Chapter 34

June 28, 1940

I thought I had hidden it well, but I certainly had been nervous back when I saw Miss Caldwell off after the photo-op following my interview. I knew I had given her the raw material that she could use to write almost any kind of story that she liked. In the end, though, she played it cool.

She did publish a little article mentioning that the interview had happened and hinting at big things to come, but she didn't share any of the questions or answers. Instead, as the World Cup went on she contented herself with sharing rather banal chronicles of various walking tours of the host cities.

I could only imagine what sort of skulduggery was going on beneath the surface. Well, the deep waters of the American media were Miss Caldwell's domain. I decided to leave her to it and focus my own efforts on making sure that the World Cup continued to go smoothly.

On the football side of things, there wasn't much to do. Visha and the committee had done a wonderful job handling administrative matters, and the country as a whole was enjoying the spectacle. I made myself available for troubleshooting purposes, but in the end all I needed to do was watch the games.

Perhaps buoyed by the home crowds, the Germanian team managed to scrape its way through two straight elimination games and make it to the final. Unfortunately, their opponent would be Albion. The Albish had been on a tear since their shocking loss in the opener, winning by at least three goals in each of the following matches. Well, second place wasn't so bad.

I had more work to do with regard to the aerial lacrosse exhibition. I knew that it was too much to hope for the creation of a full fledged international regulating body with just a few weeks of negotiation, but I did want to lead the way towards standardizing the rules, at least a little bit. The results of the exhibition matches had clearly been affected by the different way that each nation had chosen to approach the game.

The Francois Republic and Legadonia Entente had sent out older teams carrying orbs that dated to the end of the Great War. It seemed that they viewed the game as a pastime for retired soldiers. As a result, other than the Republic's victory over the Entente, neither side had been particularly competitive in their other matches.

The Allied Kingdom had equipped their team with orbs that roughly matched the performance of our sporting orbs. However, the team itself was made up of active duty military mages who didn't seem to have much time to devote to sports. They were able to bully the Legadonians and Francois with their orb advantage, but otherwise didn't display much skill on the pitch.

The Unified States, gung ho as always, had brought their newly acquired dual core orbs out to play. The team was made up mostly of Neumann's students, who must have earned the leisure time to play as a reward for completing his training. Just like their equipment managers, the team itself showed little restraint. They won their first three matches by an average of over three hundred points.

The Germanian team was the top cadet squad from our academy, naturally equipped with our sporting orb. They experienced little trouble in winning each of their first three games by a tasteful one hundred points.

The match between Germania and the Unified States had been left for last, and would be held before the World Cup final. I'd had a feeling those would be the top two sides in the exhibition. While it wouldn't be a true championship, of course, the match would determine who would be the last undefeated team.

I was happy that our country would have the chance to notch a win before getting our brains beaten out on the football pitch. I thought we had a decent shot at it, too. While the Americans were fielding a more powerful orb, our players were noticeably more skilled if you knew what you were looking for. A natural result from all the effort we put into flight training being followed up by regular participation in intramural league games.

I was in the Chancellor's suite, together with a group that had a noticeably magical slant to it. The diplomatic representatives of each of the participating countries were present, as usual, but they were each accompanied by a mage or two who could provide technical advice. We'd all be focusing on the match once it started, of course, but I'd asked that they all show up a bit early so that I could give a brief presentation beforehand.

"Thank you all for coming. I hope that you're all enjoying the exhibition so far," I said. I had taken a seat on the couch in the center of the room, Visha sitting alongside me. Everybody else had gathered around, facing me across the coffee table. "Naturally, now that we've had a chance to learn from the experience, we can consider potential areas of improvement."

The consumer response to the new sport had been mixed. The crowds watching the event live had enjoyed the spectacle, at least, even if they couldn't follow all the intricacies of play. The television audience, though, had mostly been left cold. I'd tried watching one of the games on television myself, and I could understand their lack of interest. Even with magically enhanced reflexes, it was almost impossible to follow what was going on. The action was just too fast for the current level of technology. The players were blurred smears on screen and the television cameras rarely even caught a glimpse of the ball in motion.

