Ring of Fire III (12 page)

Farrell nodded and looked back at the letter. With the success of the Monster, orders had poured in to M&S Aviation. Unfortunately, planes had not poured out. The issue for M&S was the same as the issue for all the other aircraft manufacturers: engines or at least affordable engines. The tiny little wedge in the door that leads to the industrial revolution was producing goods, but not enough to go around. There weren’t enough factory-made engines, not for airplanes and not for anything else either.

The Gustavs under government contract had first priority, especially in terms of up-time engines. The new down-time-built radial engines were just beginning to appear and were pretty darned expensive being partly handmade themselves. M&S was second in line, after the government, for those because of its involvement in their development. But that didn’t mean that they got all the engines that the government didn’t want. Radials were, in theory, being built by two companies in the USE, which were in turn getting several of their parts from other companies. Swartz Aviation was where M&S was getting their radials. The company had produced just eight engines so far. Four of the eight had gone to the air force; the other four had put the J3 into the air. Farrell didn’t really trust them. They were prone to breakdowns, which was not a good thing in an aircraft engine. The J4 had had its design tweaked to suit the new radials after M&S’s experience with the J3. So, once they got another set of four engines, they had the airframe ready for them.

“What’s DKL saying?” Merton asked.

“More delays.” DKL Power Systems had followed closely in Swartz Aviation’s footsteps and had just finished its test engine. They insisted that they had most of the parts for the next half-dozen. But there were delays as people constantly underestimated the stresses that internal combustion put on engines. DKL had gone with a heavier nine-cylinder design that was supposed to deliver a bit over two hundred horsepower. Not that it mattered to M&S, because when Farrell had approached them he was informed that it would be six months at least before DKL Power Systems could start on new orders. Farrell didn’t know which companies were ordering the new engines, but aside from the Kitts, the Kellys and the USE Air Force, there were three other aircraft manufacturers still trading on the Grantville exchange: one in Essen, one outside of Magdeburg and one in Brandenburg of all places. And that didn’t count the privately-held companies or the government-backed programs in nations all over Europe. There had been a lot more right after the Belle flew, but most of them had folded since, finding the making of airplanes beyond their capability and all too often finding it out the hard way.

“What about Lufen?” Merton asked.

“No, absolutely not. I am not putting a jet engine near a composite wing. Even if they ever do get it to work without burning up.” Lufen Jet Works was trying to build a jet engine using ceramics to handle the heat. They were using a small, low-horsepower four-cylinder engine to run fan compressors and force air into a combustion chamber. The jets would—if it ever worked—deliver thrust only, but—again, if it worked—it would let a twenty-five-horsepower engine produce thrust equivalent to around two hundred horsepower, because all the twenty-five-horsepower engine would actually be doing was providing air to the jet. From what Farrell had heard, it would be an amazing fuel hog, but would be able to use just about any liquid fuel in the main combustion chamber. There were quite a few groups like that, trying different things to see what would work. The combination of the information in the State Library and lots of bright people doing lots of different experiments was producing some weird results and an incredible number of expensive and sometimes fatal failures.

In any case, with the amount of work they had to do and the number of mostly finished aircraft components that were sitting waiting for engines and final assembly meant that M&S had simply run out of room. They had needed a new shop for months and since it looked like RDA was planning to go its own way, M&S was in final negotiations for a piece of land near Magdeburg. Georg was up there now looking over the shop. He was going to run the Magdeburg plant so that Farrell could stay in Grantville. Now this. The king in the Low Countries was offering to buy controlling interest in M&S Aviation for a fairly tidy sum—with the agreement that they move their main manufacturing facility to Brussels.

“So after stealing our designs didn’t work, they want to buy us out?”

Merton just shrugged again.

Farrell wasn’t surprised, really. Anyone that had something that might fly had three copycats by the end of the week and M&S had the Mercury, only a couple of which had been built and one had suffered a fatal crash. And the Saturn, one of which had been built and was flying. And finally the Jupiter, three in actual operation and another when they got the engines from Swartz Aviation. Of course, they had copycats. Hell, they probably had copycats in every major country in Europe, almost all of which were waiting on engines and most of which would crash within minutes of their first takeoff if they ever got them. “Well, what do you think? You own twenty-five thousand shares of the company.”

