Eric Flint - 1632_玖贝云文库

1632

Table of Contents

Prologue

Part One

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Part Two

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Part Three

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Part Four

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Generated by ABC Amber LIT Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Part Five

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Part Six

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Chapter 55

Chapter 56

Chapter 57

Chapter 58

Part Seven

Chapter 59

Chapter 60

Chapter 61

Author's Afterword

1632

Eric Flint

This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this book are fictional, and any

resemblance to real people or incidents is purely coincidental.

A Baen Books Original

Baen Publishing Enterprises

P.O. Box 1403

Riverdale, NY 10471

ISBN: 0-671-31972-8

Generated by ABC Amber LIT Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html

Cover art byLarry Elmore

Interior maps by Randy Asplund

First paperback printing, February 2001

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Flint, Eric.

1632 / by Eric Flint.

p. cm.

ISBN 0-671-57849-9 (hc)

1. Thirty Years' War, 1618–1648—Fiction. 2. City and town life—West Virginia—Fiction. 3.

Germany—History—1618–1648—Fiction.

4. Americans—Travel—Germany—Fiction. 5. West Virginia—Fiction. 6. Time travel—Fiction. I. Title.

PS3556.L548 A616 2000

813'.54—dc21 99-055275

Distributed by Simon & Schuster

1230 Avenue of the Americas

New York, NY 10020

Typeset by Windhaven Press, Auburn, NH

Printed in the United States of America

To my mother,

Mary Jeanne McCormick Flint,

and to the West Virginia

from which she came.

Baen Books by Eric Flint

Mother of Demons

The Belisarius series, with David Drake:

An Oblique Approach

In the Heart of Darkness

Destiny's Shield

Prologue

Generated by ABC Amber LIT Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html

The mystery would never be solved. It would simply join others, like the Tunguska event or the

Square Crater on Callisto, in the catalogue of unexplained occurrences. The initial worldwide

excitement waned within a few months, as it became clear that no quick answers would be found.

For a few years grieving relatives would, with some success, press officialdom to maintain the

studies and inquiries. But there were no lawyers to keep the fires stoked. The courts ruled soon

enough that the Grantville Disaster was an Act of God, for which insurance companies were not

liable. Within ten years, the Disaster had devolved into another domain of fanatics and

enthusiasts, like the Kennedy Assassination. Thereafter, of course, it enjoyed a near-eternal

half-life. But few if any reputable scientists in the world held out any hope for a final explanation.

Theories, of course, abounded. But the vague traces on instruments were impossible to decipher

clearly. A small black hole, passing through the Earth. That was one theory. Another—popular for

Generated by ABC Amber LIT Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html

a time until the underlying mathematics were rejected in the light of later discoveries—was that a

fragmented superstring had struck the planet a glancing blow.

The only man who ever came close to understanding that a new universe had been created was a

biologist. A junior biologist by the name of Hank Tapper, attached almost as an afterthought to

one of the geological teams sent to study the disaster. The team devoted several months to a study

of the terrain which had replaced what had once been part of West Virginia. They came to no

conclusions other than the obvious fact that the terrain was not indigenous to the area, but

that—this eliminated the once-avid interest of the SETI crowd—it was clearly terrestrial.

The size of the foreign terrain was mapped, quite precisely. It formed a perfectly circular

hemisphere about six miles in diameter, approximately half that deep at its center. Once the team

left, Tapper remained behind for a few more months. Eventually, he identified the fauna and flora

as being almost identical to those of parts of Central Europe. He became excited. That matched

the archaeological report, which—very, very diffidently—suggested that the ruined farmhouses on

the new terrain had a vaguely late-medieval/early modern Germanic feel to them. So did the

seven human corpses found in one of the farmhouses. Two men, two women, and three children.

The remains were badly charred by the fire, but marks on the bones indicated that at least two of

the people had been murdered by some kind of large cutting implements.

The dental evidence suggested that the dead people were not modern. Or, at least, had somehow

never been given any kind of dental treatment. But medical examination determined that the

murders were very recent. And the farmhouses were still smoldering when they were found.