Unfortunately, there wasn't too much I could do to push along the development of the television. Larger screens, higher definition, better cameras, and slow motion replay would all make for a much better consumer experience, but my only contribution to any development efforts would be to present the actual engineers with a wish list.

What I could try to do was help to level out the quality of play. Unfortunately, most of the games in the exhibition hadn't been very competitive. It was only natural that viewers confronted with a bunch of total blowouts would stop tracking the score and start cheering for exciting collisions.

The skill of the players would even out over time as they played against each other. I might be able to speed up the process with some special training camps, but that would be way too much work. Besides, the skill gap wasn't the biggest problem. No, the biggest problem was clearly the gap in orb technology. That was something that I could fix.

"I think we can all agree that computation orbs have a strong effect on the performance of the players," I said, before nodding at Visha. "Accordingly, our suggestion."

Visha reached into the satchel sitting next to her on the couch and pulled out a sheaf of envelopes. She passed one out to each of the diplomats. Nobody stood on ceremony, and soon the room was filled with the sound of rustling paper. Each envelope contained a loose sheet of paper describing the technical specifications of the sporting orb, together with a bound stack of papers containing the blueprints and production process.

The Legadonian ambassador was the first to look up from his paper. "What's the meaning of all this?"

Naturally, matters of competitive balance were a touchy subject. In some sports, obtaining quality equipment was part of a player's skill. In automobile racing, for example, preparing the car could be just as important as the driver's ability. Standardizing equipment would be removing a dimension of competition.

What must be even more galling was that I had skipped over any pretense of negotiation and simply proposed a rule. Ordinarily this kind of thing would begin with formal recognition of a problem that would then lead to the creation of a working group that could suggest a draft rule which would then be debated and modified until the regulating body was ready to promulgate the final result. The comforting hand of bureaucracy would smother all objections under the pillow of rules and procedure. A beautiful thing.

Unfortunately, aerial lacrosse had no such governing body. Even worse, it didn't seem likely to generate one. As a failure of a television program that had attracted only passing interest from crowds, a sport only accessible to the tiny fraction of the public that were flight capable mages was far from a sure money maker. If I wanted to open up the retirement option of sports stardom, I was going to have to help things along.

"This is a starting point for discussion," I said.

While it was presumptuous of me, I hoped that providing the blueprint would help to overcome everyone's natural reluctance to get down to brass tacks and discuss magical technology in a forthright manner. The packets I'd handed out didn't contain any real secrets, of course, being based on outdated Francois technology with a little bit of Germanian spit and polish, but simply having a working blueprint for a competitive orb out in the open should remove much of the fear of inadvertently sharing a precious secret.

Visha passed each delegation a small jewel case containing one of our sporting orbs. I'd been hoping that somebody would criticize the orb for being simplistic and underpowered. In that case, I could have said something clever and then set up the big dramatic revelation of the fact that our team had used the sporting orb to secure victory at the end of the match. However, all of our guests proved too professional for such things, instead focusing on the blueprints and the sample orb until it was time to begin the match.

I still planned to reveal the nature of the orbs being used by our team in the event of victory, of course. The basic fact should remain a decent selling point, even if it were revealed as a result of blatant self-promotion instead of the natural flow of discussion.

ooOoo

Unfortunately, the aerial lacrosse match proved to be a great disappointment. Flush off of three easy victories, our squad came out overconfident. The Americans opened with a quick goal, just as they had done in their first few games. Even worse, our team didn't adjust until after allowing two more goals in that opening flurry.

After that, they adopted an overly defensive posture for the rest of the first half. While it slowed down the pace of the American assault, it also meant that our team was barely able to get out on offense. As they took a break for halftime, the score stood at ninety to twenty. I was tempted to send Visha out there to even the odds.

That would be foolish, though. All the effort I had put in to make us look like good sports on the international stage would go to waste if I sent in a ringer just to win an exhibition match. Honestly, even the fact that I had felt such an impulse was a sign that I was getting too caught up in the flow of nationalist nonsense that came along with leading the country.

Fortunately, Weiss must have given them an earful during the break. The team came out after halftime with a much more focused, balanced effort. They still had to be careful not to allow openings that the Americans could exploit with their more powerful orbs, but even so the Germanian team began to claw their way back into the competition.

