An apprentice escorted Artemisia Gentileschi into the stifling studio. She was expected.
"Maestra Gentileschi, my dear, how pleasant to see you!" Gian Lorenzo Bernini stood in the middle of his studio. The young sculptor's handsomeness was barely diminished by a layer of rock dust. Apprentices and journeymen worked busily on busts and other statuary.
"It is good to see you, Cavaliere," Artemisia Gentileschi said.
"Enough of this 'cavaliere' nonsense, Artemisia. We've known each other too long for such formalities."
"And we've known each other too long for me to believe you didn't know I was in Rome, Gian Lorenzo."
Bernini laughed. "You always did have the measure of me. You are correct of course; I knew of your arrival almost instantly. Come, let's sit on the balcony and talk. It will be more pleasant there."
Bernini motioned to the apprentice who'd shown Artemisia into the studio. "You! Bring wine for Maestra Gentileschi and myself." The young man scrambled to obey.
The two artists spent some time catching up. Gian Lorenzo Bernini was far more adept at making enemies than friends, but Artemisia Gentileschi was a friend. Though Bernini painted a little, it was working the stone that he loved, and Artemisia supposed that the main reason they got along was because the sculptor didn't view her as a rival for commissions. They were also both second-generation artists, a relative rarity. When small talk and nostalgia had run its course, Bernini decided to get to the heart of the matter.
"What is it that brings you to me, Artemisia? Surely not merely to pass an afternoon in conversation, pleasant though that may be."
Artemisia sipped her wine before answering. "I have come to seek your assistance in a matter, Gian Lorenzo."
"Is it money? I keep telling you that miser Philip doesn't pay you what you're worth."
"Money isn't everything," said Artemisia. This was an old argument between them. "There is no small amount of prestige to be had painting for His Most Christian Majesty. And he's not nearly so jealous a patron as His Holiness."
"Jealous Pope Urban may be, but he is generous. Extremely generous. If it is not money, then, what is it you need? And what makes you think I can help you and King Philip cannot?"
"You have heard of this new town in the Germanies? Grantville, I believe it is called."
"It is called Grantville," Bernini confirmed. "And it has been the subject of much talk in the papal court. Mostly rumors, and wild ones at that. Its inhabitants are proving most puzzling. They are allied with the Swede, yet by all accounts, there is a Catholic church in Grantville that flourishes alongside Protestant churches and even a synagogue. Its leaders have made no attempt to suppress the Church and even seem to tolerate the open presence of the Jesuits."
"The father-general must be pleased," Artemisia said. "However, it confirms what I have heard, that Grantville is a place of freedom and possibilities."
"You seek to go there?"
"No. I want to send Prudentia there. Facts about Grantville are hard to come by, but it seems that women are not barred from advancement merely because they are women. It will be good for her development as a painter and as a person."
"This, from the only female member of the Florentine Academy of Design?" Bernini's feigned shock was intentionally theatrical.
Artemisia was not in a joking mood, not about this. "You know as well as I what I've had to go through. And you also know that Rome is a snake pit for an artist."
"True enough," said Bernini in a more serious tone. The sculptor didn't even try to deny Artemisia's statement. How could he deny it when he was the snake pit's most poisonous viper?
"I believe I can do as you ask. In fact, there is a most suitable traveling companion for young Prudentia with plans to depart for Grantville very soon."
"Thank you, Gian Lorenzo. I am in your debt."
"Yes, you are. And don't think I will let you forget it."
James Byron "Jabe" McDougal was having a hard time concentrating on this week's selection for the Grantville "Dinner and a Movie" club. It wasn't because of the selection. Doctor Strangelove was one of his favorites. No, it was Prudentia Gentileschi that was the distraction. From Jabe's point of view, practically everything about the fifteen-year-old shrieked: "out of your league!" She was beautiful—Jabe thought she was, anyway—she was smart, she was funny . . .
She was even famous. At least, her mother was famous, if you knew anything about art. Artemisia Gentileschi painted for cardinals, dukes, even kings.
