1633

Mike cocked his head, listening. He could hear what sounded like a low murmur in the distance. Words were impossible to make out, but he knew that was the sound of a huge crowd in the making. He recognized the odd feeling it gave to the air itself, like an echo in a cavern. He'd felt it before, from time to time, when he'd participated in mass demonstrations in Washington, D.C. called by the labor movement.

Except the crowd at those demonstrations had not been angry so much as simply resolved to exercise-as the First Amendment to the Bill of Rights put it-"the right of the people peaceably to assemble, and to petition the Government for a redress of grievances."

But that right was not established in the CPE as a whole, even if it had been in the new United States. And, in any event, the population of Magdeburg was not one accustomed to the fine etiquette of a long-established democratic society. That they were gathering in the city to demand a redress of grievances was clear. It was also clear to Mike, just listening to the undertone of fury in that distant murmur, that the crowd was going to be paying little attention to any notions of "petition" and "peaceable assembly."

"It's blowing wide open," he pronounced. "The news from Wismar must have been the last straw."

General Torstensson was gazing at him with a kind of detached curiosity. As if he was an observer of a heretofore unfamiliar phenomenon, interested to hear what a self-professed expert might have to say on the subject.

Simpson was frowning. He, clearly enough, was simply confused.

"But… why? We won at Wismar! Whatever else-whatever it cost us-that much is crystal clear. Why are they angry? Why aren't they celebrating?"

For a moment, Mike felt a flash of anger. For all that he'd come to understand and respect Simpson-even, to a degree, develop a certain liking for the man-he was forcefully reminded of the enormous gap that still existed between them. In the end, Simpson would always look at the world from the top down. Mike, no matter how high he rose, from the bottom up.

Try watching men you love choking their lives out with black lung, you rich bastard, fighting the companies tooth and nail-and their so-called "experts" and 90% of the government-for every dime they can get. Try-

He broke off the thought. Snapped it off, rather. This was no time for it.

"Why are they angry? Well, John, let's start with the fact that for fifteen years they've watched Germany's princes-and every other prince in the world except maybe Gustav Adolf-grind their lives under. Even Gustav is only on probation, as far as they're concerned. Add to that the fact that their lives before the war weren't exactly a commoner's paradise."

He shook his head. "Wismar didn't make them angry. Anger, they already had-anger and rage and grief and bitterness, drunk to the dregs. And I can guarantee you that the spectacle they've been watching right here in Magdeburg for the past few weeks"-Mike pointed a rigid and accusing finger in the direction of the palace where the Chamber of Princes had been holding their sessions-"did nothing but rub salt in the wounds. Once again, Germany's princes will bicker and dawdle and protect their privileges, while Germany's millions stare at their blood and intestines spilling on the ground."

Torstensson grunted. The sound was that of a detached observer, acknowledging that the expert had made a valid point.

"What Wismar did," Mike continued, "was finally crack their doubt. Not doubt in the princes-they've long ago given up any faith in princes-but doubt in their own ability to do anything about it."

He took a long, almost shuddering breath, fiercely controlling his own grief. "Hans Richter didn't simply destroy a Danish warship, John," he said softly. "He also broke the last chain the princes had on Germany. When all is said and done, he belongs to them. Not us. Or, at least, we only had a part of him. We can give whatever medals we want to that part. But Germany's people will lift his memory to the skies, and use it for their own standard. And that standard-don't doubt this for a moment-is a battle standard. The standard of people who, for the first time, think they can win. Understand for the first time, really, that 'winning' can even be a part of their world."

"True," pronounced Torstensson. "The first elements of the crowd moving toward the palace were chanting his name when I left the palace grounds. And, as you say, it was a battle cry." He smiled thinly. "I know the sound of such."

"But-" Simpson shook his head. "Who are they going to fight? Here, I mean?"