, so please don't scowl on me. Now what about my proposal?"

Ambrose Salerno's furrows got deeper. "The whole senior class, you want to employ them?"

"For one thing, it's not me; it's the railroad company employing them. And for another thing, of course only those who want to work for a railroad company in Jena. But we need as many surveyors, civil engineers, machinists and so on as we can get; people with ideas and people who are not infected with up-timer attitudes."

"Ha!" Ambrose shouted, "As if your attitudes are any different."

"And that's exactly the point. If you, and I, and the West Virginian steam-heads start to build a railroad, we all know too well what can be done, and what can't be done. We know much too much of the history.

"If I had started the railroad company, I would never have thought about founding a virtually government-owned company. I would have tried to raise the funds with private investors. What would we have now? Perhaps a hundred lawsuits of people who don't want to give us the right of way.

"This is not the Wild West," he said, smiling at the memory of his own Wild West adventure. "It's a more or less civilized area. We can't send the cavalry to kill the Indians; the people out there have more cavalry than we do."

Marshall took a deep breath. "And the same with the technical aspects. At the moment, your youngsters know enough of what can be done, and nothing of what we think can't be done. That's the whole point. So perhaps one of them experiments and finds a way to propel our engines with air and dung; there's lots of both in this place and time.

"I wouldn't try that, would you? Do you know how many good ideas in the last centuries were simply forgotten, because they had as much cheap steel and oil as they needed?”

Marshal took another deep breath. Then a mournful expression appeared on his face. "Do you know how many great men live out there who are too young to have their life's work even begun and now will never do, because we Americans can simply tell them? Do you know that Vauban would have been born next month? The greatest technical author of the seventeenth century; what would he have written now?"

"Okay, okay." Ambrose lifted his hands. "You have a point there. I have no objection. We'll make a trip to your 'Lokschuppen' in Jena next month, and you can show them what you've got there."

Author's notes:

Quotes from the English translation of Don Quixote by John Ormsby (1829–1895), who did the notable task to translate the original of Don Quixote once and for all into English.

The first German translation was done in 1621 but not published before 1648. The subtitle of this issue says: Buy me and read me, if you regret, eat me or I'll pay you.

If I remember right, there was nowhere stated in the six million words of the 1632verse how fragmented Thuringia was. Apart from the four Wettin duchies (and Saxe-Altenburg alone consisted of seven separated parts), the two Schwarzburg counties and Gleichen, most were not even mentioned. The two Reu? families with a total of four different Herrschaften for example are partially in the grid, but never used. Big parts of "Thuringia" still belong to Saxony, or to several other distant owners.

The only map I found showing and naming all the different parts can be found here. You may count and prove my numbers stated in the story wrong.

Yes, the sentences Melchior uses in his letter are unnecessarily long and complicated, and yes, he uses Latin words unexpectedly, and yes, he announces his sovereign with an abbreviation (Y.H. = Your Highness). This is exactly the style the Germans of this time wrote their letters.

The Kramerbrucke in Erfurt was first built as a wooden bridge (first mentioned in 1117) which was already used as a market. Then it repeatedly burned down and was rebuilt. Finally in 1325 they rebuilt it from stone; they also built two churches, one at each end of the bridge. After another fire in 1472 houses were built on the bridge.

Neither of the two Bechstedts mentioned is the one near the Ring of Fire; they are both near Erfurt. The one with the historical Bockwindmuhle (open trestle post mill) is called Bechstedtstra? today.

Each farm in Germany had a name, normally arising from its original purpose. So the Waidbauerhof (woad farm) was once called after its primary product Farberwaid (this produced the natural indigo used for blue jeans) and afterwards every owner of this farm automatically gets the name 'der Waidbauer.' A potential son will be 'dem Waidbauer sein Hans' and afterwards possibly have the official name 'Hans Waidbauer' registered, regardless of whether the farm still produces woad or not.

"Bill Bo" is originally the main character of a German TV-show from 1968. It's the story (played by puppets on strings) of a robber chief in the Thirty Years' War, who wants to capture a castle with his gang.

The daughter of the duke dresses as a boy to enter the gang and spy on the bandits.

Bill Bo has his homepage here.

If you're interested in railroads and specifically in model railroads, there are two places in Germany you definitely should visit:

The first one is the DB Museum in Nuremberg, near the main station. It is the oldest train museum of the world, opened in 1899. The model railroad was opened in 1960, and that's the place where Marshall Ambler fell in love with model trains, when he lived in Nuremberg.

The second one is the Miniatur-Wunderland in Hamburg, the largest model railroad of the world with one room dedicated to American railroads.

To be continued.

Art Director's Note: Thanks to Rainer for providing the interior art for this story.

Second Chance Bird, Episode Thirteen

Garrett W. Vance

Chapter Sixty-eight: The Ones That Got way

Port Looking Glass, December 15th, 1635

"They what?" Pam shouted, her voice like sharp metal.

Ulf, the Swedish marine who had brought her the bad news flinched, hoping that the American saying about "shooting the messenger" really was just a saying.

"They escaped, Captain Pam, in the night. They all got away, including the officers and that brute who had helped kidnap you." Ulf's voice was heavy with professional embarrassment. Even though the strapping young soldier had a full foot and a hundred pounds on her, he shrank back as Pam began pacing around her cabin in the grip of rage.

"How?" Pam tried not to shriek at the poor fellow, fighting to keep her voice even. Gerbald, Doctor Durand, and Lundkvist, the newly-minted captain of their captured French warship, Effrayant, looked on, all staying sensibly near the door.

"One of the French trustees did it. We haven't been watching them that closely since the doctor vouched for them." This made the good doctor wince painfully. Ulf gave him an apologetic shrug before continuing. "It turns out this one was still loyal to that Toulon bastard. He snuck up to the prison and cut a hole in the back wall. It was only made of bamboo. The civilians on guard duty were all asleep." At least he had managed to get that particular buck passed. Incompetent farmers trying to do a soldier's work, and failing completely!

Pam scowled mightily. Hot, stinking DAMN! Their real military guys were stretched pretty thin right now, with a harbor full of ships and a town to attend to, so it wasn't that big a surprise; even seasoned soldiers were known to fall asleep on guard duty, and it wasn't exactly a Sing Sing they had been running. Two more days and that evil bastard would have been hanging high. She had intended to pull the lever herself!

Doctor Durand looked miserable, his long mustache drooping tragically. "Captain Pam, I am most terribly embarrassed. I hold myself completely responsible. It was I who thought we could trust the man who did this. He appeared to be an honest young sailor to my eyes, pressed into service against his will as I was."

"It isn't your fault, Doc. You're not a mind reader. That snake Toulon must havemade the kid an offer he couldn't refuse." She turned back to the sweating Marine, who looked somewhat relieved that his captain had grown calmer. "What happened next, Ulf?" she asked him, patting his hand in a comforting manner. He breathed out a nervous breath, and continued.

"They made their way down to the beach where the traitor had a longboat waiting, one of Ide's tenders. It was big enough to hold them, and seaworthy enough. We figure they're heading to Isle Saint Marie, that's where they say Toulon has his pirate base."

Captain Lundkvist stepped forward, his new polished wood peg leg giving him a very maritime air.

"The Effrayant can be ready to pursue within the hour. We can still catch them!"

Pam shook her head. "I appreciate your gumption, but it would be searching for a needle in a hay stack. We need Effrayant here to protect us. If Toulon is foolish enough to come try us, we'll finish him for good. One day, when Swedish power has grown strong enough here, I intend to go burn their little pirate paradise to the ground, and you and your ship will be leading the way, I promise! All I ask is that you save Capitaine Toulon de Aquitane for me.I intend to kill that fucker with my own hands, for Bengta and all the others. His ass is mine."

Pam glared so fiercely into the distance that Gerbald was pretty sure the escaped pirate would feel a tingling at the nape of his neck, wherever he was.

After a long, glowering silence, Pam shrugged, shaking off her frustration and anger.

"Well, that's that, business for another day. Now, we need to get ready for the town meeting, and before noon or not, I need a drink. Any takers?

All the men breathed a collective sigh of relief to see the storm had passed. They gathered around the big, red-lacquered table while Pam uncorked a jug of rice wine, pouring it into the small ceramic cups the Chinese used for such occasions.

"To our enemies!" Pam raised her drink in salute "May they lose sleep wondering when we will come for them."

Chapter Sixty-nine: We Are Gathered Here

The meeting hall wasn't finished yet, so that balmy afternoon the entire colony gathered in the great meadow above town. A podium had been erected, on which Pam, and various other luminaries of the colony, stood smiling at the people, who smiled encouragingly back. Pam usually got the butterflies when facing a crowd, but today she felt confident; these were friends, and they had all been through much together. "People of Port Looking Glass, thank you for coming today!" She spoke in Swedish, which she had become close to fluent in over the course of their journey. Her voice came out clear, and was aided in its course over the crowd by a light breeze off the Indian Ocean. The new Dutch members of the colony looked on politely. They would be provided with a full translation later.

She opened up the small plastic container that she had guarded so carefully through shipwreck and battle, carefully pulling out the rolled-up paper within.

"I have here a proclamation written in Princess Kristina's own hand, and signed by her father, King Gustav Adolph the Second. It reads: 'I, Princess Kristina Augusta, do hereby, and with my father's blessings, claim the islands known up-time as the Mascarenes for the crown of Sweden. They shall henceforth be called the Wonderland Isles. Mauritius, Rodriguez, and Reunion, are renamed, respectively, Dodo, Jabberwocky, and Bandersnatch, in honor of the works of Lewis Carroll, from whence the inspiration for this colony came.'"

Pam paused, having expected the confused blinks from the crowd. "Folks, I know the names sound strange, but they are from one of the princess' favorite storybooks. As brilliant as she is, she is still a child, so let's humor her, all right?"

Good-natured laughter emanated from the crowd along with murmurs of approval. Pam shared a smile with them and continued on.

"I hope this next part won't be too shocking for you! The princess goes on to say 'I also hereby proclaim expedition leader Pamela Grace Miller of Grantville as Governor of the Wonderland Isles for a period of two years, after which you may hold elections in the American style, and choose your own leaders.'"

Pam paused, giving the crowd a long, serious look.

"I will not hold you to this, but if you will have me, I will serve," she told them. The crowd sent up a great cheer, hailing their new governor with unmistakable enthusiasm. Pam nodded her thanks, then continued on once the hubbub calmed down.

"There is a bit more here, and it's important: 'Please be good to the wildlife of these islands, especially the dodo. As a Wonderland citizen it is your duty to preserve and protect nature; including all native plants and creatures. By living in harmony with the good, green Earth I believe you shall become the healthiest, and hopefully, the wealthiest of all people. Good luck to you all, and God bless you, I pray that you are successful in this great endeavor, and wish you all the best.'" Pam looked back at the crowd, who applauded with vigor.

Pam spoke again, moving on to the brief speech she herself had prepared.

"My fellow Wonderlanders!" The crowd clapped at this, and more cheers went up."My first act as governor is to ask you to select a deputy governor from amongst yourselves to join me." This was met with more applause.

"You have suffered much, and weathered great hardship! You are the bravest of the brave! The scoundrels who held us hostage have forced us to change our plans somewhat, but we are adapting. We have sugar cane and potatoes in abundance already, and that is just the beginning! By this time next year we willbe the 'Spice Basket of Europe,' which will make us all very rich indeed! We are a free people, we work for ourselves, and each other! Together, we will build the most successful colony the world has ever seen! Thank you all!"

Pam bowed, smiled, and waved at the exuberant crowd in what she hoped was proper public official style, hoping that their pleasure would last when it came time to enforce certain laws protecting the island's unique natural heritage. Hopefully, her plans for relatively non-invasive agriculture and forest management would indeed be as lucrative as she thought they would. She sighed and thought, We will just have to cross that bridge when we come to it.

Chapter Seventy: The Ships Come In

One Year Later

Pam came out of her office/laboratory, a very functional, peaked roofed, rectangular building on the edge of the forest, painted the same deep red as nearly everything else in Port Looking Glass. Gerbald had soon dubbed it "Pam's Bird Barn." The moniker had stuck to the point where she had given in, and neatly painted it over the door.

Pam was on her way to check on the new rice paddies, part of the agricultural bounty they had traded for with a group of Japanese refugees on their way to Grantville. The very unexpected visitors had stopped for supplies four months before, fleeing an unfriendly situation in Cambodia. She shook her head in amazement at the memory; this really was a Wonderland. There she had been,pow-wowing with real live samurai straight out of Clavell! That unexpected visit was quite a story, but one for another day. There was no time to reminisce at the moment, she was just too damn busy. She often wished that there were two of her, one to play governor, the other to be the scientist.

The rice paddies were terraced along a stream that ran out into the placid waters of Looking Glass Bay. A few of the Japanese families had elected to stay at her invitation, and Pam was pleased that her colony was becoming truly multicultural. The "American Way" they had brought back through the centuries was alive and well here in the Indian Ocean, of all places. Pam was damn proud, her plans were literally bearing fruit, far more than she had even hoped for. An older fellow named Hironaka, their designated rice expert, hailed her from the low, earthen wall that held the paddy's water in. Pam waved at him, then realized he was pointing emphatically, motioning for her to look to the harbor. Just then the town alarm bells sounded. Pam turned to see Effrayant leaving her moorage, hurrying out to meet the small fleet of unknown sailing vessels heading their way. Muskijl and Second Chance Bird followed, entering into a defensive formation with Effrayant, implementing their oft-practiced plan for unexpected sea invasion. Pam gave Hironaka a quick bow. It was impossible not to pick up the habit from her congenial new Japanese friends, and began running up the beach toward the pier.

There were at least nine ships, the one in the lead looked to be a warship large enough to give even fearsome Effrayant trouble. Pam paused to catch her breath, breaking out the small birding scope she kept on a leather thong around her neck. Forcing herself to breathe slowly and deeply, she focused on the big ship. Yes, banks of guns, but no sign of firing crews making ready. She caught a glimpse of gold and blue, biting her lip, she scanned the rigging. There! Pam laughed aloud with delight. The ship was flying the Swedish colors! She began running again, her nerves buzzing with excitement. They had been visited by merchant ships from several nations over the last year, but this was the first time a ship from home had come!

The waterfront was filling up with interested colonists. They made way for her, and as she hurried out onto the pier, Pers came running to meet her.

"They're friendly, right?" she called out. One never could be too sure.

"Pam! They are from Sweden!" Pers replied, a gleeful expression on his youthful face. He would turn nineteen soon. To further reassure her, the "all's well" bell rang on Effrayant.

"Not all of them. Recognize that flag?" Pam pointed at one of the five ships making their way carefully into the harbor under escort from their defenders.

"She is flying what looks to be a naval ensign, red with a black saltire cross bearing gold stars. That's a ship from the United States of Europe!"

"Well, howdy doody. I wondered when someone might come to check on us." She took Pers by the arm and said, "Shall we go say hello?"

"Yes, ma'am, t'would be a pleasure!" Pers answered in his best West Virginia drawl; he was almost as good as Gerbald now, who surpassed even most hillbillies in his mastery of the accent.

The commander of the port shore guard, Lieutenant Jarv, one of the Muskijl's Marines who had helped rescue her from the kidnappers, were waiting at the end of the pier with some of his men. They took up a protective position around Pam, who was embarrassed at the fuss but thanked them politely. The ship came closer, a three-masted caravel. It was quite well-armed, and even boasted the same kind of carronade that perched menacingly on Second Chance Bird's deck. Anyone trying to board her might not live long enough to regret it.

Dore had been left ashore when the big, comfortable junk that served as their home headed out to meet the newcomers, captained by Pam's paramour, Captain Torbjorn and their faithful bosun, Nils. Dore joined Pam, eyes squinting in the tropical sunlight. She spent most of her time cooking for the sailors in the domain that she ruled with an iron fist, the ship's galley.

"All this fuss! I was about to bake potato flour biscuits!" Dore was always certain to be put out at being separated from her work, which she treated with a profound sense of duty and dignity, as if it were a holy calling.

"Visitors from the old country," Pam said, without as much enthusiasm as she might have expected. Now that the initial excitement had worn off, she knew she must put on her governor hat. It would be a shame having to deal with a bunch of nosy officials on such a nice day; she was behind in organizing her field notes on the dodos, and their island's unique eco-system, and resented an unannounced distraction. Even so, she put on her best official smile, and waved to the ships now tying up to the pier.

Aboard the caravel, which she could now see bore the name Linn?us, a crowd of around twelve eager-looking young people in their late teens gathered at the rail, their faces bright and excited. A pert young woman with a magnificent head of curly brown hair and an air of confidence organized them all into a line. She then marched them down the gangway to stand before Pam and her guard. Out of the corner of her eye, Pam noticed that her adopted son Pers was staring at the attractive leader of their visitors as if she were Helena of Troy come to life before his very eyes. Oh, brother, I know that look, and they call it puppy love!

"Welcome to Port Looking Glass and the Wonderland Colony," Pam said to the young lady, who might be as old as twenty, and who was obviously the one in charge of this gang. "I'm Governor Pam Miller."

The young woman's large, hazel eyes widened as if she was meeting a movie star. "The Bird Lady of Grantville! I've been looking so forward to meeting you, you are our inspiration!" The girl's English was slightly accented, but otherwise quite clear.

"That's me, I guess." Pam rolled her eyes at that damned "bird lady" moniker as she always did. Apparently she wasn't ever going to be able to shake it, no matter what her current title and station. The young woman, now looking a bit embarrassed at her initial starstruck reaction, straightened up and stuck her hand out in the American style, which Pam took. They shook vigorously, the kid had a good, strong grip, and Pam felt herself beginning to like her already, despite her secret wish that they would all haul anchor and go back to where they had come from.

"I am very honored to meet you, Governor Pam! I am Dorothea Weise, a student from the Katharina von Bora College in Quedlinburg. My companions come from various higher learning institutions around Europe, and we represent a variety of subjects we thought might be useful to your efforts-botany, geology, animal husbandry, biology, just to name a few! We have all come to assist you in your work here!"

It was Pam's turn to look goggle-eyed. Assistants? Someone to help with the mountain of scientific work she faced? Even so, they were all so young!

"Pardon me for saying so, but don't you have a teacher, or someone older with you?"

"Oh, of course! We are led by Professor Horst Altmann of the University of Jena."

"Well, where is he?"

"Unfortunately, the sea voyage did not agree with him. He is quite ill and abed in his cabin. We are very worried about him."

"I'll send our doctor to check on him right away."

Pam felt a bit flummoxed by this unexpected development. A helpful boon? A potential huge pain in the ass? Taking a deep breath, she regained her composure and managed to ask, "Who sent you?"

"Princess Kristina! She is our main sponsor!"

Pam looked northwest-ward in roughly the direction the USE might lie, and muttered "Thanks, Princess! Just what I need is a bunch of kids to look after!" The students, none a day over twenty-one, blinked at her like a pack of confused puppies, unsure and eager to please. She turned back to them and regarded them skeptically for a moment, but then her stern expression softened to a smile.

"Oh well, you may just prove to be useful. Ms. Weise, you and your group are now the Wonderland Colonial Natural Resource and Wildlife Service." She handed the stack of field notes she had been carrying to the erstwhile brunette. "You are obviously a natural leader, so I'm making you the director of said service. You shall report directly to me."

The young woman looked stunned, then a bit embarrassed. "Shouldn't such a high office go to Professor Altman? That would surely be the proper thing."

"On this island, I'm the one who decides what's proper. First, I have to see if I like him or not. Don't worry, I'll give him a title too, and hope he proves useful. But, since he's sick, and you are very plainly bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, I'll start with you. Your offices and laboratories are over there." She pointed to her labs up on the hill behind town, backed by tall, graceful native trees. "We will have to build some expansions. We can get started on that tomorrow. Read those notes, it's a good place to start." All the students and their newly-designated director nodded enthusiastically, murmuring their thanks.

Pam realized that Pers was still standing beside her with his eyes only for the fetching Dorothea Weise, and gave him a quick elbow before he started drooling. A really wonderful idea occurred to her then.

"Director Weise, this is my adopted son and personal assistant, Second Mate Pers of the Royal Swedish Navy, serving in Wonderland's defensive squadron."

Pers turned to her, stunned at his own sudden promotion. Pam gave him a quick grin and whispered in Swedish "You earned it, sweetie." Turning back to her new helpers, she continued in English, "I am now assigning Pers to be my liaison to your department. To start with, he can escort you to temporary quarters. If you don't speak Swedish, you will need to learn it. Pers will see to your instruction,he speaks fluent English, Thuringian-style German, and a bit of French."

