Eric Flint: 1635: The Eastern Front

Schwab gave Linn a quick, thankful glance. For his part, Thorsten took a deep breath, held it for a few seconds, and then let it out slowly. He'd first discovered that technique for controlling his temper at the age of six.

"Indeed," he said stiffly. Just as stiffly, he gave the corporal a nod. "Thank you for bringing me this message, Schwab. You may go."

After Schwab left, Thorsten lifted the message sheet above his head, as if to slam it down somewhere. But, again, he took a deep breath, held it for a few seconds, and let it out slowly. Then, quite gently, he set the message down on a table in the officers' mess. The table was one of several that had been brought into the large main room of a house very close to the city's center. It was called the "officers' mess," but it was open to what you might call established sergeants like Jason.

Shaking his head, Thorsten pulled out a chair and sat down.

"I can't believe they didn't tell me right away. That was weeks ago."

Jeff Higgins came into the mess. "What was weeks ago?"

"Caroline was there-in Stockholm. When the queen was assassinated and Kristina almost was."

Higgins frowned. "I thought you knew that already."

"Of course I knew. But I didn't know what had happened to her. She was often at Kristina's side. Was she hurt? Killed? There was no news! And with those people in Stockholm, I could hardly assume that no news was good news." The term those people could have been milked for venom.

Jeff pursed his lips. "Um…?Yeah, I see what you mean. They're still pretty traditional up there. That's a polite way of saying 'medieval.' If you're not royalty, nobility or at the very least some sort of official, nobody will think to mention that 'oh, yeah, and Joe the Butcher got killed too.' I take it she is okay? Caroline?"

"Yes, she's fine. As it happens-thank God-she wasn't at the site of the crime when it happened. She was still in her room, packing."

Like many down-timers who associated with Americans a lot, Thorsten was more relaxed about blasphemy than most. Eric Krenz had practically turned it into a art form.

"So how'd you finally find out?" asked Jeff.

Engler looked a bit embarrassed. He nodded at Linn, who had taken a seat at an adjoining table. "It was his idea."

Jason grinned. "He was having the radio guys send queries every other day. Waste of time, of course, because he was sending them as 'Thorsten Engler.'?" Linn jeered. "Who the hell is that? Sounds like a peasant."

Jeff laughed. "So you finally sent one as the imperial count of Narnia. Don't tell me. I bet you got a response the next day."

Thorsten finally smiled. "The same day, actually. I sent it early this morning."

Higgins took a seat next to Linn and folded his big hands on the table. "I'm lucky that way. The radio operators I deal with are CoC on the other end. You think you got problems, Engler? Where do you think my wife is?"

He didn't wait for their guesses. "Dresden. Guess how she got there?"

He didn't wait for their guesses. "Plane crash. Never a dull moment, being married to Gretchen."

Berlin, capital of Brandenburg Province

"So what's the verdict, James?" Mike handed Dr. Nichols a short glass filled halfway with some sort of clear liquid. Liquor, from the smell.

"It's what passes for Korn in Brandenburg," Mike explained. "The wine's marginally better, but I figured you'd want something stronger."

"You got that right." Nichols drank half of it in one gulp, then made a little face. "The stuff in Thuringia is way better. And it's not very good."

Mike smiled thinly. "Welcome to Brandenburg. And I repeat: what's the verdict?"

"Can I sit down first?"

"Oh, sorry. Sure." Mike waved to one of the chairs in his suite. That was one advantage to being billeted in a palace. There was usually plenty of room.

Nichols sagged into the chair. He looked pretty exhausted. He'd been at the king of Sweden's bedside all day, since early in the morning.

Some of the doctor's weariness, though, was probably still due to the rigors of his journey here. That had ended two days ago, but Nichols was about sixty.

The weather had made any sort of plane travel impossible to Berlin. Impossible, at least, for any aircraft with standard landing gear. There had been some days when the weather would have permitted flying, but there was nowhere to land.

The elector of Brandenburg, George William, had refused let an airstrip be built anywhere in Brandenburg. He claimed that was to protect his subjects from aircraft falling on top of them, but the real reason was simply that he resented all of the side effects of the Ring of Fire. If he couldn't make the cursed Americans vanish, at least he didn't have to let them foul his sky with their cursed machines.

As bad as the weather had been-and still was, half the time-there'd been no way to construct an airfield in time. And as it turned out, they couldn't use one of the planes with air-cushioned landing gear. There was only one ACLG plane in regular operation yet, because of a shortage of suitable engines, and it was undergoing major maintenance. Even if the airline had raced to put it back together, Mike would have gotten Gustav Adolf to Berlin by then.

There'd also been a hovercraft used to ferry people and supplies on the Saale that might have managed the job, that Mike had forgotten about. But it wasn't available either. A few months ago, a minerals exploration company had chartered it for use somewhere in the far north.

So, a horse-litter it had been, at a forced pace across rough terrain and with new rainstorms coming every second or third day. Mike had been exhausted when they finally reached Berlin. James' trip hadn't been as rough, but it had been rough enough for a man his age.

The doctor stared moodily into his glass. "It's the head trauma that's really got me worried, Mike."

Mike's eyes widened. "That's…?saying something, given how deadly peritonitis can be."

"Yeah, but I can help that-some, anyway-with surgery. And the antibiotics we've got should help a lot too. Whereas the head trauma…"

Nichols shook his head. "Honestly? There's probably nothing at all I can do. Or anybody can do. We'll just have to wait and hope for the best."

"He's not in a coma, though." That was a statement, not a question. Mike had been with the king throughout the journey from Zbaszyn, and there had been times Gustav Adolf had been…

Well. Not in a coma. You could hardly say "conscious," though. He'd seemed very delirious.

"No, he's not in a coma. But there are lots of ways the brain can be badly affected that don't manifest themselves in a coma, Mike. He's suffered a serious traumatic brain injury from being clubbed half to death, essentially. The skull wasn't broken, but parts of the brain where he was struck were certainly damaged. Possibly other parts, too."

Nichols set down his glass and held up his hands as if he were cupping something the size of…?Well, a skull, actually.

"A live brain has about the same consistency as Jello. It sits inside the skull, which shields it, and it's also sheltered by layers of membranes that are called meninges. It's pretty well protected from most shocks you'd normally encounter day to day. But if your skull gets hammered really hard, then what happens-"

The doctor suddenly jiggled his hands around, very violently. "-your Jello-y brain is essentially being bounced around against your own skull. The worst damage usually happens to the brain tissue nearest the source of the trauma but you can have damage almost anywhere. Call it ricochet damage, if you will."

"All right. Assuming for the moment, though, that the damage is restricted to where he got hit, what's your diagnosis?"

"?'Diagnosis' is way too strong a term, Mike. With this sort of brain injury, there's a lot of guessing at first-and would be, even if we were in the intensive care unit of a major up-time hospital. A lot of the diagnosis of brain injuries has to develop over time, since many of the symptoms are behavioral and-"