This was the sort of focus and skill that I had expected to see from the beginning. We might have won if we had started out at such a high level of play. Unfortunately, in the end the halftime deficit proved to be too much to overcome and we lost, a hundred and forty to a hundred and ten.

The team looked heartbroken, huddled together in a small floating ball near the sidelines. They must have felt terrible to have let down the home crowd. I acted on impulse, excusing myself before opening the suite's window and flying down to the field.

I would have needed to make my way to the field for the closing ceremony anyway. Heading down early meant that I could have a quick chat with the team while the Americans were still celebrating. Honestly, I wasn't upset by the loss. Sure, I couldn't publicize their use of the sporting orb as a selling point any longer, but they had played reasonably well. All in all, I thought it should be a good learning experience for them, something more valuable than the result of a single exhibition match.

The crowd reacted as soon as I took flight. By the time I reached our team, the group of them had all gathered around in easy earshot.

"Good effort, everyone," I said. "I'm proud of you."

All I got back in response was a bunch of awkward looks. A few of the players looked like they had something to say, but were holding themselves back.

"What is it?" I asked.

They looked at each other for a moment before silently electing one of the girls on defense to speak for them.

"It's not fair," she complained. "We could have won if we used dual core orbs."

I sighed. Weiss really was going too soft on the cadets these days. I should have known there was a problem when he kept coming in under his artillery budget. It was hard for me to even imagine what was going on with their training for these cadets to think that fairness had anything to do with their lives.

I spun out a quick spell to make sure that my voice wouldn't carry. I also made sure to keep smiling. This kind of pampered attitude was embarrassing enough without broadcasting our cadets' petulance to the world.

"Not fair?" I asked. "Not fair? It's not fair when your company has to hold off a regiment or get an army killed. It's not fair when the man sleeping next to you is killed in the night by artillery shells."

Soldiers on the battlefield didn't worry about fairness when they pulled the trigger. The General Staff didn't worry about fairness back when they strong-armed me into a job on the front lines. Being X certainly didn't worry about fairness when he stuck me in this new life.

"It's not fair when you have to help burn down a city in order to keep the supply line moving," I continued. "Not fair? And you're supposed to be ready to go to war?"

Obviously, it behooved Germania to maintain at least a fig leaf of plausible deniability regarding our magical capabilities. The Francois certainly had their suspicions after Duisbuch and after the Americans showed off their dual core orbs, but suspicions were different from confirmed facts. After all, it was possible that the Americans had simply paid us to train them on how to use dual core orbs after they independently developed the technology. Flaunting our own dual core orbs in public would wipe away that useful ambiguity.

Of course, I wasn't about to debate fine points of national policy with a bunch of cadets. While I could sympathize with their frustration that political priorities were making it unnecessarily difficult to accomplish their narrow goals, what was needed here was not sweet reason but rather a straightforward attitude adjustment. I would start that process now, and remind Weiss to follow up and drive the lesson home.

"Ferreting out this little problem is more valuable than any sporting victory. So smile," I said, looking them over, "smile like you mean it, and carve gratitude for the Americans into your hearts. They may have just saved your lives."

Certainly, if they had flown onto a battlefield with the same lackadaisical attitude that they showed at the beginning of the match, half of them would have died no matter what orbs they were using. That would have been a terrible waste of all the time and money the country spent on training.

The smiles I got out of the team weren't entirely sincere, but they were good enough for government work. I led the group down to the center of the pitch to shake hands with the Americans and pose for some photos. At least figuring out how we were going to adjust our mage training would give me something to think about while we lost the coming football game.

ooOoo

Ian Flemons sat at what had become his customary seat at the bar, its elevated position offering a clear view of the television screen. He focused on jotting down notes in a small notebook, working around the plate containing the remains of his toad in the hole with the ease of long practice. He capped his pen and flipped the notebook shut with a smile just as the series of advertisements on the television finally drew to a close.

The screen changed to display a view of the stadium in Berun, looking down from high above. A moment later it changed again, this time to a view looking up at a dirigible floating by over the stadium, the logo of some Germanian shoe company painted on its side.