Dorothea was visibly impressed by this, which made Pers look as if he might faint. He stood frozen in place until Dore gave him a gentle shove from behind. Blushing uncontrollably, he stepped forward and bowed to the pretty new director. The young woman shook his hand while favoring him with a bright smile, which made him turn an even brighter shade of scarlet. The smitten lad managed to find his voice, asking them in English, "Follow me, please," before turning on his heels and marching up the pier toward shore at a considerable speed.

Despite her natural confidence, Dorothea was looking a bit overcome by all this. She paused to thank Pam breathlessly for her kind welcome before leading her group in pursuit of Pers lengthy stride. Pam watched them as they went, grinning like a fool. Well, this may turn out to be a good thing indeed.

Lieutenant Jarv and his men were all chuckling amongst themselves, making bets on how long it would take the new second mate to raise his flag on that piece of lovely German territory he had found. Pam couldn't help but chuckle herself, then saw Captain Lundkvist leading a group from the Swedish warship toward her.

"Straighten up, you degenerates," she growled good-naturedly at her guard, "here comes the official delegation. Pretend you still have some proper military discipline."

"Yes, ma'am!" Pam laughed as they all stood up ramrod straight and saluted her in the snappy American naval style they had adopted.

"Governor Pam!" Captain Lundkvist called out to her, his voice full of excitement, his peg leg tapping a jaunty beat as he came rushing ahead of the rest of the contingent. "These people have come from Sweden to re-supply us, and more!"

Pam nodded, and raised her arms wide in a gesture of welcome to all the newcomers as Lundkvist saluted her and fell into place at her side opposite Jarv. "It is lovely to have you all here!" she told them in their own language. "Let's get out of the sun before we make our introductions, it will melt you like wax if you let it! Right this way!" She turned and marched for shore, head held high in what she hoped was suitable gubernatorial bearing.

"To the meeting hall, Governor Pam?" Lundkvist asked her. She was excited now, her mind racing with thoughts of how to make the best of these new developments. She wanted to hurry, but was careful to match the top speed her chief military officer could manage on his prosthesis.

"No, I have a better idea, gentlemen," she replied with a wide grin. Reaching shore, she turned left and led them down the freshly-constructed boardwalk toward the Dodo's Nest. This was a spacious saloon that had sprung up on the waterfront like a volunteer potato in a backyard garden, an inevitable occurrence in an environment like this. It was definitely time for a mug of cool beer and a shot of that Swedish akvavit, most likely followed by a few more rounds of the same. "Official business is thirsty work, soldiers. Here we do things the Wonderland way." They all shared a conspiratorial grin, knowing full well that good old Captain Pam could hold her liquor with the best of them. These muckity-mucks from back home wouldn't stand a chance.

****

The leader of the fleet from home was Flotilj-amiralGunvald Engstrom, an accomplished and highly-decorated career military man in his late fifties and, as a "flotilla admiral," currently the highest-ranking Swedish officer in the Indian Ocean. He had been as cool as a Scandinavian winter wind until Pam had gotten some of her private reserve of Chinese rice wine down him. Now he was just "Gun," and was laughing at her jokes as if he were a favorite uncle doting over a clever niece. Torbjorn, Gerbald and the rest of her men present were all biting back their laughter as they watched Pam work the stern old sea salt, playing him like a hooked salmon ready to jump right into the net.

One of Dear Gun's orders was to determine if the colony was being adequately governed by "that American woman," and it was the first to be crossed off the list. He and Pam were already thick as thieves, and he clapped and cheered as the men who had followed her through various dangers regaled him with tales of her courage and prowess in battle.

"Pam, you are like a warrior-woman from the old times, you have a heart of steel!" he proclaimed as she handed him another stein of beer, his ninth or tenth. "I can see that Wonderland is in good hands!"

Pam put on a modest look, and patted her new best friend amiably on the back of his wind-burned hand. "Oh, Gun, you flatterer! I just do what I have to do for our people, and for the glory of the crown. Remember, as a citizen of the United States of Europe, your king is my emperor, long may he live! Skol!" she raised her glass in toast. Mugs clacked noisily around the room. "Now, Gun, tell me more about what you have brought us!"

As it turned out, it was a lot more than she had expected. The emperor had apparently listened to her regarding Sweden missing out entirely on becoming an Asian power in the up-time world. Engstrom's fleet included six fluyts full of colonists and their needed supplies, three for each of the remaining Wonderland Islands. Looking Glass Bay currently resembled a crowded parking lot. It had been decided that if they meant to make their claims to the Mascarenes stick, they had better have boots on the ground, possession being nine tenths of the law. Pam was reassured that she would be in charge of the operation, and that the new colonies would follow the same eco-friendly farming methods as Port Looking Glass, which made Pam breathe a big sigh of relief. Three more fluyts carried supplies for Port Looking Glass, including ammunition (Praise the Lord!), new varieties of tropical seeds and starts gathered from the Americas donated by several interested botanical societies, more scientific apparatus, and a small library of books. Pam was practically beside herself with joy at all the new toys.

The flotilla admiral's personal vessel was a refurbished warship, the Vaksamhet, or Vigilance,employing a variety of up-time inspired improvements; it was big, fast and deadly, and would patrol the seas around the colonies. Together with Effrayant and Muskijl, Wonderland would be well guarded. Even better, all the ships and towns would be provided with radios, giving them a huge advantage over any would-be threat to their safety. Pam grinned like the Cheshire cat. It was almost Christmas, and for once she was getting everything she wanted. Pam was on top of the world until Gun said something that let all the air out of her elation.

"Pam, our dear sponsor, Princess Kristina, has personally requested that I ask you when you intend to bring dodos back to Europe? She knows you have a great deal of work to do here, but she is hoping perhaps next year? We will help you accomplish this in any way we can, she stressed that it's very important to her. She is having some kind of a special dodo building made of glass constructed near the University of Jena, I'm sure Professor Altman and his students can give you the details. "

Pam smiled, and nodded politely. The truth was, she hadn't really intended to go back to Europe, although she knew she must at some point see her family, which now included a new grandson.

"Yes, Gun, another year at best. It will take that long to start the new colonies, and make ready for the voyage." Pam hid her frown by emptying her freshly-poured mug, and motioned to the barman for another. Back to Grantville. Bah humbug!

Chapter Seventy-One: Time Flies

Early October 1637

It wouldn't be a full year before Pam would make the dreaded journey back to Europe. It was decided they should leave before the end of October for the best weather. Second Chance Bird, Annalise and three of the second wave's cargo fluyts laden with goods both grown on the islands and traded for with visiting foreign merchants, would convoy along the coast of Africa, hoping to arrive in the northern spring or summer. Pam's junk was already well-armed, and all the fluyts were fitted with guns, so there wasn't need of a warship escort. Effrayant, Muskijl and Vaksamhet had tangled with pirates of various ilk several times in the last year, and needed to stay to watch over the young colonies. Pam assured Engstrom that her ship and crew could handle just about anything, and if they couldn't, they still had the benefit of speed.

The good-byes were the hardest part. Gerbald and Dore would go with her, of course, as would Torbjorn, Nils the bosun, and most of their original crew. Pers had elected to stay, in part because Dorothea turned out to be just as interested in the tall young Swede as he was in her, and wedding bells would likely ring at some point. She hoped she would be there for her adopted son's special day.

The arrival of the students had been a great boon after all. Professor Altman, upon recovering from the voyage, turned out to be a pretty nice old guy, not too stuffy for a down-timer scholar. He was a horticulturist, so Pam put him in charge of their experimental agriculture projects. The colonies were now growing around fifty percent of the spices and fruits she had planned for, with more to come. They were still having trouble figuring out how to get the vanilla pollinated without bees, but it had been done in the 1800s up-time, in that world's version of the Wonderland Islands as it happened, so at some point they would solve the mystery. The native coffee now grew in abundance on the mountainsides, and cinnamon trees from Ceylon were thriving in the island's gentle climate. Her kindness to the joint Dutch and Japanese merchant fleet carrying the Ayutthaya refugees to Europe had ensured Wonderland a place on the trade maps. Now it wasn't unusual to see more than one junk in Port Looking Glass's harbor.

Their understanding of the island's unique ecologies grew daily, and Pam now had a variety of medicinal plants to bring back to the Grantville Research Center's associate laboratories. She also had half an encyclopedia's worth of information on the climate, ecologies and cultures of the Indian Ocean. Without feeling quite like Charles Darwin, she was proud of her scientific achievements, and it made her feel a lot better about the center continuing to pay her a small salary while she was gone. She had earned her keep, after all. Money would not be a problem in her future, even without her share of the junk's treasure. Pam had now joined the Grantville rich. And so, resigned to the fact that she really must make the trip, she went about putting her life in Wonderland on hold, vowing to all that she would be back again as soon as she could manage it.

Inevitably the day to leave came. The entire town turned out, lining the shore, the soldiers had to keep them off the pier for fear it would collapse beneath their weight. Pam made a point of walking slowly down the boardwalk, shaking every hand offered. Swedish, Dutch, German, French, Japanese-they had come from many lands, but now they were all Wonderlanders, just like her. At the end of the line Harmannus and Lijss waited, their eyes full of tears as they said their farewells. Pam was having a hard time maintaining her composure, the out-flowing of love from her people was overwhelming, like too much of a fine wine; she felt dizzy. At last, she stepped onto the pier and was escorted by the town guard, wearing spiffy new blue uniforms, out to her waiting ship. Pers and Dorothea waited there, Pam hugged them both and gave them her blessings. They were as much her children as those she had left in Grantville.

"Come back, Momma Pam, okay?" Pers said to her softly, embracing her in his strong arms without any of his former shyness.

"I will, Pers, I promise. I love you, son, and I will think of you every day. I expect you and Dorothea to take care of things for me while I'm gone, right?"

"You got it." Pers wanted to say more, but the words were tangled in his throat.Pam shushed him, and pulled him down to a height where she could kiss him on the cheek, then gently pushed him back into the waiting arms of his lover.

Doctor Durand stepped up to her, his face as long as a bloodhound's.

"So, have you decided, Doctor? Are you staying or coming with me?"

"Yes Pam, I intend to stay. These people need me."

"I'm glad. I'll feel better knowing you are here with them. I really do consider you one of my best friends, you know."

"And I you, dear Pam." the doctor bowed deeply, perhaps hoping to hide his tears behind the wide brim of his fancy French hat. Pam grabbed him by the arms and hugged him, an embrace which he returned, patting her gingerly on the back.

Next came the sailors and marines who had been under her command, but intended to remain on duty in Wonderland, lined up at attention. Pam thanked them one by one, shaking their hands, and telling them how lucky she was to have had such brave men at her side. For a bunch of tough seamen, there was quite a bit of moisture around the eyes. At the end of the line she came to Captain Lundkvist and Flotilla Admiral Engstrom. They both saluted her, their faces stony as they tried to hide their feelings with military pride.

"You know, you guys don't have to salute me. I'm not governor any more, just crazy old Captain Pam." she told them.

"It doesn't matter," Lundkvist said. "I would follow you to the ends of the Earth if you asked it."

"I know you would, my dear, dear friend. I wouldn't go without you."

She took his hands, and held them tightly for a long moment, not wanting to embarrass her chief officer with a hug.

"As would I," Engstrom added, his voice freighted with emotion. "You have done great things here, Pam Miller, great things. The crown owes you more than it can ever pay."

"You saying so is payment enough, Gun," she said, taking his hands next. They were strong, and rough, yet trembled slightly. "I am so proud to have served with you, with you all. It has been the greatest experience of my life. I thank you."

She saluted them both, and turned to the gangway before her own tears let loose, making it hard to see where she was going. Gerbald and Dore waited for her at the rail, each taking an arm as they helped guide her up to the castle deck where the bosun and Torbjorn waited.

"Ready to go, Captain?Torbjorn asked her, taking her hand in loving support.

"Aye, First Mate, let's blow this town." She wiped her eyes on a sleeve of her favorite blue and gold Chinese coat, and turned to her waiting crew. In her best captain's voice, she bawled out, "Make sail, men, time's-a-wasting! Get the lead out!" The bosun gave her a wide, yellow-toothed grin and began barking orders, while the men of the Second Chance Bird bent to their tasks, happy to be going to sea again. Pam turned and waved at the crowd as they followed Muskijl out of the harbor-she would escort them as far as the southern tip of the island. The sound of cheering faded into the distance as Pam took one last look at Port Looking Glass, reflected perfectly in the mirror bright waters of her harbor.

"I'll be back again my friends, count on me," she whispered, then turned her face into the stiff ocean breeze that blew beyond the bay, inhaling the salt air deeply, as if it were the scent of roses on the bloom.

Chapter Seventy-Two: Precious Cargo

Pam and her crew grew somber as they sailed around the rocky headland where the Redbird had gone down. They all doffed their hats, standing in a moment of silence for those who had been lost that terrible day. Pam had brought along a bouquet of beautiful native blooms. She threw it into the aquamarine sea when she thought they might be over the final resting place of her lost ship. Pam didn't know whether to cry, or whoop with joy as they pulled into the cove that had been their castaway home for so many months. They would stop here to take on the last of their cargo, the most important export of all: live dodos.

Most of their convoy would simply wait at anchor while Pam went ashore with a group of her sailors and marines. The bosun remained on board with a skeleton crew to mind the ship. Dore stayed behind, too, having no interest in revisiting their former refuge.

"I have seen enough of that God-forsaken beach to last a life time!" she told them, arms crossed in disgust at the very sight of it.

"We will bring you back some coconuts, my dear!" Gerbald told her, which made Pam let out a very un-ladylike snorting laugh. None of the marooned would ever relish that fruit again! Dore just rolled her eyes, with her trademark disdain.

"You two go enjoy your foolishness. Just be careful, and come back soon!" She gave them both a quick peck on the cheek before descending back to her galley, head held high with pride.

When the longboat skidded onto the familiar white sands, Pam was the first to jump ashore.Torbjorn followed her, and she took his hand.

"You've never been here before, Lover. You missed out on the whole castaway experience. Come on, I have to show you something." As they walked down the strand Pam picked a few wildflowers along the way.

After a while, they came to the small hill that served as their cemetery. Pam put flowers on the graves while Torbjorn recited a sailor's prayer in Swedish. They bowed their heads for a few minutes, remembering their missing friends, then Pam led him over to one of the wooden grave markers, weathered by the elements, but still readable. She silently vowed to put up a permanent stone monument here as soon as it could be done. With a spooky grin, she pointed dramatically at the marker in grand Ghost-of-Christmas-Future-style.

"The reports of your death were somewhat exaggerated," she said with a strong drawl. "You are a regular Mark Twain."

"I'm not sure who that was, but that's my name on there! I didn't even know I was sick!" he said, bending down to marvel at the sight. They shared a short, bittersweet laugh, and embraced.

"You did a nice job, Pam, it's a lovely bit of painting."

"I missed you a lot, you big oaf. I had already fallen for you even back then. I can't tell you how glad I am to have you here, alive and well."

"I can very much say, me too! Thank you, my Pam." He pulled her gently into a passionate kiss.

After a long, blissful while they parted. Pam cocked her head at him with a sly look on her face.

"Want to see my bungalow? We could take a little rest there, if you like."

"Oh, definitely, but I have a feeling we won't be getting much rest."

"No, we'll be busy. Come on." Pam felt giddy, it was like being back at a favorite summer camp, and this time she had a hunky boyfriend, to boot!

The camp had weathered its abandonment quite well. The stranded sailors, with nothing else to do, had built to last. Now they were busy sprucing it all up again. Pers and Dorothea intended to make the place a permanent research station, and would be coming to stay in the next few weeks. While the sailors worked on that project, Gerbald and Pam went looking for their old friends, the dodos. The trails were a bit overgrown, but Gerbald's katzbalger shortsword made a fine machete, and soon they were making the gentle climb up forested slopes into the mountainous interior.

Finding the dodos was, of course, key to the mission, and they would take as long as they needed. Pam had been adamant on not capturing any of the birds living near Port Looking Glass. An effort had been made to keep those populations wild, despite their lack of natural fear, but the flock here had grown used to humans, and were accustomed to getting handouts, something Pam was counting on. She carried a hefty sack-full of treats for them, enough to lure them back to the beach and the waiting travel cages. She hated to do it, but had no choice. Besides, it was undoubtedly for the best to not keep all her dodo eggs in one basket. A population in far-away Europe would ensure the species' ongoing survival, even if the Wonderlanders somehow failed in their stewardship.

After an hour or so, they were rewarded with the sound of deep, throaty coos. Coming into a clearing, they found a small group of the birds, several mothers and their half-grown chicks. The older birds stared at Pam with their disconcerting yellow eyes. Could that be recognition? She was certain she had seen them before. There were small variations in each individual, and she knew these hens had been amongst her pets back at the beach camp.

"Hey girls, remember me? I got goodies!" She held out a handful of choice nuts. The dodos let out squawks of pleasure, and rushed over to her, nearly knocking her down with their enthusiasm. They were big birds! Gerbald rescued her, carefully shoving them back.

"They haven't forgotten their favorite food source!" he said, laughing.

Pam scattered the nuts on the ground and laughed along as the hens gobbled them up, soon joined by their children.

They spent the rest of the afternoon playing Pied Piper, moving through the forest until they had a flock of some thirty dodos following them, including enough males to ensure a breeding population.

"Come along kiddies, it's time to go down to the beach! You get to go on a boat ride!" Pam called out gaily, making Gerbald grin happily at seeing his friend acting silly for a change; it had been too long. The demands of her office had been great, now Pam was free to just be "The Bird Lady" again.

Capturing the dodos for transport was fairly easy, just a matter of leaving a trail of breadcrumbs up the gangways into the longboats parked on the beach. They were placed by twos and threes into temporary travel cages made of bamboo, from which they would be transferred to the special travel pen Pam had designed for the main cargo hold of the junk.

The very last dodo, a rather cantankerous older male, decided suddenly that he didn't want to go along with the rest, and began making a fuss, clucking his displeasure and trying to back out of the cage. Pam grimaced at him, and with as much gentleness as she could, firmly placed her leather boot in his rump just below his fluffy tail, and shoved him back in. Gerbald closed the door, and gave her a wry arching of his brow.

"Thank God, nobody's got a camera," Pam said. "Pam Miller kicking an endangered species in the ass would be just the thing for the front page of the paper."

The Second Chance Bird's dodo pen lay directly beneath the large hatch doors of the spacious hold, where the birds, and the many potted trees and plants accompanying them, would have fresh air and sunlight for at least part of the day. By midnight, the dodos were safely tucked away, and everyone caught a bit of sleep. They sailed at dawn, Pam keeping vigil on the castle deck, watching the island that had been her home for so long recede into the distance until it disappeared over the aquamarine horizon.

"I'll see to it you get back here, if you wish it," Torbjorn told her from the wheel.

"I wish that, very much," Pam answered, giving him a smile and a kiss on the cheek before going down to her cabin to catch up on lost sleep. It would be a long voyage, without much to do.

The days passed by, one slipping into the next as they headed west, Antarctica to their south, Africa to their north. They would sail as the crow flies if the winds allowed, taking the most direct route possible. No one seemed much worried about attack from the famed Barbary pirates or potentially hostile European forces, anyone taking on the Second Chance Bird would find themselves regretting it.

Pam often sat on the deck with her feet hanging down into the hold so she could watch her charges, listening to the throaty coos and clacking beaks of the dodos emanating from below. The birds had adjusted well enough to shipboard life, and seemed content to eat as many fruits and nuts as she could give them, to the point where they were actually gaining weight and beginning to resemble the fat and spoiled captive dodo that must have been the model for John Tenniel's illustration.

The thought of taking these creatures out of their natural habitat and dragging them all the way back to Europe didn't sit well with her now that she was actually doing it. But, she had promised the princess, and there was no way around that. It was better she did it herself than trust it to anyone else, if something went wrong it would be on her conscience. So, she was making the long trip "home," when she would much rather be back in Wonderland. Pam simply chocked it all up to fate, and resigned herself to it, instead of fretting the way the old Pam would have. Her actions mattered to a lot more people than she ever could have conceived of back up-time, here was a job that only she could do, a need only she could fill. Captain Pam smiled contentedly into the fading daylight over the South Atlantic as the Second Chance Bird and its precious cargo plowed on toward Europe.

