Mike, meanwhile, was running one of the biggest political units in Europe, by most measures, with a staff that in the empire would be thought barely sufficient to run a small provincial town. Even here in Europe, where they made do with less government—and in Nasi’s humble opinion it showed—the running of the United States of Europe was a lean business.
The result was a set of chronically overworked politicians and civil servants. That last was being remedied, slowly, as Amtmänner and their like took retraining in the new style of government and began to take on federal responsibilities in their areas. It was half jury-rigging and hodgepodge, but it did the job and rationalization could wait for the war to end. As could, apparently, any hope of anyone taking a vacation, which was why Nasi tried to make a moment or two, now and then, for the slightly oblique gallows humor he liked and that Mike was getting a taste for.
But Mike was back to scanning the news again. “This one, Francisco,” he said, stabbing a finger down a few columns over from the Buckley piece. “Franconia’s still not settled down?”
Nasi heaved a weary sigh. That one escaped him, truly it did. Getting any intelligence on the situation in Franconia—and a dozen other places like it—was like trying to read fog, even if he had thought he had a hope of ever understanding the underlying business. It seemed that when they lacked Jews to pick on, Christians would name some of their own “heretic” or “witch” and vent their spleen on them instead.
“No, Mike,” he said, “although now they have a regiment or two to worry about and hopefully that will settle them down. Instead of fantastical Hexerei, they can worry about real—and unruly—soldiers and how they will feed them.”
The policy was a simple one. It was a while yet before the monstrous size of the army could be made more manageable; simply demobilizing tens of thousands of men at a time was a recipe for disaster. So they were being used as a crude police force, sent to sit on an area that was becoming unruly for reasons unconnected with the government, such as witch-panic, and giving the populace concrete concerns to deal with to take their minds off burning their neighbors.
“Still. Two near-lynchings this week and another riot. We know what that’s about, yet?”
Nasi shook his head. “No. I expect the reports shortly. The last time it was the rumor of Jesuits.”
Mike grunted. “Figures. Why they can’t be like every other place and not give a damn if there’s no one breathing down their neck—” He waved a hand, as if to clear away the stink of bigotry. “Part of it’s just the way folks who are a gnat’s ass away from poverty behave, I suppose, when they get to thinking about it.”
Nasi waited. Silence. He raised an eyebrow. “Usually there is more to this particular Stearns rant,” he mused.
“I know, I know. This—” Mike stopped, chewing on his lower lip. “Francisco,” he said at length, “I am getting sick of this crap.” The last word was punctuated with a slam of his big hand, palm down, on the desk.
“It could be worse.”
“Sure, it could be worse. They could be sitting there in sullen resentment and boiling up like a frigging abscess. God, I wish they’d march on the capital and burn this place to the ground, it’d make more sense. It ain’t gonna happen, though. What burns my ass is that instead of folks actually getting on and making something out of it, or saying they’re mad as hell and not gonna take it any more, we get this penny-ante crap whenever there’s a hitch. Never because they’re pissed at me—although God knows there’s plenty are—but over religion or the number of Jews in the town or because some idiot thought he saw a witch or—” He ran out of wind.
Nasi waited.
“This business in Franconia. Not a damned thing to do with witches or Jesuits. It’s really happening because the rural places—you look, Francisco, and you find all these riots are in backwater little towns—are losing out to the bigger towns that are getting the factories and industries. Nothing I can do about it, either, except try and sit on ’em to keep the peace. But do they get pissed at me? No, they don’t, they mob up and pick a neighbor to lynch.”