1634: Turn Your Radio On

Turn Your Radio On

Wood Hughs

Second Chance Bird

Essen Steel

Joseph Hanauer

No Ship for Tranquebar

The Danish Scheme

Published by Ring of Fire Press

East Chicago, IN, U.S.A.

http://www.1632.org

Portions have been previously published in the
Grantville Gazette
.

Copyright © 2013 by Wood Hughs

All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form.

A Ring of Fire Press Original.

This book is an example of a new project we're launching in the 1632 series.  We're publishing e-books under the imprint of Ring of Fire Press, consisting of two kinds of materials.  

The first are reissues -- sometimes expanded and/or rewritten -- of stories which were originally serialized in the Grantville Gazette.  These stories were simply too long to be included in any of the paper anthologies published by Baen Books.  At the same time, we felt it would be useful (and hopefully popular) to put them together in unitary volumes so that people who want to re-read them, or read them for the first time, don't have to hunt for them scattered over a number of separate issues of the magazine. 

The second type are also reissues taken from the Grantville Gazette; in this case, compilations of fact articles on the same (or similar) subjects.  We used to reissue fact articles along with stories in the paper editions published by Baen Books.  But beginning with the change in format with Grantville Gazette V, where we switched from a direct one-to-one reprint of magazine issues to anthology-style "best of" collections taken from half a dozen issues, we stopped reissuing fact articles altogether.  Again, we felt it would be useful (and hopefully popular) to put together unitary e-book volumes devoted to a single topic or closely related set of topics.  That way, people interested in the subject matter don't have to hunt for the separate articles scattered across many issues of the magazine.

This is being done in consultation and with the agreement of Baen Books.  As before, Baen will continue to publish the paper editions of the Ring of Fire series, as well as the e-book formats of those volumes.  The material we will be publishing as Ring of Fire Press is material that Baen would not be publishing.  

For those interested, it will also be possible to purchase paper editions of the Ring of Fire Press volumes on a print-on-demand basis. 

Eric Flint

June 2013

Turn Your Radio On

by

Wood Hughes

April 1634, Grantville, State of Thuringia-Franconia, United States of Europe

"Der Kronz" was in an exuberant mood as he walked into the Voice of America offices, whistling an up-timer tune by the name of "Do the Hustle" and without a care in the world.

That lasted until he ran into his boss.

"To top everything else off," John Grover growled ten minutes later, "Art Berry's set up a deal with
your
Pentecostals to demonstrate how his remote relay system works by broadcasting one of their revivals live."

"
My
Pentecostals?" Marc Kronzburg replied, a little defensive. "When did they become
my
Pentecostals? I sell advertising, remember? And I'm Jewish."

Late September 1631, Camburg a.d. Saale, Thuringia

It was the screams that woke him. As Dieter Fischer regained consciousness, he felt again the pain of the deep gash on his forehead and the scrapes from being knocked so brutally to the ground by the mercenary with that Swedish sword.

At the sound of a building collapsing from the raging fire that engulfed it, he opened his eyes. The flames that reflected off of the blood pooled around his head stole his attention, until he again heard the screams. He knew the girl. Just this June he had performed her confirmation. She was the first Christian he'd confirmed on this, his first call, taking on his own church after his predecessor's untimely death in late May.

Now she was naked, being brutally raped by a gang of mercenaries right in front of his eyes.

His first thought was to save her, but his body had other ideas. It had decided that he had already done enough and was going to continue to lie there as if dead like the mercenaries believed him to be.

That’s when she opened her eyes. In the midst of her degradation, her vivid violet eyes seemed to stare right at him. Tears streamed down her cheeks as she seemingly pled for his intervention or forgiveness for what she was enduring.

He lay still, captivated by her anguish. He couldn’t help but watch until he was finally able to close his eyes amidst the sounds of even more carnage. After the Protestant victory over the Catholic mercenary armies at Breitenfeld, his parish of Camburg had been excited at the prospect of the strong Swedish Lutheran King who could protect them against the evil forces of Tilly. The council even authorized sending a portion of the militia off to reinforce the victorious Lutheran forces, leaving just enough to man their village keep in the upper castle walls. So when the approaching mercenaries under the Swedish flag were spotted coming down the old Salt Road, they were welcomed as heroes.

Once inside the walled compound, however, the leader pulled his saber and gutted the mayor. Another soldier swung his sword in an attempt to cut off the head of Reverend Dieter Fischer. Only Fischer's quick reaction had allowed the blade to cut his forehead instead of his neck.