Chapter Seventy-Three: Mission Accomplished

There were a great many stares from the shore as the fancifully-painted junk headed toward Hamburg harbor, flying the dodo flag of the Wonderland Colonies that Dore had crafted, crewed by darkly-tanned Swedes, some with their blonde hair bleached nearly white by the tropical sun. They had accumulated a large fleet of various craft following behind them, curiosity seekers anxious to see what such an odd-looking foreign vessel was doing plying the cold waters of the North Sea.

Pam, knowing in advance from the radio that there would be some kind of an official welcome wagon waiting, put on her favorite black dress, a sexy, side-slitted affair, Chinese silk with a filigree of gold flowers. She nodded to herself approvingly, knowing that she looked pretty damn good in the racy little thing. Her necklace of precious "pirate pearls" went on next, and with a wry smile she strapped on her knife and pistol belt, its weight a comfort. She felt very pleased to be making herself part of the spectacle, the shy Pam of old long gone.

There was a festive gathering on the dock they were headed for, including a brightly-painted banner proclaiming "Welcome Back, Bird Lady!" which made Pam laugh aloud. If you can't beat them join them. Bird Lady I shall be. As they tied up, a USE Navy band started playing. It took her a moment to realize the song was "Country Road." Pam smiled at the choice. At this point it would be kind of nice to see their little circle of West Virginia again. She chuckled happily to see that Princess Kristina was jumping up and down waving crazily, backed by a mob of Grantville students from the old Summer Nature Program. Pam thought the girl looked quite a bit taller, and maybe a little more careworn than before, but she was definitely still a goofy kid. Suddenly, Pam realized who was standing behind her-it was her son Walt and his wife Crystal, and she was holding. the baby! Pam really had become a grandma, and while she was thrilled, she had to quell an inner voice that shrieked, But I'm much too young!

The next few minutes passed in a blur as she was engulfed in hugs from Crystal, and kissed her new grandson, who pulled her hair and laughed, which made Pam love him all the more.

"Boy oh boy, has your ole' granny got some stories to tell you my lad!" she said as she looked into his bright eyes-they were the Miller stormy gray, which was good, but thank God he had his mother's lush red hair!

Walt was quiet, as usual, but they smiled and embraced. Hopefully, she could make things right with him this time. Eventually, the initial fervor died down, and Kristina approached her, a shy smile on her face.

"I'm glad you made it home, Pam. I was worried," Kristina told her in her perfect, yet quaintly-accented, English.

Pam smiled, and replied in her perfect yet-according to her boyfriend-quaintly-accented Swedish. "It was touch and go for a while. I'll tell you the whole story when we get a chance."

Kristina raised her eyebrows, impressed with Pam's new mastery of her own native tongue, and continued in the same, "I should like very much to hear it!'

Pam's face took on a somber cast.

"Some good people died making this happen, and I need you to hear their tales. We owe them a lot."

Kristina bowed her head, her face also grown somber. "I knew that would probably happen from the start, and I'm very sorry to hear it. Even so, I still feel that the cause was worth it. Do you, Pam?"

Pam marveled at how someone so young could seem like such a wise old adult at times.

"Yes, I do, Kristina, I do. It was all worth it." Pam made her face brighten and took on a cheerier tone. "Sorry for being a downer, there will be time to mourn lost friends later. Today is for celebration, so let's cheer up!"

Kristina brightened up as well, but Pam could still see pain in her eyes. She had heard the news about the death of her mother, the queen, and knew Kristina had suffered much in the years since they first met at Cair Paravel back in Grantville. Pam reached into her trusty old rucksack, which a madly grinning Torbjorn held for her, and pulled out a finely-carved Chinese box made of teak. With a bow and a flourish, she gave it to the princess.

"I have some additions to your crown jewels for you. It's real pirate treasure!"

Kristina's eyes took on a happy sparkle, bright enough to match the jewelry and gems that waited within.

"Really? Pirate treasure? How grand, thank you!" she exclaimed with delight, hugging the box to her chest.

"I have something for you, too, Pam," she said, switching into English. She carefully handed the precious box to a guard, then raised her hand to get everyone's attention.

"The race to save the dodo is over, and just like the 'caucus race' in Lewis Carroll's wonderful book, everybody wins." With a grin that nearly split her perpetually pale face, Kristina reached into her pocket, and pulled out a silver thimble.

"'We beg your acceptance of this elegant thimble,'" Kristina quoted the Dodo as she placed it in Pam's hand. It had the Tenniel version of the bird etched on it, along with an inscription in English that read Thank you for saving us-The Dodos.

"You did it, Pam. Only you could. We are all very proud of you."

Pam laughed, her sharp gray eyes growing misty with emotion.

"Yeah, I guess I really did. And I couldn't have done it without you. You are the hero here just as much as me, kiddo." Pam felt the weight of all she had been through, all she had worked so hard for, lifting off her shoulders. It seemed like a dream already. Her hand shook, as she gazed down at the pretty thimble, shining brightly under the northern spring sun, blurring as her eyes filled with joyful tears.

Kristina saw that her friend was feeling overwhelmed, so she stepped forward and embraced her in a hug that would do any bear proud, the gawky young girl was stronger than she looked. Pam hugged her back, just as she would her own children, her heart full of pride at their accomplishment. They had changed the world for the better, a small change, perhaps, but one that would reverberate through the new centuries ahead, a second chance for a funny-looking bird that was no longer doomed to extinction, not in Pam Miller's world, anyway.

"Everybody wins," Pam whispered.

In the hold of the Second Chance Bird, a dodo squawked, wondering what was holding up feeding time.

Naval Armament and Armor, Part One, Big Guns at Sea

Iver P. Cooper

This article is concerned with naval artillery-swivel guns and up-not with the small arms that might be carried onboard. It looks at both what was in use at the time of the Ring of Fire (RoF; 1631), and what up-time innovations might be introduced post-RoF. Much of what is discussed here is relevant to land warfare, too.

Before I go into details, I want to issue a few warnings. First, avoid the "Hornblower Syndrome." By that I mean, don't assume that naval practices that were de rigeur during the Napoleonic Wars were equally commonplace two centuries earlier. It's okay to look at Napoleonic fleets for inspiration, however.

Secondly, recognize that in this article, I cover technological improvements that, in the old time line, spanned several centuries and individually may have taken years to develop (and decades to gain acceptance). The fact that I mention a possible technology should not be construed as meaning that Admiral Simpson will be implementing it next year. Or even next decade.

Third, consider armament development as a gestalt. The value of one technology may depend on the availability of another. Coordinated, albeit modest advances, may accomplish more than a narrowly focused breakthrough.

Early Modern Warship Classification

Warships serve a variety of functions, including participation as combatants or reconnaissance elements in fleets, escorting friendly shipping, raiding or blockading enemy shipping, and bombardment of enemy forts and towns. One size does not suit all purposes, so a navy will have a variety of warships, with armaments ranging from heavy to light.

In 1612, British warships were divided according to tonnage into ship royal (800 -1200 tons), middling ships (600–800), small ships (250–600), and pinnaces (80 -250). (Miles 20). They were reclassified (for wage purposes) into six rates, according to crew size, in 1626: 1st (›300), 2nd (250–300), 3rd (160–200), 4th (100–120), 5th (60–70), and 6th (40–50) (threedecks.org), and yes, I know there are gaps.

The 1621 naval budget divided Swedish warships into realskepp (regal ship), orlogsskepp (warship), mindre (small) orlogsskepp, pinasser (pinnaces), and farkoster. This scheme was abandoned after 1622. On Oct. 6, 1633, Axel Oxenstierna proposed a new system that divided orlogsskepp into stora (large) and ratta (normal), and split off minsta (smallest) from mindre. A simplified version of this system was used in the 1640s through 1670s. (Glete 328ff).

Naval expansion in the second half of the seventeenth century resulted in the development of rating systems based on the number of guns: six rates in England, seven charters in the Dutch Republic, and five ranges (and fregates legeres as a sixth) in France. (Glete). Here's one tabulation:

I have included several later British rating schemes; you can see how Napoleonic ships-of-the-line were expected to carry more guns than their seventeenth-century counterparts. Just to complicate matters further, the British rates were sometimes subdivided into classes.

In counting guns, the British navy ignored swivel guns and, in the nineteenth century, initially ignored carronades. Note that the rating system only considered the number of the guns, and not the weight of the shot they threw.

The term "battleship" dates back only to 1794; it was an abbreviation of "line-of-battle ship." I will unabashedly use the term "battleship" anachronistically to refer to the more powerful fleet units of any time period.

Initially, ships of the first four rates were considered powerful enough to be placed in the "line of battle," which didn't exist as a battle formation until the mid-seventeenth century. But by the mid-eighteenth century fourth rates tended be used only in backwaters (or by inferior navies). The principal battleship was the third rate, especially the Napoleonic "74." First and second rates were either flagships, or relegated to home defense.

In the 1630s, the term frigate still had strong traces of its original meaning, a kind of war-galley. It had come to mean a sailing ship that had long, sharp lines like those of a war-galley (fragata); they were sometimes called "galleon frigates" to differentiate them from the "galley frigate." In English usage, these race-built sailing ships could be merchantmen or warships.

The only "frigates" on the 1633 Navy List had a mere three guns and were probably royal yachts. Pepys considered the first true frigate built in England to be the Constant Warwick (1646), modeled on a French privateer; bearing 26–32 guns (Naval Encyclopedia). By 1650, the term was fixed as meaning a warship (OED), and it came to mean one with two decks, only one of which was a gun deck. Frigates were of the fifth and sometimes the sixth rates (a sixth rate with only a single deck was a "post ship" or a "corvette").

Frigates were used by fleets for reconnaissance; by convention, in a fleet engagement, a battleship wouldn't fire on a frigate unless the frigate had fired first. (And then the battleship would probably blow it out of the water.) They were also the ship of choice for detached service, much like late-nineteenth-century cruisers or twentieth-century destroyers.

A large and diverse group of British warships weren't rated. These included sloops-of-war, bomb ketches, and purpose-built fireships. In 1805, the sloops could further be divided into ship-rigged (three masts), with or without a quarterdeck, and brig-rigged (two masts). These all typically had 14–18 guns. (Miller 27). It's worth noting that in the mid-nineteenth-century American navy, a sloop-of-war could be a quite powerful warship. USS Portsmouth (1843) had 18x32pdr and two Paixhans (64pdr shell guns).

Armed Merchantmen

Merchant ships carry armament only when necessary. In the seventeenth-century southern Baltic, where piracy is rare, they typically are unarmed. In dangerous waters such as the Caribbean, the Mediterranean, and certain Asian regions, they either must have cannon or be accompanied by armed escorts.

The cheapness of cast iron guns made it possible to increase the armament of the merchant ship. (Glete 52). While specialized warships existed even in the sixteenth century, most powers then didn't maintain permanent navies of significant size. Hence, they had to hire armed merchantmen. And to make sure that the civilian shipyards built ships that would be of value in wartime, the state gave economic incentives, such as reduced custom duties. (53).

Nonetheless, the specialized warship of the seventeenth century not only carried more guns, but often heavier ones. An armed merchantman might carry twelve-pounders, but 24-pounders and up were "exclusively warship armament." (Glete 28).

Because of the flimsiness of their hulls, the armed merchantmen couldn't slug it out for very long. Moreover, their crews were too small for sustained fire. If the guns were already loaded, then with one man per gun, they could get off one broadside quickly. And if both sides had been preloaded, and the ship turned, it could get off a second broadside the same way. After that, sustained fire was limited to a few guns. (Glete 53). They were slow, too.

Nonetheless, in the 1630s, an armed trader could be loaned, voluntarily or otherwise, to the Crown for emergency use in the fleet. But by the mid-seventeenth century, their military use was usually as convoy escorts, not as fleet units. (Glete 170). The Swedes were supposedly the last to use hired armed merchants in the main battle fleet. (Glete 193). However, the concept reappeared in the form of the early-twentieth-century Imperial Russian Volunteer Fleet, government-subsidized merchant ships built to an enhanced standard with a view toward wartime conversion. (Ireland 1997, 28).

Privateers were fast, and had large crews, but they too were lightly built, intended to prey on the defenseless. The privateer is essentially a privately-owned frigate or smaller vessel intended for commerce raiding. They could be fairly formidable; the Red Dragon (1595), for example, had 38 guns (2 demi-cannon, 16 culverins, 12 demi-culverins, and 8 sakers). (Wikipedia/Red Dragon).

The "East Indiamen" had an unusually large number of guns for a merchantman, and a large crew, but the guns were still usually of relatively light caliber. They also tended to have stouter hulls. The Dutch called them retourschepen (return ships). An example is the ill-fated Batavia (1628): 160 feet long, 1200 ton displacement, six-inch oak hull, and 30 guns. (Dash 72). However, I don't know the calibers. The Hollandia (1742) and Amsterdam (1748) had 8x12pdr, 16x8pdr, 8x4pdr, and 10 swivel guns. (ageofsail.net). The Bonhomme Richard (1765) was unusually powerful; 6x18pdr, 28x12pdr, 8x9pdr. Another exception was the Prins Willem (1652); 4x 24pdr, 10x12pdr, 22x18pdr, 6x8pdr. However, it is possible that some of these more powerful East Indiamen were built with the intent of long-term leasing to the navy. (Glete 55).

Guns

Heavy weapons are the sina qua non of the warship, and as of RoF, the only heavy ship-to-ship weapons were cannon. By long practice, naval cannon are called guns. The term guns carries the further implication that the weapon is intended for low angle fire; "mortars" are designed for high angle fire, and howitzers occupy an intermediate position. Here we are interested mostly in guns, but of course AA guns require freedom of elevation.

The smallest fixed weapons, the swivel guns, were used against enemy personnel or small boats and fired half-pound iron round shot. (Elkins 42). They weren't counted as "guns" for the purpose of comparing warships because they weren't mounted on carriages.

Until 1715, English guns were classified according to their caliber (bore diameter). Later, guns were specified by the weight of the shot they fired. Lengths can vary so guns are customarily identified by both weight of shot and length, e.g., an 10-foot long gun firing 24 pound shot is a "24–10."

Please note that the shot weights were nominal; in the early-nineteenth century, a "24 pounder" had a true caliber ranging from 5.8230 inches (English) to 6.1107 inches (Swedish). If the windage (see below) were the same (1.5 French "lines", 0.13324 English inches), that would mean that it fired shot weighing anywhere from 25.906 pounds (English guns) to 30.1048 (Swedish); with the French (28.7511) near the maximum. (Simmons 63).

I believe that mortars continued to be classified by their caliber, and this was carried over to shell-guns in the mid-nineteenth century. Thus, the US Navy had both the 8-inch shell gun and a 64-pounder with an 8 inch bore. (Dahlgren 24).

Cannon may have unusually long barrels to (hopefully) give them extended range. Such a long gun might be used as bow or stern armament, and the privateer's "long tom" was a shifting broadside gun. But this wasn't common because most ship-to-ship actions were fought at close range.

Guns were sometimes shortened to save weight, to trade weight for the ability to fire heavier shot, or some combination of the two (as in the famous carronade, for which gun weight was 50–75 times the shot weight). The cannonade, a short-barreled (hence, short range but light) cannon throwing a heavy weight of metal for its size, was introduced into the British navy in 1779. (Chapelle HASS 56). By 1815, carronades had become the main armament on small ships. (Glete 30). It has already appeared in canon; the USE ironclads mount them as secondary weapons. (Flint and Weber, 1632: The Baltic War, Chap. 38.)

By way of explaining the carronade's popularity, consider that a Napoleonic 5.17-foot carronade firing 42 pound shot (equivalent to the heaviest gun on a Napoleonic battleship) weighed 22.25 hundredweights (cwt.; each 112 pounds); a long gun of the same weight would be just a 9–7 (23 cwt) or a 6–8.5 (22 cwt). There was even a 68-5.17 carronade weighing 36 cwt; it could replace a long 12-9.5 (36 cwt) or 18-9 (39 cwt). (Ireland 47-9). A carronade-based warship could throw an incredible weight of metal at an enemy-if that enemy came within range. Chappelle says that carronades were an excellent choice for a fast ship, but a poor one for a sluggard (152).

After the War of 1812, there was a movement to simplify the ammunition logistics by having, e.g., all guns on a battleship use 32-pound shot, but varying gun barrel length, so that there were "heavy 32s" on the lower deck, "medium 32s" on the gun deck, and "light 32s" on the spar deck. (Glete 30; ChapelleHASN 318). At least, that was the ideal; in practice there was great temptation to boost fighting ability by putting 42-pounders on lower and spar decks (the latter as 42-pounder carronades), and relegating medium 32-pounders to the upper deck.

Table 1–2 presents a composite overview of seventeenth-century naval artillery; please note the variation in bore diameter, shot weight, barrel length, and gun weight. Guns could be specified as thicker ("reinforced," "double"), thinner ("bastard"), shorter ("cutt"), and with a tapered bore ("drake"). There were also variations between gun-founders, and even from gun to gun. ("Demi cannon could. vary up to three hundred weight within the same batch.:-Bull 8).

The largest seventeenth-century naval artillery were 42-pounders (British navy) or 36-pounders (most others). The former was first used in large numbers on Sovereign of the Sea (1637) and thereafter was mostly used on First Rates. The demi-cannon (32-pounder) was the main battleship gun after 1745. (Nelson).

The diameter of the bore fixes the volume and thus the mass of the projectile if it's spherical, and determines the proportionality of volume to length if it isn't. These in term affect the aerodynamic characteristics of the projectile. The diameter also strongly affects how much damage the projectile does for a given impact velocity.

Shot diameter must of course be at least slightly less than the bore diameter; for a cast iron (density 0.2682 lb/in^3) cannonball, the diameter (inches) is 1.937 * cube root of the weight (pounds). (Collins/Cannonballs)

Gun and projectile size grew only gradually over the next two centuries. The 32-pdr was a popular ACW carriage gun, weighing 27–57 cwt, and firing either 32.5 pound shot or a 26 pound shell with 0.9 pounds powder. The most powerful gun actually mounted on a ship in the ACW was a 15-inch Dahlgren, weighing 42,000 pounds. It had an 8 -14 man crew and fired 440 pound solid shot or a 330 pound shell containing 13 pounds powder. Charges were 50 and 35 pounds, respectively. (Symonds 36; Heidler 548; Canfield).

Manufacturing tolerances for both cannons and cannon balls were loose, so, to ensure that most balls would fit into the guns for which they were intended, the bores were deliberately made to a diameter greater than the intended shot diameter. The resulting gap, measured as either a difference in diameter or as an annular area, was called "windage." That word has at least three other meanings in ballistics so I will speak of the looseness of fit as "bore-windage." In our period, the bore-windage wasn't standardized, but was typically 0.25 inches. In 1716, the British adopted the rule that the bore diameter should be 21/20th the shot diameter; a 24-pound shot had a shot diameter of 5.547 inches, windage of 0.277 inches, and was fired from a gun of 5.823 inches caliber (Douglas 71). In 1787 this was changed to 25/24th for the Blomefield pattern guns. The short-barreled carronades could be bored more accurately; bore diameter was 35/34ths shot diameter. The French, in contrast, allowed just 0.133 inches (1/45th caliber for a 24 pounder) for heavy (18+) guns and 0.088 inches for field guns. (74).

It should perhaps be noted that even if shot and bore were a perfect fit initially, they wouldn't necessarily stay that way. The shot would rust; the bore would be fouled. Both were subject to expansion when heated, which I would think would especially be a problem for the gun if it had been fired repeatedly. Douglas (74) suggested that at white heat 24-pound shot expanded by 1/70th diameter, and smaller shots by less.

Guns may also be classified according to their construction, as muzzle or breech loading, and as smoothbore or rifled.

Muzzle versus Breech Loading

The cannon barrel is a tube, open at one end (muzzle) and hopefully closed at the other (breech). To load a muzzle loader, it is drawn in, the bore is cleaned, the powder charge and the shot are rammed in at the muzzle end, and the cannon is run back out the gun port. A breech loader has a loading door at the breech end; this is opened, the charge and shot are inserted, and the door is closed.

A breechloader could have either an integral chamber, into which the powder and shot were placed directly, or a removable chamber (Buchanan 251ff); this would be loaded with the powder and shot and then the chamber placed in the breech. The removable chamber looked somewhat like a beer mug.

The proponents of muzzle loading and breech loading have engaged in a half-millennium long struggle for ascendancy. Just because modern naval guns are breech loading doesn't mean that this was a foregone conclusion, or that the vagaries of technological and economic development in the new time line might not provide a niche for muzzle loaders.

