“’I’m afraid things are going to start blowing wide open,’” Mike quoted. “For Pete’s sake, Ed, that’s what we’re supposed to be doing over there in Franconia. Blowing the setup wide open, so we can piece it back together again the way we want it. More or less, anyway. Arnold’s like an engineer assigned to cut a road through a mountain who’s now explaining to me that he’s afraid the dynamite’s about to go off. Well, hey, no kidding. If I wanted to be churlish about it, I could add: ‘It’s about time.’”
He slapped the table, half-angrily. “The single most important thing about that whole incident down in Bamberg was the fact that the crowd stopped Willard and Johnnie F’s beating. Not only stopped it, but tore down the reviewing stand and made real clear to the so-called ‘authorities’ what was what. For the first goddam time since we started administering Franconia, we’ve finally got what amounts to a revolution starting-in one town, anyway. A real revolution, mind you. Not something we ‘administered,’ but something the people themselves did. And how does Arnold deal with it? He barely mentions it at all in his report, and then as-God help us-a ‘problem.’”
Once again he mimicked: “’I’m afraid things are starting to blow wide open.’” This time, the sarcasm in his tone was right at the surface.
Ed’s expression got a tinge of exasperation in it. “If that’s what you wanted, Mike, you never should have sent that crew down there in the first place. None of them are really what you’d call demolitions specialists -well, except maybe Johnnie F., and that’s more by temperament than training. They’re civil servants, and you know it. What did you expect? If you wanted rabble-rousers, you should have sent some of your UMWA guys.”
“Couldn’t,” Mike grunted. “First off, because despite our reputation there aren’t really all that many coal miners who are natural agitators and organizers. Most of your UMWA guys are just regular working stiffs. Ask them to tear down and rebuild a car or just about any kind of machine, and they’ll do it. Ask ‘em to tear down and rebuild a society, and they wouldn’t even know where to start.”
He laced his fingers back together. “If I could clone Red Sybolt, and a handful of other guys like him, I’d have hundreds of them scattered all over Europe. Unfortunately, there aren’t all that many Red Sybolts at our disposal-and we needed him in Bohemia more than we did in Franconia.”
“So, fine. You never hesitate to ask the Committees of Correspondence to give some an informal helping hand, do you? Why not approach them?”
“They’re not ready for it. Not yet. Most of them are just youngsters, still. The CoCs are just starting to get their feet solidly on the ground and firmly planted on hospitable soil like Thuringia and Magdeburg. Ask them to go to Franconia at this point, with their lack of experience, and they’ll most likely just screw up. You saw what happened in Suhl, before Gretchen put a stop to it. If Noelle Murphy and Anse Hatfield hadn’t been there, we’d have wound up with a complete mess on our hands.
Mike shook his head. “So,” he concluded, “I just went with the best alternative I had available. I sent what’s probably our top team of civil servants over there to do a job they can’t do-but can probably manage okay once somebody else blows up the joint. Might even manage very well, actually. Those are some pretty sharp pencils in that box.”
Ed got a wry smile. “What’s this? Am I actually hearing praise from Mike Stearns being ladled-okay, spooned-onto a bunch of suits?”
Mike smiled back. “I don’t recommend calling Anita Masaniello a ‘suit.’ The sneer at her class wouldn’t piss her off, but the implied sexism would. With that caveat, I never said they were incompetent suits, Ed. They’re very good at what they do, from what I can tell. But, as you said yourself, they’re civil servants-whose qualifications have never once in the history of the world included ‘talent at fomenting revolution and unrest’ as part of the job description. Still-“
He sat up straight, unlaced his fingers and planted his big hands on the desk in front of him. “If somebody or something else blows it all up, I’m pretty confident they can put the pieces back together properly. Better still, they might even manage to control the explosion and channel it constructively from the getgo. That’s what I’m hoping, anyway.”