Tonight's meeting was at Stephanie Turski's house. The group had grown out of an informal advisory committee brought together by Janice Ambler when Janice found herself programming director of the one and only working television station in the seventeenth century. The group still served an advisory function, but had evolved. As Janice firmed up programming hours and policies of the station—it had been christened WVOA-TV and the name had stuck—Dinner and a Movie became more of a group to watch and discuss films that didn't have broad enough appeal to merit a showing on WVOA.
Membership was fluid but there was a steady core of regulars in addition to Janice and Stephanie: Amber Higham, Eric Hudson, Ev Beasley, and Lorelei Rawls were all film buffs, and Father Mazzare and Reverend Jones came when they had the time. Balthazar Abrabanel, fascinated by the medium, also came when his health permitted and his medical duties didn't interfere; and Prudentia Gentileschi. Prudentia had been schooled in painting since she was old enough to hold a brush, and if her mother knew how well Prudentia could hold forth on the use of light and shadow in composing film shots, Artemisia would have been proud indeed. Her perspectives on this uniquely up-time art form were always surprising.
The discussion of Dr. Strangelove was winding down when the phone rang. Stephanie answered and handed the phone to Jabe. It was the duty officer at the barracks. Jabe was ordered to return as quickly as his feet could get him there.
"Sorry, everybody," Jabe said. "I need to go."
"I need to go as well," said Prudentia, in her heavily accented English. "Signor Nobili does not like me to be out late."
"I'll take you there," said Jabe. "You shouldn't walk alone."
Prudentia's responding smile had an undertone that embarrassed Jabe a little. Mostly because he was quite sure she wasn't fooled at all. In point of fact, Grantville's streets were quite safe, even at night—and Prudentia knew it just as well as he did.
However . . . She didn't seem to mind.
Prudentia's arrival in Grantville had been overshadowed, first by Mazarini's visit and then by the Croat raid and its aftermath. Artemisia Gentileschi wasn't a household name in a town like Grantville, certainly, but Father Mazzare had known who she was. So had Balthazar Abrabanel. He had recalled some rumors that Prudentia's grandfather Orazio had relocated to England from his native Rome, but if that was true Balthazar had never crossed paths with the man.
Before long, Prudentia Gentileschi was a minor celebrity—much to her embarrassment. Living arrangements were soon made, with Tino Nobili agreeing to provide lodging. Though Artemisia had wanted her daughter to be educated in Grantville, it was soon determined she already had an education which surpassed almost all Grantville's down-time citizens, and more than a few up-timers as well. In the end, Prudentia became a part-time student, mostly taking courses she chose for herself, and assisted the art and art history teachers in Grantville. In return for the latter, she was given a modest stipend to supplement the money her mother had sent with her.
Jabe and Prudentia spent most of the walk to the Nobili home in awkward silence, or even more awkward small talk. Jabe knew he was caught in the painful limbo between friendship and romance. The worst of that limbo, of course, being the fact that he had no idea if Prudentia felt the same way—and had no better idea how he might try to find out.
Even with an up-time girl, Jabe would have been too shy to try for a goodnight kiss, unless the girl was practically waving flags at him. With a down-timer like Prudentia, he didn't have a clue how he'd recognize a waving flag even if he saw one.
At the Nobilis' door, they bid each other good night. Jabe spent the walk to the barracks alternately cursing himself for blowing his chance with Prudentia—if there'd been one at all—and wondering what was going on.
At the barracks, Jabe had to fight his way through a gaggle of reporters surrounding Captain Henderson Coonce. Coonce looked more than a little resentful and Jabe didn't suppose he could blame him. The captain was in charge of basic training. No one had said anything to him about being a press liaison as well.
Normally Frank Jackson would be doing this, but Frank was in Magdeburg. The army had no officers above the rank of captain currently stationed in Grantville. That meant Henderson Coonce was the ranking army officer in town. That meant he had to deal with the press. Rank may have its privileges, but at the moment Captain Coonce was obviously thinking only of its curses.
"I'll tell you one last time," Coonce growled. "You'll have a brief statement after I tell my men what's going on. Anyone doesn't like that can leave right now, before you get an MP escort. And I ain't answering questions after the statement. We'll have more for you, soon as we get it."
Coonce meant to be intimidating and it mostly worked. It did not, however, work on Joe Buckley, who had the well-deserved reputation of being the most aggressive—some would say obnoxious—reporter in Grantville.
