Eric Flint - The Grantville Gazette Vol. 10

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Grantville Gazette

Volume X

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Off we go again. Grantville Gazette Volume 10 is, as always, stuffed full of good stories, facts, figures,

events, wants and wishes.

Volume 10 moves fromParis toBern ,Magdeburg to Aschersleben, Grantville toJena ,Venice to the

Brenner Pass . . . and all the way toMoscow . From the mine to the police forces, biolabs to the sewer

system, new drivers to musicians, from corrupt bishops to famous—and not-so-famous—people.

There's everything from new developments in antibiotics to new music, how to fix the roads—or build

new ones, stage plays to solo performances in the market square.

C'mon and jump in.

First printing, January 2007

Distributed by Simon & Schuster

A Baen Books Original

Baen publishing Enterprises

Electronic version by WebWrights

Grantville Gazette

Volume X

Table of Contents

ASSISTANT EDITOR'S PREFACE

FICTION:

On The Matter of D'Artagnan

A Filthy Story

Star Crossed

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NCIS: Lies, Truths and Consequences

Twenty-eight Men

The Salon

The Launcher

Fiddling Stranger

Grand Tour

None So Blind

The Prepared Mind

Little Angel

CONTINUING SERIALS

Franconia! Part 1

The Doctor Phil Chronicles:

Doctor Phil's Family

Butterflies in the Kremlin, Part 3:

Boris, Natasha . . . But Where's Bullwinkle

NON-FICTION

Crude Penicillin: Potential and Limitations

Herd Immunity

All Roads Lead. . . .

The Feast

IMAGES

SUBMISSIONS TO THE MAGAZINE

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Assistant Editor's

Preface

Wow! Who knew? Way back in 1999, when people started writing fan fiction for 1632, who'd have

thought it would grow like this? This is our tenth volume—and the fifth in 2006. And there's no lack of

material for the next volume, either.

Volume 10 includes our first "pro" submission, from Bradley H. Sinor, "On the Matter of D'Artagnan."

It's not your grampa's Three Musketeers, that's for sure. Aamund Breivik entertains us with a little, ah,

dirty problem in "A Filthy Story," while Virginia DeMarce is rewriting the musicalOklahoma ! in her story

"Franconia!" A young English lord and a not-yet-famous philosopher are touringEurope in Iver P.

Cooper's "Grand Tour," while our Dr. Phil gets a new visitor—or three—in "Dr. Phil's Family" from

Kerryn Offord.

Non-fiction for this volume includes Vincent Coljee's "Herd Immunity," along with Kim Mackey's

"Crude Penicillin: Potential and Limitations," as well as Iver P. Cooper's "All Roads Lead. . . ." and

Anette Pedersen's "The Feast." We have more fiction from Terry Howard, who has written "Star

Crossed," and Jose J. Clavell tied "NCIS: Lies, Truth and Consequences" into that situation . . . with an,

ah, interesting ending. Richard Evans wonders what's going on inBern with "The Launcher," while Russ

Rittgers gives us the rundown on some illicit activity in "Fiddling Stranger."

Speaking of illicit activity, "None So Blind" from David Carrico shows what happens when the good

guys win, while "Little Angel" by Kerryn Offord shows us what happens when they don't. If you don't

have the medications down-time that you have up-time, what do you do? "The Prepared Mind" by Kim

Mackey gives us one possiblity. Part three of the continuing series "Butterflies in the Kremlin" by Gorg

Huff and me continues our take on what's going on inRussia , while "The Salon" introduces a Grantviller

no one has heard from before.

Mark Huston's "Twenty-eight Men" brings Grantville tragedy along with hope, and helps us understand

some of the many, many things that can go wrong. And things will go wrong, as we all know. But the

continuing hope for our relocated Americans is that they'll prevail in the end. Will they? Well, you just

never know.

We hope you enjoy the stories

Paula Goodlett

And

The Grantville Gazette

Editorial Board

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FICTION:

On The Matter of D'Artagnan

By Bradley H. Sinor

"Charlton Heston or Tim Curry?" mused Cardinal Richelieu.

Since there was no one else in the room, the chief minister to His Majesty Louis XIII ofFrance was

speaking for his own benefit.

Richelieusat in a large chair behind the huge desk that dominated the room serving as his office. Two

candelabra provided more than enough light for him to work. He brought out a pair of small boxes from

one of the desk drawers, and put them next to a glass of wine he had poured earlier.

He found himself having to squint slightly to study the boxes. His eyes were good, for a man his age, but

not as good as they had been more than a decade before, when Armund Jean du Plessis had first been

created a cardinal-prince of the Roman Catholic Church.