The first naval cannon were breech loaders, and Mary Rose (1545) carried both wrought iron breech loaders and bronze muzzle loaders. By the early-seventeenth century, the main guns of a warship were all muzzle loaders, but her swivel guns were still breechloaders.

Muzzle loaders usually were brought inboard for loading. According to Martin and Parker (193), this was done manually; "the much more efficient process of allowing a gun's own recoil to bring it inboard under the restraint of a breeching rope was not developed until well into the seventeenth century." Smith, Seaman's Grammar (1627) says, "britchings are the ropes by which you lash your Ordnance fast to the Ships side"; in the light of Martin's comment, these lashings were too tight for recoil-aided loading.

The longer the barrel, the less convenient it was to load it from the muzzle end, and high-caliber guns tended to have long barrels. With black powder, there wasn't much advantage to making barrels longer than 10 feet, because the powder burns quickly, but with cordite the lengthening of the gun barrels permitted an increase in muzzle velocity. (Sweet 171).

On the Mary Rose, the gun crews were so cramped that it's been suggested that they engaged in outboard loading; the gunner would sit on the barrel, sticking out the gunport, to reload the piece (Konstam 40). A Dutch painting shows this was still going on in 1602. (Gould 227).

While short-barreled carronades were easy to load, they had other problems; the flash could set fire to the rigging, and the vent fire could do the same to the hammocks. (Douglas 103).

For any smoothbore muzzle loader, the shot had to fit loosely in the bore, so it could be rammed down. But when fired, gas could escape around the shot and out the muzzle, and it was also difficult to keep the projectile centered as it moved down bore.

Late in the history of muzzle loading artillery, the gas escape problem was reduced by use of a gas check, a thin disk that filled the cross-section of the bore. The first gas check was a papier mache disk inserted between the cartridge and the base of the shot, but by 1878 a copper disk was attached to the base of the projectile. (Ruffert). The centering problem theoretically could have been addressed with a sabot (see part 3), but that wasn't normally done.

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The most obvious advantage of the breech loading system was that the gun could be reloaded from inboard while run out, which potentially increased the rate of fire.

The most enduring design problem with breechloaders, which had a door rather than solid metal at the breech end, was preventing gas loss at the breech. The more powerful the gun, and the greater the strength of the powder, the greater the pressure that this mechanism had to withstand.

In Elizabethan breechloaders, the removable chamber was wedged into the breech. Lucar (1588) warns that the gunner "ought not stand upon that side of the piece where the wedge of iron is placed. because [it] may through the discharge of the piece fly out and kill the gunner." (Corbett 333).

According to EB11/Ordnance, the first successful breech mechanism was that invented by Armstrong (1854). The vent piece (a vertically sliding block) was secured by pressure from a hollow screw. To load, this was loosened, the vent piece removed, and the projectile and charge inserted through the hollow. The vent piece was then replaced and the screw tightened. On the chamber side the vent piece had a coned copper ring that fitted into a coned seating.

Unfortunately, the success was limited. "During the bombardment of Kagoshima in 1863 there were 28 accidents in the 365 rounds fired from 21 guns. On a number of occasions the vent pieces were blown from the guns. The guns were also inaccurate." (Brassington).

Moreover, the rise of the ironclads demanded an increase in punch, and the imperfect seals of the mid-nineteenth-century breechloaders frustrated this. The British navy conducted comparative trials and in 1865 it decided to switch to rifled muzzleloaders! (Hogg 16).

This turnabout didn't last long. In 1879, one of the guns of the HMS Thunderer misfired; the misfire was undetected and the gun was reloaded, making it inadvertently double-shotted. When the gun fired again, it exploded, killing everyone in the turret. This accident couldn't have happened with a breechloader-the gun crew would have seen the unexploded charge when it opened the breech-and the British navy reluctantly abandoned muzzle-loading for good (Batchelor 11). At least for new construction; there were still battleships with big muzzle loaders in active service in 1894 (Clowes 47).

This accident provided the impetus for change, but there were other considerations at work. A new powder that could achieve a higher muzzle velocity had been developed. But if it was used in a muzzle loader, the shell zipped out before the charge was exhausted. In other words, the barrels weren't long enough. But if the barrels were lengthened, then recoil wasn't sufficient to bring the muzzle inside the turret for loading. This was actually done on HMS Inflexible (1876) (Watts 56); the muzzle was lowered to an armored loading hatch and the shell inserted by a hydraulic rammer.

EB11/Ordnance describes several breech mechanisms based on the interrupted screw principle. Normally the threads of a screw engage continuously with those of a threaded screw box. The problem with a continuous screw breech plug is that it can be time-consuming to tighten and untighten. A 16-inch naval gun might develop a gas pressure of 40,000 psi, necessitating a 1,400 pound plug. (NAVORD).

The basic interrupted screw concept was invented much earlier than you might think. In a musket manufactured at Mayence around 1690, "the muzzle portion turns round one-sixth of a circle, and then pulls out a short distance, liberating the breech-piece, which can be thrown back on a hinge." (Horton 302).

With an interrupted screw, the threads of both are discontinuous, so that there is a screw orientation such that it can be slid into the screw box without engaging. For example, looking down the axis of the box, it might have threading from 12 o'clock to 3 o'clock, and 6 to 9. If so, then the screw in the slide-in orientation would have threading only from 3 to 6 and 9 to 12. Once inserted, such a screw would be given a quarter-turn, and then the threads would be fully engaged. (Wilson 249).

The disadvantage of the classic interrupted screw was that it engaged only along half the circumference and thus, to have the same sealing strength as the continuous screw, would need to be twice as long.

This disadvantage was largely overcome by the Welin stepped interrupted thread. The circumference of the screw is divided into several (2–4) groups. Each group can further be divided circumferentially into several arcs, which progressively increase in diameter, creating a stepped pattern. On the screw, the arcs at the lowest step level are blank, and the other arcs are threaded.

In the disengaged position, a threaded arc on the screw can face a threaded arc on the screw box, provided that the arc on the box is deeper so they don't engage. You slide the screw in and then turn it to engage. With three different threaded diameters, and one smooth, you have threaded engagement for 75 % of the circumference, and with two groups, a one-eighth turn is need to engage. Actually cutting a Welin screw must have been a complete bear.

In canon, there are post-RoF-manufactured breech-loading rifles as of 1634 (1634:TBW Chap. 27), although in very limited quantity (Chap. 5), but the Americans, in building their first ironclads, deliberately opted for muzzle loaded naval guns because of unspecified resource limitations. (Flint, Weber, 1633, Chap. 4).

Smoothbore versus Rifled

The cannon in use as of the RoF have smoothbore barrels, which means just what it says.

However, the barrel of a firearm may be rifled-given helical grooves-in order to impart a spin to a projectile. The effect would be to gyroscopically stabilize the flight of the projectile.

Rifling was introduced into small arms in the sixteenth century, as we know from a 1563 Swiss ordinance: "For the last few years the art of cutting grooves in the chambers of the guns has been introduced with the object of increasing the accuracy of fire; the disadvantage resulting therefrom to the common marksman has sown discord amongst them. In ordinary shooting matches marksmen are therefore forbidden under a penalty of L10 to provide themselves with rifled arms. Every one is nevertheless permitted to rifle his military weapon and to compete with marksmen armed with similar weapons for special prizes." (Chamber's Encyclopaedia 718). These rifles, apparently, were used to fire balls, since elongated projectiles reportedly were not invented until 1662.

The first rifled artillery pieces were probably those of Cavalli (1846) (Quartstein 45). Both rifles and smoothbores were used in several mid-nineteenth-century naval conflicts, notably the American Civil War, the Second Scheswig War, the Third Italian Independence War, and the Guano War.

Rifling was not a panacea; reloading was more difficult, and range and accuracy were not always improved (the projectiles tumbled if they weren't loaded properly). The metal ("lands") between the grooves can get worn down. Also, during the American Civil War, rifled artillery seemed more prone to burst than muzzle-loading Dahlgrens, and rifled projectiles couldn't gain range by ricochet. (Manucy 17; Jenkins; Schneller). This may explain the Union navy's wartime preference for smoothbores (Heidler 1046), even though in 1859, after comparative testing, the US government had concluded "the era of smoothbore artillery has passed away." (Bell 44).

Even so, there were skeptics. After the Battle of Lissa (1866, Austria vs. Italy), Tegethoff, the Austrian commander, commented, "the lack of results on the part of the enemy have shown that smoothbore guns on the sea have much more value than a rifled one, since a rifle requires for best results at long range a still position, difficult to find on the sea." (Greene 254).

The driving force for the adoption of rifled guns appears to have been not so much increasing effective range but that they could fire an elongated shell, thus one carrying more explosive for a given caliber. (Colomb 340ff). But it took perhaps two decades to perfect heavy rifled cannon (Bell 44; Lewis 65), and Dahlgren smoothbore-armed Civil War vintage monitors were placed on coastal defense duty during the Spanish-American War.

In order to apply spin to the projectile, it must somehow engage the rifling. With small arms, the bullet could be made of lead, which is malleable. There were two problems with making artillery projectiles out of lead. The first was that lead was expensive, and the second was that lead, being soft, would foul the inside of the barrel.

A number of expedients were tested in the nineteenth century. A lead coating on the projectile was introduced by Baron Warhendorff in the 1840s. (Kinard 222). That wouldn't be as expensive as making the whole thing out of lead, but fouling would still be a problem. The British nonetheless used this system with breech loaders.

Whitworth and Lancaster made projectiles with twisted side faces to match a twisted bore, hexagonal for Whitworth, oval for Lancaster. When mass produced, the rounds tended to jam in the bore. The Confederates used some Whitworth rifles.

For rifled muzzle loaders, one had to provide sufficient windage that the projectile could still be rammed down the barrel. One solution (Armstrong, 1854) was to provide the projectiles with studs to engage the grooves of the rifling. The engagement is reliable but the projectile must be studded to match the twist in a particular gun, and the gun cannot have increasing twist. Also, the grooves must be wide and deep to accommodate the studs, and that weakens the gun, whereas the studs increase air resistance to the projectile. (Bruff 303).

If the studs were taller than the depth of the grooves, there would be a clearance between the main body of the projectile and the lands (the uncut portions of the bore between the grooves). (Woolwich 182). Unfortunately, if the studs have clearance, and there's no gas check, then gas escapes and damages the bore.

It was discovered that the copper gas check I mentioned earlier not only reduced the gas loss from windage, it also engaged the rifling. It was used in rifled muzzle loaders, but it was found advantageous to make the grooves shallower and more numerous than in a breech loader.

However, the most successful ploy was to place "a copper 'driving band' into a groove cut around the body of the projectile." (EB11/Ammunition). While the basic concept is in Grantville Literature, there are some serious engineering considerations. We have to figure out what material to make it out of, how thick and long it should be, whether to have one long band or several short ones, where on the projectile body to place it, and how to secure it there. The choices we make, in turn, determine how well it engages the rifling, how much wear it imposes on the bore, and the aerodynamic characteristics of the projectile. (See 1922 EB/ "Ammunition").

In canon, each of the USE ironclads is equipped with four 10"x 12 rifled muzzleloaders and six rifled 8" x 4 carronades. The ten-inchers fire studded shells. (1633 Chap. 4; 1634: TBW Chap. 38)

Smoothbores may be converted into rifles by insertion of a wrought iron tube (reducing the caliber, probably by about two inches) after reaming out the old bore to match the outer dimension of the tube.

With spherical shot, you impart spin by creating friction between the ball and barrel, either by stuffing a patch between the two, or giving the ball a coating of lead or other soft metal. The patch, typically cloth or leather, is placed on the mouth of the rifle and the ball is placed over it. The ball is then stuffed down. Besides promoting spin by filling the grooves, the patch helped prevent the ball from riding back upbore before firing, thus separating bullet and powder, and avoids transfer of lead from ball to barrel. (Fadala 94ff).

There will no doubt be heated arguments with regard to the fine points of rifling: the number of grooves, the degree of twist, and the shape of the groove.

Rifling does increase the friction between the projectile and the barrel, and this can reduce muzzle velocity and also generate heat and quicken the erosion of the barrel. This has led to proposal of hybrid guns, with either a smoothbore breech and a rifled muzzle (Alsop, US Patent 37193) or the reverse (A'Costa 4660312; Amspacker H1365). However, a more conventional solution to unacceptable friction has been to put the projectile into a plastic-sabot (see part 4) so that the friction is plastic-metal rather than metal-metal.

Gunmetal

Wrought iron. Until the sixteenth century, cannon were forged; the tubes were built up from longitudinal metal strips, and these were held together by metal hoops. (This was blacksmith work, and blacksmith Marthinus Ras made three muzzle loading 6.5 pounder cannon by this ancient method during the Boer War.)

The hooped bombard of the fourteenth century was made of wrought iron. But by mid-sixteenth century, the large wrought iron pieces were only found on small merchant ships and in peripheral fortifications. Small wrought iron swivel guns may still exist in our period.

Bronze first appeared in hooped bombards in the early-fifteenth century. In the sixteenth century, it was the dominant gun metal. I should note that the British navy has the incredibly annoying habit of identifying bronze guns as "brass." Brass is a copper-zinc alloy, bronze is copper-tin; in the sixteenth century, the preferred ratio was 90–10. (Guilmartin 307). While tough, bronze is soft and thus subject to abrasion, especially if the barrel is hot from repeated firing. Bronze also suffered from a lack of homogeneity. When cooling, the tin has a tendency to separate from the copper, causing white blotches called "tin spots" which are eaten away by the powder gas. (Ord1880,76ff).

There were essentially four kinds of bronze guns: pedreros, cannons, culverins and mortars. Pedreros are stone-throwers and because of the relatively low density of stone, they typically were of large caliber (12–50 pounders for sea service, up to 1000 pounders for land sieges), with short barrels (4–8 times caliber) and a reduced diameter (1/2 to 1/3 caliber) powder chamber. The Ottomans cast them muzzle down.

Both cannon and culverins fired cast iron cannonballs, but the culverins had long (18–40 times caliber, mostly 25+) unchambered bores, whereas the cannon had shorter (15–28 calibers, mostly 15–20) bores; early cannon often had reduced diameter powder chambers. (Guilmartin 175ff; Meide; Hoskins 119ff).

Mortars were designed to shoot at high angle trajectories, and were mostly used as siege weapons. A ship could carry mortars that could be landed and used to strike a position that was out of reach (because of shoals or batteries) of the ship's guns. Mortars had lengths of 1.5–3 calibers.

Cast iron is iron with more than 2 % carbon. Depending on how the carbon is combined, it may be called white (hard but brittle) or grey (softer but tougher, preferred for cannon). Cast iron guns appeared around 1543. Over the course of the seventeenth century, cast iron gradually supplanted bronze as cannon material. This was despite bronze's advantages; it didn't rust, it was easier to cast ("iron had a tendency to harden before all of it could be poured into the mould"-Lavery 84), it could be recast without loss of strength, and bronze cannon could always be made lighter than cast iron guns of equal strength. For example, in 1742, a British navy 32-9.5 weighed 6048 pounds in bronze and 6384 in cast iron, and a 42–10 was 7392 pounds in bronze and a walloping 8400 in iron. (Meide).

Nineteenth-century cast iron had a lower yield and breaking strength than bronze (Ord1800, 189), so additional metal was used, preferably at the breech. (Hazlett 82). While a more uniform cast iron could be made in the early-nineteenth century, thanks to improvements in iron-making (coke replacing charcoal, steam replacing water power)(Morriss 188-9), it remained unpredictably brittle (light field pieces were especially prone to bursting-Hazlett 220), thanks presumably to variations in the nonferrous constituents (phosphorus, sulfur, etc.). In the Civil War era, Rodman wrote, "we are at present far from possessing a praactical knowledge of the properties of cast iron in its application to gunfounding." (Wertime 164) and Cooke (53) made a similar complaint in 1880.

Unfortunately, bronze cannon were much more expensive-initially three- or four-fold; eight-fold by the 1670s (Unger 149; Lavery 84). This was the result of a decrease in the price of cast iron; bronze prices were stable. Consequently, bronze guns sometimes remained in service for more than a century-Rodger 215. (But even iron guns were very expensive and were kept in active service as long as possible-Glete 77.) Wrought iron reappeared as a reinforcing element in the mid-nineteenth century; in 1880 it was 2–3 times as expensive as cast iron. (Cooke 654).

As time passed, first the lighter guns were made from cast iron, then all guns save those on "prestige" ships (flagships and royal yachts) went ferrous. (Glete 24ff). The 42-pounder was first cast in iron in 1657, but 30 % of culverins were still bronze in 1660 (Nelson).

Even on first class warships, bronze was pretty much no longer on deck by the 1770s. (Although the British navy still had some bronze mortars in the 1860s.) Bronze continued to be used as a gun metal for field artillery in the nineteenth century, as late as the Crimean War and American Civil War, no doubt because of its weight advantage. These included a 14-pounder James rifle. Unfortunately, it wasn't suitable for rifled weapons. Since bronze is softer than iron, and the rifling exposed more in tin spots, "repeated firings rapidly wore down the lands, thus making the pieces increasingly inaccurate." (Kinard 193; Hazlett 52). Even for smoothbores, the softness and the tin spots were problematic when challenged by the heavier projectiles and more powerful charges of the nineteenth century.

In the 1870s, the Italians and French found that guns cast from phosphor bronze (stronger, more homogeneous metal) were superior to those made using ordinary bronze, but concluded that the advantage was too small; the phosphorus had to be added in exact proportions and was "unstable." So-called "bronze steel," an ordinary bronze cast under pressure while chilling the interior, and subsequently forged cold, was also considered, but eclipsed by steel. (Ord1880, 77, 187).

Cast steel. Steel is potentially superior to cast iron, and to wrought iron and bronze, but it is quite difficult to cast without hidden defects (Kinard 230). Krupp cast his first steel cannon in 1847 (Krause 59). There was only limited use of cast steel rifled cannon (3" Sawyer) in the ACW.

By the l890s, ordinary steel was replaced by nickel steel. (Krooth 89).

Cannon Manufacture

Hollow casting. In the early-seventeenth century, muzzle-loading iron cannon were cast as single hollow blocks. Making the mold was tricky. In essence, there were two clay molds, a hollow one for the exterior and a solid one (core) for the interior. (Hall, 11ff; Fisher).

The hollow mold was built up over a pattern made of wood, rope, clay and a friable material like horse dung; the pattern defined the desired shape of the cannon interior. The pattern was coated with a release material, such as an ash-fat mixture or a wax, so the actual mold material wouldn't stick. This mold material was also clay-based, and might be reinforced with rope or animal hair. The mold was reinforced with metal straps, the pattern was carefully removed from its interior, and the mold was baked. The core mold of course was simpler to make.

The complete mold was lowered into a pit, muzzle up. Note that the interior (core) mold had to be held centered inside the larger mold by a metal spacer (cruzeta; chaplets), which would become part of the gun. In general, this didn't work out perfectly, the core would shift so the bore wouldn't be quite straight. (WeirML, 132).

The pit was filled with earth so as to hold the mold upright, a "feeding head" (riser) was attached, and the molten metal was poured into it. The latter had to have the right fluidity to properly fill the mold. Once the metal had cooled and solidified, the mold was broken so the casting could be removed. That meant that no two cannon could be identical.

The cannon was then finished off; the most important finishing steps were cutting off the riser, and reaming out the cast bore so that it had a smoother surface. Diego Prado y Tovar (1603) described a machine, possibly driven by animal power, for accomplishing this, However, the drilling was vertical, with the cannon suspended and slowly lowered over the drill. Note that the machine was merely finishing a hollow casting. Indeed, hollow casting is plainly described in Mieth, A New Description of Artillery (Frankfurt 1684); chapter V discusses the cruzeta (Rainer Prem transl.). Bores were cast to the diameter of the shot and drilled out to the added diameter of the windage. (Hoskins 43).

Clay molds are criticized in 1634: TBW, Chapter 38: "Clay had a very low porosity, which meant that air bubbles in the molten iron were often unable to escape when the guns were cast and, instead, formed dangerous cavities and weak points in the finished guns." The gun barrels of the USE ironclads used in the Baltic War were fabricated by sandcasting. "Sand was far more porous, which made for much stronger, tougher artillery pieces." Historically, sand molds were introduced in Britain about 1750. (Lavery 84).

