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    Rebecca managed not to laugh. Just barely. Melissa had once explained to her the “modern” notion of the so-called
alpha male.
At the time, Rebecca had found the logic of the argument highly suspect. But now, watching her husband and the king of Sweden, she admitted that the concept had a certain validity. Other than the fact that they were matching wills over power rather than females, the two men in the library reminded her of nothing so much as a pair of bull walruses during mating season.

 

    She decided to intervene with the voice of feminine reason. Rebecca wasn’t quite certain where Michael was going with his argument—they had barely had time to exchange an embrace and a few words before he insisted on this private meeting with “Captain Gars”—but she thought she could guess. Many times—many times—Michael had spoken to her of his greatest fear. That the new United States he was trying to forge would become another of Europe’s tyrants instead of a school for humanity’s future.

 

    “Perhaps—” She cleared her throat. “Perhaps a compromise might be possible.”

 

    Two pairs of glaring blue eyes were now transferred to the female in the room. Rebecca managed to bear up under the burden. Quite easily.

 

    “Yes, I think so.” To the king, in quick, velvety German: “You must remember, Your Majesty, that my husband is accustomed to the clarity and simplicity of his traditional political arrangements.” To Michael, in quick, hissing English: “Get off your high horse!”

 

    Neither man quite understood what she had said to the other. They were suspicious, but . . . 

 

    Rebecca struck while the iron was confused.

 

    “Yes, a compromise! In those principalities of the future realm—let us, for the moment, simply call it the
Confederation of Europe—
which are
directly
ruled by the Vasa dynasty
as such
, Lutheranism will of course be the established religion. But in those principalities—”

 

    Mike and Gustav both erupted. Mike with a loud snort, the king with words.

 

    “Nonsense!” bellowed the king. “The principle of monarchy cannot be compromised! Intolerable!”

 

    Rebecca glided through his outrage unscathed. “Well—of course not. But, Your Majesty, remember that the principle of monarchy resides in your personage as Gustav II Adolf Vasa, King of Sweden.
Not—
”

 

    She slid in the knife: “—in your persona as
Captain Gars.
”

 

    The king’s jaws snapped shut. Michael goggled at her.

 

    “Captain
General
Gars, I should say,” Rebecca continued. “The title will naturally be hereditary, running through the Vasa line of Sweden. But since the captain general, as such, is not a king . . .”

 

    She let the words, and the implication behind them, trail off into silence. Michael, unaccustomed to the arcane logic of feudalism, was confused. But the king, after a moment, began to smile. The blue glare in his eyes faded, replaced by thoughtfulness. He
did
understand the logic.

 

    “Hm,” he mused. “Interesting. As a purely military figure, the captain general would have no personal prestige bound up with any particular church. A monarch derives his authority from the hand of God, and must naturally support God’s lawful church. But a captain general
could—
speaking abstractly, for the moment—leave strictly religious matters to the parsons.” A bit sourly: “And priests, of course.”

 

    Mike had been able to follow the German exchange well enough. “
And
the rabbis,” he insisted.

 

    Gustav cast him another glare, but it was brief. He waved a thick hand. “Yes, yes—surely. Once the principle is established, the rest follows.”

 

    Rebecca twisted the blade. “And I
do
think it is time—long overdue, in fact—for Captain Gars to receive a promotion.”

 

    Gustav burst into laughter. “Scheming woman!” For a moment, he stared at her admiringly. His eyes drifted down to her swollen midsection. “If the child is a girl,” he chuckled, “I assume you plan to name her Circe.”

 

    Rebecca laughed. After a moment, so did Michael.

 

    The king began stroking his big nose. “Hm. Hm.” The stroking stopped. The glare returned.

 

    “But what about this other nonsense!” he snapped. “This preposterous idea that only the
lower
house—the estate of the commons, if you will!—has exclusive control over taxation and the state treasury?” His voice rose to a bellow:
“Absurd! Utterly unreasonable!”

 

    Michael snapped back: “Bad enough I’m willing to give you a stinking House of Lords, just to keep your lousy noble allies! You want the worthless parasites to decide how much they get
taxed
, too?” His own bellow was as impressive as the king’s:
“Not a chance! Power must remain in the lower House! Let the damned nobility be satisfied with their frills!”