The printing on the boxes was in English, a language he had only a smattering of, but it was the pictures

on them that really interested him. They were not paintings, but rather what were called photographs, just

another in a seemingly unending stream of new terms he had learned since the Americans and the town

ofGrantville had appeared on the scene.

Richelieuhad long been an admirer of art; photographs, however, were far different than any paintings

that he had ever seen. They showed what really was, not an artists interpretation.

The photographs were scenes from "movies." As best he understood them, movies were like plays, only

they could be watched over and over again—not repeat performances, but the same one, with no

differences.

These two movies were of special interest toRichelieu . They were the same basic story, entitled "The

Three Musketeers," but each used different performers, and had been made several decades apart.

Viewing them was an impossibility, since he had neither the machine to do it—or the power to run it if he

had the machine. So, his agents in Grantville had also supplied very detailed summaries of the plots.

True, the movies did exaggerate events—not to mention playing rather fast and loose with actual facts;

ashad the book, by someone named Dumas.They even included a supposed relationship between Queen

Anne and the English duke of Buckingham.

Richelieu, himself, was a character in the story. It certainly didn't hurt his ego to know that he would be

remembered nearly four hundred years in the future, not just in the history books but apparently as part

of popular culture.

That he found himself portrayed as a villain and schemer didn't bother him one bit. A fact of life he had

learned a long time ago was that whether or not someone came off as a villain or a hero depended on

who was telling the story.

Something about the picture of Curry remindedRichelieu of himself, back when he had first come to the

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church. It was, perhaps, the gleam in the man's eye, which gave an almost predatory, animal look to the

man's face. On the other hand, the older man, Heston, with his hands steepled in front of him, projected

the quiet dignified look thatRichelieu fancied for himself.

"Yes, I think Heston is more me."

"Excuse me, Your Eminence."Richelieu looked toward the door where one of his secretaries, Monsignor

Henri Ryan, had appeared. The young man held several thick folios under one arm.

"Yes, Henri?"

"I have just received word that the Italian delegation will be here within the hour." Henri placed the

documents he carried in front ofRichelieu . "These are the reports on the things they want to discuss with

you."

The younger priest stared for a moment at the two movie boxes lying on the desk. His distaste for them

was rather obvious.Richelieu made a mental note to have a long talk with Henri about learning to conceal

his feelings on some subjects, whether it was the Americans or the Spanish or whatever. That was one of

a wide variety of skills Henri needed to develop.

"Very well, let me refresh my memories of these matters, and then bring them in when they arrive."

"Of course, sir." Henri started to leave, but stopped a few steps from the door and turned back toward

the desk. "Also, that man, Montaine, arrived, a short time ago, saying he needed to see you."

Richelieucocked his head slightly. Montaine was not due to report for at least a week. His unexpected

appearance suggested that he came bearing news.

Of course, the Italian matter was also pressing.

"Very well. Have him wait in the smaller library. If he is hungry, have the kitchen prepare something. I

shouldn't be more than an hour or two at the most. Did he say what he needed to speak to me about?"

"Yes, Your Eminence. He said it was on the matter of D'Artagnan."

* * *

Charles D'Artagnan stared out the window. It was an hour after sunrise and the narrow street below

was already filled with people; there were food vendors, merchants, barbers, craftsman and their

customers. A woman screaming at a man in a greasy apron, who was selling meat pies of some kind,

caught his attention.

The exchange continued for a few minutes, with invectives flying between the two. The verbal combat

only stopped when the woman handed several coins across and the vendor passed her back several of

the meat pies. The two parted with smiles and wishes for the best of the day.

D'Artagnan felt something small and furry rub against the side of his hand. He looked down to the

window ledge and found himself confronting a tiger-striped kitten who was very vehemently demanding

attention.

He reached down and gently picked up the animal. The kitten was not happy with this idea, preferring to

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be petted rather than held, and struggled to escape his grip even as he began to stroke the animal's

temples and then under its chin. The response came quickly, and the kitten stretched out, offering its neck

for more attention, showing its approval with some very loud purring.

"Like that do you, little one?"

"I must say, you certainly have a way with animals, my dear Charles." A dark-haired woman clothed

only in a sheet stretched out on the bed that filled much of the room. She had raised herself up on one

elbow and leaned across the impression in the mattress that, until several minutes before, D'Artagnan had

filled.

"I have had a bit of experience with the wilder creatures of the world." He smiled.

"Do you think you can bring out the animal in me?" Charlotte Blackson laughed.

"I'll do what I can," he said, walking back to the bed.