"Good afternoon, and welcome to beautiful Berun. For the Albish Broadcasting Corporation, I'm Kenneth Wolleston, and with me as always is Robert Winton," the familiar voice came from the television, silencing the crowd at the bar. "For those of you just tuning in, you missed a cracker of a warm up act."

"I still don't know how those lads get through a match without breaking anything," Winton added, his thick northern accent carrying all the way from Berun.

Flemons flagged down a waitress and put in his first drink order of the afternoon. His report on the aerial lacrosse match was excuse enough for leaving the office early. Now all that was left was to enjoy the rare sight of Degurechaff being humbled for the second time in one day. It was petty, but after the fat lot of nothing that he'd managed to dig up of Germania's secrets, he would take special pleasure in seeing their teams lose.

"We've now seen the whole aerial lacrosse exhibition go by without a single injury. Quite remarkable," Wolleston said. "Also a surprise, the result, with the Unified States taking home the win."

"In fairness, many would say the Germanians left their best player in the box seats."

"Those of you who follow the news, of course," Wolleston said, "would have heard that the Germanian Chancellor enjoys a spot of aerial lacrosse to keep her hand in."

"I have to say, I'd hate to be the lad standing between her and the goal."

"Indeed," Wolleston said, the shuffling of papers audible as he changed the topic. "Of course, one young man is suffering a similar feeling right now. We've recently learned that goalkeeper Hans Becker broke a bone in his foot during Germania's semifinal match against Hungary and will be unable to play. That's after their starting keeper, Johan Braun, broke his collarbone in a dramatic collision during the group round. As a result, third string keeper Carl Troeger has been thrust into a starting role."

"Yes, it's a pity. A young lad just seventeen years old facing an offense that has been unstoppable for the last two weeks."

"This will be his first start in organized play," Wolleston added. "Troeger is the backup keeper for Beruner SV, the club managed by Germanian manager Thomas Köhler. You have to think that Köhler never imagined things would come to this."

Flemons lifted his beer in salute to the young man who was about to be thrown to the wolves. In truth, he would rather Germania be fielding its strongest possible side. After the way the Albish team had romped past Ispagna and the Unified States, he was confident that they would triumph no matter what. After all, Germania had only beaten Platia by one goal and had needed to win a penalty shootout to get by Hungary.

Still, even if he'd rather Germania not have any room to make excuses about their performance, one thing he'd learned after spending years on the Germania desk was to be happy with any win over them, no matter how it was achieved. He wished young Troeger all the luck with a long and happy career, starting with his next game. Perhaps losing to the Albish would even prove a good learning experience for the young man.

ooOoo

Carl Troeger sat on a bench, eyes closed, head resting against his locker. The locker rooms in the new stadium still didn't smell right. Too fresh, even three weeks into the tournament. It didn't feel like a real pre-game meeting without mildew tickling his nose.

Köhler was standing in front of a blackboard lecturing the rest of the team on tactics, but that didn't have much to do with him. All he had to do was roll the ball to the open man. At least, he hoped that was what he'd be doing, rather than picking the ball out of the net and kicking it back to the center circle.

Troeger shook off the negative thought. He needed to focus on something more productive. After Becker was ruled out, Köhler had hardly let him practice. The team could hardly risk having its last keeper taken out by a freak injury. As a result, Troeger had spent most of his time the last few days in the film room.

One of the many luxuries included in the team's temporary housing, the film room was stocked with an intimidating array of technological equipment. Fortunately, Troeger had been able to consult with a government expert in order to set up the film the way he wanted it. The crowning result of his efforts was a film of every shot taken by the Albish team throughout the tournament.

By now, Troeger felt like he knew the Albish strikers better than he knew his own family. They were all big, strong, and fast. And they each had their preferences. Bastin played on the left but liked to shift the ball to his right foot to shoot. Bowers, in the middle, was happy to blast long shots in from just about anywhere. Crooks, the outside right, would dribble the ball into the goal if he could. Each attack was different, of course, but after watching them all Troeger had started to get a feel for their rhythm. At least, he thought so.

A silence briefly fell over the locker room. Troeger opened his eyes to see that Köhler had come to the end of his instructions. The manager was now looking the team over, assessing the mood.

"Remember, men, the eyes of the whole country will be on you! The Argent Silver herself will be watching from the stands!" Köhler said. "Get out there and make her proud!"