Piazza winced. “Let me see if I’ve got this straight. You basically sent Steve Salatto and Vince Marcantonio and all the rest of them down there in order to act as a shaped charge-once somebody else sets off the explosion?” His eyes got a vacant look, as if he was dredging his memory. “Odd, though. I don’t recall you ever putting it that way to them, in the briefings they got before you sent them off.”
“Well, of course not. If I’d warned a bunch of suits ahead of time that their suits would most likely be blown off, they’d have spent all their time since then designing explosion-proof suits instead of getting on with the job of setting themselves up for the charge.” He grinned. “Which, I’ve got to say-damn good people, did I mention that?-they seem to have done extremely well.”
Ed’s humor faded. “That’s awfully cold-blooded. You’re gambling with people’s lives here, you know that.”
“Sure, it’s cold-blooded. And so what?” Mike’s own expression got very grim, for a moment. “I’ve been gambling with everybody’s lives-my own included, if that matters-ever since we arrived in this benighted century. I don’t see where I’ve got much choice.”
Piazza sighed. “Well, neither do I. But . . . What are you going to do if it all blows the wrong way?”
“Tell Gustavus Adolphus that in the middle of a war he’s got to peel off a good chunk of his army and send them down to Franconia to suppress anarchy-that we sorta fostered but couldn’t control.” Mike matched the sigh with a heavier one of his own. “Have you noticed that our beloved Captain General has one hell of a ferocious temper, when he gets riled?”
“He hollers right good,” Ed allowed. After a moment, he added:
“So. Who’s this ‘something or someone else’ you’re counting on to blow everything up?”
“Hell, how should I know? That’s a real nice start, what those people in Bamberg did. The core of it, though, will be a farmers’ rebellion. Got to be, with that setup in Franconia. But there’s no way of telling what or who might set it off. Or-more properly-what combination of someones or somethings might do the trick.”
Once again, he leaned back in the chair and laced his fingers together. “There’s only one thing I can tell you for sure, Ed. Whoever it is, or whatever it’s about, you won’t find a suit anywhere in sight.”
PART IV: THE RAM REBELLION
Eric Flint and Virginia DeMarce
Then he said to me, “Prophesy to the breath, prophesy, mortal, and say to the breath: Thus says the Lord GOD: Come from the four winds, O breath, and breathe upon these slain, that they may live.” I prophesied as he commanded me, and the breath came into them, and they lived, and stood on their feet, a vast multitude.
Ezekiel 37:8-10
Chapter 1:
“Not The Three Graces”
Wuerzburg, Late August, 1633
Johann Matthaeus Meyfarth had, somehow, managed to appoint himself as office dragon. He wasn’t officially Steve Salatto’s chief of staff, but he had his desk in the outer office in Wuerzburg’s episcopal palace and fiercely defended the time of the New United States’ chief administrator in Franconia from those who would waste it. Or even might do so.
He looked at the latest arrivals with some surprise. Three up-time women. They scarcely qualified as the Three Graces. Not one of them had ever been as attractive as-say-Fraeulein Murphy, who was no more than moderately pretty herself. They were accompanied by a down-time man about thirty. He had to be a down-timer, Meyfarth thought, because no up-timer would ever look quite so at ease in a bureaucrat’s formal robe. The man’s forehead was practically inscribed with the words: treasury official. Each of the four was trailed by a quite young man, in his late teens or early twenties, all of whom appeared to be down-timers, even though two of them were dressed in up-time style clothing. Each of them was carrying a load of ledgers and papers.
The largest of the women announced, “We’re here.”
Meyfarth cleared his throat. “And you are?”
Not one of the Saxe-Something dukes for whom Meyfarth had worked over many years had a duchess who could have matched the arrogance of her answer. “The Auditors.” The capital letters were inherent in her tone.
It had slipped his mind that when Herr Bellamy, the Deputy Secretary of State of the New United States, made his visit to Wuerzburg earlier in the summer, Herr Salatto had, in passing, mentioned that it would be a good thing for the administration of Franconia to have auditors. Apparently, it now had them. Forcing to his face the kind of smile with which people almost universally greet the announcement of an investigation by the General Accounting Office, Meyfarth rose, invited them to take chairs, and went into Herr Salatto’s office.