Now, Fischer's body had had enough. It let his mind know that it was taking charge until the dangers were past. As he felt his consciousness flow away, his final thought was, "God
damn
the Swedes!"

October 1631, Northern Franconia

The "Snow Plow," Ake Henriksson Tott, leaned over his saddle to get a better look at the prisoners. The field marshal about whom Gustavus II Adolphus had bragged "He'll sweep his opposition aside so the rest of the army just has to follow along behind" was hopeful that this was the end to a diversion of military resources. Resources he could ill afford at this critical point.

A motley bunch they were, he thought, even under the conditions that prevailed in the Central Germanies.

"Are these the last of them, Captain Leslie?" he asked.

"Aye, sir," replied Captain David Leslie of the Scottish cavalry command in service to the Swedish king.

"When we caught up with them . . . " Leslie gestured at the captives. " . . . these ever-dependable Saxons and the rest tried to bluff their way through. Then we ordered a search and found the Swedish flag they'd stolen. As well as a few other baubles stolen as they fled the battle. That's when they decided to put up a bit of a struggle.”

The flag had been in the Swedish supply trains at Breitenfeld. The Saxon forces had paused to loot it after their rout at the hands of Tilly’s Catholic army early on September seventeenth. At that point, it seemed like the Lutheran army was done for. But then Gustav Adolph had turned the battle around and destroyed the Catholic army, coming out with a decisive victory.

"Most died right there, but these—" Leslie sniffed. "These fine laddies threw down their arms and offered to come into the service of the king. Of course, I'm not seeing where they might have had other options at the time.

"My men have heard them admit to their crimes of pillaging Camburg under a false flag, and ask forgiveness. I guess the damned papist idea of confession runs deep in their souls, even if the Saxons have been Lutheran for a century. Anyway, it's them all right. The rest are dead. What shall I do with them, Field Marshall?"

Tott wiped the beads of sweat from his balding pate and shook his hand to loosen the hairs that he had lost in doing so. Never taking his eyes off the prisoners, he pulled on his goatee. "Hang them. We need to move on south as fast as we can." Tott pulled his horse around to ride back to headquarters with his guard.

June 1632, somewhere in Thuringia

Much to his amazement, Fischer was looking through the grass at something that couldn't exist.

The thing rapidly moved past him as he lay in tall grass beside the road. It somewhat resembled paintings of siege machines, boxy but made of metal, and it moved faster than any horse Fischer had ever seen. Then there was the noise that it made, a low roaring noise like a blast furnace in hell, with a smell unlike any he could remember.

After raising his head to make sure no others were in sight, Fischer got up and walked into the middle of the road. What kind of tracks were these? He kneeled down in the late spring snow encrusting the roadway and placed his finger into one of the tracks on the road. It was freshly embossed into the mud with a curious pattern. The track was deep, up to his first knuckle. After a moment, he brought the finger up to touch his forehead.

The scar seems to have healed. And the Other self has gone away. I wonder how long it's been this time?
Fischer felt the long strands of black hair flowing down over his collar and concluded that it must have been only a few months.
Less than a year at the most since..
.

Since what?

There was the occasional memory of snaring a rabbit, or catching fish with his bare hands in the middle of an ice-cold stream. Things that his body had needed his consciousness to take care of. Little survival skills his father had taught him as a boy as they fled Upper Austria and Tilly's armies in the 1620s.

He could remember that part of his life. He could remember how many cities had refused his family entrance due to their citizenship laws. He could remember his father finally finding shelter for his family in Wittenberg and his attending the university there, his ordination, but since then . . .

Curious. I wonder where the thing came from?
Looking around again, he rose and decided to follow the embossed tracks back to their point of origin.

Grantville, New United States

Fischer was still amazed at this city from the future. He'd been warmly received and directed to the refugee center located by the power plant. He'd been staying there since his arrival a few weeks earlier.

He'd gladly pitched in with the required labor gang work that was requested of him in exchange for his room and board. This week was digging new footings for some kind of stone tower the up-timers were building just outside the edge of the Ring of Fire cut. It was hard work, but very satisfying. Someone had even registered him to vote in future elections for the newly created New United States. Clearly, this future had much to offer.

Even if there were no Lutheran churches.

On this night, like many others since he'd gotten here, he was walking around town seeing the incredible things that man had—or would have—accomplished in another three hundred years. That's when he heard the music.