 

    
Bellow.

 

    
Bellow.

 

    The king of Sweden roared like a lion, defending the divine right of kings and the principle of aristocratic precedence. The president of the United States snarled like a tiger, insisting on the primacy of the popular will.
Royalty must rule, not simply reign!
was matched with
Millions for defense, not one cent for tribute!

 

    It went on for quite some time. On and on. Several hours, in fact.

 

    Now and again, Rebecca’s voice slid through the verbal maelstrom, like a blade between ribs. The roars and bellows would fade, replaced by
hms
and
wellIgottathinkaboutthats,
until they resumed their former fury. But, always, the ground would shift a bit.

 

    Outside the library, the vestibule quickly became packed with the other members of the U.S. government. Within an hour, every elected official living in Grantville had arrived at the school. The crowd became so large that it was necessary for most of them to gather in the cafeteria. At periodic intervals, Representatives eavesdropping on the raging quarrel in the library would give hurried reports.

 

    At first, Melissa and her supporters gathered around one table, while Quentin and his faction collected at another. But eventually, as if by unspoken agreement, the two of them met privately in the vestibule.

 

    “I’m worried, Quentin,” admitted Melissa. “I think I understand what Mike’s trying to do. If the United States is part of some great Confederation of Europe, we’ll have breathing room. It’d buy us time to grow and—” She groped for words. “And teach. Instead of turning us into a garrison state.”

 

    Quentin nodded. “Yeah. And if I’m following the latest twist and turn in the debate, Mike just got half of Franconia added along with the rest of Thuringia. I think he’s shooting for all of it, too.” For a moment, his eyes grew a bit dreamy. “Be one hell of an expansion in the market, that’s for sure. Every business in the U.S. will start growing by leaps and bounds. The railroads alone—” He broke off, scratching his chin worriedly. “Still—”

 

    “Still—” echoed Melissa. She sighed heavily. “But it sounds like he’s trading political principles for military security and economic expansion.”

 

    She sighed again. “Well, that’s not fair. He hasn’t budged an inch on the Bill of Rights. Mike wouldn’t. Not on that. But I’m worried he’ll give so much else away in return that—”

 

    Quentin snorted.
“Mike?”
He laughed drily. “Melissa, I used to negotiate contract provisions with that pigheaded SOB. Not to mention about a million grievances.”

 

    The mine manager scowled. “I’m not worried about
that.
Mike negotiates like a pit bull. He’ll give you your leg back, sure—
after
he’s swallowed the meat. It’s just—” He heaved his own heavy sigh. “Oh, hell. It’s just that I’m a conservative, and I
don’t
approve of radical changes. And what Mike’s proposing—” He threw up his hands. “I mean—
Jesus!
I don’t care what you call it—a friggin’
king
?”

 

    For a moment—a rare moment—he and Melissa shared a common outrage and a common opinion. Then, simultaneously, they burst into laughter.

 

    “Well,” chuckled Melissa. “Look at it this way, Quentin. If you and I can manage—
somehow—
to get along, then maybe those two can do the same.” She peered through the glass doors of the library. Gustav and Mike were now on their feet, standing nose to nose, roaring and raging and gesticulating wildly.

 

    “Testosterone!” sneered Melissa. Her eyes fell on Rebecca. “Thank God for feminine reason.”

 

    Quentin snorted. He began to make some sarcastic remark. Then, as his own eyes fell on Rebecca, the remark went unsaid. The snort became a chuckle. “Believe it or not, I agree with you.” Glowering: “Just this once.”

 

    It was done. The initial round, at least.

 

    Gustav Adolf was now sprawled on his chair, relaxed and at ease. “Axel will be furious with me,” he said, smiling ruefully. “He will accuse me of being a half-witted peasant, swindled by a Gypsy.”

 

    Mike glanced at the doors of the library. Every inch of the glass seemed to be filled with faces.

 

    “I’ll probably catch hell myself,” he admitted. “They’ll be calling me the new Benedict Arnold. Selling out my country to a foreign crown.”

 

    His eyes came back to meet those of the king. They did not seem noticeably chagrined, either of them.