"Don't you think the public has a right to the news, Captain?"
Coonce looked like he wanted to use Buckley's guts for garters. "You think you're more important than the families, Buckley? They get told first."
Buckley, for a wonder, gave up pressing for answers. After the reporters started leaving, Jabe walked up to Coonce and came to attention.
"Took you long enough, Private," Coonce grumbled.
"Sir. I had to escort Miss Gentileschi back to the Nobilis' house, sir." Jabe stared straight ahead, still at ramrod attention. Someone other than Jabe could have seen the girl home, of course, if it had to be done at all, which it didn't. Fortunately, Coonce didn't pursue the matter.
"At ease, Private McDougal. You're not too late."
They went inside and Jabe found a seat in back with the other enlisted personnel. Officers and noncoms sat up front.
"This is gonna be short and sweet, people," Captain Coonce said. "Earlier today, the Danes tried to take Wismar. We turned 'em back and they took heavy losses. They cut and ran."
He let the cheers die down, then continued: "We took our own casualties, however. I can't tell you who yet, and that comes straight from the top. Things are dicey right now, but General Jackson will be flown back to Grantville, hopefully in the next couple of days. I imagine we'll all know more then. Dismissed."
With that, Henderson Coonce strode out to face the press once again. From what Jabe could catch from his muttered grumbles, the captain was expressing severe reservations concerning the wisdom of the Founding Fathers when it came to the much-overrated value of freedom of the press.
Mike Stearns imagined that he looked like hell. He felt even worse. He hadn't gotten any sleep the night before and wasn't counting on getting much tonight. Mike had walked from the radio shack to his rooms so many times the last few days he could have made the trip in his sleep.
It may yet come to that, Mike thought. He stood up and stretched, stepping away from the radio. The radio window for the evening was now closed, and Mike could do no more here tonight.
He called for his escort for the evening. "Pete! I'm ready to head back."
Pete McDougal opened the door. "If you don't mind me saying so, you look like nine kinds of rough," he said.
"Ten kinds, Pete."
For the first few moments, they walked in comfortable silence. The two had been fellow UMWA officials in their local before the Ring of Fire and had known each other a long time.
Mike shook his head. "Medals don't seem like enough, Pete. I wish I could do more. If we were up-time these kids would have been all over TV. Dateline NBC, Sixty Minutes, the whole works."
After hearing Pete's response, Mike abruptly changed course, leaving Pete scrambling to keep up. "What a great idea! Let's go get Frank out of bed."
Mike had hoped to have Jesse Wood fly Frank Jackson back to Grantville the day before, but things hadn't worked out quite that neatly. As Frank and Jesse touched down, the American general found himself, for once, a little grateful he was in the early modern world. At least, Frank thought, the thirty-minute news cycle was a thing of the past. Or future, depending on how you looked at it.
By now, it had been officially acknowledged that Eddie, Larry, Hans, and Swedish sailor Bjorn Svedberg had been killed in action at Wismar, but the situation in Magdeburg had not left time for the release of a detailed statement. Until now.
Frank found Henderson Coonce waiting for him at the airstrip, truck engine running. Coonce saluted, and they drove to the high school. Even if Frank had been vain enough to think his rank entitled him to a chauffeur with captain's bars, Henderson put paid to that notion by complaining the whole way. By the time they pulled up to the high school, Frank was ready to recruit an entire regiment's worth of press officers, just to shut Coonce up.
"If you don't want to wait, Captain, I'll ring when I'm done," said Frank.
"I can wait," said Coonce.
"I said you'd get your press officer."
Coonce smiled. "I heard you, Frank. Why do you think your ass ain't walking back?"
Military protocol in the new little United States still had a long way to go. Frank just shook his head and went into the school.
He found Janice Ambler and Jabe McDougal waiting for him. Jabe sprang to attention. Prudentia Gentileschi sat quietly in a corner, sketching something off of a television screen.
"At ease, Jabe. We're not in the barracks."
He went straight to the subject. "You still have all that video stuff you were doing after the Ring of Fire? That oral history project you were working on?"
"Sure, sir," replied Jabe. My tape's almost gone, though."
"Have you got footage of Eddie and Larry? Hans?"
Jabe nodded.
"Good. Can you put something together? By noon tomorrow?"