“Get real, Dad. M and S Aviation is your deal. The shares you gave us when you and Georg started it...it was nice and all, but it’s your baby.”

* * *

Georg stared at the ribbons and seal. “King Fernando wants to buy us now, yes?”

“So I’m told,” Magdalena said. “And this whole thing of landing in Grantville, then taking the train to Magdeburg is just silly. I’m going to mention that when I get back. Again.” Once you were a flyer, trains were just plain slow.

“I only just got this operation up and moving, Maggie.”

“You’d like Brussels,” Magdalena coaxed. The more she thought about marrying Georg, the more she wanted to. Besides, the apartment in Brussels was just plain lonesome.

“Farrell doesn’t want to leave Grantville.”

“Have you asked?”

* * *

Nearly every up-time face in Cora’s new outdoor eating area turned away from Mary. Which just really ticked her off.

“Well, the king is offering top dollar,” she said loudly. “But that’s not the reason we’re considering it. We’re mostly considering it because this place is a backwoods dive where everybody knows your business and isn’t afraid to start bossing you around. For your own good, of course.”

After weeks and weeks of remarks, Mary was at the end of her patience. She and Farrell had decided to vote against the sale. Right up to the moment she’d read an article in the
Grantville Times
that out-and-out accused Farrell and Georg of treason.

Flo Richards chuckled. “You go, girl.”

“Easy for you to say, Flo. They’re not accusing you of treason—
which it isn’t
!”

The loudness of the last three words made Flo flinch. “I know that. And you never know. J. D. and I may go somewhere. You can’t really raise that many sheep in these dratted hills. And I had a lot of fun on the trip to Amsterdam, you know.”

“I’m stifled,” Mary said. “This town is stifling. And it’s getting worse, with all this publicity.”

“It’ll blow over. Nobody was fool enough to take up that bill and try to get it passed. Besides, you wouldn’t have had to sell the company, anyway, if it did pass. Just dissolve it, then move as a private person.” Flo snorted. “I can’t believe some of those idiot politicians.”

Cora bustled up with their coffee, including one for herself. “You know, Mary, I think you’re right. There are too many people who are only too willing to tell a person what they ought to do these days.” She raised her voice. “I’m thinking about selling out and moving to Bamberg myself. Get away from all these old fogies.”

Then she winked at Mary and Flo. “See how they like that one.”

* * *

“What’s the matter, Mary?” Farrell had been wondering that for weeks. Mary had gotten quieter and quieter since her mother’s death from flu in January.

“Grantville’s just not the same anymore.” Mary sighed. “Mom’s gone. So many people have moved away. Judy and John are talking about moving down to Bamberg now that the capitol is there. Merton’s moved to Brussels and we only see him twice a month or so. I guess I’m just...I don’t know...stale. Just tired and stale and I’d like a change.”

Farrell kind of felt that there had been plenty of change in the last five years, but in another way he did understand. It was sort of like empty nest syndrome, only different. He and Mary weren’t exactly retirement age—and God knew there wasn’t any kind of retirement system—but they’d often talked about what they’d do once they did retire. Most of that talk had been about getting out of Grantville, going someplace warm in the winter and cooler in the summer. Traveling in Europe, Canada and Mexico.

“Well, I think the ‘buy an RV’ idea has pretty much bitten the dust,” Farrell said. “But we could try Magdeburg. Or Bamberg, if you want to be near Judy.”

“I want something for us, babe,” Mary said. “We always talked about what we’d do for us, once all the responsibilities were taken care of. About what we’d do when we weren’t stifled anymore.”

“Well, we did get that once-in-a-lifetime trip to Europe we talked about.”

Mary grinned. “Indeed we did. Why don’t we do something with it? We haven’t seen London yet. We always wanted to go there. And Athens. Rome. Naples. And, well, everywhere.”

“Ah...”