Another problem was intrinsic to the vertical casting method; since the bottom (breech) was under greater pressure than the top, and also better insulated, it would have been the last to solidify, and therefore tin would have migrated downward. The muzzles were thus only 3–5 % tin, resulting in brittleness, which was compensated for by flaring the muzzle.(Guilmartin).

There were other modest improvements over the eighteenth century. In Britain, these included providing full-size drawings to the gun founders (1716) and using copper rather than wood cores.

We may deduce the improvement in tolerances by examining the weight variation of the pieces. "In 1665, guns from a single batch of 9ft demi-cannon varied from 44 to 62cwt, those of 8.5 feet from 43 to 47, and culverins of 10ft varied from 40 to 46 cwt." (83). In contrast, the 32-pounders surveyed in 1803 -6 were 55–57 cwt. (84).

Solid Casting. Over the period 1715 -45, Johann Maritz developed a new fabrication method. The cannon was cast solid, breech down, and then the bore was drilled out horizontally. The casting itself was much as in prior times, except that the core mold was no longer required. Boring itself, using an animal- or water-powered machine, took several days. (Kimpton). One curious aspect of the process is that it was the cannon that was rotated, the bit remaining stationary. (Alder 42). Solid casting was adopted in Britain in 1776 (Lavery 84).

Hot Blast. In the 1830s, American gunfounders attempted to cast iron by the more economical "hot blast" method, resulting in a disastrous loss of strength. At West Point foundry, 68.5 % of those cast by cold blast (1826–1834) were deemed "first class," compared to 4.02 % of those produced (1835 -39) by hot blast. (Hazlett 36, 42).

Rodman Guns. These were hollow cast, with a trick; the core was itself hollow, in fact, two concentric tubes, and was cooled with pumped water while the molten iron was poured in around it. The metal would thus cool inside out, pre-stressing it in a desirable way. (Wikipedia/Rodman_Gun).

Built-Up Construction. The 1855 Griffen "Ordnance Rifle," a 10-pounder cannon with a 3 inch rifled bore, was built up by welding wrought iron bands together around a mandrel, boring, and rifling. (Kinard 192), or by building up a mandrel with welded iron rods and then winding several bars in spiral fashion about it (Hazlett 121). Note its similarities to the ancient bombard, in that it was "built up" from wrought iron! However, it is important to note that instead of forging the iron with a hammer-as was done with the 1844 "Peacemaker," which burst and killed two cabinet members-Griffen forged his iron rods in a rolling mill.

There was also the British Armstrong gun. This went through several permutations. In one, wrought iron bars were twisted into spirals and welded on their edges to form the barrel. (Tennent 106). In some cases the twisted coils were themselves shrunk onto an inner tube of mild steel. (Morgan xvi).

Wrought iron's advantage was that it was four times stronger than cast iron, and thus able to help resist the higher internal stresses (the result of the reduced windage) of a rifled gun. Saving manufacturing cost and time, Parrott shrunk a wrought iron reinforcing hoop onto the breech of a rifled barrel cast in the usual way. However, "large Parrott rifles had the worst record of any Union cannon for premature bursting. Of 110 large caliber Union cannon that cracked or burst in action during the war, 83 were Parrotts. " After the first 1864 assault on Wilmington, Admiral Porter declared that the guns were "calculated to kill more of our men than those of the enemy." (Bell 8).

Around the end of the nineteenth century, the British and Japanese made use of wire wound construction. The "A" tube was wrapped multiple times with a high tensile strength wire and then the "B" tube was shrunk over this. (DiGiulian). The ten-inch guns of the new time line's USE Constitution are "wire-wound" (1634: TBW Chap. 38), presumably over a cast tube, but I don't know if a "B" tube was added.

In the early-twentieth century, heavy naval guns were built-up in hoop-over-tube fashion. The inner tube was placed breech end down in a cold pit, supported by a short mandrel. Heated hoops were placed one by one over the tube and cooled with a water spray, shrinking them onto the tube. (NAVORD. 136).

Spun Cast Monoblocs. In the 1920s, this was superseded by monobloc construction, made possible by the development of centrifugal spun casting. Despite the name, it typically involved concentric assembly of two or three tubes. Autofrettage was used to permanently deform the tubes in a desirable way. In autofrettage, the tube was pressurized hydraulically, just enough so that the outer limit was at its elastic limit, and then slowly relaxed. This increases the diameter of the bore and there is a permanent strain in the tube which varies from the inside diameter to the outside one.

It's likely that Grantville's machinists have heard of autofrettage. However, the autofrettage pressure must be much higher than the working pressure, which, for a cannon, is very high already. Autofrettage is typically used when pressures exceed 15,000 psi for brief periods of time, and so you must be able to achieve a higher pressure hydraulically.

Canon. In canon, the ironclad's main guns use Schedule 160 12" pipe as liners, wrapped with steel wire salvaged from the coal mine. (1633 Chap. 4). That, of course, is heavily dependent on twentieth-century materials. Should steel wire become unavailable, the backup plan is to cast bronze reinforcements around the tubes. I imagine that if there were no steel tubes, they would use cast iron.

Quality Control

A newly-cast gun barrel might have cracks and cavities (Hoskins 42). Before a gun was accepted (and paid for) by the military, it was tested. The British proofed guns by loading them with a double charge, and setting it off. The gun was then examined for cracks; this included filling it with water to see if it leaked. (Lavery 84). The gun would also be examined, usually visually, for the correctness of the bore diameter and the trueness of the bore. Note that if the bore droops, or bows to the side, this will impede the escape of the ball, and thus increase the pressure that the barrel must withstand (Hoskins 65).

Flaws may develop (or worsen) as a result of use (or misuse). Firing the gun too rapidly so that it overheats, overcharging the gun, and ramming the gun too hard all can create problems. Bronze has the great advantage that it tends to "crack and bulge before it bursts," unlike iron. (Id.).

Now let's discuss the Gribeauval system, which gave the French the best artillery in late-eighteenth-century Europe. Much attention was given to tightening the manufacturing tolerances for both the bore and for the cannon balls it fired. Rather than merely judge by eye whether the bore was dimensionally correct, the Gribeauvalist inspectors used a caliper gauge to measure the diameter to within 0.025 mm. (Alder 150).

In canon, Grantville's machine shops quickly demonstrated that they could do even better. Early in the new time line, Ollie Reardon manufactures new three-pounder cannon for Gustav Adolf. The metal is soft bronze, in which he drills out the bore on a lathe. He notes that ideally the finish cut would be with a reamer. (Flint, 1632, chapter 46). Whether reamed or not, the final product impresses Torstensson, Gustav's Chief of Artillery: "Those bores are perfectly identical!" In response, Rebecca shows him a micrometer, and explains that it has an accuracy of 1/1000th of an inch (one mil). (chapter 47).

Gun Popularity

Table 1–3 shows that even in Elizabethan times, there was a trend toward heavier armament:

I don't have a bronze vs. iron breakdown for 1585, but in 1592, naval guns were 79 % bronze. (Walton 220). Thus, there was also a trend toward replacing bronze with cast iron.

This information is still relevant as of RoF; both ships and guns typically remained in service for several decades. The British warships in active service in 1631 included the British Bear (40 guns, 1580), Adventure (26 guns, 1594), Warspite (32, 1596), Nonsuch (32, 1605), and Assurance (34, 1605). As for guns, on the Portuguese Santissimo Sacramento (launched probably in 1653; sunk 1668), the bronze guns are dated, either explicitly by the caster, or implicitly by design. Nine were cast before 1600. Eleven, between 1600 and 1650. Five were just identified as mid-1600s, and one was 1653. (Guilmartin). On the Kronan (sank 1676), one gun was cast in 1514 (Hoskins 18).

It would of course be nice to have comprehensive data for a date closer to the RoF (1631). I have found the Royal Ordinance Inventory for 1637 (Collins), but that's for the army. While the Royal Ordinance also supplied the navy, the latter would have requisitioned a different assortment.

What I can provide is data for individual ships; table 1–4 attempts to correct the usual British bias by providing some French, Danish, Swedish and Dutch examples.

By way of comparison, the principal Napoleonic battleship, the "74", usually had 28x32pdr, 28x18pdr, 18x9pdr. (Lavery 121).

In the table, I introduce the metric "broadside weight," the total weight of shot that can be fired at one time. This is probably a better measure of the power of a warship than just the nominal number of guns.

From a ship design standpoint, another important metric is the ratio of that broadside weight (pounds) to the ship displacement (tonnes); for the Swedish navy, it was around 0.4 in the 1630s, but increased to 0.75 in 1671. (Glete 571). In that year, the Kronan carried an armament of about 180 tonnes, 8 % of its 2,300 tonne displacement. (572).

Horizontal Distribution of Guns

We may recognize three basic gun arrangements: predominantly frontal; predominantly broadside; and turreted. The Mediterranean galleys are in the first category. One of the more powerful of the Venetian galleys at Lepanto (1571) might have a 52–55 pound full cannon, flanked by an inner pair of 12-pounders and an outer pair of 6-pounders. And it could have a second deck, carrying swivel guns, as was certainly the case for the larger Spanish galleys. (Guilmartin, 322-3). In the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries one could also find heavy frontal armament in certain specialized warships, bomb ketches and rocket ships. In the twentieth century, we have a similar arrangement on torpedo boats and missile boats. And attack submarines may be said to have a spinal armament, firing torpedoes from bow or stern.

Most warships of the late-sixteenth through mid-nineteenth centuries were designed to deliver powerful broadsides, but had rather weak bow and stern armament. Once the "line ahead" formation and related tactics, which lent themselves to delivering broadsides, were developed in the mid-seventeenth century, this was particularly true of capital ships. A frigate or lesser vessel was more likely to have chase guns.

Despite the importance of the broadside, seventeenth-century French warships tended to have relatively powerful bow and stern armament, because they were used in the Mediterranean against galleys. This required some adjustment in the hull to provide a good firing arc. (Langstrom 167). In general, since the number of bow and stern guns was limited by space, those tended to be the ones with the best range and accuracy. (ChapelleHASN 12).

It's perhaps worth noting that warship designers of the second half of the nineteenth century were "ram-crazy"; this in turn led to an undue emphasis on frontal firepower for steam-powered ironclads.

For a ship with broadside armament, the length determines how many guns it can carry per deck. Length was limited by structural concerns; local inequalities of weight and buoyancy would cause it to droop in the center (hogging) or sometimes at the ends (sagging). These in turn imposed strains on the hull; they were proportional to the square of the length. Wooden-hulled warships consequently weren't much longer than 200 feet; a British first rate of the 1745 Establishment was 179 feet at the gun deck. (Ireland 41).

Of course, the number of guns carried on a deck of particular length depended on the spacing between the gunports, and how close they came to the bow or stern. On the Dauphin Royal (1735), 74 guns, there were 13 ports to a side, the foremost about 18 feet from the stem and the aftmost about 10 feet from the stern. The port width was 2'10" and the distance between ports (edge-edge) was 7'7". (du Monceau 4).

Gunport spacing was limited by the area and crew needed to work the guns; the more powerful the gun, the greater these were. Gunport breadth, for example, was 3 feet for a 48-pdr and 1.5 for at 4-pdr (Id). The spacing was also affected by the framing; you didn't want to cut through a frame and weaken the hull. A mid-seventeenth-century Dutch admiralty had these rules of thumb: gunport spacing (center-center) 20 shot diameters; height, six diameters; width, five (Hoving 104). A mid-eighteenth-century rule allows for 25 shot diameter spacing and 6.5 diameter width, with the sill 3.5 diameters above the deck (Davis1984,110).

In the British 1745 establishment, no warship had more than 28 guns on a single full deck. However, there were post-establishment British warships, such as the First Rate Victory (1765) and the "Large" class 74s, with 30 guns on the lowest gun deck (Lavery 121ff). And in 1764, du Monceau, said that a 112-gun French warship had 32 guns (24-pdr) on its second deck.

If you wanted more guns than a single full deck could accommodate, you put them on the quarterdeck or forecastle, or, if that still wasn't enough, you added a second (or if need be a third) full deck.

The mid-nineteenth-century introduction of iron and steel construction allowed warships to be lengthened, and thus history has some examples of some long "broadside ironclads." The longest of these was the HMS Minotaur (1863), 407 feet long, a sail/steam hybrid. There were also two-decker broadside ironclads, such as the French Magenta (1862), 282 feet long. (Neilson).

Broadside guns had a limited firing arc. In Napoleonic warships, the range of traversal was 40–45 degrees before or abaft the beam; this was apparently an improvement on earlier warships (O'Neill 71). However, in steam ironclads like HMS Warrior, the gunports were narrowed, thereby reducing the arc of fire (Lambert 46). The theory was that with steam propulsion, they weren't subject to the vagaries of the wind, and therefore could maneuver as needed to bring the guns to bear. Moreover, firing at extreme angles reduced the rate of fire. I also figure that the narrower gunports meant that the guns were less vulnerable to counterfire.

I believe the first turret ship was the wooden Royal Sovereign (1857); Eriksson's ironclad USS Monitor (1862) was the first to engage in battle. The advantage of the turret was that by rotation it could bring its gun(s) to bear in any direction, save for those obstructed by the ship's superstructure (including funnels, masts, and other turrets). Because of the size and expense of the turret, the tendency was for turreted warships to be fitted with a small number of very powerful guns. For this discussion "turreted" may mean a true turret (armor rotates) or a barbette (armor stationary).

Sails, masts, spars and stays would of course restrict the firing arcs; nonetheless, many early turreted warships were hybrids (sail/steam) because of doubts as to the reliability of the engine.

This led to a variety of curious expedients. On the ill-fated HMS Captain (1869), the two turrets were on the lower (main) deck, and the masts were stayed to the upper (hurricane) deck. I would imagine that this arrangement would limit how high the guns could be elevated. The hurricane deck was dispensed with on the double-turreted HMS Wyvern and HMS Scorpion (1863), on which the turrets flanked the main mast. Captain Coles proposed use of iron shrouds and stays. (Breyer 34).

HMS Devastation (1871) was the first turreted warship without rigging (it had a central mast for signaling and observation). HMS Inflexible (1876) had two screws driven by compound steam engines, and two masts that could carry 18,500 sf sail (Wikipedia). The latter was removed in 1885. (Breyer). While I am not aware of later turreted warships with sails, the broadside-armed HMS Calypso (1883) was ship-rigged (Ireland1997, 36) and the Russian cruiser Rurik (1892), barque-rigged.

Early turreted warships included those with one (USS Monitor), two (USS Onondaga) and even three (USS Roanoke) turrets. With multiple turret designs, one has the concern of where to place the turrets. The most obvious arrangement was to place them single file on the centerline. The obvious problem was that a bow turret couldn't fire directly astern, and a central turret (as on the HMS Monarch (1868)) couldn't safely shoot fore or aft.

One alternative was to mount the extra turrets on the side (wings). This increased the frontal fire at the expense of broadside fire. In theory, wing turrets could be staggered, and fire if need be across the deck. but that tended not to be too good for the deck. And the centerline design was structurally sounder.

Another option was to stack the turrets, like the tiers on a wedding cake. On USS Kearsarge (1898), the double-decker turrets turned as a unit. It's reported that the vibration of the 13" guns below interfered with the firing of the 8" guns above. (cityofart.net)

The 1870s Italian navy experimented with a "diagonal reduit", in which two turrets were mounted near the center of the ship but diagonally offset from it. (Breyer 33).

A single turret could carry one, two or even three guns, but if it attempted to fire multiple guns simultaneously, "invariably, one of the guns was thrown off target by the firing of the first weapon." (Kaufmann 5).

With muzzle loaders, the turrets had to be of large diameter, but the guns short-barreled, so they could be run back and reloaded inside. (Ireland1997, 38).

The mechanisms of turret gun laying and loading are discussed in part 2, and the armoring of turrets in part 5.

Vertical Arrangement of Guns

Positioning the gun on a higher deck has the advantage that the gunports are less likely to be forced to close as a result of rough sea conditions (Laing 76). Raleigh urged that the ship be designed and laden so that the lowest tier of ordnance was four feet above the water (Creuze 17). An upper deck gun will also have increased range (as predicted by Torricelli) and can take advantage of plunging fire (shooting at the flimsy enemy deck, not the relatively stout side). However, if the enemy is close at hand, the gun might not be able to depress enough to fire upon it, and the higher the guns are, the higher the ship's center of gravity must be, reducing its initial lateral stability (but the higher freeboard does provide some compensation by increasing the angle of vanishing stability).

In the fifteenth century, ships had guns mounted high up, in the aptly named forecastles and sterncastles. The size and number of these guns was limited by their effect on stability. In the early-sixteenth century, gundecks and gunports were introduced. Since the armament was lower, it could be made heavier. (Svensson 16). As broadsides became more effective, the superstructures became less useful and were reduced in size. The early-seventeenth century was a transitional stage in which the capital ships mounted heavy broadside armaments, but still had significant superstructures.

The depth (and draft!) of the ship limits the number of gun decks. Over the course of the sixteenth century, a second and then a third gundeck (~1591) was introduced. (Creuze 15). The Dutch didn't use three-deckers, but the English and French did. (Anderson 158). British designers of the late-eighteenth century found that three-deck 80-gun ships were top heavy; two-deck 80s were too long for their height, and hogged (drooped amidships); the two-deck 74s were ideal and, even though they were considered to be of the "third rate," became the most common "battleships" in "foreign service." (Millar 9).

On a Georgian frigate, the lower deck was called the gun deck but had no guns (Millar 10). But that did help ensure that the upper deck was safely above the water.

For the British navy, there was no systematic distribution of the different gun sizes among ships of different classes, and among the different decks of a given ship, until 1677, when it adopted a "solemn, universal, and unalterable adjustment of the gunning and manning of the whole fleet." (Tanner 233ff). This was altered (snicker) by the "establishments" of 1691, 1706, 1719, and 1745. After that warship design became somewhat more diverse again.

Gun Weight

After armor was introduced in the nineteenth century, warship design became "weight critical"-the hull displacement provided a particular amount of buoyancy, and the ship couldn't be heavier, so designers had to make compromises vis-a-vis weight of guns, engines, armor, and even fuel and ammunition carried.

As a loose rule of thumb, gun weight is proportional to the cube of the caliber (Meigs 204) and thus, for roundshot, proportional to the shot weight. For early-nineteenth-century British iron guns, gun weight was 170–411 times the latter. (Beauchant 102). Big guns have greater range, but small guns have a higher rate of fire.

We have already alluded to the fact that bronze guns could be made lighter than cast iron ones of the same caliber; steel guns had a similar advantage over their predecessors, because of steel's greater tensile strength per unit weight.

Guns designed to only fire shells (hollow projectiles) could be lighter than those firing solid shot; shells were lighter than solid shot of the same caliber; hence less powder was needed to project them; hence the gun barrels could be thinner. Or, keeping gun weight the same, you could increase caliber. The Paixhans 80-pounder shell gun (1837) weighed the same as the traditional 36-pounder. (Tucker 1320).

Gun Crew

There's some data on crew size in Table 2A. In early nineteenth century French naval service, 14 men attended a 36-pounder; 12, a 24-pounder, 10, an 18- or 12- pounder, 8, an 8-pounder; and 6, a 6- or 4-pounder. (Douglas 149). A carronade only needed 4 men. (163).

Miller (57) provides the rule of thumb that one man was required for every 5 cwt. (112 pounds) of gun weight, although I think that's on the low side. However, he makes the point that gun crews changed constantly; if only one side were engaged, the free crews would come over to help; but crewmen would also be pulled off to handle the ship or to form a boarding party.

Gun Loading; Rate of Fire

It's dangerous to assume that the rate of fire was as good in the 1630s as in the more familiar Napoleonic period (Hornblower Syndrome!).

A modern crew of four handling a replica sixteenth-century wrought iron breechloader required 5 -10 minutes per shot (Konstam 40). An experienced crew might well do better, but on the other hand, handling a large muzzleloader would be more time-consuming. Elizabethan sea dogs probably just fired one broadside at point-blank range and then fought a boarding action. (Konstam 40).

"In 1646 Master gunner William Eldred stated, in The Gunner's Glasse that a maximum of ten rounds an hour could be fired from a gun, and that after forty shots had been fired an interval of an hour must be allowed to cool the piece." (Hughes 35).