Steve was pushing papers. At the announcement of auditors, he asked, “Who?” and pushed another piece, this time right across the desk and onto the floor.
Meyfarth retrieved it. “They announced themselves by function, not by name. As in, ‘the bishop’ or ‘the baron.’ They seem to think that you expect them and know all about it.”
“Let me take a look through the peephole.” One of the first amenities that Meyfarth had added to the inner office was a small aperture, screened in the outer office by a large vase of dried flowers, through which Steve could look out and get a preview of the people to whom he would shortly be speaking.
Twenty seconds later, Steve said, “Holy smoke,” and sank down on the hard bench on which his visitors sat. Then: “Coffee. Have one of the kids make a whole pot of coffee. Smile, tell them you’re ordering coffee, and that I’ll be right with them. Then come back in here through the rear door before you go into the reception room again.”
Meyfarth left. Steve headed toward the back offices where his wife Anita and several other Grantville natives worked. This was beyond an old Baltimore boy. “Anita,” he beckoned. “I need a fast low-down.”
* * *
Among the things for which Meyfarth admired his up-time boss was that he was so fast with a summary. By the time he had ordered coffee, Anita Masaniello-she had kept her maiden name-and Fraeulein Murphy, who was in the back room with her, had scribbled down the following for him to read on his way back to the outer office.
Estelle McIntire. The skinny one. About forty-five. She was born Estelle Colburn; she’s Huddy Colburn’s cousin; he’s a big muck-a-muck in real estate in Grantville. Married to Crawford McIntire. One grown son. Methodist; she got her husband to change over from Presbyterian when they married.
Willa Fodor. The short one. About the same age as Estelle, maybe a year or so older. Born Willa Voytek; she’s Cyril Fodor’s wife. One married daughter-that’s Lynelle, married to Paul Calagna who is here in Wuerzburg with the Special Commission. You’ve met Lynelle-she wasn’t about to be left behind in Grantville for who-knows-how-long; she packed up the kids and came along. Willa is Catholic, as you can guess. Cyril and Willa had a couple more kids, lots younger than Lynelle, left up-time, one in college and one in the army. Willa finished high school after she had Lynelle; then started college and had finished two years, going part-time, when she got pregnant again. About then, Cyril and his brother decided to start their own business, an auto repair and body shop. She quit school for a while to help manage bookkeeping end of it; then the next kid came along and she never got around to going back to college.
Maydene Utt. The big one. Born McIntire. Also a year or two older than Estelle. She’s Crawford’s sister, so she’s Estelle’s sister-in-law. Also switched from Presbyterian to Methodist when she got married. Bit of hard feelings in the McIntire family there. Belva, the third sibling, has gone off to Geneva with her husband so he can be trained as a super-deacon to help Enoch McDow at the Presbyterian church. Two grown sons; one of them, Farley, has a down-time wife.
All three of the gals are corkers. Estelle and Maydene have some college, too. They worked outside of Grantville as commuters before the Ring of Fire. In offices, somewhere. I don’t know exactly what they did. Some early meeting after it happened, one of the less perceptive of the Civil War re-enactors got up and started spouting off about how, now that we were back in the past, the ladies would go back to their proper roles and stay home drying vegetables and keeping house. Estelle, Willa, and Maydene stood and started yelling about the stupidity of expecting Grantville to waste half of its talent. Things got pretty lively from there.
Terry Sterling saw the right temperament and grabbed all three of them right away as auditor trainees for his accounting firm.
Added at the bottom, in Steve’s handwriting, were a few more sentences. “One of Arnold Bellamy’s letters must have gone astray in the mail. Check whether they are here as NUS employees or contractors. Don’t have the vaguest idea who the down-timers are. Find out tactfully.”
Meyfarth read through it hurriedly on his way back to the reception room. What was a “corker?” The essence was clear, however.