1632: Essen Steel (2 page)

Josh sighed and glanced out the kitchen window. Odd, the sun seemed to be in a different direction than he remembered it being. Josh shrugged and walked back into the living room.

* * *

For Colette, Henri and Colas, the strangeness started again when they came across the road. Colette had been lost in thought and did not realize they were on a road until she noticed the change in the sound of the horse's hooves.

"Stop!"

Colas and Henri reined in their horses and watched as Colette slid off her horse and squatted to stare at the black-topped road.

"What is it, Colette? What's wrong?"

"Think, Colas. Where did this road come from? Look at it!"

Colas nodded. "It is very nice. Nice and wide. And very smooth."

Colette got to her feet and looked to the south. The road disappeared around a curve half a mile away. Colette took out her dagger and dug a bit of the black stuff out of the road. She rolled some of it on her fingers. Sticky. She sniffed her sample, then tasted it with her tongue. Tar. It was tar of some kind.

Colette stared at the road. "Henri? Don't you see it?" She paced the width and looked at the edge. She rolled some of the gravel and tar in her hand again.

"It's about twenty feet wide, and perhaps a little more than a half foot thick." Her eyes closed for a moment, her mind occupied with calculations. When Colette got her answer she shook her head.

No, that's impossible
. She looked at the road again, stamped on it with her foot.

Definitely real
, she thought wryly.
Not impossible
.

By now Henri and Colas were staring at her.

Henri cocked his head in puzzlement. "See what? It is just a road. A very good road, true, but still … "

"Henri, this road uses more tar for every mile than the annual production from Finland! How rich are these people?"

Henri opened his mouth, then shut it. He understood now what Simon Dubois had meant when he said he was sometimes afraid of his daughter. She thought … differently.

Colette looked again to the south and noticed that the road did not follow the exact curve of the hill but cut through a portion of it. It was like a chess problem. Colette was fully focused, gnawing at it like a hungry dog gnaws at a soup bone.

Colette studied the road more carefully. How was it made? Too smooth for slaves or other human labor. Too perfect.

"Machines of some kind," she muttered to herself, "definitely machines. Wherever this road goes we will find machines."

Henri stared at Colette again and then shook his head. "Should we stay on the road?"

Colette nodded. "Yes. But on the side, I think. This road is used for more than just carts and wagons."

They followed the road for another mile, passing several houses before Colette's words came true. They could see a river and another road that intersected the one they were on. They were several dozen yards from the intersection when a square metal box on wheels came from the right and moved rapidly through the intersection. The horses spooked slightly at the noise of its passing.

Colas' eyes were as round as saucers. "Was that a machine?"

Colette nodded. True, she had expected something, but the reality of it was certainly different than she had imagined. Especially the speed.

"Did you notice the man inside, Henri? I think he was guiding it, like a farmer guides his wagon with reins."

Henri nodded. "What do we do now? Follow it? It's at least heading in the direction of Saalfeld."

"Yes," Colette said. "But carefully. You saw how fast that machine moved."

After another mile they found themselves looking at a large rectangular building. They watched from the edge of the woods for almost an hour. Many of the people moving in and out seemed to be young, under the age of twenty. But all appeared to be well-fed and in excellent health. Some left or arrived on two-wheeled vehicles that they steered with their hands. Others got into the metal machines which moved off with loud noises. The machines came in a variety of styles and colors but Colette noted certain commonalities. Every one had four black wheels with a metal looking center. And when they started and moved every one seemed to emit smoke to a greater or lesser degree.

Occasionally words were shouted loud enough for them to hear clearly. Colette realized that all of the people she saw seemed to be speaking English.

"English?" Henri said, when Colette told him. "What is a colony of Englishmen doing in the middle of Thuringia?"

Henri winced when he moved his shoulder. The bullet was still in there. Colette knew they would have to get to a surgeon soon. It needed to be removed. With all of these machines the Englishmen seemed to be master mechanics. Perhaps they had good surgeons as well.

Colette smiled. "Let's go find out. But pretend to know no English. We may find out more if they think we don't understand their language."