Jabe hesitated. He was only a self-taught video documentarian and even before the Ring of Fire he was far from certain he'd wanted to make a living making movies of any kind. Jabe had thought of his video projects as little more than a hobby.
But it was a serious hobby, so Jabe knew that the rule of thumb for editing footage was that one hour's work yielded one minute of usable footage. Cutting hours of footage down to sixty minutes in less than a day?
Insane.
For this, though, Jabe couldn't say no. "You'll have it, sir, Ms. Ambler. It'll be ready."
"Would you mind if I observe you?" Prudentia had been so quiet her presence had been forgotten.
Jabe crimsoned. "Sure, Prudentia. I wouldn't mind."
Frank told Jabe he would clear the young man's absence from the barracks. All of Jabe's video gear was at his house, in his old basement room. Frank continued to talk to Janice; his statement would be simulcast on VOA radio. Jabe and Prudentia left.
Jabe was preoccupied enough not to be nervous around Prudentia—at least not nearly as nervous as he usually was. Without even thinking, he broke the ice.
"What were you sketching, Prudentia?" he asked.
"A scene from Dr. Strangelove. General Ripper sitting at his desk, looking at his cigar. A lot of interesting play with light and shadow. It would, I think, make a good painting."
Without wanting to, Jabe blurted out the question that had really been bothering him. "Why did you want to come with me?"
"I grew up around artists, you know. I love to watch them work. I find it very inspirational for my own art."
"I'm not an artist."
"It may be so, but from my understanding of this Orbis Incindiae it is unlikely I shall ever see an artist in this medium of film, not anytime soon. Besides," she added, "you have a good eye and good sense of the beautiful."
Jabe flushed. Hastily, he decided the best course of action would be to shift the conversation away from himself. "How have you liked Grantville? It must be a lot different than the places you've lived."
"It is. I miss Napoli and Roma, but Grantville is a fascinating place. And the things I've learned, especially about the science of optics and behavior of light, have been magnificent. It's been most useful to me. But your beliefs and customs are rather shocking. Mother would not approve of me walking home with you."
"Why not? It's not like we're going to, you know, um, well . . ." That sentence trailed off into confused oblivion.
Prudentia smiled. "I trust you, Jabe. It's just that my mother's experience with men, especially when she was young, has led her to be . . . wary."
The McDougal house was empty, save for the dogs. Zula McDougal was still at work, Karin Jo and Kyle were still at school.
Hatfield, Llewellyn, and Dottie greeted Jabe with their usual enthusiasm. Hatfield, a golden retriever-husky mix, made his usual strange Chewbacca noises, with Llewellyn—Lew, for short—and Dot, both Pembroke Welsh corgis, adding to the din with their barking. Hatfield had been adopted from a shelter. Lew and Dot were originally only going to stay with the McDougals for a short time, until they found homes, but the Ring of Fire had made them permanent residents. Jabe's younger brother Kyle was trying to train the dogs to do useful work.
Jabe gave Hatfield a quick tummy rub and then scribbled a note, leaving it on the table where the first person home would see it. Prudentia phoned the Nobilis. Jabe escorted his guest to his basement room. He had originally shared a room with Kyle until the two brothers decided that absence would make the heart grow fonder and Jabe fled to the basement. It could get damp and chilly down there, especially since the Ring of Fire, but Jabe was more than willing to sacrifice a few comforts for privacy.
Jabe turned on his computer and pulled an extra chair up to the desk, while he looked through his tapes and got his camera.
Prudentia admired Jabe's computer, caressing its curved lines. She had seen many computers since coming to Grantville and they usually struck her as ugly in their design, even if they were quite useful things. This one was different, though. It seemed to have been designed by someone with a true artistic sense.
"Pretty, isn't it?" said Jabe as he sat down and began connecting his camera to his computer. "I've always loved Macs. I saved up for three years to buy this one, and the video stuff. 'Course, Eric Hudson helped me get the camera. He knew a guy in Morgantown who wanted a better one and was selling this one cheap."
Prudentia was less interested in Jabe's tools than his motivations, his inspirations. "Why do all this?" she asked.