“Yes, dear. I know. We hadn’t planned on it being the year 1636. But we do have planes now. It’s just a matter of getting enough of them. Before you know it, there will be tourist traps all along the Med, just like back up-time.”

Her husband gave her the “you’re being silly” look. Mary knew perfectly well that “before you know it” in this case meant fifteen or twenty years.

“Well, maybe not tourist traps like we had up-time. On the other hand if you’re one of the owners of Boeing... Which we are—” That look again. “—close enough. Magdeburg is a start, at any rate. We ought to be able to take a hop to Brussels and visit Merton. We’re stockholders, after all. I can’t see how RDA won’t add a route to Magdeburg from Brussels, sooner or later. It’s Gustav’s headquarters. The pilots have to come pick up the planes, and dropping them off in Grantville to take the train is, well, silly, seems to me. And I bet they’ll put Bamberg on a route, sometime. All those government functions, you know.”

“We can get tickets if we want them,” Farrell conceded. “Even do a charter if they don’t open a route soon enough to suit us.”

“Georg is going to run the Brussels plant. King Fernando made him an offer he couldn’t refuse.”

“Then it’s doubly important for you to visit Brussels often. You know how Georg is. He’ll be trying to handle the paperwork while covered in fiberglass.”

Milton’s Choice

Mark Huston

The power of Kings and Magistrates is nothing else, but what is only derivative, transferred and committed to them in trust from the People, to the Common good of them all, in whom the power yet remains fundamentally, and cannot be taken from them, without a violation of their natural birthright.

—John Milton

“I demand to be let out of here. There is no reason for you to keep me in this prison! I demand—” Milton’s loud protestation was cut short. He didn’t see the guard’s fist streaking toward him in the half-light of the prison cell. The blow caught him in the side of the face, squarely on his cheek. The guard laughed as Milton fell back into the cell, stunned.

He lay sprawled half aware and bleeding on the floor. The floor smelled like a sewer, and was slippery under the rancid straw. It was the smell, combined with the surprise and the pain that nearly caused him to pass out. He was brought back to his senses by a kick in the ribs.

“Wake up, John Milton! Ye be here by royal order!” Milton half rolled on his side as the guard was flexing his fingers inside his weighted leather glove. The guard smiled down at him “Any more questions?”

Milton blinked a couple of times, and tried to stand. “On what grounds am I being held? Why am I here? Why was I grabbed on the road, minding my own business, and trussed off to this godforsaken Gatehouse Prison?” He used the wall as his support until he was standing, leaning against the back wall of the cell while he fought the dizziness from the blow.

The guard smiled at him again. “Why indeed? Why was ye caught makin’ your way t’ Kent, t’ the sea? Per’aps to ’scape t’ the continent? Carryin’ your traitorous messages back to your masters? And don’t disparage me prison. Gatehouse Prison ha’ seen many a fine lord, finer than you. We not be as fancy as the Tower, but we be close to Whitehall.”

Struggling to regain his equilibrium, Milton spoke quietly. “I have done nothing since I left Cambridge except study. This is ridiculous. You are an imbecile.” He could no longer contain his temper, and he began to shout again. “Will someone with the ability to reason at a level above that of a dog come here soon to relieve you? You are tedious. Now be off and bring me some answers.”

The guard swept Milton’s feet out from under him, and he landed hard on the stone floor, crying out in pain and surprise. “Fer someone who’ s’posed t’ be so bloody smart, ye are one slow learner, ain’t ye?”

“Why in the name of all that is holy are you doing this to me? By what right—” His words were cut off by another boot to the ribs. This time there was an audible
crack
as boot broke bone. Milton shrieked, clutched his right side, and rolled in the filth towards the wall, curling into a ball, whimpering.

“Ye got no such thing as a ‘right,’ you traitorous bastard. And soon ye will join the other ‘fine lords’ we have sent to the block already.” Milton winced as he saw the guard pull his leg back to deliver another kick, when a command was shouted from the corridor. John risked a small turn of his head.

“Wilson! Hold! Wha’ are you doing?”

The guard’s head snapped around, and he smiled. “Jus’ teachin’ ’im some rules. Manners as it were, sir. That’s all.”