The team let out a yell of acknowledgment before making their way out of the room to line up in the hallway that led to the pitch. After they left, Köhler looked over at his young goalkeeper and sighed.

"Do your best out there, kid."

Troeger just nodded before heading out to the pitch. He couldn't bristle at his manager's lack of confidence, not when he felt much the same way himself. Sure, he'd imagined that he would become a great keeper and dazzle crowds on the biggest stages, some day. He'd never thought that at seventeen he'd debut with the Argent Silver watching and the World Cup on the line.

He shook his head. At his age, the Argent was retiring from the military after eight years at war. What was playing a game next to that? At least when the Albish shot at him, they wouldn't be using rifles.

All the positive thinking in the world didn't stop the butterflies in his stomach from multiplying as he stepped out in front of the enormous crowd. He did his best to tamp them down. No matter how many people were watching, the goal was the same size it always was. He'd always been tall, strong, and quick. Köhler had told him many times that he'd be a great keeper. He tried to ignore the fact that Köhler usually added "in a few years" to that kind of praise.

All he could do was try his best.

His confidence came under fire early. The Albish took the opening kickoff and worked it down the field with purpose. The inside forward played a sharp pass through to Bowers, leaving him open to take a shot just outside the eighteen yard box. Troeger thought he looked likely to aim for the right half of goal. He started to lean that direction, then stopped. What if it was a fake? Moving too soon could leave him completely out of position.

Troeger was still frozen as Bowers blasted the ball. It shot towards the right side of the goal. Troeger moved, but too late. He could only watch as the ball flew by him… and struck the post! He quickly corralled the rebound, hugging the ball to his chest with a prayer of thanks.

He looked up at the Chancellor's suite, mortified by his mistake. The Argent was famous for her decisive nature. Even flying head first into danger, she never second guessed herself. If he was going to give his team any kind of chance against the Albish, he'd have to learn from her example. No half measures.

On the next attack, the leading role fell to Bastin on the left. Troeger began to move as soon as the man touched the ball and a shot that might have required a diving save was instead easy for him to scoop up and kick the other way.

As the team scrambled to try to put an attack together, Troeger looked up at the Chancellor's suite and smiled. The Argent Silver's belief in Germanian ability was legendary. He still had another eighty minutes of work to do in order to prove worthy of that confidence.

ooOoo

"Another diving save! The referee has blown the whistle for half time, which means we go into the half at level pegging," Wolleston said, his voice echoing in what had long since become a sullen silence at the Royal Oak. "Certainly not what we expected."

"Troeger has been a revelation," Winton chimed in. "Top class, absolutely top class goalkeeping."

"He's certainly built a wall in front of the net here in Berun. Should Albion be worried, do you think?"

"Not yet. It's been one way traffic for the whole half. With one team taking all the shots, you have to think they're bound to score eventually."

Ian Flemons grumbled to himself as he pulled a cigarette from his inside pocket. He liked watching the Albish side run up and down the field as much as anyone, but it lost its luster when every trip down the pitch ended up in the hands of that bloody wall. He'd lost count of how many promising possessions had ended the same way, until the television displayed a helpful graphic reminding him that Albion was ahead sixteen to two on shots, and that Troeger had eleven saves at the half. And that wasn't even counting the time he'd snuffed out a possession by diving in and taking the ball off Crooks's foot.

Sure, it stood to reason that Albion would win. But if the Devil of the Rhine was constrained to reasonable possibilities, his job wouldn't have been such a nightmare for the last few years.

ooOoo

Carl Troeger slumped onto the bench in the locker room, hissing at the aches and pains that were making themselves known now that he was taking a rest. His bruises were going to have bruises tomorrow. A small price to pay for a clean sheet.

The other players filed past, giving him a wide berth as they gathered near the blackboard. None of them wanted to jar him out of the fairy tale spell that had seen him stand in the path of the unrelenting Albish attack and turn every shot aside.

Troeger was feeling a bit superstitious himself. If he hadn't been tested as a child and found thoroughly lacking in magical potential, he would have wondered if he had accidentally cast a spell just by wishing for it, like the wizards in the old stories. As it was, though, he could only count himself fortunate and hope that his good fortune held up.