Jabe reflected for a moment. "After the Ring of Fire, I got to thinking about how we were going to remember it. You know, what the history books would say. I got to thinking, well, I should talk to people in Grantville about the Ring of Fire. Get their memories of it before too much time passed so we wouldn't forget. I figure one of these days I'll watch all the interviews again, write the words down. Do a book."
Prudentia nodded. "So, then, why do you have extra on the soldiers?"
In the world Prudentia grew up in, mercenaries and prostitutes were below even actors in social rank. Even after a year in Grantville, she was still often uncomfortable with the Americans' peculiar notions of status and social mobility. She was grappling with her attitudes, though, and could see advantages to the way the Americans did things. After all, hadn't she been sent here because of that? Her mother Artemisia had fought against established customs her whole life, and wanted something different for her daughter. Prudentia was eager for any new insights.
Jabe didn't answer immediately, as was his habit when thinking about an issue.
"In the up-time United States," he said slowly, "we called ourselves a land of opportunity. We told ourselves that you could start with nothing and that if you worked hard enough, if you took advantage of the chances God gave you, you could be whatever you wanted. No matter who your parents were, or where you were from. I wasn't old enough to vote right after the Ring of Fire, but I remember Dad saying that's why everyone backed Mike—President Stearns. Because he said we could only survive if we kept on being Americans."
"But why were the Richters special? They weren't even born in your up-time United States."
"Because they were proof that the ideas we'd grown up with would work here. Gretchen was a camp follower but given the chance, she became an important leader. Her grandmother married Mayor Dreeson and started a school. I remember Hans told me he only became a soldier for Tilly because he had to. But he joined the Air Force because he wanted to. That made all the difference to him. The Richters are what we would have called an 'All-American Tale.'"
Prudentia watched Jabe work and thought about what he'd said. She'd liked Jabe from the beginning, to the point of finding his awkwardness around her sweet. What Prudentia liked most about the young American was that he listened and thought before speaking. This was new to Prudentia; though, from talking to up-time girls, it seemed to be an unusual male trait from their viewpoint as well.
Prudentia was not sure what her relationship with Jabe would evolve into, if indeed it evolved into anything. But she was more than interested enough to find out.
So, as they worked in companionable silence, she was grateful for the friendship and presence of Jabe, and she knew he felt the same way about her. Jabe was soon absorbed in his work and Prudentia began sketching him in the pad she always carried with her.
Both young people were surprised when Zula McDougal announced dinner. Jabe's mother seemed glad enough to have her oldest son back for the evening. Working for Ollie Reardon and riding herd on Karin Jo and Kyle kept her busy enough, Prudentia knew, but with Pete in Magdeburg and Jabe living out of the house most of the time, she imagined the place did feel empty to the woman.
Zula fussed over Prudentia, much to the young woman's embarrassment, and continually apologized for the simple meal. Jabe explained to his mother what he needed to do.
"I'll leave you to it, then," Zula said. "I can bring coffee down later."
"Thanks, Mom. That'd be great." Jabe said.
"Yes, thank you, Signora McDougal. You are a most gracious hostess."
It was Zula McDougal's turn to blush then. Prudentia thought it was a most charming hereditary trait.
"You're welcome. Call me Zula, please."
Once again, after dinner, Jabe lost all sense of time. The documentary seemed to be going well, and he thought might be able to pull this off after all. Jabe was glad that he was so meticulous about logging his footage, because he didn't have to waste a lot of time watching tape he'd shot that wouldn't have anything to do with his present project. He smiled to himself. He'd been called "anal-retentive" more than once, but if Jabe weren't so exact he'd never be able to do what he was doing right now—cramming sixty hours' work into a night.
As Prudentia watched Jabe work, she remembered Alfonso, a master sculptor she'd loved to watch working when she was a young girl in Rome. The old man hadn't been terribly famous, and hadn't been good enough to attract commissions from the leading families. Still, Alfonso was sufficiently skilled to work for wealthy merchants and petty nobles and had a steady income. In any event, it wasn't the ability of the artist that had impressed Prudentia. It was the obvious passion Maestro Alfonso had for his work that remained in her memory.