The fastest fixed guns on a seventeenth- (or eighteenth-)century warship were the swivel guns. There were breechloaders with removable chambers, and by having several prepped chambers handy, one could get off several shots quickly-perhaps one a minute, at least until the preps were used up. (Konstam 40). They were short range weapons, intended for anti-personnel use, and I imagine that sustained rapid fire wasn't necessary; either the enemy boarding action was fended off, or it wasn't.

Shells cannot be fired as fast as shot because the fuses have to be prepared and adjusted; percussion fuses are less trouble than time fuses. (Owen 338).

For eighteenth-century field artillery (3 -12 pounders), a good rate of fire for an eight-man crew was considered to be two aimed shots per minute (Peterson 119), and this could be doubled by eliminating steps (such as sponging the bore). dangerous, but not as much getting overrun by the enemy. Speed was affected by the weight of the piece; a 12-pounder might only get off one round a minute. (Wise 31).

The rate of fire at sea was lower. (Smaller gun crews? Ship movement?) In 1738, the 70-gun Hampton Court "fire 400 rounds in twenty-five minutes which suggests that each gun fired about one round every two minutes." (Rodger 540). The USS Constitution could fire its 24-pounders, which had a twelve-man crew, one round every three minutes. (Mehl 33).

Other published estimates include one round every 3–5 minutes for the early modern era (Volo 256); three broadsides in five minutes (Hill 55); at best one round a minute for the Napoleonic British navy (Miller 58); for best crews under perfect conditions, one round every four or five minutes in 1660 and one a minute in 1756 (Ireland 48).

Gunlocks improved rate of fire; Collingwood's flagship Dreadnought "could fire her first three broadsides in three and a half minutes." (Rodger 540). Such a firing rate could not be sustained; the gunners would tire; there would be casualties; smoke would slow down the aiming process.

Note that the British and American crews of the Napoleonic period typically got off 1.5–3 times as many shots as a French or Spanish opponent. (Toll 7). The 74-gun Guerriere at Minorca (1756) fired 659 rounds in 3.5 hours (5.5 rounds/hour), and another French ship averaged 6 rounds/hour at the Saintes; either the crews were less handy or the French were deliberately taking their time. (Rodger 540).

The heavy rifled breechloaders of HMS Warrior (1861) were a bit faster than the old smoothbore carriage guns, firing perhaps once a minute. On the other hand, the rifled muzzle loaders were very slow. To reload, the barrels had to be fully depressed and sometimes they had to be traversed to the fore or aft position, too. That gave them a rate of fire of just one shot every three minutes. When breechloaders were reintroduced, those with the full screw closure only improved the situation a little, to once every two minutes. (Hill 55).

The elevating screw increases accuracy but not necessarily speed. In tests at Shoeburyness, a 40-pdr rifled breechloader fired 10 rounds in 7.5 minutes using the screw, and in just 6 minutes with the wedge. (Owen 337).

In the ACW, the big guns were slow. With the 15-inch Dahlgren, the average time between shots was 6 minutes; depending on conditions, it might take 3 -10 minutes to fire again. On the other hand, a long 32-pdr or 9-inch shell gun might be fired once every forty seconds. (Canfield).

Late-nineteenth-century breechloading deck guns, with pivot mounts, appeared to have firing rates of 10 rounds/minute. (Mehl 81, 85).

Even with the same model of gun, rates of fire will differ from ship to ship. In 1902, with the Mark VII 6-inch quick-fire, nine British warships exhibited prize firing rates that ranged from 4.17-7.38 rounds/minute. With heavier guns the range was 0.62 -1.25. (Brassey 38).

Rate of fire can be limited by barrel overheating. If the barrel becomes too hot, there are variety of potential problems, including increased erosion (thus loss of accuracy over the long term) and self-ignition of propellant. Barrel liquid-cooling systems have been used with some rapid-fire twentieth-century naval guns. (Wu).

In 1820s and 1830s the French experimented with canon foudre (drum cannon), "equipped with a carousel of multiple powder chambers that could be pre-loaded." It was not a success; the seal between the chamber and the barrel was inadequate. (Mehl 36).

The logical solution was to use multiple barrels (i.e., a volley gun), rather than multiple chambers, as on the Swedish Nordenfelt 25 mm machine cannon (1877). It had a rate of fire of 120 rounds/minute, and an effective range of 1500 meters. This was a semi-automatic, gravity-fed weapon. (62).

On the Nordenfelt, the four barrels were fixed, horizontally parallel. Another approach was the Hotchkiss system revolving cannon; an 1896 Russian model fired 80 rounds/minute to 2700 meters. (63). Another source claimed that 12 aimed shots/minute at 4000 yards was possible. (Ireland1997, 42).

In the canonical Baltic War, the USE army had Requa-style volley guns. The USE navy wanted them for its timberclads, for suppressing cavalry raids on river shipping, but the army was given priority. (And fortunately, the air force conceded that it was "at least two generation of aircraft away from mounting machine guns.) (1634: TBW, Chap. 5). Ultimately, the USE navy went with a pivot-mounted Reffye-style mitrailleuse, having twenty.50 caliber barrels. Unlike the volley guns, these were fired in succession; maximum rate of fire was 60 aimed or 100 unaimed shots per minute. It had removable breechblocks and was loaded twenty rounds at a time. (1634: TBW, Chap. 41).

Grantville Firearms Roundtable, "How to build a Machine gun in 1634 with available technology: Two alternate views" (Grantville Gazette 4) may be of interest.

Whether at the breech or the muzzle, manual loading was the norm for big guns until the nineteenth century. When turrets were equipped with steam power for traversing the gun, thought was given to whether this same power could expedite the loading process. On Eads' USS Winnebago, steam power was used to lower the gun platform to a (safe) loading position (cityofart.net), but it didn't actually load the projectiles.

On the USS Indiana (BB1, 1895), the 13-inch gun turrets were semi-automatically loaded. They were equipped with hydraulically-powered ammunition hoists, the hoisted car having separate compartments for the powder and the projectile. However, in the magazine, these compartments were loaded by hand. A hydraulic rammer pushed the projectile into the gun breech. It's not clear to me how the projectile got from the hoist car to the rammer. (Fullam 187). A somewhat similar hatch loading system was used on the 16-inch rifled muzzle loaders of the HMS Inflexible (1895), but of course it communicated with the muzzle. (Ellacott 58).

In canon, Simpson's ironclads use salvaged mine hydraulics to open and close the gunports and perhaps operate the blowers that suck out the smoke, but it appears that the shell and powder hoists are operated manually. (1634: TBW Chap. 38).

This article continues in Part 2, "Ready, Aim, Fire!"

Notes From The Buffer Zone: Standing On The Shoulders of Giants

Written by Kristine Kathryn Rusch

I’m not sure what caused it: Maybe watching the news coming out of NASA about the Mars Rover. Maybe downloading too many Star Trek alert tones for my phone. Maybe the deep and somewhat excessive excitement I felt when I discovered some Stargate episodes that I missed.

I know something triggered it in combination with some historical fiction I’m planning. The key to historical fiction is to always make certain that your character is of her time. Maybe she doesn’t speak Chaucerian English, even though she lived in Chaucer’s time, but she has the right attitudes-attitudes she wouldn’t hold at any other time.

I know I am a child of my time. I tell my husband almost weekly that I was born into the 20th century for a reason. and that reason is really a handful of reasons, all intertwined-penicillin, indoor plumbing, and electricity. All those time travel romances in which the heroine happily decides to remain in 17th century Scotland? Well, either those heroines are crazy, the authors don’t know history, or (most likely) the books don’t speak to me.

What speaks to me-what has always spoken to me-is science fiction.

And the realization I had this past fall is that the reason I’m a science fiction writer is because I was born in the latter half of the 20th century.

I love mystery. I love romance. I love fantasy. Heck, I love good old complex family dramas without an ounce of adventure in them. I love great writing, great characters, great settings.

But I get truly passionate about science fiction, and that’s almost all science fiction.

Before I was old enough to separate reality from fiction (and yes, there is a difference, even to fiction writers), I saw science mixed with science fiction. My parents’ black-and-white television set brought me The Jetsons, Lost in Space, and good old Walter Cronkite interrupting this broadcast to let me know that mankind had orbited the Earth, had left Earth’s orbit, had died on the launch pad, had orbited the Moon.

Every kid in my school wanted to be an astronaut-at least until we heard about the amount of exercise those poor people went through-and all the girls had crushes on either Kirk or Spock. We almost came to blows at times, trying to decide which one we wanted to spend the rest of our lives with: the brainy one or the brawny one. Me, I rather prefer brains and passion to brains and bloodless, so I’ve always preferred Kirk.

Or maybe I just imprinted on all of those astronauts. It takes one supersized pair to climb into an Apollo capsule on top of a gigantic Roman candle, and let an explosion propel you out of Earth’s orbit.

How, after that, could anything I imagine even compare?

The first “book” I ever wrote was a typical girl-girl thing, featuring a pony. The second one had a car, I think, and the third-well, in the third, Captain Kirk goes back in time, lands in Superior, Wisconsin, and saves me from the drudgery that was my life. Romance novel meet Star Trek novel, twelve-year-old girl style. (We won’t discuss the Partridge Family gothic novel that followed.)

My friend Toni Rich and I spent most of our English class in our eighth grade year writing one of those back-and-forth novels-she’d write two pages, then I’d write two pages-and from what I remember about it (which isn’t much besides the colored paper), it was some space adventure thing with lots of hunky astronauts and big hairy monsters Threatening The Entire Universe! Yes, there were lots of exclamation points as well, and cliffhangers meant to stump the co-writer, not added for any logical reasons of their own.

But what if I had been born fifty years earlier? Would I have written so much science fiction? Or would I have written cozy mysteries after losing myself in the work of Agatha Christie? Would I write Gold Rush adventures because I loved Jack London? (I still do, by the way.) Would everything have snow and that horrible quest to build a fire?

Or would I have imprinted on the works of Herbert George Wells? Would I look to Mars and see possible invaders? Or would I rip off Jules Verne and writing diving stories set in the deep blue sea?

H.G. Wells makes me wonder if science fiction was just in the air. After all, he was born roughly 100 years before I was, and he became the prototypical science fiction writer. If a modern sf writer wants to do anything, she’ll have to climb on the shoulders of Wells to do it. His work examines both the possibilities of science and the failures of it, the politicization of science and how deeply personal it can be.

But he wasn’t the first with those ideas either. One of the firsts was a woman, Mary Shelley, whose Frankenstein is a tale of science gone horribly, horribly wrong. (Metaphorically, it’s a fear-of-childbirth story, or maybe (more accurately) a fear-of-your-own-child story, but we’ll ignore that for the moment.) She influenced entire generations as well, but in a different way. Perhaps her influence was more on the horror side of the equation because her monster is so memorable or perhaps because science wasn’t in the air in the decades after her novel like it was in the late 19th century and all of the 20th.

Everything was about science when I grew up. Everything. From scientifically designed food (the astronauts drink Tang! You should too!) to scientifically enhanced clothing, we couldn’t escape science if we tried.

And, since I’m dyslexic and absolutely unable to write down the correct answer to any equation (even if I know it), I am not very good at practicing science. I would have been a dismal failure as an astronaut. I couldn’t have even started the training, let alone get to that scary exercise program.

But I’m fantastic at making things up. I can imagine strange new worlds and new lives and new civilizations. My imagination can boldly go where Kris herself has never gone before-and will not go ever.

Sometimes I think it a small consolation that I can write science fiction instead of live an adventurous lifestyle. Then I watch documentaries on what the astronauts went through or even watch someone else’s imagined journey (Howard’s trip to the space station on The Big Bang Theory comes to mind), and I realize that I am hopelessly bookish, not all that adventurous outside of my office, and scared to death of Roman candles.

So would I have written science fiction if I’d been born in a different century? Who knows? If I’d been born much earlier, I’d have spent a lot of energy just trying to convince someone I was a person, not the property of the men in my life, that I had a brain and a purpose other than child-bearing. So I’ve had that luxury as well.

The luxury of respect, of education, of science, and of damn good entertainment.

Yes, I stand on the shoulders of giants. And those giants are living breathing people, with real lives and real fears. Sometimes those living breathing people wrote science fiction.

But many of them lived it-and shared the adventure with the rest of us.

And for that, I’m profoundly grateful.

Guardian

Rebecca Birch

Jin hugged the wall on the edge of an alleyway. Loud music and conversation filtered down from the OldTown night market two blocks away, but nothing moved nearby.

The ancient coin Auntie Bai Wei had given her hung on a thin leather cord around Jin's neck. It pulsed with a steady throb that felt as if it should be audible, but she knew from experience that she alone could sense it.

Jin walked this path every day on her way to the cannery where she worked, when it was a bustle of activity. But by night, the darkness pressed heavily on her. Though not a soul broke the stillness, it felt like someone was watching. A tingling sensation spread between Jin's shoulder blades. Yao had told her that when the bullies chased him that morning, a strange man in a dark suit-unheard of on this side of the river-had watched it all with predatory eyes. It had upset him even more than being thrown in the refuse bin, again.

Knowing her deceased mother's spirit wouldn't approve of her illicit ventures into thievery, Jin had ignored the coin's pull for three days but Yao's fear and the fact that she couldn't protect him during working hours had driven her out into the night. She needed the yuan that Auntie would pay for the trinket the coin had chosen, and she needed it now, before registration for the tech school on the other side of the river closed.

She inched forward, crouched low. A solitary electric light burned inside the jeweler's shop, back beyond the showroom. Its soft glow caught on the figurine that drew the coin's attention. A white jade lion, shot through with deep, blood-touched red inclusions in its mane and paws. One paw stretched forward, its claws bared, and its jaw gaped wide in a roar. It was a rare piece of stone and a rare craftsman who pulled the beast from its depths. Jin would be sorry to sell it. Undoubtedly, its owner would be sorry when he found it missing.

Don't think about it. She drove away the image of the jeweler, and his smiling eyes behind their wire-rimmed spectacles, when he waved to her every day. Would he smile tomorrow? Would she smile back, as if nothing had happened?

Metal grates guarded the door and windows. She turned the corner and spied a window high on the wall, just within her reach if she jumped, open a crack. It had been unseasonably warm. Had the jeweler opened it for some ventilation and forgotten to shut it again, since it was so far into October that open windows should be a thing of the past?

No matter. It made her work easier. No need to pull out her makeshift lock pick, carved out of an old knife, secreted in a breast pocket.

She backed across the space between that building and the next, then sprinted forward and launched herself up, her fingers catching on the bricks at the window's base. With a tug, she pulled the window open wide, then walked her feet up the wall and slithered through head-first. The floor was a long way down, but she kept one hand on the window-ledge and twisted her body until she hung down the wall, then dropped. Her knees bent, absorbing the impact, and minimizing any sound.

Jin froze for a moment, listening. The jeweler lived above his shop. She couldn't risk being caught. Yao would be sent straight back into the Orphan Care Authority dormitories and the predations of his peers. At twelve years old, he was four years her junior, and she'd only recently earned enough to take him under her guardianship in a ramshackle apartment where they subsisted on O. C. A. nutrition bars. It wasn't much, but at least she could begin fulfilling her promise to her mother to watch over him and give him his best chance to make something of his life.

After a silent count to a hundred, Jin decided it was safe to move on. She had dropped into the jeweler's workshop. The worktable sat in the center of the room, littered with tools and coils of silver and gold wire. Jin padded past, guided by the light in the hallway, then slipped into the showroom.

A spirit-bell hung over the entryway, but Jin resisted the urge to ring it, despite the intensifying feeling that she was being watched. Spirits weren't going to turn her over to the police. People would. Besides, it was probably nothing more than her own guilty conscience. Even now she could hear her mother's ghostly admonishment. Find another way. I'm ashamed to see my daughter is a thief.

"I'm sorry, Mother," she whispered, hardly more than an exhale. "There isn't another way."

Glass cases lined the walls, filled with handmade jewelry-pearl necklaces, gold rings set with precious stones, and jade figurines ranging from a beetle the size of her thumbnail to a reclining ox, nearly as long as her forearm. She passed them by. The lion in the front window called to Auntie Bai Wei's coin like a lodestone.

Jin reached the window and picked up the lion. It felt warm. The wild edges of its mane dug into her palm. Gently, she reminded herself. Jade was strong, but not unbreakable. She placed it at the bottom of her jacket pocket, then returned the way she came.

As she slipped out of the showroom, a floorboard squealed under her weight. Jin froze. An electric light flashed on at the top of a flight of stairs leading up to the next floor. Without a backward glance, Jin fled through the workroom and launched herself at the window.

Footsteps shuffled down the stairs. Jin struggled to wriggle through the open window without putting her weight on the pocket that held the precious figurine. Her other pocket caught on the handle that turned to open and close the pane. With a silent curse, Jin backed up and freed herself, then slithered out and dropped to the ground in a clumsy roll.

Jin stumbled to her feet, and the workshop light went on. She sprinted into the darkened alleyway, despite a sharp pain in her hip where she'd hit the ground.

****

Jin burst clear of the alleyway and into the night market's busy crush. Neon signs advertising beer, cigarettes, and spirit cleansings hung from brick facades, illuminating the patchwork quilt of shacks and tarp-draped booths at the bases of the buildings. With a few quick motions, she lost herself among the milling mass of people.

She pulled her cap lower on her head, making sure her hair was safely tucked, then stuffed her hands in her pockets and hunched her shoulders, curling in on herself. With the collar of her jacket raised, her face was nothing more than a shadow in the neon haze. Her diminutive height and stick-thin body hidden behind loose-fitting clothes made her look more like a young boy than a teenage girl.

A pair of spinsters haggled over pickled eggs while a klatch of young men huddled at the corner warming their hands over a brazier and smoking cigarettes. They looked straight past her. Good. If no one noticed her, no one would connect her to the theft.

The figurine seemed to throb in her hand. Jin released it and pressed ahead. She could hear the river now-the slosh of the water sliding through its concrete banks, the thrum of motors struggling to press boats upstream, the shouting and cursing of cargo men working to unload a supply ship. She moved towards the market street's edge and ducked behind the stalls. Auntie Bai Wei's shop was close, but easy to miss.

Jin ran her hand along the rough brick wall. Hot chili sauce perfumed the air by a noodle seller's cart. A low growl rumbled up from her center. It had been months since she'd tasted something other than the nutritional bars provided by the Orphan Care Authority or the remnants of discarded fish, too poor a quality to can.

Jin's fingers slipped into a nearly invisible seam running up the mortar. She pressed against the next brick and the wall slid inward, releasing a haze of smoke, reeking of opium, that obscured the entryway to Auntie Bai Wei's domain. You only found Auntie's shop if she wanted you to.

After ducking through the entry, Jin pushed the wall back into place, leaving her in near-total darkness. Time to close her eyes and wait until she could see again. A steady throb of heat pulsed in her pocket. Jin reached inside with a tentative hand and touched the jade lion. It felt like a dying ember. Her eyes flashed open and she pulled it out.

An amber glow radiated from its belly, illuminating the stone from deep inside. Dark veins shot through the jade, where small impurities gave it texture. The red edges pulsed. Jin stared, transfixed, for a moment, then stuffed the thing back in her pocket. This was no simple piece of jade, she realized. There was a spirit trapped in its depths. She needed to be rid of it.

Afterimages danced across her vision while she inched her way through the storeroom in a carefully precise straight line. If she veered even a little she'd stumble over barrels and crates, and Auntie Bai Wei would deduct any damage she caused from the purchase price. It didn't matter that she wasn't there in the storeroom to see it. She always knew. You either waited until you could see, or risked breaking spirits-knew-what. There were folks who were indebted to Auntie so deeply they'd be working off the damage for years.

It didn't matter that it had been Auntie Bai Wei who found Jin at the O. C. A.'s employment fair and coerced the cannery into hiring her, although Jin had already been passed over for being too small. Nor did it matter that she had gone on to recruit Jin into her band of "collectors," and occasionally slipped a new textbook for Yao, full of technical details Jin couldn't begin to comprehend, into the payment. If you broke Auntie's stock, you paid for it.

Jin had learned the lesson early, and she'd been lucky. All she'd broken was an old teapot that had already been cracked and glued once before. Auntie Bai Wei took the bronze medallion Jin had just snatched from her neighbor-an old blind soldier who had stumbled into Yao in the hallway, then started bellowing that Yao was a spirit host-and called it even.

It was the only time Jin hadn't felt a moment of remorse when she stole. Anyone foolish enough to accuse a small boy of being a spirit host deserved what came to him. It was only luck no one else had been home and come to investigate the shouting. She'd seen what happened when the government workers came to take away suspected hosts. The protective gear as if they were entering a quarantine ward, syringes full of "medicine" to keep the spirit at bay when they dragged the host off to the black prison perched at the river's edge.