"That will not be difficult," grumbled Henri. "I don't know any English. And how is it that you do?"

"Papa hired an English Jesuit, Father Line, to teach me mathematics. I asked him to teach me English as well so I could talk to the merchants who sometimes come to Liege. After learning Latin, Dutch, and German, it wasn't too difficult."

Colas hesitated a moment. "Are you sure, Colette? Maybe these Englishmen are Tilly's soldiers."

"Colas, have you seen any weapons? Any weapons at all?"

Colas shook his head.

"Soldiers would have weapons. These people act as if they are safe," Colette said. "If Tilly's or Hoffman's soldiers were anywhere about, these people would be armed and barricaded or acting with fear. And if they do not know of Tilly's soldiers, then we can obtain their gratitude by warning them."

Colette got to her feet and motioned to Colas and Henri. "Let's go. Henri, keep your sword sheathed. When we get close, start waving."

As they approached the building several of the young people stopped to watch them. When Colette waved at them, they waved back. She heard bits and pieces of their conversation as she got closer.

" … Jeez he's big … Be great power forward with those shoulders … She's pretty … looks like one heck of a sword … " What was "power forward," Colette wondered.

They seemed friendly enough. Colette considered a moment.
"Excusez-moi, savez-vous s'il y a un chirurgien par ici?"

An older boy turned and motioned for a younger blonde-haired boy with glasses to step forward. "Sounds like French to me. Mark, you better handle it."

"My name is Mark." The boy's French was hesitant. He pushed his glasses up his nose. "But I do not speak French well. Would you like to speak with my teacher, Madame Hawkins?"

"Yes, please," replied Colette.

Mark led them inside the building and motioned for them to wait. In less than five minutes Nicole Hawkins arrived. Colette quickly explained their story to Nicole and asked for a surgeon, pointing to the dried blood on Henri's shoulder.

"We have a makeshift hospital right here. Other refugees have been injured, some seriously. Please come with me. Dr. Nichols will take a look at that for you."

The surgeon was an older man, a Moor, who acted in a very competent manner. Once Henri had his jacket and shirt off, Nichols probed and pushed at the wound, watching Henri's face as he did so. He had Nicole translate for him and Colette tried to follow his English.

"The bullet is in there and it has to come out. You already have signs of infection and we will have to clean out the wound channel." Nichols cocked his head at Henri. "How old are you?"

"Forty-nine." Nicole Hawkins translated.

Nichols nodded. "We'll want to keep you under observation for a couple of days to make sure no infection is starting after we operate."

"His immune system isn't as good as a younger person's," Colette heard Nichols mutter. "Better safe than sorry."
What was an "immune system"?

Nichols looked at Nicole. "Where are they staying?"

Nicole shrugged. "No idea. Let me ask them what they want to do."

When Nicole addressed the question to Colette, Colette thought for a moment. "Is there a Catholic Church here? Perhaps the priest has room for us."

Nicole nodded. "Excellent idea. Yes, the churches are opening their doors to refugees. And if you're Catholic, you'll be more comfortable there. I'll drive you myself."

The next few days went by like a dream. Colette went on numerous walks around Grantville. She and Colas visited Henri after his surgery. He was grumpy about staying at the hospital. Dr. Nichols told her, through Nicole Hawkins, that it was necessary to be sure the wound did not become infected, especially seeing as their supply of antibiotics was limited.
What were "antibiotics"? Anti-living? It does not make sense.
But Nichols had assured her that Henri would be released by Thursday evening.

* * *

It was only after the town meeting on Wednesday that the emotional impact of the event everyone was beginning to call the "Ring of Fire" began to hit home for Joshua Modi. Josh was driving Joe back to the house. Both were lost in their own thoughts.

I'll never see my family again,
Josh thought. The tears started to come but he forced them back.
Got to be calm, for Gramps' sake.

The discussion he'd had with Doc Adams had made it clear that there was little that could be done for Joe's diabetes. His only living relative in this universe, his only family inside the Ring of Fire, was going to die. And there was nothing—absolutely nothing—he could do about it.

