Grantville Gazette-Volume XIII Read online

  Bernie paused for a moment or two, trying to take it all in. Mikhail wasn't the all powerful figure he had thought. Then something occurred to him, the constitutional convention that Mike Stearns had set up and all the campaigning. "I'm in over my head, Your Majesty. I don't think anyone from up-time ever considered that you might not be all-powerful. I don't know what you can do about it. All I know is that representative government should represent everyone and that the representatives will only really represent the people who can fire their asses."

  Bernie signaled the cook to pour a couple more beers. "We didn't actually vote on everything, you know. We elected the people who would run the government and then every few years we voted again. If we liked the way they had been running things, we reelected them; if we didn't, we elected someone else. Truth to tell, I usually didn't bother voting. After the Ring of Fire, though, we had a big meeting and set up the Emergency Committee to draft us a constitution. Maybe you could do something like that."

  Mikhail sighed. "Not easily, Bernie. From what I understand, your Mike Stearns was setting up a government from scratch. There was no government in place because it had been left in the future."

  "Yeah, mostly. There was the mayor and stuff, but he sorta stepped back from it right at the start."

  "Somehow, I don't think the boyars and men of the cabinet are going to politely step aside." Mikhail grinned, but his eyes were kinda sad. Somehow Bernie figured that if he could, Czar Mikhail Fedorivich Romanov would step aside faster than Henry Dreeson had.

  * * *

  Mikhail and his father were already consulting with the "brain cases," as Bernie called them. Mikhail wanted a way out of the trap the up-time history had put him in. Since the history of that other future had leaked, people with power were not happy. He and his father, as czar and patriarch, had been carefully dancing in the mine field of Russian politics, focusing on the danger of a return to the time of troubles to keep the various factions in check. Even so, power was shifting between the factions. The one led by Fedor Ivanovich Sheremetev, for instance. Sheremetev felt that the information from the up-timers and the actions of Peter the Great really sort of ruined the Romanov credentials as arch-conservatives.

  "Interesting, perhaps." Fedor Ivanovich set his glass on the table. They had been discussing the history of the United States of America and its constitution. "Interesting, but not that impressive. It was their day in the sun, that's all. The Mongols had theirs and this United States had theirs. They were only two hundred years old. Barely a youth, as nations go."

  Mikhail looked across the table at him. There were only three men at dinner tonight. Filaret, Mikhail and Fedor. Mikhail wanted Fedor's support. "I am more concerned with something else. The general agreement—and I read this over and over again—was that Russia continued to lag behind much of the rest of the world. We can change that, and I believe we should. Right now, we should start. Because right now, everyone is four hundred years behind Grantville. We have Bernie here and Vladimir in Grantville. We can modernize."

  Fedor nodded, but Mikhail didn't think he was listening. Not properly at any rate. "The army, most assuredly. Right away. That I agree with. But this other? This constitution? Why? A firm hand on the reins. That is all that is needed, Mikhail. A firm hand on the reins of Rus."

  Mikhail shook his head. No, Fedor wasn't listening.

  * * *

  Fedor Sheremetev left the dinner and considered most of the way home. He understood what Mikhail and Filaret were contemplating. Oh, yes. He knew that Mikhail was afraid of power. Let every peasant vote. Introduce a constitutional monarchy, maybe even that perverted idea, a democracy. He snorted. Hardly.

  Fedor had a lot more sympathy for Joseph Stalin than he had for Nicholas Romanov. Stalin, if he had nothing else, had had a firm hand. And a firm hand was what Russia needed. Always had and always would.

  Fedor looked down at the hands that gripped the reins of the horse. Mikhail didn't ride, did he? No. Always the carriage. Always the passenger. Never in control. That described Mikhail Romanov as well as any other phrase.

  * * *

  "I don't care if he wants to fuck the czarina," Mikhail Borisovich Shein said. "We have our own up-timer now, and he's one who can fight."