Old Alfonso would spend hours, sometimes days, just studying a block of stone. He would touch it, even talk to it. When at last he touched chisel to stone, the sculptor considered each stroke with care, until the object emerged, as if the stone were slowly giving birth to it. She watched Jabe as he would replay a few seconds of video over and over, taking just what he wanted from each clip. Sometimes Jabe would shave off the tiniest increments of time from a piece of footage, just like Maestro Alfonso with his precious marble blocks.
"A sculptor, but of reality," murmured Prudentia Gentileschi. She wondered what her mother would think about that.
"Hmm?" Jabe asked. He stood up from his chair, stretching.
"You remind me of a sculptor I used to watch as a child, in Rome. It struck me that you are a sculptor, but of reality rather than stone."
"I told you, Prudentia, I'm no artist."
Prudentia Gentileschi knew she did not fit the clichés—at least the twentieth century clichés—of the temperamental artist. She didn't hang around in smoky cafes and wear black turtlenecks, nor did she act like a diva, in the sense up-timers would have meant. Prudentia was not a particularly somber young woman. Now, though, she fixed Jabe with a very serious stare.
"You are an artist, Jabe McDougal. I've been watching you all night long. You have the soul of a true maestro."
"I've never thought of it that way. Thank you, Prudentia, very much. I can't tell you how much that means to me, coming from you."
They looked at each other for what seemed like forever. Prudentia did not know how to handle this moment. Obviously enough, despite being several years older, neither did Jabe.
Finally, Jabe looked outside, through the basement window. "Good grief, is that the sunrise?"
Prudentia was also surprised. "So it is. How is it coming?" she asked, nodding toward the computer.
"Done, or nearly so. It'll run for one hour. I just need to put some music on it, make sure all the audio's okay, and put it on a VHS tape. I should be able to get it to Ms. Ambler just in time." Jabe yawned so wide his jaw cracked.
"It's time for more coffee," said Prudentia. "I'll get us some."
While Prudentia did battle with the McDougals' battered Mr. Coffee, Jabe eyed his CD shelf critically. Verve Pipe's "Bittersweet Symphony" was a given, and he thought Barenaked Ladies' cover of "Lovers In a Dangerous Time" would work for the section about Hans and Sharon's relationship. Some quieter pieces of classical music, along with R. Kelly's "I Believe I Can Fly," rounded out the soundtrack.
Janice Ambler was starting to panic. It was ten minutes till noon and Jabe still hadn't shown up. Janice's mentor had worked at a TV station in the early days of live television and had told her often of what it took to play the live programming produced in New York for a west coast audience three hours behind. The shows were broadcast over phone lines, projected, and filmed with a kintescope. The film was rushed to the lab, developed, and rushed back to the studio by motorcycle courier. Janice wondered if her old friend had felt what she was feeling now—and, if so, how he had avoided getting ulcers.
Pacing in front of the high school's front door, Janice heard Jabe before she saw him. A farmer driving his horse cart into Grantville had given him a ride. Prudentia Gentileschi was with him. Jabe handed Janice the tape. The tirade she'd been working up evaporated in a second as soon as she saw the young man; he'd obviously been working through the night.
"Sorry to cut it so close, Ms. Ambler. Had to make sure this one was as perfect as I could make it."
"Jabe, no offense, but you look like hell. Hello, Prudentia."
Prudentia inclined her head in acknowledgement. "What Jabe won't tell you, Signora Ambler, is that sunrise came as quite a surprise. And then he had to watch the finished product at least twice more to make further changes. An artist indeed."
"Yeah, look, I've got to get this into the studio and then get Frank on the air. You two are welcome to watch if you want." Jabe and Prudentia followed Janice to the studio.
Frank Jackson looked like he hadn't gotten a moment's sleep, either. But he refused more than minimal makeup. Jabe thought it was too bad more up-time politicians hadn't had the sense to know that there was a time to look unphotogenic. Jabe thought that if they had, politicians would have been a lot more respected up-time than they actually were.
Janice double-checked the patch to the VOA radio transmitter, then motioned to Frank. He looked into the camera.
"I have been asked to read the following statement on behalf President Michael Stearns, as well as Emperor Gustav II Adolph of the Confederated Principalities of Europe:
"On October 7, 1633, forces of the United States Navy and United States Air Force, charged with defending the port of Wismar, engaged a Danish naval force intent on capturing that strategic port. Through the bravery of the defenders, the Danes were turned back, suffering significant losses.
