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Eric Flint: 1634: The Ram Rebellion

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Eric Flint 1634: The Ram Rebellion

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He emitted the familiar response he remembered from high school. “Uh. Well. Yeah.”

That firm, detestable headshake.

“Not in the least. That’s true in eastern Europe, if I remember correctly, but it’s not true here. Mind you, my memory of the details of German social history in the early modern period is a little vague, now. I haven’t studied the subject since college, because it’s not something we teach in this high school. Or any high school in America, so far as I know. But I remember enough to tell you that land relations in Germany in this day and age are a tangled mare’s nest. If we approach it the wrong way, we’re just as likely to infuriate the farmers as the nobility, which is the last thing we want to do.”

She rose, moved over to one of the bookcases in the living room, and deftly plucked out two of the volumes there. “I’ve still got some of the relevant books, fortunately, and I’ve been refreshing my memory these past few days.”

Then, as Mike feared she would, she came over and handed one of them to him.

Blessedly, the more slender volume.

“Start with this one. It’s Barraclough’s The Origins of Modern Germany and it’s still-for my money, anyway-the best general history on the subject, even though it was written half a century ago.”

Quickly, and as surreptitiously as possible, he flipped to the end of the book.

Not surreptitiously enough, of course.

“Oh, grow up,” she said. “It’s not even five hundred pages long. You can read it in a few days. What’s so funny?”

Despite himself, Mike had started chuckling.

“Dante’s Inferno was shorter than this, and you gave us a month to read that one.”

“You were a callow youth, then. Besides, it was in terza rima and this is simple prose. So stop whining. Now . . .”

A moment later, the other book-the great, fat, monstrous tome-was deposited firmly in his lap. It was all he could do not to groan.

“Then read this one.”

The size of the thing would have been bad enough. The title-Economic History of Europe, for the love of God-made it even worse.

“For Pete’s sake, Mike, it’s just a book. Stop hefting it as if I were asking you to lift weights.”

“Be easier,” he muttered. “What’d they print it on? Depleted uranium?”

She returned to her seat. “Make fancy speeches, get elected the big shot, pay the price. No pain, no gain. And if you think that book looks like a bitch, wait’ll you-we, I should say-run into the real world.”

And that, too, he remembered. Such an oddly contradictory woman.

“Isn’t that word politically incorrect?”

“Sure is. Ain’t life a bitch?”

She was grinning, now, nothing cool about it.

* * *

Walking back to his house-listing, some, from the weight of the books tucked under his arm-Mike started muttering to himself.

“Point three. I almost certainly wish I hadn’t.”

* * *

The worst of it, of course, was that it wasn’t true, and Mike knew it. In the times coming, the books would look like a piece of cake, compared to the real world.

It’s complicated . . . coming from Melissa Mailey . . .

“Damn,” he muttered. “Can’t we just dump some tea leaves in a harbor somewhere, storm a famous prison or two, and be done with it?”

Birdie’s Farm

Gorg Huff and Paula Goodlett

Part I:

June 1631

Birdie Newhouse stood on his back porch and looked over his farm. Looked over, in fact, what was left of his farm. The farm was a little chunk of Appalachian valley, which was abruptly cut off by a German granite wall. The farm had been about half again as big before the Ring of Fire, but even then it hadn’t been big enough to make a real living.

Birdie had everything a man needed to make a real farm. There was a tractor, a plow, the works. He even had some livestock, chickens and a couple of hogs. The only thing he didn’t have was the land.

Out to one side of the remainder of the farm, there was a little bit of field that you could plow, if you were real careful about the contouring. Most of his farm, though, consisted of skinny trees holding on to the hillside for dear life. A dry creek ran through the middle of the property. The creek was going to stay dry, unfortunately. The German land on the other side of the cliff tilted the wrong way to feed the creek.

Birdie’s eyes lost some of their worry as he again noticed the wellhead for the natural gas well on his land. He was more thankful every day that he had gone ahead and converted his equipment to work on natural gas. Willie Ray Hudson had made that suggestion several years ago. Birdie was glad he had listened.

Much to his disgust, Birdie simply didn’t have enough land. Even worse, the little bit of land that the Ring of Fire had left him was mortgaged to the Grantville Bank. There was plenty of land on the other side of the cliff created by the Ring of Fire, including a village about a mile beyond it. It wasn’t much of a village, according to Birdie’s sons Haskell and Trent, who’d been patrolling the area with the UMWA guys. But they said the land was good.

“Birdie,” his wife called, interrupting his thoughts, “staring at that wall won’t undo the Ring of Fire. Come inside. It’s time for dinner.”

“Be right in, Mary Lee,” Birdie answered, all the while thinking, There’s land on the other side of the Ring Wall, if only I can get it.

“What do you think Mr. Walker will say?” Mary Lee asked as he was sitting down to dinner. When she was worried about something she couldn’t just leave it alone, she had to talk about whatever it was.

“Don’t know. Coleman’s a decent enough sort but he’s still a banker. The Ring of Fire took a third of our land. From where he’s sitting, that means we have two-thirds the collateral for our loan. On the other hand, there’s a fair bit of property that the bank is gonna get, chunks of land where the owners were outside the ring. Anyway, I think he’d rather extend the loan if he can see his way clear to do it. Maybe he’ll give us six months to work something out.”

“And what will we have in six months that we don’t have now?”

“Well, I’ve been giving that some thought while I was staring at that damn wall. Maybe, just maybe, I have a solution.” He then refused to say another word on the matter, much to Mary Lee’s dismay. Birdie loved teasing her like that. It still worked, even after almost thirty years.

* * *

Birdie had an appointment with Coleman Walker, but didn’t get to talk to him. Coleman was busy trying to set up some kind of money changing business for the Emergency Committee. Instead, Edgar came out to meet him, and escorted him to an office, chattering all the way.

“You know, Mr. Newhouse,” Edgar said, “here at the bank, we know that the farmers are going to be really important to the success of Grantville. There’s been a lot of talk about that. The Emergency Committee got involved and asked, well, demanded, to tell the truth about it, that the Bank put a hiatus on calling in any farm loans for at least a year. Mr. Walker agreed to it, right smartly, too.”

Birdie thought that was something of a miracle, all by itself. Getting Coleman Walker to agree to anything “right smartly” hadn’t ever happened in Birdie’s experience.

“Don’t get me wrong, Edgar,” Birdie responded, “Coleman’s always been a good sort. But, there’s got to be a catch in there, somewhere. Spit it out.”

“I don’t know all the details, Mr. Newhouse. Mr. Walker talked to Mike and Willie Ray, as well as J. D. Richards and some other teachers from the Tech School. It seems that the problem, well, one of the problems, is the stock of seeds we have here. We don’t have enough improved crop seeds. And there’s something about hybrid seeds not breeding true. And even if they did, there still isn’t enough.”

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