  His aide took it in stride. General Shein was a volatile man by nature. The calculation hidden by the volatility was harder to see; most people never did. "What should we do with him, sir?"

  "Stick him in the gun shop." The Russian army had a dacha of its own that was not publicized. The general snorted. "And keep him away from anyone important. Question him extensively, but not harshly. If that doesn't work, we can use stronger measures. From what I understand, the main reason we got him is that he managed to piss off or piss away the opportunities in Grantville. No one will miss him much."

  The aide made a note and went on to the next item on the agenda. "The musketeers are arguing with the outlander solders about their walking walls again." The aide was a bureaucratic noble and therefore an officer in the Russian army. He didn't think all that well of the foreign mercenary companies. Or the city musketeers, the Streltzi—who, when not called to active service made up the merchant class in Muscovy.

  The general gave him the look. Mikhail Borisovich Shein had commanded a force made up mostly of musketeers at Smolensk during the last war with Poland. They had held out for twenty months against a force ten times their size. Whatever the traditional animosity between the two classes, General Shein didn't share it. At the same time, he was fully conversant with the Russian army's need to modernize. Slowly, he began to smile. "But what is modernize in a world where we have people from the future? Find me two men, Georgi Ivanov. Rough men. One outlander officer and a musketeer. Put them in a room with the up-timer and let them argue about it."

  * * *

  Cass Lowry found Russia to be cold, and—after his education at the hands of Natasha's guards—more than a bit frightening. That impression was in no way diminished when he met Ivan Mikhailovich Vinnikov and Samuel Farthingham.

  The issue was whether the Russian moving forts were useful. Cass wasn't entirely sure what a moving fort was, so the first thing Ivan and Samuel had to do was arrange a demonstration.

  * * *

  "Have you seen the latest?" Pavel Egorovich Shirshov asked, handing a pamphlet to Ivan Mikhailovich Vinnikov.

  The guard captain looked at the pamphlet and began to read silently.

  "Out loud if you don't mind," Pavel Egorovich said testily. Though a skilled craftsman, he didn't read.

  Ivan Mikhailovich cast him an apologetic look and began to read out loud. "If we are to have a constitution it must ensure the rights of all Russian citizens . . ." He continued reading. It was an argument that without a section limiting government, the constitution would be just another way to tie the people down. The writer actually seemed to wonder if a constitution was a good idea at all. Then he went on to—purportedly—quote a conversation between members of the boyar class. A cousin and a younger son of one of the great families. They were reported to have said that the great families thought that a constitution would be a great thing if they got to write it. The conversation was supposed to have been overheard in a brothel.

  "Any idea who wrote this?" Ivan asked, a bit nervously. This was the sort of thing that could get people in serious trouble.

  Pavel shook his head. "A boy in Muscovy was selling them on the street. Couldn't have been more than ten or so." That was happening more and more frequently. Scandals mixed with political opinion.

  "I talked to one of them a bit a few days ago." Pavel commuted back and forth between the Army's dacha and the Kremlin every few days. "He sells his papers to make a bit of money. He buys them from a man he thinks is a Bureau man, but it could be a merchant. There is apparently more than one man, and they don't all meet in the same place."

  * * *

  "It says here that this Patriarch Nikon caused it." Colonel Pavel Kovezin stared at the broadsheet with
distaste clearly showing on his face.

  Machek Speshnev, who had brought this news to the colonel, nodded. A lieutenant in this regiment of Streltzi, the musketeers, Machek was a pious man. This information had struck a chord with him, as well as with many other members of the Palace Guard Regiments.

  "I'm surprised this information became public, but it has. The question is, is there anything we can do about it?" Machek's family would most definitely wind up as oppressed "Old Believers," he was sure. "I don't think I'd care to be sent up north, chasing, beating and killing priests."

  The very idea was repugnant.

  A lot of information that was coming from the up-timer histories was repugnant. Inconceivable, a lot of it.