If they had come for Yao, the old soldier might have found himself dead rather than short one small medallion. Even Jin's mother's perpetually disapproving voice in her mind didn't say a word.

Jin found the inner door by walking straight into it. The purple-rimmed, lion-shaped holes in her vision refused to clear. Wincing at the sharp pain where her knee hit the door, Jin opened it and stepped into the cluttered chaos of Auntie Bai Wei's shop.

Thick incense hung in the air and tickled the back of Jin's throat. A brilliant riot of colored paper lanterns hung from the exposed rafters, their flickering light illuminating the room. Cases with sagging shelves lined the walls and mapped a maze through the center. An ancient guqin stood in a corner, quietly playing itself, a haunting, traditional melody. The counter stood on the far wall behind a row of carved wooden chests.

Jin descended the two steps to the shop floor. There were no customers and no Auntie Bai Wei. Aside from the guqin, nothing made a sound. Jin had never been there without at least one other person browsing the knick-knacks, jewelry, antiques, and benevolent-spirit-occupied objects like the guqin, or waiting to haggle with Auntie over the price of a new offering.

"Auntie Bai Wei?" Jin called. Her voice sounded unnaturally loud as it bounced off the cinder-block walls.

There was no reply. Jin crossed the shop, picking her way past the row of vases lining the ends of the shelves, exactly where everyone would have to walk by to reach the counter. Perfect for someone clumsy to brush against and topple, with luck starting a domino wave of destruction they would then have to pay for.

When she reached the counter, Jin picked up a mallet resting on a porcelain platter and banged the gong that stood on the shelf. The clangor reverberated through the shop, temporarily overwhelming the guqin's song. When the noise dissipated, Jin listened for any sign of Auntie's response.

Nothing.

A sense of unease sank into Jin's bones. It was too early for the shop to be closed, and Auntie Bai Wei wouldn't have left the outer door unlocked if she'd stepped out. Besides, she had to have been there to light the lanterns.

"Auntie?" she called again.

A gust of wind swirled through the shop. The lanterns flared, then died, plunging the shop into blackness. Jin's cap flew from her head and the wind pressed her back against the counter. The gong vibrated, sending up a low din, and the guqin went silent.

Heavy footsteps clomped down the stairs. When they reached the cement floor, a sound like bone on rock scraped into the shop.

Jin dropped into a crouch. Whoever, or whatever, was coming, she had no desire to meet it. She inched backwards along the counter's edge, grateful for her hand-me-down trainers that made no sound.

The footsteps drew closer accompanied by heavy wheezing breaths.

Jin found the corner and slipped behind, into Auntie Bai Wei's personal sanctum. Her pocket surged with heat and the scent of scalding fabric assailed her nostrils. She grabbed the figurine and tossed the burning jade away, realizing a moment too late that the sound of its clatter would alert whatever was in the shop that it wasn't alone.

The lion flew. Brilliant light exploded.

Jin threw her arm across her eyes, too late to escape the glare's full brunt.

Instead of the crack of jade hitting cement, a roar rolled like thunder off the walls, shook the counter, and set the gong reverberating again.

The approaching person/thing, Jin still couldn't be certain which, howled. Once more, the gale-force winds ripped past. Crashes sounded among the shelves. The roar rang out again and the footsteps retreated, back up the stairs. The door slammed shut.

Abruptly, the wind dropped into nothingness. Jin slowly lowered her arm. Golden light illuminated the shop, though the lanterns remained unlit. She raised herself until she could peek over the edge of the counter. A massive white lion stood on widespread paws on the far side, shaking its ruddy mane, red-tipped tail lashing, emanating light.

Jin dropped back down and leaned against the drawers, not caring that the handles dug into her back. Her breath came in shallow pants.

A spirit-lion, newly released from its jade prison.

She was trapped.

Jin pressed down on the cold cement floor, wishing she could become a part of it, or turn invisible, like the heroes in the old tales. She bit down on her tongue, and fought the urge to scream. Instead, she forced herself to focus. There were ways to send an escaped spirit back, if only she could remember. The heroes always spoke words of power, lost now in the dim recesses of her memory.

Besides, she was no hero.

She didn't know what to say, but she clasped her hands in front of her and moved her lips silently, afraid to make a sound. Go back, lion.The danger is gone.You've frightened it away, and you can go back home now.

So slowly that at first Jin didn't notice, the shop dimmed until she sat in blackness. Her pulse thudded in her ears. She stood up and squinted into the shop.

Nothing. No lion. No strange, scraping creature that tossed winds like weapons.

She blew out a whooshing breath and leaned on the counter, her arms trembling.

"Are you here to help us?"

Jin jolted so hard she knocked the mallet and its platter off the counter. The porcelain crashed in a burst of shards. "Who's there?"

"I'm sorry," came the voice again, with a strange, lilting cadence. "I didn't mean to startle you. But you brought the guardian, so I ask again, are you here to help us?"

A hiss like a match sounded overhead and a lantern lit. The single flame cast the room into deep amber light. Shadows danced among the shelves as the lantern flickered. The lion figurine stood in front of the counter, its paw once again raised and muzzle roaring wide.

"Who are you?" Jin asked.

A tiny woman, no taller than Jin's thigh, stepped out from behind a carved box. Two blue sticks inlaid with mother-of-pearl caught her ebony hair in a sleek twist. Her eyes glowed a soft cerulean that matched her traditional silk robe. "I am Liu, Spirit of the Guqin." She steepled her hands in front of her and bowed. "Greetings to you, and thank you for protecting us."

Jin returned the bow reflexively. She stepped out from behind the counter, accidentally grinding porcelain shards underfoot. A voice in the back of her mind wondered how much the platter had been worth and how she would pay it off when Auntie Bai Wei returned.

"My name's Jin," she said.

A smile spread Liu's red lips. "We know. Auntie Bai Wei tells us all about you."

"I need to sit."

"Please," Liu gestured to the box she'd come from behind. "Rest yourself."

Jin settled herself gingerly on the carved lid. The contours impressed themselves into her bottom, but she didn't dare sit anywhere else. "Where is Auntie Bai Wei?"

Liu frowned, the corners of her painted-on eyebrows crinkling down towards her nose. "They took her."

"Who took her?" Jin tried not to think about the fact that she was having a conversation with a spirit.

Everyone knew spirits existed, of course, but nobody ever actually saw one, despite the show the spirit cleansers put on, tricking gullible folks into spending their hard-earned yuan to rid their home of "evil spirits." Some drifted harmlessly on the breeze, with nothing to ground them. Others took up residence in objects. Still other spirits, the most dangerous of all, took human hosts.

"We don't know," Liu said. "Two men came last night to trade. When Auntie Bai Wei took the statue they offered, she went stiff. They led her away, and she didn't struggle, but I saw her eyes. She was afraid, Jin. Terrified."

Jin tried to wrap her mind around the image of Auntie Bai Wei frightened. She was a giant of a woman, taller than most men, and broad-shouldered. In her youth, she'd trained in wushu, and while she'd put on weight in the years since, she could still lift objects Jin wouldn't have been able to budge, and her reflexes were tiger-sharp. She wore her silvering black hair spiky and was never without a set of heavy knuckle rings that she could use with power and skill. If ever there was a woman less likely to be afraid, Jin had never met her.

"Were they like that. thing. that was just here?"

"No. They were men like you, or at least they appeared to be. One never really knows if they're a spirit wearing someone else's skin."

Jin rested her head in her hands and closed her eyes. She shouldn't be involved in this. She should walk out the door, go back to the apartment and Yao and pretend this night had never happened. Leave the lion and the guqin and all the strangeness behind.

But she wasn't going to leave Auntie Bai Wei to the mercy of whoever it was who had taken her. Not after feeling the power of the thing that had entered the shop that night. Besides, after a year of coming to trade at least once a month, Jin had come to consider Auntie Bai Wei a friend. A strange sort of friend, perhaps, but outside of Yao, Jin had no one else.

"How can I help?"

The rest of the lanterns flared into life and shouts of joy rose from all over the shop. Tiny people appeared from beneath teacups, out of vases, dropping down from the lanterns. Larger spirits hid in the shadows, nearly as tall as the shelves. Some looked human. Others were animals: rabbits, dogs, monkeys; and yet others were some motley combination of both.

The spirits swarmed towards her.

Jin pulled her feet up onto the box.

"Find her!" they cried. "Find Auntie Bai Wei and bring her home to us."

"I don't know how," Jin whispered, awed at the sheer number of spirits crowding close.

There must be a spirit for every item in the shop. Was that what Auntie Bai Wei did? Collect spirit-occupied items? Was that what called to her coin?

White-hot pain flared in her temples and Jin grasped her head tight, overwhelmed at the revelation.

Liu picked up the jade figurine in both hands. "You must take the guardian." She lifted it towards Jin.

Jin flinched away.

"Don't be afraid," Liu said. "It answers to its keeper. You."

Jin didn't want to take it-the beast it unleashed was terrifying-but she leaned down and let Liu drop it into her palm. The jade was cool now. No hint of light glowed within, but a warm feeling of comfort and safety wrapped Jin in its heavy paws. She pocketed the lion.

"We cannot leave this place," Liu continued. "We're bound to our hosts. But you can find her, Jin, and you must, soon, before they find you."

Jin's heart skipped a beat and she stared at the miniature woman. "What do you mean?"

"We heard them talking. They're hunting down the sensitives. They'll find you."

A spirit with the face of a dog, the body of a man, and the tail of a monkey pressed through the crowd carrying Jin's hat. He handed it up to her.

"Thank you," she said.

The spirit yipped and turned in a circle, chasing its tail.

Jin shoved the cap back onto her head, once again tucking her hair underneath.

Liu reached up and laid a dainty hand on Jin's foot. "I can give you little help, but this-they smelled of the river."

"All right," Jin said. "I'll lock the door on my way out. Hopefully it will help to keep you safe."

"Just bring Auntie back to us," Liu said.

The sea of spirits parted, leaving a clear path of concrete to the stairs.

Jin stepped down from the box, took a deep breath and straightened her shoulders, forcing herself to ignore her throbbing headache. She strode towards the door.

"Good luck," Liu called out. "Bring her home."

Outside the false wall, the market went on as if everything in the world hadn't just changed. The noodle-seller shouted his wares, but the last thing Jin could think of was food, no matter that it had been hours since the nutrition bars she'd shared with Yao at dinner-time. Setting one foot in front of the other, she followed the sounds of the river.

The jade lion lay quiescent in her pocket, but she couldn't forget the image of it standing so proudly against the intruder, its muscles flexing beneath its pale pelt, nor the sense of comfort she felt when she once again held it in her hand. Maybe it wasn't such a bad thing to have, after all. If she hadn't stolen it, she wouldn't have gone to Auntie's shop. Whatever that thing was would have done whatever it came to do, and Jin couldn't believe it had good intentions. Was it chance that brought the lion to her attention, or was she meant to find it?

Her mind whirled. These weren't the sorts of thoughts she was used to. She was a simple cannery girl. Her brother was the smart one, the one destined to make a mark on the world. How could she entertain the idea that something as powerful as the guardian wanted her enough to put itself in her path?

She reached into her pocket and ran her fingers over the cool jade. The same reassuring presence blanketed her as she'd felt back in Auntie Bai Wei's shop.

The market thinned when she drew close to the river. A few merchants catered to the dock workers, but most stayed closer to the apartment buildings and shops back towards the OldTown's center. Jin kept her face hidden behind her collar, head down. They smelled of the river, Liu had said. It wasn't much to go on. The river wound through the center of the city, kilometers long, and she might have to search both banks, although she'd never crossed to the far side, where the tech-runners' sleek, glistening towers speared the skyline.

Keeping to the shadows, Jin slunk to the river's edge. A reeking miasma hung over it like fog. The stinking refuse that clogged the water's edge, and the persistent odor of sweat from the dockhands who worked day and night loading and unloading cargo mingled with a stale hint of urine from along the base of the nearest building. Jin took a step away, still clinging to the shadows.

Downstream, electric lights blazed at a slip where a barge crammed to overflowing with crates sat at anchor. Men swarmed like ants, boxes balanced on heads or cradled in muscular arms.

Jin closed her eyes. She needed a plan. Wandering aimlessly along the riverbank would do nothing but give her blisters, and maybe get her arrested for trespassing into freight company property. There had to be some way to narrow the search.

She reached into her pocket and grasped the jade lion. It throbbed with heat.

"All right." Jin took a steadying breath. "Can you help me find Auntie Bai Wei?"

Two pulses.

Fine. If trusting a spirit was the only way to find her friend, that was what she'd do. What would Yao think if she ever told him? His head was so filled with facts and theorems, he'd probably laugh and say she was as superstitious as the rest of the OldTown folk.

"Let's try this," Jin said. "I'm going to turn in a circle. When I'm pointing the right way, give me a sign."

She held the figurine in front of her, then slowly pirouetted until a flash of warmth stopped her. Peering into the darkness along the upstream path down which she was pointed, Jin swallowed hard. No light, but the dim glow from the freight slip and the glimmering towers on the opposite bank. So be it.

After following the lion's compass for what felt like hours, Jin stopped at the base of an abandoned warehouse and stared at what lay ahead. The black bulk of the prison that housed accused spirit hosts. As she'd crept along the river's edge, she'd begun to suspect the jade lion might lead her to this place. Although she'd seen it before from a distance, she'd never had a reason to come close. It loomed overhead, blotting out the few stars that managed to shine through thin tears in the cloud cover.

No windows. No doors. How was she supposed to get inside? Even if she could, what would await her there? Stories whispered in dark corners told of crazed spirit hosts, caged and chained-of screams loud enough to be heard even through the heavy cinder block walls. If Auntie Bai Wei had been taken to this place, did it mean she was a spirit host? And if she were, was she dangerous? How did the men, whoever they had been, subdue her? Liu hadn't said anything about syringes or quarantine suits.

It didn't matter. Jin was committed. She'd find a way inside, no matter what waited there. Besides, the lion figurine still hummed with residual heat and it reassured her. She wasn't alone.

A chain link fence topped with razor wire encircled the prison. There were no lights, so Jin slipped out from hiding and darted towards the fence. While she'd have no difficulty scaling the chain links, the razor wire was a problem. No matter how small or how flexible she was, she didn't see a way she'd be able to get through it without serious injury. Instead, she followed the fence around the building's perimeter, looking for any weak spots.

On the far side from where she'd begun, she found what she was looking for. In the stretch between two poles, a section of chain had been warped inward. It wasn't much, but Jin doubted she'd find better.

She lay flat on the concrete and pressed forward, her head and shoulder further bending the fence until they burst free on the far side. Wriggling like a snake, Jin scooted forward, despite tearing her jacket on the rough ground. An edge of chain caught in the back pocket of her jeans. Panic surged through her veins, but she backed up, readjusted her hips, and tried again.

At last, she was through, and she raced toward the shelter of the prison's shadow, where she leaned up against the cinder blocks and gasped for breath.

The easy part was done. When she stopped panting, she rose and ran her fingers along the wall, like she did to find the entry to Auntie Bai Wei's shop. Maybe the same sort of hidden door served this place. Maybe, if she was lucky, she'd find the seam before the sun rose.

A sudden squeal of metal on metal froze Jin in place. Somewhere up ahead, around the corner of the building, the gate was opening. Jin inched forward on silent feet, then ducked low and peered around the corner, keeping her face in shadow.

Two men in black business suits walked through the open gate, leading someone between them. For a moment, Jin's heart leapt at the thought it might be Auntie Bai Wei, but the person was much too small. Once inside, the nearest man stepped away to close the gate behind them.

A moonbeam pierced through the thin clouds and illuminated the scene.

Jin stopped breathing. Yao.

Before she could react, the man was back and they led Yao towards the wall at a brisk pace. He followed without protest, awkward and stiff.

Her years of petty theft told her to wait and watch. See how the suits got inside. Follow when it was safe.

But that was her brother.

With a howl, Jin leapt from the shadows and barreled into the nearest man. She rammed her head into his gut and he staggered back, gasping for breath. In his moment of disorientation, Jin swept her leg behind the other man's, knocking his feet out from under him. He crashed to the ground.

"Yao, run!" she shouted.

She turned her attention back to the first man, who had recovered his wind and lunged forward, fists swinging. Jin ducked and dodged close enough to smell his cologne, then slammed her heel down on the top of his foot. He staggered away with a grunt.

Jin turned back, but Yao hadn't so much as turned his head. "Yao?" She grabbed his hand and yanked. If they could get outside the fence the way she'd come in, the men were too big to follow. They'd have a head start while the others wrestled with the locks on the gate.

Yao remained immobile, as stiff as a statue, but his eyes followed her with a pleading stare. Just like Liu had described Auntie Bai Wei.

Jin slapped him, hard. Smarting pain bloomed in her hand, but Yao didn't move. His eyes went wide, looking past her left shoulder.

She spun in time to see the second man's fist just before it crashed into the side of her head. The world went black.

Jin's eyes blinked open in a dimly-lit cell. Her head throbbed where the man in the suit had clobbered her. A sick sensation hung in the back of her throat. She swallowed back the nausea.

Where was Yao?

A quick glance told her she was alone, with nothing save the rickety cot on which she lay and a toilet in the far corner. The back wall was bare cinder-blocks. A sharp chill emanated through it into the cell. Iron bars formed the other three walls. Another row of cells lay on the far side of a central hallway. The only light came from a bare bulb glowing over the hall.

The cells to either side of her were empty, but across the way, a dark figure hugged the shadows. Jin swung her feet to the floor and sat up. Dizziness swept over her in waves. She probed the lump on the back of her head. Her fingers came away bloody, but from what she could tell, her skull was in one piece, only the scalp split. Jin wiped her hand on her jeans.

She lurched upright and stumbled forward, catching herself on the bars of the door. Clinging there, she closed her eyes and waited for the world to stop spinning.

When she was fairly certain she wouldn't collapse if she let go, she straightened and dug in the breast pocket of her jacket for her lock picking tools. When her fingers closed around them, she let out a relieved breath. The men in suits must not have worried too much about her-or else they had something much bigger to think about-if they hadn't taken the time to search her. The pick wasn't well-hidden.

With deft motions, she set to work.

The figure across the hall inched forward, crouched low, until it was pressed up against the bars. "Shouldn't do that." The voice was high and light. A woman. "They won't like it."

Using the tension wrench to turn the cylinder gently counter-clockwise, Jin felt the pick catch one tumbler after another. When the last tumbler fell into place, she turned the cylinder further counter-clockwise. The bolt slid back with a welcome thunk.

Moving smoothly, less dizzy with each passing breath, Jin pushed the door open.

It creaked, as if it hadn't been oiled in decades. She paused and waited, not breathing. When nobody came to investigate, she slipped out of the cell, crossed the hall, and knelt in front of her fellow prisoner. "Did you see who brought me? Was there a boy with them?"

The figure giggled. "Boy, boy, plays with toys!"

Jin plunged a hand between the bars and grabbed the stranger's plain black T-shirt, yanking the woman forward until the bars dented her skin. Jin pressed her own face close enough she could feel the other's breath on her skin. "Did you see?"

The woman shied away, breaking free of Jin's grasp. "Never see anything." She slid back on all fours. "Not safe to see."

Jin rose and backed away. The stranger was crazy. Maybe she was a spirit host. Maybe whatever rode her had shattered her mind. Further talk wouldn't bring her any closer to finding Yao. Or Auntie Bai Wei, a small voice reminded her.

Jin pushed the thought away. If she found Bai Wei, she would try to help her, but Yao came first. Her hand slid into her pocket, and when she found the jade lion still resting there, she nearly sobbed. She pulled it free and cradled it in front of her lips. Help me find Yao, she begged silently. Help me find my brother.

She swung the lion first to her left, then to her right, where it flared with heat. With catlike steps she padded down the hallway's length to the closed door at its end. She pulled it open. The woman she'd left behind began to wail, throwing herself against the bars. "Take me with you! Don't leave me!"

Jin shut the door behind her, muffling the woman's cries. Her heart thudded against her ribs. The figurine's warmth centered her, and she followed its lead into a maze of winding corridors.

As she crept through the bowels of the prison, Jin became aware of a low, steady thrum, like the building had its own beating heart. She felt it reverberating in her chest, only barely able to pick it up at the lower spectrum of her hearing. Her hand tightened around the jade lion.