 

    “Don’t care!” snapped Mike. “If I have to, I’ll call for new elections and run against all of them.” Half-savagely: “And I’ll
win,
too!”

 

    The king grunted. The sound was full of satisfaction. “Spoken like a Vasa!”

 

    The future hereditary Captain General of the United States matched stares with his future President. There was a richness to that silent exchange. Acceptance of future quarrel—bitter quarrel, often enough. Recognition of mutual necessity. Understanding that the road would be full of pitfalls and controversy. Respect—even admiration. And, underlying everything, a shared desire to end a continent’s torment and shape a better world out of its ruins.

 

    “Thank you for saving our children, Captain Gars,” said Mike softly.

 

    The king nodded heavily. His eyes seemed to twinkle. He turned to Rebecca. “Your husband is such a scoundrel, you know. He thinks I don’t understand his scheme. He thinks I will
continue
to safeguard his offspring, simply by giving them a world large enough for them to grow. Grow straight and strong, as big as giants.”

 

    Rebecca smiled, but said nothing. The king chuckled. “And you as well!” He clapped his hand to his forehead in a histrionic gesture. “The poor Vasas of the future! They will toil away, sweat pouring off their brows, shielding this monster growing in their midst.”

 

    Rebecca smiled, said nothing. The king grimaced like a thespian. “Oxenstierna will denounce me for a fool! He will accuse me of attaching a parasite to the body of Sweden and its Confederation.
Corpus Evangelicorum
, feeding the worm within! I’ll never hear the end of it!”

 

    Rebecca smiled, said nothing. The king returned her smile with one of his own. And, this time, there was nothing histrionic in the expression at all. It was a gentle smile; calm, and confident.

 

    “So be it,” pronounced Gustav II Adolf. “An unborn child is also a parasite, if a man wishes to see things in that manner. But I do not.”

 

    He planted huge hands on his knees and rose slowly to his feet. Now standing erect, the king of Sweden seemed to fill a library for schoolchildren like a giant in his own right. And, like a giant, he roared his simple challenge—to himself as much as to his world.

 

    
“Vasa!
Always Vasa!”
Chapter 61

    Alex Mackay and his cavalrymen arrived in Grantville the next day. Immediately, upon learning that his beloved fiancée—crazy girl!—had been involved in the thick of the fight at the school, Alex went in search of her. Desperate to assure himself that she was truly unharmed.
    But his betrothed was hiding from him. “He’s gonna
kill
me when he finds out I’m pregnant,” she moaned. “I’m
dead.
”
    “Leave the matter to me,” intoned her new protector. “No harm will befall you.”
    Nor did it. When Alex finally found Julie, hiding behind the huge form in the library, the king of Sweden set him straight.
    “Won’t tolerate such behavior on the part of one of my officers,” gruffed Gustav, in blithe disregard of his own not-entirely-reputable history. “Bastardy is a shame before God!”
    As it happens, Alex was not angry with Julie at all. He was quite delighted at the news, in fact. But he had no time to reassure his betrothed. The king marched him directly to the parson and oversaw the rest of the preparations himself. Karen Reading was quite overwhelmed by his presence. Overwhelmed—and ecstatic. Her bridal shop had just gotten a
royal
boost.
    They were married the following day. The king himself stood in the groom’s party. For all the impromptu nature of the event, most of the town showed up for the wedding. Julie and Alex were quite popular, which accounted for some of the crowd. But most of them came to get a glimpse of Gustav Adolf. Or
Captain General Gars
, to use what would soon become his correct title whenever the king of Sweden visited the United States in an official capacity.
Word of the negotiations was spreading rapidly, and everyone wanted to make their own assessment of this mysterious new figure in their political pantheon.
    On balance, they were quite impressed. The more so when it was announced that the Captain General had given his finest horse as a gift to the groom, and an actual
title
to the bride. Julie Mackay, nee Sims, former cheerleader, sharpshooter in the U.S. army, was now also the baroness of a small domain somewhere on the edge of Lappland in northern Sweden.
    The king also promised her a pair of skis. “You will need them,” he assured her, “if you ever plan to visit the place. The hunting is excellent, incidentally. But I do not propose to provide you with a new rifle. Anyone else, but not you. Your rifle is already the best in the world.”