Tapper teetered on the edge of the truth. Then, after several more months of work failed to turn

up any matching piece of disturbed terrain anywhere in central Europe, he abandoned the study

altogether. He had suspicions, but—

The only possible explanation was a transposition in time as well as space. Tapper was a junior

biologist. His budding career would be ruined if he advanced his suspicions without evidence. And

there could be no evidence, if he was right. Whatever remained of the area of West Virginia which

had vanished was lost somewhere back in time.

So, Tapper accepted the loss of a year's work, and went in search of greener pastures. He

published his findings, to be sure; but only as dry factual accounts in obscure publications. He

made no attempt to draw conclusions, or posit theories, or draw any kind of public attention.

It was just as well. His career would have been ruined—and for no good purpose. No one would

have believed him. Even if someone had, the most extensive archaeological search of central

Europe would never have discovered the matching hemisphere. It was there, of course, in that

region of Germany called Thuringia. But it was there almost four centuries earlier, and only for

an instant. The moment those hemispheres had been transposed, a new universe split off from the

old.

And, besides, the truth was far stranger than even Tapper ever imagined. Even he assumed that

the cause was some kind of natural cosmic disaster.

* * *

In reality, the Grantville Disaster was the result of what humans of the day would have called

criminal negligence. Caused by a shard of cosmic garbage, a discarded fragment of what, for lack

of a better term, could be called a work of art. A shaving, you might say, from a sculpture. The

Generated by ABC Amber LIT Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html

Assiti fancied their solipsist amusements with the fabric of spacetime. They were quite oblivious to

the impact of their "art" on the rest of the universe.

The Assiti would be exterminated, eighty-five million years later, by the Fta Tei. Ironically, the

Fta Tei were a collateral branch of one of the human race's multitude of descendant species. Their

motive, however, was not revenge. The Fta Tei knew nothing of their origins on a distant planet

once called Earth, much less a minor disaster which had occurred there. The Fta Tei exterminated

the Assiti simply because, after many stern warnings, they persisted in practicing their dangerous

and irresponsible art.

Part One

Tiger! Tiger! burning bright

In the forests of the night

Chapter 1

"I'm sorry about my parents, Mike." Tom gave the two people in question a look of resentment. "I'd

hoped—" He broke off, sighing faintly. "I'm sorry, I really am. You spent a lot of money on all this."

Mike Stearns followed his gaze. Tom Simpson's mother and father were standing near the far wall of the

cafeteria, some fifty feet away. Their postures were stiff; their faces, sour. Their very expensive clothing

was worn like suits of armor. They were holding the cups of punch in their hands by thumb and

forefinger, as if determined to make as little contact with the surrounding festivities as possible.

Mike repressed a smile. Ah, yes. The dignitaries from civilization, maintaining their savoir faire among the

cannibals. They'll hold a cup of blood, but damned if they'll drink it.

"Don't worry about it, Tom," he said softly. Mike's eyes moved away from the haughty couple against

the wall and surveyed the crowd. The gaze was filled with satisfaction.

The cafeteria was a very large room. The utilitarian gray and cream walls had been festooned with an

abundance of decorations, which made up in cheerfulness and festive abandon whatever they lacked in

subdued good taste. Many of the cafeteria's plastic chairs had been moved against the walls, providing a

bright orange contrast—those few of them that were not holding someone. Long tables ranged near the

kitchen were laden with food and drink.

There was no caviar, and no champagne. But the crowd which packed the room wouldn't have enjoyed

the first—fish eggs, yuk!—and the second was prohibited by high-school regulations. Mike was not

concerned. He knew his folk. They would enjoy the simple fare which was piled on the tables, thank you,

even if itwas beneath the contempt of wealthy urban sophisticates. That was true of the adults, even,

much less the horde of children swarming all over the place.

Mike gave the younger man standing at his side a little pat on the shoulder. It was like patting a slab of

Generated by ABC Amber LIT Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html

beef. Tom was the first-string nose guard for West Virginia University's varsity squad, and looked the

part. "My sister marriedyou , not your parents."

Tom scowled. "Doesn't matter. They could at least— Why did they even bother to show up at my

wedding, if they were going to act like this?"

Mike glanced at him. For all Tom's immense size, Mike didn't have to look up. Tom was barely over six

feet tall, about Mike's own height, even if he outweighed him by a good hundred pounds.