  Colonel Kovezin stopped staring at the broadsheet. "How many people have seen this?"

  "A lot of them," Machek admitted. "The things have been being passed around all over the city. Along with the ones about killing rats, boiling water, not drinking so much . . ."

  "This city is being buried in paper," Colonel Kovezin said. Then he grinned. "We live in interesting times. Never mind this. I'm sure the patriarch is well aware of it and will make a pronouncement. Try to keep the men calm. Today is a big day for us and I want everyone's attention kept on his duty."

  Machek grinned back. "Today is the day?"

  "Yes. Today we receive our new rifles."

  * * *

  Sofia's eyes sparkled like cold black diamonds. "Nevertheless, it cannot be you that goes. You are needed here. Bernie needs you. Boris and Daromila need you. You may not abandon that trust."

  Natasha stopped her pacing. She'd been trying too hard to justify being the person who went. She knew it. "But I so want to see it, Aunt Sofia. So very much." She threw herself onto a bench. "Vladimir is there. I miss him. And I want to see it."

  "Even so." Sofia's eyes softened. "I know, dear." She patted Natasha's hand. "I know." She grinned. "So do I want to go." Then she straightened her shoulders. "But we must carry on here. Czar Mikhail has said that he will consider this marriage, but there must be a senior female of the family to examine Brandy. And I know just who to send." She cackled in laughter. "Oh, my. It will do them so much good."

  * * *

  "I didn't really believe it. Not until I saw that." Vlad watched the Las Vegas Belle until it was out of sight. Even after several months, he still wasn't entirely sure he believed it. And slowly he began to smile. "I believe that turnabout is fair play, Brandy. Perhaps I should write Bernie that I insist that he build me an airplane. And a factory for cars. And an oil refinery."

  "Soda pop." Brandy looked in the direction where the plane had disappeared. "Real, old-fashioned Coca-Cola. I miss those. New movies, instead of re-watching all the old ones. Xerox machines for quick copies. Um, we can probably think up a bunch of stuff to demand, really. They won't be very realistic, I imagine, but it might be kind of fun to make a demand instead of trying to satisfy them. Besides, they might just do it."

  They walked slowly to Brandy's house thinking up ever more outrageous things to demand of Bernie and the "brain cases" in Muscovy and laughing at their demands. No one could be sad on a day like today.

  They turned up the walk to Brandy's house and she hesitated a bit. Vlad knew that it was because her mother had died there.

  He'd been surprised, three days after Donna died, by the attendance at her funeral. It seemed like a large number of people showed up. Most unusual was the cluster of young girls around Brandy. One of them was one of the most beautiful girls he had ever seen. Her hair was a deep auburn and her skin was clear with just a few freckles.

  Brandy had, in compliance with Donna's wishes, arranged a simple graveside service. It was very brief. Afterwards, people visited with one another and everyone spoke to Brandy and Vernon for a moment or two. Brandy introduced Vlad to the cluster of young girls. They were . . . quite exceptional, he thought.

  Much to Vlad's surprise, Vernon was one of the first to leave. "He's just not good at emotions." Brandy had noticed Vlad watching Vernon. "He never has been. He's closed up, like in a shell or something. It drove Mom crazy. That, I think, is why they got divorced. Mom was too emotional for him, I guess."

  Vlad looked down at her. "I promise you. I promise you that I will never be so, so . . ."

  "Calm and dispassionate?" Her tears started flowing again. "Good. I don't think I'd like it any better than Mom did."

  * * *

  The sound of the doorbell jerked Brandy to alertness. She smoothed down her dress and checked her reflection in the mirror before opening the door. Here goes, she thought.

  Vladimir stood on the porch, smiling at her. Her breath caught a bit. They'd been dating a long time, but this was the first time they'd been alone together. Really alone. No servants. No Mom. Brandy still felt Donna's loss keenly. But a person had to move on. This dinner was an effort to do that.

