Grantville Gazette 38

Grantville, heard their playful competitive banter and watched them roll their dice. War was just a game to them, something to play on a lazy afternoon to bide time until they reached adulthood and set aside their toys. They did not carry the burden of responsibility like he did, day after day. They did not carry the weight of blood on their hands like he did.

Gremminger drew closer as Thomas waited with gun held forward. The rattle of machine gun fire filled his mind. He was an American soldier again, chopping his way through the jungle, throwing grenades down a tunnel, diving for cover as mortar rounds struck his foxhole. The ground shook. Gremminger drew closer, closer. He could see the duke's large, impetuous grin.

At this short distance, the accuracy and power of the weapon increased dramatically. He'd never fired it before, but he knew. The math was so obvious in his mind.

Thomas raised the gun higher, aimed carefully, and fired.

****

Thomas knelt beside Gremminger's body. The shot had torn through the duke's chest and neck. He'd hit the ground, breaking his back. Tiny bits of clavicle stuck out of his ruined shoulder, and Thomas turned the body over and looked into the man's face. It was bloody and wet, part of it torn away as his body, thrown from his horse, had slid over the hard ground. Thomas closed his eyes. What a mess.

With their leader dead, Gremminger's army had fallen back. The Spanish retreated first, what was left of them, followed by the cavalry and then the remaining pike blocks. One entire unit of Gremminger's infantry had not even made the field. Thank God for that, Thomas thought, as he stood and looked over the broken ground. Bodies lay everywhere, and the citizens of Susch picked their way back home, moving through the carnage, looking for loved ones, lost boys. Mothers cried, daughters and young sons wept. Thomas felt like crying too. He had not anticipated the civilian cost of the battle, hadn't factored it into his combat model. He would do better next time.

'You lied to me, Goepfert,' Thomas said, drawing dice from his pocket. 'You dictated that note, didn't you? You knew I would have no choice but to come on word of your death. You led me here, and I could have been killed.'

Goepfert nodded, his injured arm held tightly at his side, his swollen jaw bandaged. He sounded like he had cloth in his mouth, but he spoke as clearly as he could. 'Yes, My Lord, and I apologize for that. If you wish to reprimand me, I'm prepared to face your father. But I hope you understand why I did it. You're a brilliant young man, Thomas, but war is more than mathematics. Those numbers on your blocks represent real flesh and blood. In your heart, I know that you know this, but you must experience it, not as an assistant, but as a man and a commander. Do you understand?'

Thomas rubbed the dice in his hand. He nodded. 'Yes, I do.' He opened his hand and counted the pips. 'I'm not cut out for field command, am I?'

Goepfert sighed and shook his head. 'No, you are not. But in time, you could be. You showed great bravery today, if not a little impetuousness there at the end. But you stood your ground and made a decision. You just need to set down those dice and apply yourself.'

'Are you nuts?' Thomas said, remembering a famous line from an American general during World War II. He gripped the dice and blew into his fist. 'I'm more convinced now than ever that I'm right. My plan worked. It was costly, yes, and I made some mistakes. I didn't put enough emphasis on how a superior force, just by its sheer presence, impacts the overall psychology of the battlefield. I'll do better next time. But we won today. We own the field.'

Goepfert nodded. 'We own it today, my lord, but tomorrow? I'm not so sure. The Gremminger family will not take this lightly. His daughter will seek vengeance, and what of the Hapsburgs? I dare say we've not heard the last of them.'

Numbers passed through Thomas' mind, blocks moved, and dice rolled. 'We'll worry about all that tomorrow.' He stepped over Gremminger's body and placed his hand on Goepfert's shoulder. 'For now, let's regroup and pull back to the security of the Fluelapass. Oh, and find Elsinger and Arnet. I want you all in my tent by sundown.'

The captain nodded. 'What for?'

Thomas opened his hand and revealed his dice. Box-cars.

He smiled. 'I have a plan.'

The Play's the Thing

Bradley H. Sinor and Tracy S. Morris

Mirari Semsa looked up with a start when the front door of her chocolate shop slammed open so hard that she feared it would come off the hinges.

Elizabeth 'Betsy' Springer's familiar, lanky redheaded form made a beeline across the room, weaving in and out of patrons to get to Mirari's personal table in the far corner. Two recently hired waitresses dodged out of the way as she passed, barely keeping a hold on the plates they were carrying. A few of the customers looked up, the expressions on several of their faces showed that they recognized the newcomer.

'Hello Betsy,' Mirari said.

The young girl leaned across the table and looked down at the Basque woman.

'If I see him again, I'll kill him and I will do it slowly, very, very slowly.' She raised one hand, finger pointed skyward for emphasis. 'I'll cut his heart out with a fork. No! I'll use spoon!'

Mirari took a sip of her chocolate, set the glass down and smiled at her guest. 'Why a spoon?'

'It'll hurt more!'

'Why don't you sit down and tell me what my dear cousin Denis has done?' Mirari waved to an empty chair in invitation.

Betsy dropped into the chair on the opposite side of the table and glanced back toward the front door as if expecting the devil himself to be standing there. Mirari thought she could hear her friend counting backwards, first in English then in Latin, which surprised her, since she hadn't been aware that the young redhead knew any Latin.

In the few months since they had met, the reporter had become one of her favorite people in Grantville. Betsy was a little quirky, definitely not like the young women that Mirari had grown up around. That was something she liked about these American women; they were not inclined to follow the path expected of a seventeenth- century woman, which suited Mirari quite well.

'It's not Denis! He's one of my best friends,' said Betsy finally. 'It's that supreme idiot Albert!'

'Albert?' Mirari blinked in confusion. 'I'm not really sure who you are talking about. Personally, I know four Alberts, so you need to be a wee bit more specific.'

Betsy leaned back in her chair and covered her face with one hand. 'There can be only one! Albert Haleman! His family lives southeast of here. For some damn reason that I don't understand he's decided that he and I are soul mates and that we should get married and have eight or twelve or twenty kids.'

'Big families can be a good thing,' Mirari said cautiously. She had five brothers and three sisters-at least those were the ones that her father would admit to. Things did get a bit crowded at the dinner table, but there was always someone to talk with and to take your side in an argument.

Betsy sat up straight again to throw Mirari an incredulous look. 'I don't mind having kids! I actually like the idea. Someday. A long time from now. After I'm secure in my reporting career. And not with . . . ' Her face twisted like she'd just tried lutefisk. 'Albert. '

Mirari smiled in amusement. 'So how did Albert get the idea that you two should marry?'

'I owed Albert's cousin, Hans, a favor for an interview. He said 'Let me set you up on a blind date with my cousin Albert.' She puffed out her chest and cheeks while lowering her voice in an imitation of what had to be Hans. ''Then we'll be even,' he said. 'He's curious about Americans. It would only be once,' he said. Unfortunately, he neglected to tell Albert that this was a onetime only event. Now the idiot thinks we're made for each other, and that I just have to realize it. He won't take no for an answer!'