He listened with half an ear as Köhler dictated their halftime adjustments.

"Schneider, Werner, Lange," he said, calling out the team's forward line, "you're to fall back level with the halfbacks. Press forward if you have the ball with open space in front of you, but otherwise defend, defend, defend."

It seemed they were giving up entirely on the idea of scoring. With three fullbacks and now five halfbacks, poor Krause and Maier were the only two players with freedom to attack. Of course, the more balanced approach had only yielded two decent shots while giving up too many to count, so maybe the manager knew what he was doing.

"We must cut off the supply to the Albish front line," he continued. "Kick anything that moves. If it's the ball, so much the better!"

The team yelled out in agreement, surprisingly enthusiastic about abandoning the offensive third. The manager waved them to silence, then looked at Troeger.

"Carl, keep doing what you're doing."

"Yeah, yeah," he said, nodding. It wasn't like he'd planned to do anything else.

The change in tactics caught the Albish off guard. Straight out of halftime their halfback kicked a pass right at Lange, never thinking he would be playing so deep. The turnover turned into Germania's best chance so far, though it ended with the ball safely in the hands of the Albish keeper.

As the game wore on, the Albish adjusted to the Germanian change in plans, bringing more and more players further up the pitch. Even so, the sheer mass of bodies in the defensive third made it hard for the Albish to find the golden scoring opportunities that had come in bunches during the first half.

In the end, when they proved unable to manufacture a clean break into the box, the Albish began to settle for more and more long shots. Troeger had to punch one over the crossbar and another out of bounds to the side, but otherwise he was able to field them without much fuss. It was a pity that after he kicked it out the Albish would have it back almost immediately, but at least they always had to work hard before they got their next shot off.

When the referee finally blew the whistle for the end of ninety minutes, the crowd roared, but Troeger didn't let himself get too excited. He still had another half hour of work to put in.

Albion looked to apply even more pressure in the extra time. Their whole team kept pushing, pushing for the winning goal. After a diving save in the hundred and tenth minute, Troeger popped to his feet and felt his eyes go wide.

Up ahead, Krause started a diagonal run. The Albish fullbacks had pushed up all the way to midfield. The way Krause was moving from left to right, a long pass would see him clean through on the goal, and Krause could fly with the ball at his feet.

A long boot from Troeger would give the defense time to get set, though. Fortunately, Lange had leaked out on the right wing and was unmarked.

Troeger didn't waste any time in thought, simply running forward and throwing the ball as hard as he could. He could only pray that Lange had seen what needed to be done.

ooOoo

"Throw in awarded to Albion," Wolleston said, still energetic as he neared his second hour of commentary. "They've had everything their own way right up until they run into that wall in front of goal. There's a shot, and another diving grab by Troeger."

Ian Flemons snorted, then took another drink. This latest pint was getting worryingly light, so he signaled to the bartender for another round. He couldn't even get excited when Albion strung a possession together any more. The whole team just seemed helpless once it was time to breach the mouth of the goal.

"Troeger makes a long throw. Lange sends it up field with his first touch."

"Look out!"

Flemons snapped his head around, focusing on the television just in time to see a white-shirted player streaking down the field. The ball came whipping into the frame, and he was still all alone. Surely, there must have been some mistake.

"Krause has taken it on the run. It's a race!" Wolleston said, a hint of desperation breaking through his professional facade. "Can Hapgood catch him?"

Flemons stared at the screen. The white-shirted forward kept running for what felt like days. Finally, a man in the dark grey colors the television rendered out of Albish red came slashing in from the side. Just as the defender laid out in a slide tackle, the forward stepped on the ball, coming to a halt.

"Oh, he's done the defender," Winton moaned. Flemons hardly heard him.

On screen, the forward nudged the ball to the right, then blasted a shot from no more than twelve yards out. The ball hit the crossbar, pounded straight down into the ground, then bounced out of the net. Another defender finally came across the goal to blast the ball out of touch.

The entire crowd at the Royal Oak erupted into a confused babble. Whoever was running the camera in Berun was just as confused, shifting from the celebrating Germanians to the official to the linesman without much rhyme or reason. When the local crowd finally quieted down enough for Flemons to hear Wolleston's commentary, he didn't sound very certain of what had happened either.