He set the kitten down on a side table, much to the chagrin of the animal. The cat reached out to try to

drag his hand back, but D'Artagnan ignored the protests, intent on a different goal now.

He reached over and gently ran his finger along the edge ofCharlotte 's chin. The gesture brought a purr

to her lips and a very inviting smile.

Charlotte Blackson was a beautiful woman. Her husband, a Musketeer, had been killed in the war.

While not rich, he had left her well off.Charlotte had, in turn, taken her inheritance and shrewdly parleyed

it into much, much more. Now, six years later, she was the proprietor of a dozen businesses and a

partner in several more. She had even begun to move into some of the minor social circles ofParis .

D'Artagnan had met her a few months before when he had stopped a thief intent on making off with her

purse. In spite of the fact that she was more than a decade older than he, D'Artagnan soon found himself

enamored of her.

"Yes, you do have a way with animals."Charlotte reached up and wrapped her arms around him. The

sheet fell away, its edge dropping over the end table and trapping the kitten for a few moments.

"I try," he said as she plastered her lips against his.

* * *

"So what do you have for me, Montaine?" askedRichelieu .

Montaine was a small man, dressed in shades of brown, with a face that, other than having an

immaculate pencil thin moustache, was not unique in any way whatsoever. Two minutes after they had

seen him, few people could describe the man; most failed to even notice his presence, which had often

proved a major advantage.

He stopped a half dozen steps in front of the cardinal's desk. Montaine never approached any closer

than that; it was as if there was a line on the floor that he could not, or perhaps would not, cross.

Richelieu had employed Montaine for nearly four years, but actually knew very little about the man,

other than the fact that he was loyal to France, i.e.Richelieu , and he had been remarkably effective in the

various tasks that were set for him.

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"I have located the man you are seeking. His name is actually Charles de Gatz-Casthenese. His mother's

family was named D'Artagnan. He is from Lupiac, but he was raised inGascony and came toParis just

over a year ago. He has been calling himself simply Charles D'Artagnan. He has not made a secret of

who he is, but has not gone out of the way to make it known either."

"Indeed,"Richelieu prompted.

Montaine nodded. "He attempted to get into the Musketeers, but was turned down, I believe because of

his lack of military experience. However, he was able to secure an appointment with the Royal Guard."

"Continue."

"From the reports I have seen he has proved to be quite the gifted swordsman. He also turns out to not

only to be good with his sword, but also knows when to fight and when to walk away. I suspect his

superiors have an eye on him for eventual promotion."

"What of the other three men I asked you to find?"

"Oh, yes. I'm afraid I have bad news in that area. I could find no trace of anyone by the name of Athos,

Porthos or Aramis currently serving in the Musketeers. From the way they were described in that book

you gave me, I should have been able to find them, or at least someone who had heard of them. It's really

a pity; the story makes them seem the sort of fellows I would have liked. However, I have found some

very young men, barely in their teens. Issac de Porteau, Henri d' Aramitz and Armund de Sillegue

d'Athos d'A'Autevielle. I suspect they may have been the ones that this Dumas fellow modeled his

characters on. They are all relatives, to one degree or another, of the commander of the musketeers,

Monsieur de Tourvelle. So I did not inquire too extensively. I can, should you require more information

on them."

"Unnecessary." De Tourvelle was a man thatRichelieu knew of, quite well. He bore watching and could

be either friend or foe to the cardinal, depending on the needs of the moment.

Perhaps it was true that the Athos, Porthos and Aramis of the movies and the book might not exist. It

was entirely possible that those three were indeed simply characters who had been invented for the

purposes of these entertainments. However, that did not mean they might not eventually still be of use to

him.

"Have you actually met this D'Artagnan?"

"No, Your Eminence. I didn't feel that wise at this time. I have learned enough about him to know that

this young Gascon is someone that you might do well to be wary of. He would not be easy to control and

could end up being very much of a loose cannon."

Richelieuhad come to trust Montaine's opinions. But he had also learned that there were times when you

wanted someone who was not easily controlled, so this young man might suit him quite well. "Very well.

Bring him to me, but do it quietly. I do not want the world to know of my interest in this man. Not quite

yet."

"That might prove difficult. If it were a formal summons he would come, of that I have no doubt.

However, D'Artagnan seems to have an agenda of his own and I do not see it allying with others, even

you, sir," said Montaine.

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Richelieu meditated for a few moments on the man's words, then took a single sheet of paper and began

to write on it, adding a large daub of hot sealing wax to the bottom of the page into which he placed not

only his official church seal but that of the chief minister ofFrance .