She passed cellblocks full of prisoners, mostly sleeping, some pacing their cells from end to end like caged beasts, others chained to the walls. Most ignored her, although a few hid like rats when she approached, and other reached through the bars, begging her to release them.

Time and again, she shook her head and walked on. What good could it do to undo the cages? With a contingent of prisoners tromping at her heels, or running loose through the prison, it would not be long before someone, or something, noticed. Besides, she still had no idea how to get into the building, never mind out.

So she left the wretched souls behind and blocked out the sobs of the few who begged her to set them free. She held the lion in her left hand, its amber glow hidden in her palm, and the lock pick in her right, ready to use as a weapon if she were forced to fight.

More than once, the lion led her through doors into stairwells leading down, deep below ground level. The lower she climbed, the stronger the skeletal building's throbbing pulse, until she felt her teeth rattling against each other as her feet touched the floor.

The stairwell led past several doors with small rectangular windows. Jin glanced through when she passed. Wide rooms, lit by blue-tinged fluorescents, stretched as far as she could see. The tubes illuminated stacks of electronics, humming with energy.

She'd seen illustrations like this in the textbooks Auntie Bai Wei gathered for Yao. Some deep tech that Jin couldn't hope to comprehend. What it was doing on this side of the river was a mystery, but one she wasn't interested in solving. All she wanted was to find her brother.

Two more floors, then the lion gave a sharp surge of heat. Jin glanced through the window. This floor was dark. No light, save what shone in through the stairwell window.

So be it. Cautiously, Jin pulled open the door. It opened without a sound. She slipped into the darkness.

The jade lion led her into the black, beyond the arc of the stairwell's glow. Unable to see so much as her hand in front of her face, Jin opened her fingers, allowing the figurine's amber radiance to light the way.

Heavy metal doors without windows lined the hallway on either side. Was Yao in this place? What sort of terror must he be enduring? Jin increased her pace.

When the hallway dead-ended at the wall, the lion flared bright. A low groan emanated from behind the right hand door. Jin knew that voice. Auntie Bai Wei.

Frustration coursed through her. She'd asked the guardian to lead her to Yao, not Bai Wei. Still, she was here. She would do what she could.

She tried the door, but, as she expected, it was locked. Once more, she went to work with the pick. Auntie's voice went silent.

After several long moments, the lock clicked open and Jin pulled the door wide.

Auntie Bai Wei stood with her back to the wall, crouched in a fighting stance. When the figurine lit the room, Bai Wei squinted. "Stay back, demon," she growled. "You surprised me once. Never again."

"Auntie Bai Wei, it's me, Jin."

Bai Wei's arms drooped to her sides. "Jin?" She blinked and rubbed her eyes.

"It's me, Auntie. Liu sent me."

Auntie Bai Wei's gaze settled on the figurine clutched in Jin's hand. A look of wonder spread across her face. "Is that. the guardian?"

"Yes. At least, that's what Liu said."

Auntie Bai Wei straightened and she clasped a hand against her chest. "Spirits be blessed," she breathed. "We may yet get out of this alive."

The coin nestled beneath Jin's shirt throbbed, in time with the building's strange pulse. "Auntie," she said. "They have Yao."

Bai Wei looked down, piercing Jin with her dark gaze. "They took your brother?"

"I tried to stop them, but they hit me over the head and threw me in a cell. I don't know where they took him."

Bai Wei stalked forward, looming over Jin. "Those fiends are fools to have left you in possession of the guardian. It must have been Yao's presence that protected you. His spirit guest is powerful, though meek. They couldn't see past it to your own strength."

"Yao's a spirit host?"

"Of course, foolish girl. Why else do you think I pulled the two of you from the orphanage? His spirit guest and your innate sensitivity shine like beacons to those who have eyes to see."

"Please," Jin said, "I need my brother back."

"I'll help you," said Auntie Bai Wei, "but you'll need the guardian as well."

"It didn't help when I attacked the men who had Yao."

Bai Wei stepped out of her cell and into the darkness.

Jin scurried out behind her, holding the jade lion high.

"That's because they were men," Bai Wei said. "Against men, the guardian can do nothing. Against spirits, though, it will be your best hope. Ask it to find your brother."

"I already did," Jin said, shadowing Bai Wei along the corridor. "It brought me to you."

"You need me, girl." Bai Wei's voice hid grim laughter behind it. "The guardian isn't stupid."

"All right." Jin closed her eyes and drew Yao's image on the back of her eyelids, his slight frame and intelligent gaze. "Find him," she said, "before it's too late."

Back into the stairwell, then once more down. The building's pulse hammered at Jin's eardrums. Auntie Bai Wei didn't seem to notice, or she was better at ignoring. Neither spoke another word while they descended into the prison's depths. They were deep enough now that Jin wondered if they were beneath even the river's floor.

At last, they reached the bottom. The guardian flared, but there was no need. Only one way remained. A black door painted with red calligraphy, in an old style Jin couldn't read.

The building's pulse drowned out her own. Sweat slicked her hands and her legs trembled. Her bravery fled in the face of that door and its incomprehensible scrawl.

Auntie Bai Wei clapped a hand to her shoulder. Jin looked up. Bai Wei gave her a lopsided grin. It heartened her. She smiled back.

Bai Wei put her hand to the doorknob and pushed. It made no sound. Nothing stirred on the other side. Jin followed Bai Wei through. The lights on this level looked like the fluorescent tubes above, but they were as red as the calligraphy on the door, reminding Jin far too much of blood.

Together, Jin and Bai Wei crossed the room, the guardian once again within Jin's closed fist. The disturbing lights were enough to see by. There was no reason to announce their presence.

A piercing shriek echoed down the hallway. Jin sucked in a harsh breath. Yao.

She would have rushed forward, but Auntie Bai Wei wrapped a strong hand around her wrist.

"Carefully," Bai Wei whispered.

The wail died off. Jin squeezed her eyes shut, trying to ignore it. Impossible. She opened her eyes and pressed forward.

As they followed the blood-red corridor, a heavy, moist scent wafted towards them. The painted concrete walls gave way to natural stone that arced away to either side, opening into a vast cavern. Jin and Bai Wei hugged the wall, circling towards a brilliant, scarlet light that brightened and dimmed in time with the overwhelming pulse.

When they drew closer, it resolved itself into a massive garnet, the size of the noodle seller's cart, throbbing red to black and back again.

Four men in suits stood beside a metal surgical table where Yao's small form lay prone. Two were the men who had kidnapped him.

Wires and tubes led from Yao's body into a bank of machinery and from there lines of pure scarlet energy lanced into the beating garnet.

Bai Wei sucked in a breath. "So that's the answer. They're stealing spirit life-energy to feed that. thing." Her hand squeezed hard into Jin's wrist. "Wait here," she breathed, so low Jin could hardly hear her. "If I can do this alone, then let me."

Auntie didn't wait for a response. She picked up a stone from the cavern floor and raced forward. With a howl, she launched it. The rock crashed into the machinery. Sparks geysered in a sizzling shower. The men turned away from Yao and found Auntie Bai Wei nearly on them. She fell among them in a dizzying whirl of kicks and punches. Two men slumped to the ground and lay there motionless. The others quickly realized their danger and dropped low, sliding to either side of Bai Wei.

Jin grasped her lock pick and inched forward. The nearest man had his back to her. Moving soundlessly, she advanced when Bai Wei feinted towards him, keeping him distracted, before spinning to keep an eye on her other opponent.

Yao shrieked again, the sound echoing off the cavern's high ceiling.

Distracted, Jin stumbled over an upthrust of rock. A cry leapt from her lips before she could pull it back.

The man turned and advanced. His eyes glowed as red as the garnet.

Jin regained her balance and held the lock pick on its knife handle in front of her, trying to mimic Bai Wei's fighting stance. "You want me?" she cried. "Come and get me!"

He lunged, swinging with powerful blows. Jin ducked low and stabbed up with the pick. It gouged into his gut with a sickening squelch. Lurching to the side, he wrenched away and Jin lost her grip on the pick. He staggered back, the makeshift weapon protruding from his belly.

His hand wrapped around it and he pulled it free, wiping it clean on his immaculate suit pants. Jin stumbled away. What kind of monster was this? His wound didn't so much as slow his advance, and now he brandished her own weapon against her.

The man feinted with a punch. Jin tried to dodge, but she was too slow. The pick sank into her shoulder in a burning blossom of pain. Once more he plunged it downward, aiming for her throat. She spun away, but tripped over her own feet and fell forward to the ground. She rolled to her back, trembling.

"Get up, little girl," the man goaded, ignoring the blood staining his shirt.

Jin staggered to her feet.

"Go ahead," he said, a maniacal look in his ruby-red eyes. "Hit me."

Her left shoulder throbbed so badly, she could hardly think for the pain. Gritting her teeth, she drew back her right arm and swung for his jaw. He danced away, laughing, until he gave a sudden grunt and collapsed, twitching, to the ground.

Auntie Bai Wei stood behind him, breathing hard, a bloodied stone in her fist. "Go," she gasped. "Get your brother."

Jin lurched towards Yao. Tremors shook the cavern, and the light flared bright. She flexed her knees and kept moving until she reached her brother's side.

Yao stared up at her, tears pooled in the corners of his eyes. She knew he hated when she saw him cry, so she pretended not to see. Thick, red fluid pulsed through the tubes inserted under his skin. Jin hesitated to touch them. The wires were a different matter. Sharp-toothed clamps pinched his skin, leaving bloody welts.

Hands shaking, Jin released the first clamp. The garnet howled.

Jin ignored it, tearing Yao free from the wires. Auntie Bai Wei appeared at her side and joined in. In a matter of moments, all the wires with their vicious clamps lay in a tangled pile on the ground.

Jin looked over at Bai Wei. "What do we do now?"

What would her mother have said? How poor a guardian she was to have left Yao alone and unprotected? How Jin's thieving ways had brought this horror down on them?

Jin felt it keenly. If she could replace him on that slab, sticking each tube into her own flesh, would it save him? She made up her mind to try.

She reached for the first tube. The garnet's pulsing rush went silent, and the cavern sank into a blackness so deep Jin couldn't even see Yao, less than a hands-breadth away. She froze.

"That can't be good," Auntie Bai Wei said.

With a crash and groan, the garnet ruptured, searing ruby light flaring from the eggshell crack that formed along its side. Blood-red shards splintered and fell in a staccato rain. A monstrous spirit stepped free, swelling when it left the stone's confines, until its head nearly touched the ceiling. Scales armored the creature's muscular body. Long, curving talons scraped the cave floor. A powerful stench of sulfur surged forth from the shattered garnet.

In the broken stone's dim glow, Yao spasmed, nearly throwing himself off the table. Auntie Bai Wei lunged forward, pinning him beneath her.

Jin stared up at the towering beast, momentarily frozen. Then its red eyes focused on Yao and it advanced, clawed hands outstretched. Jin's heart stuttered. Adrenaline surged through her limbs. Only a small part of her mind registered the guardian's searing heat as she shouted and threw the jade figurine towards the monster with her good arm.

The radiant lion burst free in a rush of amber brilliance that made Jin look away. Its roar rattled her teeth. She clenched her jaw and forced her eyes forward. Landing on broad red paws between Yao and the spirit-it had to be a spirit, if the guardian could challenge it-the lion shook its heavy mane and bared its teeth.

"Jin, help me," Auntie Bai Wei called in a low voice, just audible over the guardian's growl.

The monstrous spirit stepped closer, and the lion lunged forward, its muzzle curling with a warning snarl.

"Jin!"

She didn't want to look away. What if the guardian wasn't enough? Could she fight? Her injured shoulder ached bone-deep, the pain blurred beneath a curtain of terrified energy. Jin felt helpless. Useless. What could she, a cannery girl and a thief, hope to do?

But Bai Wei was calling and maybe, even if she couldn't fight a spirit, maybe she could help Auntie. She dragged her gaze away from the confrontation.

Yao had stopped moving. The tubes lay flaccid. Empty.

Auntie Bai Wei shook Yao's shoulders. "He's not breathing," she said. With her powerful hand, she grasped his wrist. After a moment, she squeezed her eyes shut. "No pulse."

Jin shook her head and moved forward with stuttering steps. He couldn't be dead. Couldn't leave her alone with nothing but failure and regret.

Auntie Bai Wei began chest compressions, hard and fast. Yao's still form was so small, surely she must break his ribs, but if it saved him, Jin would willingly pay her any price. If only he would live. If his lungs would fill, his blood would flow.

"Auntie!" Jin grasped the nearest tube. "There's nothing in here."

Continuing her work, Bai Wei glanced over. "The demon wasn't stealing his blood, girl. It was stealing his spirit guest. Yao's been a host for so long, his body doesn't know how to live without it."

"Then he can't be saved?" Anger and fear battled for dominance, but both agreed on one thing. If the tubes had done their work, then they were nothing but a blight, desecrating her brother's corpse. In a haze of rage, Jin tore them free, ignoring the blood that seeped from each empty wound.

When the last tube curled to the ground, a shriek like a thousand fingernails down a thousand blackboards echoed through the cave. Jin fell to her knees, fists pressed against her ears. She turned back towards the battling spirits.

The demon closed its heavy jaws and the wail vanished. It crouched down, muscles bunching as it prepared to leap.

With a swirl of amber, the lion vanished.

The jade figurine lay on its side, tiny and dull. The guardian was gone. In the face of the demon's power, it had fled. Was this the spirit that Liu had put such faith in? That Auntie Bai Wei knew by reputation and name? A coward?

Jin's lock pick was gone, lost in the earlier fight. Her hand closed around a garnet splinter as long as her forearm, and she staggered to her feet.

"Stay back!" She insinuated herself between the demon and her brother. "He's mine."

Baleful red eyes looked down at her and Jin thought she caught a glimmer of amusement. Then, the powerful muscles flexed and the demon soared towards her.

Jin lunged, felt the garnet shard pierce scaly skin and delve into the demon's warm, wet innards. Its bulk carried it forward and she landed on her back, caught beneath it. She struggled to draw in air.

It reared back and Jin could breathe again. The shard went with it, pulsing from red to black to red again. Once more, the demon turned its attention onto Jin. It reached back, talons outstretched, ready to slash at her exposed throat.

A small form stepped past her prone body, hand raised in a gesture of warding. Amber light streamed from him, nearly blinding. "You are banished," he said with Yao's voice.

Jin blinked and shook her head. Impossible. She crab-shuffled backwards until she collided with Auntie Bai Wei's legs.

"You are banished," the boy repeated, his voice now tinged with a deep, rumbling resonance beneath the young-man soprano.

The demon retreated, the arm that had been ready to kill her now shielding its eyes.

Auntie Bai Wei hoisted Jin up and pulled her close, which was good. She didn't think she could have stood without support.

As the boy-Yao? — advanced, the demon shrank, hissing and spitting, until it was no larger than Bai Wei. The garnet shard burst free and clattered to the floor. Its pulsing light faded and died.

The boy placed his blazing hand flat on the demon's chest and said, a third time, "You are banished."

With a wail that vanished into silence, the demon sank down, down, down, until it was the size of a beetle. The radiant boy knelt and picked up the toppled figurine and held it in his palm. Muttering words in a language Jin didn't know, he extended it towards the tiny demon. It tried to run, but the figurine pulled it in, subsuming it into its stone heart until there was nothing left but the jade lion, a crimson heart now pulsing in its depths.

Yao rose, his brilliant aura fading, and turned to face Jin and Auntie Bai Wei. And it wasYao-raw wounds where the clamps had grasped him and Jin had wrenched the tubes free erased any doubt-but behind his black eyes a new awareness looked out at them.

Jin felt an overwhelming sense of power and protection under her brother's gaze. She straightened, trying to stand under her own strength. "Yao?"

He smiled, a broad, encompassing smile that Jin hadn't seen since their mother died. "When you broke my connection to the stone heart, you freed me. My spirit guest was gone, but now another could take its place without fear of being consumed by the demon."

Yao extended his hand where the jade lion rested. "This one should not be left like this. It will find a new host, given the chance."

Jin reached for it-hesitated-then snatched it up by the tip of its tail. It felt foul. A shudder ran down her spine. "What would happen if it broke?"

"The spirit within dies with its host."

Jade was strong, but it could be broken, Jin remembered. She dashed the lion to the ground with all that remained of her strength. It shattered into pieces on the stone floor.

A tremor shook the cavern. The metal table shuddered, then toppled. Jin clung to Auntie Bai Wei. Her head swam. From the corner of her eye she saw her left shoulder. Blood saturated the jacket and her shirt, seeping down to stain her jeans. So much blood.

"Follow me, Bai Wei," Yao ordered.

It didn't seem strange to Jin that he would know her name. After all, she had known the guardian.

Jin tried to stumble along over the quaking ground, but couldn't keep her feet. Bai Wei hoisted Jin over her broad shoulder and chased after Yao. Jin tried to protest, but her head kept knocking against Auntie's back and the shoulder digging into her stomach gave her no room to breathe, and besides, she was so very tired.

Images swam by in fits and starts. Into the stairwell. Bai Wei's labored breathing. No lights. Shouldn't there have been lights? Up and up and into the cellblocks. Yao melting locks. More quakes. So many people, all following her little brother like he was some sort of promised savior. Boy, boy, plays with toys.

Walls crumbling. Yao's powerful radiance deflecting the stones. The smell of the river. Nothing.

Jin woke to the strong scent of chili sauce. Her eyes flew open. She was in Auntie Bai Wei's shop.

Yao sat beside her, shoveling noodles into his mouth. Seeing she was awake, he picked up an extra bowl that sat on the carved box beside him. "Want some?"

Her mouth watered and her stomach gave a growl that felt nearly as loud as the lion's roar. She pushed herself into a sitting position. Her shoulder protested, but didn't give out. Heavy bandages wrapped it, underneath an embroidered silk robe. "Please," she replied.

She didn't know what to say to him. Her little brother, the mouse, was the boy she knew. Who this boy-this little lion-would be, was a mystery.

She accepted the bowl and took a cautious bite. It had been so long since anything other than nutrition bars or cannery remains had touched her tongue the chili sauce felt like fireworks and flame. Tears welled in her eyes, not from pain, but from the simple relief of being cared for. For once, not shouldering the weight of expectation and guilt.

The little dog-faced spirit who had given back her hat not so very long ago capered up and down the nearest shelf, dodging trinkets and bric-a-brac, peering over with curious eyes. Liu sat, poised and dainty, at Yao's side.

Jin heard Auntie Bai Wei coming before she saw her. Although there was weariness in her face, she looked happier than Jin could ever remember seeing her. She stood straighter, as if a yoke that burdened her had been lifted.

Auntie looked Jin up and down. "You're looking better."

Jin ducked her head. "Because of you," she said. "Thank you."

"Don't thank me. I'm in your debt for as long as you live. If you hadn't found the guardian when you did, every one of those souls in the prison would have been lost to feed the demon. My spirit refuge would have been destroyed, and all of my companions killed. You saved them, Jin."

"And me with them," Yao added.

"I did nothing but what I had to do," she said, looking over her steaming noodle bowl at her brother, "to fulfill my promise to Mother." She shook her head. "I was never good enough on my own. What a poor guardian I've been."

Yao handed his bowl to Liu, who took it without difficulty, despite it being nearly a fourth of her size. He dropped to one knee beside Jin. "You've been the best guardian I could have asked for, but now it's my turn. Auntie Bai Wei has offered to pay my entry to the tech school. I'll thrive there, and when I'm out, we'll never be in want again."

Jin looked over at Auntie Bai Wei. Suspicious moisture clung to the corners of the shopkeeper's eyes.

"You'd do that?" Jin asked.

"As I said, I'm in your debt." Bai Wei shrugged. "Besides I've grown fond of you, my little scamp. Now finish your noodles." She turned away before rubbing her eyes with the back of her hand. "You've got to build up your strength."

Jin bit her lip to keep from crying. Despite the pain, she felt lighter than air. She speared the noodles with her chopsticks and took another bite of paradise.

Content

Paula Goodlett, Caroline Palmer,Griffin Barber,Terry Howard,Kerryn Offord,Rainer Prem,David Carrico, Enrico Toro
Grantville Gazette 45

M. Klein Fashion Dolls

The Midnight Garden

Sole Heir

Accidental Heroes

Cadence: A Continuation of the Euterpe Stories

Ein Feste Burg, Episode Six

Second Chance Bird, Episode Thirteen

Naval Armament and Armor, Part One, Big Guns at Sea

Guardian