"Was it... surely not? Now it seems the head referee is conferring with the linesman," Wolleston said. "Initially, the referee had pointed at the center spot, while the linesman wanted to award a throw in to Germania."

"It was very close," Winton added. It seemed the color commentator's duty of stating the obvious had carried over from the radio to the television.

On screen, the view of the conversation between the referee and linesman was wiped away, replaced with a still shot of the Germanian forward with his foot drawn back to kick the ball. A moment later, his foot moved forward, much slower than it had in real time.

"Now, I'm told that in the studio we can take another look at things, and, yes," Wolleston said, beginning to narrate the replay, "there you can see, the shot deflects off the bottom of the crossbar almost straight down. It then bounces off of Tremilling's outstretched arm as he lays on the ground. As soon as it bounced out, Allen is there to kick it away out of bounds. Your thoughts, Robert?"

"Well, as a goalkeeper, you know, I always reminded people that the ball has to get all the way cross the line. This is so close, though, I just can't tell."

"The referee has to make a decision without benefit of the replay, of course."

"He'll have forty thousand people looking to help him make the call."

The crowd at the bar certainly wasn't shy about making their opinions known. Naturally, the local fans all agreed that it obviously wasn't a goal. Flemons found himself nodding along with the general sentiment until one hopeful young man said that even if it was a goal, they still had ten minutes to find an equalizer. Flemons grimaced and took a drink from his freshly delivered pint, turning his attention back to the television. Ten minutes wasn't much time compared to the hundred and ten that had already been squandered.

"I should add that our head official is from the Waldstatte Confederacy and the linesman is from Legadonia," Wolleston was saying, "in case any viewers are worried-oh, it seems we have a decision."

"No goal!"

"Indeed, the official has indicated that Germania is to throw the ball in from the sidelines," Wolleston said. "I have to say, Robert, from the moment Krause kicked the ball, for it to stay out, you almost have to credit the hand of God."

"Credit the hand of God, but you also have to tip your cap to the arm of Tremilling," Winton replied. "If he didn't get across the goal, who knows where that ball would have bounced."

Flemons felt his heart settle back into his chest. This was far from the glorious romp that he had hoped for, but there was still every chance Albion could win this game. Worst come to worst, they would just need to keep their composure in the penalty shootout.

ooOoo

Carl Troeger didn't feel upset when Klause's goal was waved off. Not really. It never felt real to him, the idea that they might score a goal and beat Albion. When the referee signaled for a throw in, it was simply the end of a pleasant daydream and a return to the waking world.

The near goal did serve to wake up the Albish to the risks they had been taking. They pulled back all of their extra attackers, intent on preventing any future counter attacks. With Germania defending with a numbers advantage, the last ten minutes of extra time were spent uselessly kicking the ball around in the middle of the pitch. In the end, as he'd started to expect long ago, it would come down to a penalty shootout.

Albion won the coin toss and elected to force Germania to kick first. Krause insisted that he take the first shot. He buried the ball in the top right corner and spent a moment staring down the linesman before returning to celebrate with the team. Even as Troeger began jogging out to take his place in goal, he heard the first words out of Krause's mouth.

"That one was over the fucking line."

He smiled and shook his head. First up for the Albish was Bowers. As expected, the man didn't waste much time thinking things over. Once he placed the ball, he took a few steps back before immediately charging forward. Something in Troeger's mind told him to go left, and he was diving even as the ball was kicked.

Bowers kicked it harder than Krause had, but fortunately didn't place it as well. The ball caught Troeger in the stomach, and he curled up around it almost involuntarily. He crashed to the ground and took a moment to catch his breath before letting his teammates help him to his feet. He accepted their pats on the shoulder with a nod and returned to the sideline to watch the next shot.

Schneider thought he was more clever than he was. He liked to pantomime a penalty shot to the right while pushing the ball to the left. As long as the keeper stood his ground it would be an easy save. Troeger said a brief prayer that Schneider would know well enough to leave that nonsense on the training ground and take a proper penalty shot.