Tom was back to glaring at his parents. His own face was as stiff as theirs. Unobserved, Mike studied

his new brother-in-law.

Very new brother-in-law. The wedding had been held not two hours earlier, in a small church less than a

mile away from the high school. Tom's parents had been just as haughtily rude at the church as they were

being now at the reception.Their son should have been married in a properly discreet ceremony in a

proper Episcopaliancathedral , not—not—

This yahoo preacher! In this yahoo—shack!

Mike and his sister had abandoned the stark faith of their ancestors in favor of quiet agnosticism. Years

ago, in Mike's case. But neither of them had even once considered having Rita married anywhere else.

The pastor was a friend of the family, as his father and grandfather had been before him. The Calvinist

fundamentalism of the ceremony had bothered them not in the least. Mike choked down a laugh. If

nothing else, it had been worth it just to see the way the pastor's fire and brimstone had caused obvious

constipation in Tom's sophisticated parents.

His humor faded quickly. Mike could sense the pain lurking within Tom's eyes. An old pain, he thought.

The dull, never-ending ache of a man whose father had disapproved of him since he was a small boy.

Tom had been born into one of the wealthiest families in Pittsburgh. His mother was old Eastern money.

His father, John Chandler Simpson, was the chief executive officer of a large petrochemical corporation.

John Simpson liked to brag about having worked his way up from the ranks. The boast was typical of the

man. Yes, hehad spent a total of six months on the shop floor, as a foreman, after he retired from the

Navy's officer corps. The fact that his father owned the company, however, is what accounted for his

later advancement. John Chandler Simpson had fully expected his own son to follow in those well-worn

footsteps.

But Tom had never fit his family's mold and expectations. Not when he had been a boy, and not now

when he was of age. Mike knew that John Chandler had been furious when his son chose WVU over

Carnegie-Mellon—especiallygiven the reason.Football? You're not even a quarterback! And both his

parents had been well-nigh apoplectic at their son's choice for a wife.

Mike's eyes scanned the room, until they fell on a figure in a wedding dress, laughing at something being

said by the young woman at her side. His sister, Rita, sharing quips with one of her bridesmaids.

The contrast between the two girls was striking. The bridesmaid, Sharon, was attractive in a slightly

heavy and buxom sort of way. She was very dark complected, even for a black woman. Tom's sister

was also pretty, but so slender that she bordered on being downright skinny. And her complexion—very

pale skin, freckles, blue eyes, hair almost as black as her brother's—betrayed her own ethnic origins.

Typical Appalachian mongrel. The daughter and sister of coal miners.

Generated by ABC Amber LIT Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html

Poor white trash. Yup. That's what we are, all right.

There was no anger in Mike's thought. Only contempt for Tom's parents, and pity for Tom himself.

Mike's father had a high school education. Jack Stearns had worked in a coal mine since he was

eighteen, and had never been able to afford more than a modest house. He had hoped to help his

children through college. But the mine roof-fall which crippled him and eventually caused his death had

put paid to those plans.

The quintessential nobody. On the day he finally died, Mike had been like a stunned ox. Years later, he

could still feel the aching place in his heart where a giant had once lived.

"Let it go, Tom," he said softly. "Just let it go. If it's worth anything, your brother-in-law approves of

you."

Tom puffed out his cheeks, and slowly blew out the breath. "It is. Quite a bit."

Abruptly, he shook his head, as if to clear his mind for other concerns. He turned to face Mike squarely.

"Give it to me straight, Mike. I'm graduating in a few months. I've got to make a decision. Do you think

I'm good enough to make it in the pros?"

Mike's reply came instant and firm. "Nope." He shook his head ruefully. "Take it from me, buddy. You'll

be right where I was—the worst possible place.Almost good enough. Good enough to keep hoping,

but . . ."

Tom frowned, stillhoping . "You made it. In a way. Hell, you retired undefeated."

Mike chuckled. "Sure did. After all of eight professional fights as a light heavy." He reached up and

stroked the little scar on his left eyebrow. "My last fight I even made it to the second card at the Olympic

Auditorium. Pretty big time."

The chuckle came again—more of an outright laugh. "Too big! I won—barely—on points. The kid

demanded a rematch. And that's when I finally had enough sense to quit. A man's got to know his

limitations."