  "Come in, please." Brandy smiled as Vlad brought his left hand from behind his back with a flourish. His eyes twinkled a bit. "The little books, they say a man should bring a gift to dinner. So, I brought you this."

  This was not flowers or candy, or even a bottle of wine. Vlad had brought a bag of coffee beans. Brandy grinned. "Good. We'll have some later." She stood aside and waved Vlad inside. "Dinner will be ready in just a moment. I hope you like it."

  Vlad divested himself of his heavy fur coat and looked around the room. "You have changed a few things, Branya. Not much, just a little. The home seems somehow more your own, now."

  "Just a little." Brandy felt sad for a moment. "I loved my mother, but I never cared for that 'country' look she liked so much. So I sort of streamlined the room a bit." A dinging sound came from the kitchen. "One thing about a house this size, you can hear the timer. Come on in. The table is ready and it sounds like dinner is, too."

  Brandy ushered Vlad into the small dining area where she had used Donna's best china and crystal to set the table. "Have a seat. I'll be right back."

  * * *

  Brandy came back with a large platter of something. Noodles, Vlad thought. He'd become fond of noodles. But what was covering them? It smelled wonderful, whatever it was.

  Brandy set the platter on the table. "I've got no idea if this is really a Russian dish. But Cora said it was, so I tried it. I hope it's good. I'm not really much of a cook. Mom tried, but I wasn't very interested, to tell the truth."

  The smell had Vlad salivating. "I don't care if it's Russian, Branya. It smells wonderful. Just wonderful."

  Brandy smiled widely and served Vlad a portion of the dish, whatever it was. She poured wine for them both and indicated the salad and bread on the table. "Thank heaven for greenhouses. We always had lettuce back then. I'd miss it, if we didn't have it here, even if it isn't the iceberg I'm used to." Apparently noticing Vlad's hesitation, she urged, "Go ahead. Dig in."

  Vlad did. The scent was marvelous and the taste even more so. It only needed one thing. "Is there, perhaps, some smetana?"

  Brandy gave him a look and he grinned guiltily. Brandy had commented before about his liking for smetana. He put it in nearly everything he ate, including stew. "It has quite a bit in it already." She passed him the dish full of sour cream. "But I knew you'd want more. Is it all right? Does it taste good?"

  Vlad nodded, busying himself with the dish. "Marvelous." He added sour cream to his plate. "Marvelous. I'm afraid I'm ruined for Russian cooking, at least the cooking back in Muscovy. Ruined. I may never wish to go back, just for the flavor of the food alone. What is this called?"

  "Beef Stroganoff."

  Vlad ate until Brandy was pretty sure he was about to explode.

  "Marvelous," he said. Several times. Well, it was, but that was only part of the reason he kept saying it. Vladimir was terrified.

  * * *

  After dinner, over coffee in the living room, Brandy began to feel a little awkward. What did you say now? How did you handle this kind of privacy when you didn't have any intention of needing, well, this kind
of privacy? Not yet, at any rate.

  Vlad solved the problem by beginning to speak. "Natasha tells me that the situation in Muscovy is quite tense. Czar Mikhail has vaguely suggested a constitution to replace the agreement he made on assuming the throne. Such a document would be binding not only on him, but on all future czars. Most importantly though, it would also be binding on the Duma and Bureaus and replace the Zemskiy Sobor with an elected legislature or perhaps turn the Assembly of the Land into such a congress."

  "Yes. Natasha mentioned it. I understand that the income tax and the business tax are meeting quite a bit of resistance."

  "That's a diplomatic way of putting it." Vladimir laughed. "I worked it out. It would cost my family several million of your dollars every year. While my family is quite well off, we're not the richest nobles in Muscovy, not by any means. If that tax is done just a little bit wrong, it could ruin half the nobles in Muscovy. I sent my sister a description of your system of tax deductions for things like capital investment along with Cass and Bernie's 'Precious.' Frankly, I don't think it will happen unless Czar Mikhail can come up with something to sweeten the pot."