"You must wait until the chance offers itself and bring him to me. If he is indeed as stubborn as you

suggest you may have topersuade him."Richelieu passed the paper to Montaine. "This may be of

assistance. I will trust in your discretion about when and how to use it."

* * *

D'Artagnan stood quietly in the doorway of an abandoned storefront. This was not the best part of

town. From the look of the grime on the windows and the rust on the shutters, this place could have been

shut up for decades.That suited D'Artagnan's needs perfectly.

From here he had a clear view of the Flying Pig, a tavern just down the block, and few would be able to

see him, even if they were standing directly in front of him. A covered lantern sat at his feet.To add to his

camouflage, D'Artagnan had left his uniform in the wardrobe atCharlotte 's home. Tonight was not a night

to be known as a Royal Guardsman.

No, tonight was a night for personal matters.

The Flying Pig was a low dive at its best. At its worst, it was a dump. The clientele asked no questions

and only demanded to be left alone to muddle their dark thoughts in cheap wine and nearly tasteless ale.

D'Artagnan had gone into the Flying Pig twice, two times more than he would have wished. The smell

inside the building reminded him of a charnel house or a battlefield long after the fighting was over, when

the crows held forth. It was not a place that, even in the darkest of moods, he would willingly seek out.

Yet the Flying Pig fit the man he was seeking like a glove

D'Artagnan had watched his quarry enter, small forms that seemed to be fleeing from the moonlight that

filled the street.At just past ten o'clock the tavern door opened and two men emerged. Both were short

and round, their clothes the color of sand stained dark after a rainstorm. Neither man was steady on his

feet. It seemed a miracle that they both didn't end up face down in the mud.

They stopped, for a moment, almost directly in front of his hiding place, then moved on. One of them

began to sing, very badly.

D'Artagnan came up behind them in a few steps, grabbed both and slammed them hard against each

other. Then he dragged them backwards, kicking the door of the abandoned shop open and pulling them

inside. By the time the door had swung shut he had both of his prisoners on the floor.

The whole incident hadn't taken even thirty seconds.

Hand on the hilt of his sword, D'Artagnan waited to see if the attack had caught anyone's attention. One

minute, then a second, passed and there were no cries of alarm.

He recovered his lantern and opened it to look down at them. One was barely breathing, and would not

be waking up anytime soon. But the other, the one that D'Artagnan wanted, surprised him. The man had

actually begun to snore. This wasn't what he had expected, though the man fairly reeked of cheap wine

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and ale, which explained it.

D'Artagnan grabbed him by the lapels of his threadbare coat and shook him hard. "Wake up, you

scum-sucking piece of filth."

There was no response at first. "If its money you're wanting," the man said finally, "then you're too late.

What few coins I had have been sent to keep company with their cousins in the tavern keeper's

cashbox."

D'Artagnan snorted. "I sincerely doubt that you have ever had enough money enough to interest me."

"What do you want from me, then?"

"I want your memory." D'Artagnan shook him again, then, while the man was still rattled, dropped him

and held the lantern up close to his face. "I know who you are, Andre Marro. I know that you were once

seneschal to the family LeVlanc, as your father and grandfather had been before you. It is for that reason

that I've come looking for you, that I want your memory."

At the mention of his name Marro's eye's shot open. If it were possible, his face went paler than it had

been.

"I . . . I . . . I . . ."

"Don't deny it. That will only make things worse. I know all about what happened to the LeVlancs and

why it happened. You do as well, since you were there. I've tracked down the other servants who

survived the purge. They didn't know the name of the man that the LeVlancs trusted to organize the

whole thing, but they all agreed on one point.You knew who it was."

Marro groaned. D'Artagnan slapped him twice. Finally he muttered a name, a name that D'Artagnan

recognized.

"If you have lied to me, I will find you, no matter where you run or hide."

Marro curled into a ball and tried to shrink into the floor. D'Artagnan walked away and slammed the

door.

* * *

D'Artagnan came awake with a start and pulled himself up almost completely out of bed before he was

fully aware. He struggled for each breath, every one coming as a hard won victory while cold, clammy

beads of sweat rolled down his face.

Images cascaded though his mind: blood, the edges of swords, screams, the smell of burnt gunpowder,

all rolling over and over and over. Intermixed with them was a single face, one that brought him a feeling

of warmth, yet cut into the very fiber of his being.

"Charles, what is the matter?"Charlotte 's voice was a distant sound for him.

"I'll be all right," he gasped. "Everything is all right."

"Right. You have nightmares like this all the time."Charlotte pulled the covers up around his shoulders to

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Eric Flint - The Grantville Gazette Vol. 10

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