Tom was stillfrowning. Stillhoping . Mike placed a hand on his thick arm. "Tom, face it. You'll get no

farther than I did. Realizing that you only beat the kid in front of you because you were a little more

experienced, a little savvier, a little luckier." He winced, remembering a young Mexican boxer whose

speed and power had been well-nigh terrifying. "But that kid'll learn, soon enough. And the fact is that

he's a lot better than you'll ever be. So I quit, before my brains got scrambled. You should do the same,

while you've still got healthy knees."

Again, Tom puffed out his cheeks and, again, blew out a slow breath. He seemed on the verge of saying

something, but a motion caught his eye. His brand-new wife was approaching, with people in tow.

Tom was suddenly beaming like a child. Watching that glowing smile, Mike felt his own heart warming.

Hell of a sweet kid, to come from such cruddy parents.

Rita arrived with her usual thermonuclear energy. She started by embracing her new husband in a

manner that was wildly inappropriate in a high-school cafeteria—springing onto him and wrapping both

Generated by ABC Amber LIT Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html

legs around his thighs. Wedding dress be damned. A fierce and decidedly unvirginal kiss accompanied

the semi-lascivious embrace. Then, bouncing off, she gave Mike a hug which, though it lacked the sexual

overtones, was almost as vigorous.

The preliminaries done, Rita spun around and waved forward the two people lagging behind her.

Outside of the accompanying grin, the gesture resembled an empress summoning her lackeys.

Sharon was grinning herself. The man next to her wore a more subdued smile. He was a black man

somewhere in his fifties, dressed in a very expensive looking suit. The conservative, hand-tailored clothing

fit the man perfectly, but seemed at odds with the smile on his face. There was something a bit rakish

about that smile, Mike thought. And he suspected, from the man's poised stance, that the body beneath

the suit was far more athletic than its sober cut would suggest.

"Mike, this is Sharon's father. I want to introduce you." She reached back, more or less hauled the

parent in question to the fore, and moved her hand back and forth vigorously. "My brother, Mike

Stearns. Doctor James Nichols. Be very polite, brother of mine. He's a surgeon. Probably got four or

five scalpels tucked away somewhere."

An instant later she was charging off, hauling Tom and Sharon toward a cluster of people chattering

away in a corner of the cafeteria. Mike and Dr. Nichols were left alone.

Mike eyed the stranger, unsure of how to open a conversation. He opted for low humor. "My new

brother-in-law's in for a long night," he said dryly. "If I know my sister."

The doctor's smile widened. The hint of rakishness deepened. "I would say so," he drawled. "Is she

always this energetic?"

Mike shook his head fondly. "Since she was a toddler."

Having broken the ice, Mike took the time to examine the man next to him more carefully. Within a few

seconds, he decided his initial impression was correct. Sharon's father was a study in contradictions. His

skin was very dark, almost pure black. His hair was gray, kinky, cut very short. His features were blunt

and rough-looking—the kind of face associated more with a longshoreman than a doctor. Yet he wore

his fine clothing with ease, and the two rings on his fingers were simple in design and very tasteful. One

was a plain wedding band, the other a subdued pinky ring. His diction was cultured, but the accent came

from city streets. Then—

James Nichols was not a big man. No more than five feet, eight inches tall and not particularly stocky.

Yet he seemed to exude a certain physical presence. A quick glance at the doctor's hands confirmed

Mike's guess. The faint scars on those outsized hands had not come from working in the medical

profession.

Nichols was returning Mike's examination with one of his own. There seemed to be a little twinkle in his

eyes. Mike guessed that he would like the man, and decided to probe the possibility.

"So, Doc. Did the judge giveyou a choice? Between the Army and the Marines, I mean."

Nichols snorted. Therewas a twinkle in his eyes. "Not hardly! 'Marines for you, Nichols.' "

Mike shook his head. "You poor bastard. He let me pick. Since I wasn't crazy, I took the Army. I

wanted no part of Parris Island."

Generated by ABC Amber LIT Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html

Eric Flint - 1632

相关推荐

开通VIP享超值会员特权

作者详情

相关内容

热门标签

举报选择: