1634: The Baltic War (9 page)

Mike decided to let the matter drop, for the moment. He was tempted to probe a little further, to see if he could get the emperor to take a definite stance on the citizenship issue. But . . .

One thing at a time. He had an immediately pressing issue to deal with. And one that he could no longer handle by—he'd admit to himself the charge had been true enough—maneuvering Gustav Adolf. To do what needed to be done now, he had to have the emperor's full agreement, or it would all unravel come next spring.

Gustav, as perceptive as he normally was, spotted the moment also. "You want to keep driving the negotiations with the Spaniards. Or rather—since what you obviously have in mind is splitting the Spaniards—with the cardinal-infante."

"Yes."

Gustav, cheerfully defying all counsels concerning the proper mannerisms for august political leaders, began tugging at his mustache. "It's tempting, Michael. Yes, it is. As God is my witness, I can think of few things that would delight me more than seeing those stinking Habsburgs divided and quarreling among themselves as much as possible."

He left off the mustache-tugging and held up an admonishing finger. "But! Two things concern me. The first—the simplest—is that I am also sure I can overrun the Netherlands myself."

Catching sight of Colonel Ekstrom's slight wince, the emperor barked a laugh. "You too! Another skeptic!"

He went back to his mustache-tugging. "Well. I should have said, the three northern provinces. None of them have any great allegiance to the United Provinces, being mostly Catholics. I agree it would be unwise to try to push further, into the Dutch heartland."

Mike took a deep breath. They had now entered very perilous territory. For all that he basically liked and admired Gustav Adolf, he never let himself forget that at bottom the king of Sweden was not that much different from any monarch of the time. He was an imperialist, at heart. For seventeenth-century rulers, grabbing as much land as possible was second nature. The nationalist sentiments that would dominate Europe before too long were still nascent in most places, although you could easily see them emerging if you looked and knew what to look for.

But no monarch did, not even Gustav Adolf. They thought in dynastic terms, not national terms—even those of them who, like Richelieu or Gustav himself, had carefully studied the histories brought back in time through the Ring of Fire. There was simply that deep-seated part of them that didn't quite
believe
that any ramshackle dynastic territory they built up would surely come to pieces, sooner or later, if it didn't have firm roots in popular sentiment.

Again, however, Mike decided to let it slide. He was pretty sure that Gustav's desire to add three small Dutch provinces to his dynasty wasn't really important to him. Assuming Gustav won the war, Mike intended to keep just enough to allow the USE Navy to dominate the Zuider Zee, if need be. His own motives were mostly as a way of throttling the life out of the slave trade while it was still in its infancy. But he was fairly certain that Gustav would settle for that, over time, simply as a token of his triumph.

The emperor's real territorial ambitions were toward the east. First, once the war with the Ostenders was over, Mike knew that Gustav was determined to punish the electors of Brandenburg and Saxony for their treacherous behavior by expropriating their territories outright. He'd do what he'd already done with Mecklenburg and Pomerania, simply add them to the USE as provinces.

So much, Mike had no quarrel with. In fact, he was for it. Saxony—even Brandenburg in this day and age, which hadn't yet undergone its metamorphosis into Prussia—were both German lands. But the problem was that any war with Saxony and Brandenburg was almost sure to bring in the Poles, and Gustav would then use that as a pretext to try to conquer Poland. Or a good chunk of it, at least. From his point of view, why not? Poland and Sweden had been fighting for decades, and it wasn't as if the king of Poland didn't claim that
he
should rightfully be the king of Sweden. Serve the bastard right.

Except, if that happened, Mike knew full well that the USE would simply be tying an albatross to its neck. Giving itself the same grief with Poland that, in a different universe, the Russians had done—more than once, and it had never worked.

But . . .

Let it slide, just let it slide.
That was going to be quite literally a battle royal, when it happened. But it was a problem that wouldn't arise for about a year—and Mike had the situation in the Low Countries on his plate right now.

It was better, for the moment, to deal with Gustav's other objection. Mike was pretty sure he knew what it was going to be—and, if so, he thought he could persuade the emperor to follow his advice.

"And your second reservation, Your Majesty?"

Gustav dropped his hand from the mustache and spread both arms wide. "Oh, come, Michael! Surely it's obvious. The inevitable result of your plotting and scheming—your wife's, too! even worse than yours!—will be a powerful realm in the Low Countries. More than that. A united Netherlands is bound to sweep into it any number of the surrounding small principalities. What you propose is nothing less than the recreation of old Burgundy. And is that—"

Gustav went right back to his mustache-pulling. A bit enviously, Mike reflected that there were some advantages to being a king. To hell with advisers nattering you about perfectly comfortable habits.
L'État, c'est moi—
and that includes the damn mustache.

"Is that really in the interests of the United States of Europe?" Gustav concluded. "Or Sweden, for that matter, especially since—I will brook no arguments on this, Michael—you know I have every intention of recreating the Union of Kalmar. Once I've finished pounding that drunken Danish bastard Christian into a pulp."

There was no way Mike was going to stick his thumb into
that
issue. Not now, anyway. Personally, he had reservations concerning the emperor's plan to forge the first united Scandinavian realm since the Middle Ages. Maybe it would work, maybe it wouldn't—but, either way, it was not an issue that directly confronted the USE.

"Look at the problem the other way, Gustav. You read the histories. Half the grief suffered by Europe—the western part, anyway—came from that endless back-and-forth between the Germans and the French over the territory in the middle. In the here and now, and all the way through the next two centuries, mostly as a result of French aggression. Thereafter, usually, because the Germans got strong enough to respond in kind. And to what purpose, in the end?"

The emperor scowled slightly, but said nothing.

"No purpose at all—but tens of millions of people lost their lives in the process. So I think it would be wise to do what we can to forestall the mess altogether. And I can think of no better way to do it than to create a nation in the middle which is powerful enough—unlike the Holland and Belgium of my old universe—that both the French and the Germans have to think twice before they decide to pick a fight.

"Besides that," he pressed on, "having a commercially prosperous and industrious Netherlands will be to our benefit economically. And they can't ever pose a real military threat, because even a recreated Burgundy simply can't have a large enough population to field big armies."

"They could certainly become a major naval power," Ekstrom pointed out. "The Dutch have managed that much on their own, even today."

There wasn't much vehemence to his statement, though. It was more in the way of an observation than an argument.

Mike didn't even have to answer that himself, in the event, since Gustav Adolf did.

"I am not much concerned about that, Nils," he said. "Without Denmark, they can't bottle us up in the Baltic. And"—here, a heavy shrug—"I do not foresee us having to squabble with them much with regard to the world beyond."

He was eyeing Mike by the time he finished, but didn't add anything. Mike was almost certain that Gustav knew how unyielding Mike intended to be over the slave trade—an issue that would certainly produce clashes with the Dutch, no matter what political entity emerged in the Low Countries. True, the Dutch weren't involved much in the slave trade yet—but "yet" was the operative term. They almost surely would be, within a decade at the latest. The same powerful commercial dynamics that had led them to become one of the leading nations in the slave trade in Mike's former universe applied just as fully in this one.

But, as with the issue of USE citizenship, the slave trade was simply not an issue that a king of Sweden cared much about. Not directly, at least. Neither Sweden nor any of the Scandinavian countries had been significant players in the slave trade, in the world Mike came from, and there was not much likelihood they would be in this one either.

Like Mike himself, the emperor had enough sense to let issues slide for a time, that didn't need to be dealt with immediately. His gaze was very keen, now, his eyes seeming to be as blue as blue could get.

"All right, Michael. Let's get down to the heart of things. You did not undertake such a flamboyant and somewhat risky venture as flying into Luebeck—I admit, it was splendid for the morale of my soldiers—simply to chat with me. You have something specific in mind. Something you suspect—ha!—I would dismiss out of hand if it came to me in the form of a radio message."

"Yes, I do. Here's what I propose . . ."

Gustav didn't explode, when Mike finished. Not in a temper tantrum, at least. He did, however, erupt into a truly imperial spasm of uproarious laughter.

"Ha! Ha!" he finally managed to exclaim. "Never since Menelaus has a husband displayed such an obsession for a wife! But that pitiful Greek wench simply launched a thousand ships and destroyed a city, so her husband could bed her again. To do the same to your wife, you propose to launch an entire nation!"

Mike could have argued that, of course, any which way from Sunday. It was actually not true at all that a crude desire to see his wife again after an absence of many months—fine,
copulate
with his wife again—was the motive impelling him forward.

Well, not the first one, anyway. Not even the second. The third, he'd grant.

But he said nothing. Partly because that third motive was pressing so closely on the first two that he wasn't quite sure he could pull it off with a straight face. And partly because the ribaldry had put Gustav in such a good mood.

"The cardinal-infante would have to agree to a cease-fire, though," Ekstrom cautioned. "I don't see any way you could land the plane in the city itself."

Mike nodded. "Well, yes. That would have to be part of the deal—and as good a way as any to test his trustiworthiness."

Finally done with his laughing, Gustav peered at Mike. "And you are willing to be the bait? Well, I can see that. She is a very beautiful woman. And not unfaithful, like that wretched Helen. What was Menelaus thinking, the idiot?"

Magdeburg

Thorsten found the office easily enough. After he entered Government House, for the first time since he'd settled in Magdeburg, he discovered a big plaque posted right next to the entrance that listed every office in the building and specified which floor they were on and even gave the room they were using a number. Then, once he reached the third floor, there was another plaque facing the stairwell that listed the offices on that floor—with arrows pointing either to the left or right, along with the name and number of the office. Only a village idiot could not have managed to find their way.

He found it all rather amusing. The term
Amerikanisch
had many connotations in Amideutsch, most of them quite positive. But one of the prominent connotations was "fussy, obsessed with detail, precise to the point of absurdity." Those neat plaques and arrows were a perfect illustration of the trait.
Everything must be in order!

What was amusing about it was that Gunther Achterhof had told Engler that in the universe the Americans came from, they perceived themselves as "rugged individualists"—whatever that might mean, exactly—and it was their accepted mythology that
Germans
were the world's natural bureaucrats.

Germans! Who squabbled about everything, including even the language they spoke, and were notorious throughout Europe for the production of religious sects, mass rebellions, mercenary soldiers—everything
except
order.

So, getting to the right office was easy. And, sure enough, there was another precise plaque on the door:

Room 322
United States of Europe
Department of Social Services

When it came time to enter, though, he found himself hesitating. Unlike Gunther, he'd had very little contact with up-timers—and that, only with male Americans. But this office was reputedly run by Americanesses, and the stories about them
were enough to make any sane man pause.

Incredible women, by all accounts—although the stories Thorsten had heard rarely agreed with each other from that point forward. Some legends claimed they were the most lascivious creatures in the world, practically outright
succubi.
Others claimed they could find an issue concerning sex over which to take offense that no one else could possibly discern. The deadliest females in the world, and the most fragile females in the world. Sorceresses and fools at the same time, who could undertake chemic wonders but had no more sense than a chicken when it came to a multitude of practical matters.

Thorsten didn't know what to think—and was not at all sure he wanted to find out.

He paused with his hand on the door handle for a while. Finally, he decided to open it. They couldn't possibly be any more peculiar than his great-aunt Mathilde, after all. So, fortifying himself with the image of Mathilde's fierce eyes—badly crossed and nearsighted, but always fierce—and her constantly disheveled hair and the bizarre utterances that issued from a mouth whose teeth were about the worst anyone had ever seen, he entered the office.

And found himself staring at a young woman seated behind a desk, looking up at him with a smile.

About his age, he thought, somewhere in her mid-twenties. Hard to be sure, though. One of the things Americanesses had a reputation for—most accounts agreed on this—was that they seemed to have a peculiar resistance to aging. Some pointed to that as a sign of witchcraft, but most people ascribed it to their well-known chemic skills.

It was certainly impossible to imagine this woman as a witch, whatever her age. If someone had set Thorsten to the task of picturing a woman who was the exact opposite of his great-aunt Mathilde, he didn't think he could have come up with anything better.

To begin with, where Mathilde had been always been very short and became shorter as she grew old—shorter and hunched—this woman was tall. That much was obvious, even seated as she was. Secondly, every hair was in place. True, the style of the hair was perhaps a bit strange, cut short the way it was, but not really all that much. More important, the hair was colored a rich brown, almost chestnut, and very healthy looking, where his great-aunt's hair had gone from an ugly black to a still uglier gray without ever once losing its most distinguishing characteristic, which was looking like a sheep that had gone unshorn since it was a lamb—but had had many an encounter with briars and thorns. Family legend had it that small animals and birds were occasionally spotted nesting in Great-Aunt Mathilde's hair. Even as boy, Thorsten had had his doubts, but . . . you never knew.

The eyes were completely different, too. Straight, not crossed; a bright and clear greenish color that went superbly with the hair, where Mathilde's eyes had wavered from a sort of muddy blue to a still muddier gray, depending on her mood of the moment. More striking still was that the green eyes studying him seemed friendly. Mathilde's mood of the moment had either been frenzied or angry or simply crotchety—but never friendly.

But all of that Thorsten noticed almost as an aside. From the moment he set eyes on the woman, his gaze was riveted on one feature alone.

So. At least one legend proved to be true, in every particular. The woman's teeth were
perfect.

Perfect, and . . .

Also stunning. Because the teeth came as part of a wide mouth that had a smile on it that was the most beautiful smile Thorsten had ever seen. It would have been a little scary, if it hadn't been for the friendly green eyes floating somewhere above.

"Well, you sure took your time about it," the woman said, somehow managing to smile more widely still. "I was starting to wonder if I'd need to get help, come nightfall, prying your hand off the handle so we could leave for the day. Or if I could do it myself, with a crowbar."

Startled, Thorsten glanced behind him. Only then realizing that he'd turned down the handle
before
he'd paused for a while.

"Ah," was all he could think of to say.

The smile stayed on her face, but at least the mouth closed. Thorsten thought if a man stared at those teeth for too long, it might turn him to stone. Or something.

"Never mind," she said cheerily. "You managed to get in. I'm Caroline Platzer, by the way. I'm the receptionist here, three mornings a week. What's your name, and what can I do for you?"

Thorsten cleared his throat. "My name is Thorsten Engler. A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Fraulein."

He thought he was safe enough, using that last appellation. So far as he could see, the Platzer woman wasn't wearing one of those gold rings that Americanesses used—so legend had it, at least—to signal their status as married women. He couldn't be positive, though, because even while speaking to him her hands continued to fly about the desk, doing . . . whatever it was a "receptionist" did. He might have missed one of the fingers.

She startled him with a soft laugh. "Oh, relax, will you? Herr Engler, I promise you I won't bite. Even if you do use one of the—how many are there supposed to be, by now?—eighty-three thousand, six hundred and forty-two Absolutely Forbidden Words in my presence. That includes any one of the five hundred and six Absolutely Prohibited Forms of Address, except three."

Warily, Thorsten eyed her. "And those three . . . are which?"

"If you call me a bitch or a cunt or a twat, I'll knock your head off." Her right hand came up, waggling a little. "A broad or a dame . . . depends."

He stared at her. He was familiar with the terms "bitch" and "cunt," since the words had been absorbed into Amideutsch. He had no idea what "twat" meant, but in context, he could guess. "Dame" was obvious, although he suspected he'd encountered a different connotation than the usual one.

"I would never do such a thing anyway," he said. The words came out automatically, not even a protest so much as a simple statement of fact. Most of his mind was still trying to make sense of "broad." He understood the approximate meaning of the term, but could see no connection to women.

Her eyes crinkled. "Y'know, I believe you. Would you like some tea?"

Without waiting for the answer, she rose from her seat and went over to a counter where a pot waited, simmering on a peculiar little mechanical candle of some sort. On her way, Thorsten saw one guess confirmed. She was indeed tall. Slightly taller that he was, he thought, though not by much. Less than an inch.

Then she bent over to reach the jar of tea nestled on a shelf below, and the sense of the term "broad" became instantly clear to Thorsten. Just as instantly as the stirrings of an erection.

Dear God in Heaven.
None of the legends had prepared him for
this
.

Yes, certainly, she was a bit exotic and a bit startling with that direct manner she had, and she was a bit of this and a bit of that and it was all silly nonsense. She wasn't even beautiful, although she came awfully close. What she was, was something Thorsten had felt and understood since he was fourteen years old and had first laid eyes on one of his second cousins.

Desirable.
Sheer and unalloyed, it was as simple as that.

Poor Brigida, that had been, who had died in the first epidemic that swept the village. She'd only been sixteen years old, a little older than Thorsten at the time. But for every day that had passed in the two years since the glorious moment he first met her and the horrid time they took her body away to be burned, he had desired her. He'd been completely smitten, in the way boys often were and young men were never supposed to be, once they entered adulthood and had to be practical about such things.

Thorsten had never expected to encounter that sensation again. Certainly not under these circumstances.

Fortunately, while those thoughts and emotions roiled through him, the Platzer woman was looking elsewhere as she went about the business of preparing the tea. By the time she turned around to face him and, still smiling, handed him a mug of tea, he was reasonably composed again.

"Reasonably composed," that is to say, in the way that a twenty-six year old man will be when raw desire is sweeping through him, back and forth, like great waves washing over a ship's deck in a storm. Not more than one-fourth of his brain was able to concentrate on anything besides the woman herself. Fortunately again, the heavy workman's clothing he was wearing to fend off the December cold kept the half-erection from showing. He did manage, as casually as he could, to wipe his mouth with his hand. He was afraid there might be drool showing. He had no idea at all how a man went about courting an Americaness, but he was quite sure that starting off by acting the uncouth boor would not be helpful at all.

"You still haven't answered my question, Herr Engler," she said, resuming her seat behind the desk. "What can we do for you? And would you please sit down?" She pointed at a chair behind him and a little to his left.

A bit clumsily, Thorsten sat down. Clumsy, because three-quarters of his attention was elsewhere. Her
fingers
were gorgeous. He could imagine them—

That way lay disaster. Hastily, he broke off the surging reverie and wracked his brain to think of something appropriate and intelligent to say.

Informality.
That little piece of the many legends got jostled loose and rose to the surface. Almost all of them agreed on that, too, so it was probably true.

"Please, call me Thorsten." That came out much more stiffly than he'd intended. But he was afraid to smile. His mouth open that far, drool was sure to come.

"Thorsten it is, then. And please call me Caroline." She leaned forward a bit and waved a finger at him, playing the scold. "But I warn you, sir! It's 'Caroline,' not 'Carol.' Cross that line at your peril."

The same finger, alas. Was there
any
part of the woman that was plain, at least, since he couldn't imagine anything actually ugly. Something he could focus on to keep from sliding into the behavior of a village idiot or—worse yet—a schoolboy.

The best he could come up with was: "I would not dream of it. Caroline it shall always be."

He said it too intently. Too . . . roughly, almost. She would think he was coarse.

And, indeed, the smile that seemed permanently fixed now faded some. And, suddenly, she had a different look in her eyes. But it didn't seem to be one of irritation or revulsion. Simply . . .

Startled, perhaps?

Who could say, with an Americaness?

Luckily, he still had enough of his wits to remember that she'd now asked him the same question twice. Or maybe it was even three times.

"Friends told me I should come here. Today, because I just enlisted in the army and I will soon be leaving for the training camp. I was involved in the accident at the coal gas plant. Very closely involved. And . . . well, I am having nightmares. And I keep seeing images of what happened. Very vivid images. They told me I might be suffering from some sort of—of—what is it called?"

Caroline was not smiling at all, now. "Post-traumatic stress disorder. We heard about the accident, of course. That must have been horrible."

He took a breath. "Yes. It was. Does this mean I might be . . . ah, going insane?"

She shook her head, very forcefully. "Oh, no, nothing like that. In fact, you may not have PTSD at all. Thorsten, all the reactions you're having are perfectly normal, after people go through an experience like that. We don't define it as PTSD until quite a bit of time has passed. It's only if the symptoms such as nightmares, flashbacks, hypervigilance—there a lot of them and they vary from one person to another, but those are the most common—don't fade, that we conclude something abnormal is happening. But 'abnormal' does not mean insane. There's nothing at all wrong with your mind."

She leaned forward still further, lowering her head and pointing to the back of her skull. Which, of course, was also shapely. Thorsten was racked by a sort of thrilled despair.

"Back here is what we call the limbic part of the brain. To simplify some, you can think of it as the most primitive—and most basic—part of the brain. It's where automatic responses and our animal instincts are centered. But it's not where thoughts are formed and emerge. That happens here"—she raised her head and pointed to her forehead, using both forefingers this time—"in what's called the cortex."

She paused briefly, gathering her own thoughts. "What seems to happen with PTSD is that the traumatic memories get stored in the limbic part of the brain, instead of the parts where they would normally get stored. We don't know why it happens, really. Or rather, why it happens to some people and not to others. But once it does happen, the problem is that the memories are now locked into a part of the brain that doesn't think rationally and doesn't respond to reason. That's why traditional talk therapy doesn't usually work all that well, with PTSD. In fact, a lot of specialists—Maureen Grady, who set up and runs this department, being one of them—think talk therapy by itself is more likely to be harmful than helpful. They think all it does is keep stirring up the traumatic memories without doing anything to alleviate them."

Thorsten tried to sort through what she was telling him. Relieved, finally, to have something interesting to think about other than Caroline Platzer herself. That would help him . . . he though the American expression was "keep his cool."

It
was
interesting, too, even fascinating. It had never occurred to him to think of the brain as something with different parts that did different things.

"So—perhaps I do not understand something—what you are saying is that there is not much that can be done for me. Yes?"

"No, not exactly. There are some techniques for dealing with PTSD that seem to be successful much of the time, or at least helpful. Using mental imagery as a way of soothing your limbic system before you engage in talk therapy often helps. There's even"—here she chuckled softly, and shook her head a little—"don't ask me how it works, because it's always seemed like magic to me. Maureen could explain it to you. It's a peculiar method of getting a person's eyes to move rapidly back and forth while they're undergoing therapy—a lot of times the therapist just has them follow their finger—which seems to decouple the limbic responses. Like I said, it seems like magic. But, however it works, it does seem to work a lot of the time."