"We suffered our own significant losses. Lieutenants Edward Cantrell and Lawrence Wild of the United States Navy were killed defending Wismar, as was Able Seaman Bjorn Svedberg of the Swedish Royal Navy. Air Force Captain Hans Richter continued to press the attack, and was seriously wounded. Rather than attempt to save himself, Captain Richter destroyed the Danish warship Lossen by crashing his aircraft into the ship."
Frank paused for a moment to collect himself. He continued:
"President Stearns has said that out of the sacrifice of these four young men, a new order is being born in Europe. The Distinguished Flying Cross is being awarded to Captain Richter and the Navy Cross and Silver Star for Lieutenants Wild and Cantrell, and Seaman Svedberg. The President had told me that he also intends to ask the legislature to approve a new Congressional Medal of Honor. If it's approved, he will ask that it be awarded to Captain Richter.
"President Stearns has also asked me to announce that he will be resigning as President of the New United States to accept the office of prime minister in a new nation to be called the United States of Europe. I will be resigning as Vice President to better serve as a staff officer under General Lennart Torstensson. Both these resignations will become effective as soon as arrangements for the new USE are finalized. Thuringia and Franconia will become a province of the USE, assuming that's approved by the population in a special election. Ed Piazza will become Acting President until those elections are held."
A baffled almost-smile crossed Frank's face. "I know a lot of things are up in the air, folks, but we'll keep you informed."
Frank shuffled his papers. He looked into the camera, eyes bright with tears. "There's nothing worse than having to sacrifice our young people to war. Especially fine young men from our own town like Hans Richter, Eddie Cantrell, and Larry Wild. But in the years to come, they will be remembered as heroes by those who find they have choices, when they didn't have any before. They didn't die for nothing, folks. I can promise you that much."
Jabe's documentary faded in, telling the story of three young men left suddenly alone in a completely unfamiliar world, making their way. A young German printer's apprentice who only wanted to be free to choose, and who chose to fly. Who gave his life to protect the people who had taken in him and his family; not because he was forced to, but because he wanted to. As the documentary ended, an hour later, Jabe knew he'd done something truly special.
"A masterpiece," murmured Prudentia.
"Probably the only one I'll ever do. It'll be a real long time before we can make digital camcorders again."
"Perhaps. You may find another way to do the same. If not . . ." She shrugged. "Every true artist should produce at least one great piece, and art is more valuable when it's one of a kind. Shall we have breakfast in the cafeteria?"
At the moment, the only thing Jabe wanted more than a meal with Prudentia was sleep. "Make it dinner at the Thuringen Gardens. I've got to sleep."
Prudentia laughed. "It is—how do you say?—a date."
Jabe and Prudentia walked out of the studio, out of the school, into the daylight. Prudentia gave Jabe a kiss on the cheek and all the way back to the barracks, Jabe didn't think his feet touched the ground. The story of how Jeff Higgins and Gretchen Richter had met hadn't taken long to make the rounds, and it reinforced the vague idea Jabe had had that you impressed a woman you liked by being the gallant knight. Jabe certainly hadn't saved Prudentia Gentileschi from rape and a life as a camp follower, but he knew that he'd impressed Prudentia very deeply, nonetheless. That he'd done so unconsciously, just by being himself and doing his best, made that knowledge all the sweeter.
When she got to her home, Prudentia found that she couldn't sleep. The Nobili family had cleared part of a room for her to use as a studio, and Prudentia went there instead of her bedroom. A blank canvas stood on an easel. She had spent weeks preparing that canvas and now she burned to paint on it. But what?
Prudentia flipped through her sketch book. She saw the sketch she'd made from the Dr. Strangelove scene; that would make a good piece but it didn't feel right, not for this.
Then she turned the page. She smiled, and began sketching outlines on her canvas.
Many months later, when Artemisia Gentileschi was able to make her first visit to Grantville, Prudentia shyly showed her the end result, which hung in the McDougal home.
Sculptor of Reality, she called it. A portrait of James Byron McDougal at work on his computer.
Artemisia studied it for quite some time, and smiled. "The Gentileschis have a third generation of artists, my daughter. We've done the Berninis one better."