As they pulled into the driveway of Joe's house on Turnbull Street, Josh cleared his throat. "Gramps? How much insulin do you have?"

"About a four month supply," Joe said calmly. "But I'm giving half of it to David Miklos, the butcher."

"What? Gramps, you can't do that, damn it!"

"I can and I will, Josh. David and I use the same type of insulin but he was just getting ready to order some more when this damn Ring of Fire hit. He has less than a three week supply. And he has a family, Josh."

Joe patted Josh's hand. "I've lived a long, happy life Josh, and I'm seventy-five years old. David is under thirty. He deserves a few extra months with his family. Now come inside. I've got some things to show you."

Josh wanted to argue with his grandfather but he knew it would be useless. And Josh understood how precious the extra time might be for David's family.

* * *

Joe led Josh through the house and down into the basement. The basement was crammed with all kinds of things: a set of barbells, a workout bench, canning jars, three or four toolboxes. Josh spotted two boxes labeled "Josh."

"Are those my old college books?"

Joe grinned. "Yup. Maybe you can find something useful in them for this predicament we find ourselves in."

Josh snorted.
Predicament.
Typical for Gramps to understate the situation. Grantville was in the middle of one of the worst wars in human history, surrounded by potential enemies, and for his grandfather it was a "predicament."

Joe stopped to heave an old trunk out of his way. Then he inserted a key into a lock on a brown metal container about eight feet long and three feet wide. When Joe threw back the lid Josh could do nothing but goggle.

"What the heck is that?"

Joe chuckled and took the large semi-automatic rifle out of the container. To Josh it seemed to ooze lethality.

"I forgot you aren't a gun nut. This is an Italian version of the Garand I used to carry in World War Two. It's called a BM-59. When I saw one in
Shotgun News
I just had to get one for nostalgia's sake. Bought about a thousand rounds of ammo, too. But you'll probably want to give that to the army."

Joe pulled back a blanket on the left side of the container and handed Josh a comic book in a protective plastic slip cover.

Josh looked at his grandfather and smiled. "And how long have you been keeping this a secret? I never knew you collected comic books."

"About forty years," Joe said. "And don't tell anyone or you'll find out what this old man can still do with that BM-59. I get enough ribbing as it is." Joe rubbed his jaw thoughtfully. "I have no idea if these will be worth anything here, but you never can tell.

"The most important part of your inheritance, Josh, will be this house and the rentals down on Clarksburg Street. Property has always been a good investment. With that, and with the money in the Grantville Bank, you should be fine."

Then it hit Josh. His inheritance. "Gramps, what are you saying?"

Joe smiled. "What I'm saying, Josh, is that all of what I own, all that I have, I am giving to you. You have to make a new life for yourself, boy. And this is a damn hostile world for poor people. Just promise me you won't squander it on damn foolishness."

Josh nodded. Tears came to his eyes. This time he did nothing to stop them. "I don't want to inherit anything, Gramps," he said softly. "I want you."

Joe's voice was rough as he patted Josh's shoulder. "I know you do, boy. I know you do. But at least this way I can go to the Lord with the knowledge that you can make a fresh start for yourself. Now promise me you won't screw things up by blowing your inheritance on fast cars and loose women."

Despite himself, Josh chuckled. "I promise, Gramps. I promise."

"I've had my will made up for a long time and you were getting most of it anyway. But I'll need to see an attorney in the next week to revise it. No need to have your mom and dad in the will since they don't even exist in this universe, or whatever the hell it is." Joe hugged his grandson gently. "Let's go upstairs. Got a lot to talk to you about. You don't know much about the people in Grantville, since it's been ten years since you lived here. Like any town, there are some good people and some bad people. The more you know, the better off you'll be."

Josh and his grandfather went upstairs and talked for hours before Joe got tired and fell asleep in his easy chair. Josh carefully covered him with a blanket and went to his own bedroom. But he couldn't sleep. Over and over in his mind the facts churned through his head. His family was gone forever. Joe was going to die. Grantville was in the middle of a ferocious war. And he had no job. What the hell was he going to do with his life?