His prayer went unanswered. Schneider pushed the ball left, slowly rolling it towards the goal line. Fortunately, the Albish keeper was jumpy, and had laid out in a full dive to the right as the ball was kicked. He was helpless to do anything but watch as the ball trickled into the net.

Again, the team celebrated. Again, Troeger jogged out to his spot in goal.

It was Bastin this time. He took a moment to size Troeger up before beginning his approach. Again, Troeger's instincts told him to go right. He leaned to the side and was about to dive when he caught a glimpse of Bastin's face. Something about it reminded him of Schneider, right before he tried his stupid trick shot.

Troeger desperately tried to stop his momentum. As he did, Bastin struck the ball and sent a light chip right towards where Troeger had been standing. He was too far over to right himself. All that he could do was try to turn the motion into a jump into the air instead of a leap to the side. He lashed out with his left foot, desperately trying to reach back.

He felt the ball hit his foot. He didn't know if he'd stopped it, not completely. As he hit the ground, though, he heard the roar of the crowd. Sitting up, he saw just what he had hoped for: the ball was gently bouncing to a stop, two feet in front of the goal line.

Next up was Werner. He was a big, strong, man. Usually his job was to fight for the ball in front of goal and to try to manufacture a shot. He had done yeoman's work in the second half as a sort of advanced fullback, snuffing out Albion's plays before they could develop. Finesse and skill, unfortunately, weren't really part of his game.

Werner knew his own limitations, and apparently decided to leave things up to God. He ran straight forward and punched at the ball with his toe, launching the ball with no real thought of aiming. The Albish keeper was stuck flat footed as the ball screamed over his head, lightly kissing the crossbar before ripping into the back of the net.

Troeger was starting to feel some jitters, now. With three goals in the bank, any save by him or goal by his team would mean a win. He could end the game, end the tournament right now, bringing home the trophy for his country.

He patted his chest to calm himself down and glanced up at the chancellor's suite, feeling a little ridiculous as he regained his sense of perspective. The Argent Silver had charged into battle against twelve men all by herself at the age of nine. He had his whole team on his side to pick him up in case he missed. He should keep things in perspective.

Still, he'd like to keep a clean sheet.

Bastin approached the penalty spot. It looked like the moment might be getting to him as well. As he sized up the shot and made his approach, Troeger suddenly felt he knew exactly what was going to happen. It was going to be a fake to the left and a shot to the right.

He kept his feet planted on the ground, ignoring the fake. As soon as the shot came out, slowed by the trickery, he knew he would get to hit. He crouched slightly in preparation for launching himself to the side.

Then the entire right half of his body was on fire and God was yanking him down to the ground. He managed to at least fall to the right and stretch out with his left hand. The shot wasn't very good. Not very fast, not very far out of reach. He managed to touch it, feeling just the slightest tickle on the tip of his fingers before the ball was past.

He managed to use his left arm to roll himself on his back and screamed, pounding the ground once, twice, three times. He still didn't feel any better about conceding the goal, but it helped distract him from the pain. It felt like every muscle down his right side had clenched up at the same time.

He was dimly aware of a circle of faces gathering around to look down at him, and then of being carried off the field. When he saw Lange heading out to take his shot, though, he shoved the doctor away.

"Help me sit up."

The doctor took one look at his face and sighed before helping him up. Once he was upright, the doctor produced a bottle of water from somewhere and shoved it into his hands.

"You need to hydrate."

Troeger ignored him, focused entirely on the pitch. Lange was setting up his shot. Good old, dependable Lange. No tricks, nothing fancy, just a powerful shot tucked neatly inside the far post. The Albish keeper didn't have a chance.

Troeger was pretty sure he was yelling, but with every member of the crowd losing their minds he couldn't hear himself to be sure. He tried to pull himself to his feet, but before he could the rest of the team had gathered around and hoisted him on their shoulders before marching out toward the pitch. He'd lost his bottle of water somewhere, but he found he didn't much care. He did at least have the presence of mind to raise his hands and point towards the woman who had served as his guiding light.

ooOoo

Ian Flemons had lost track of how many beers he had gone through on the afternoon. No matter how drunk he was, though, he could still count. At a deficit of three to one, Albion could still win. They just had to stop every shot and score every chance, starting now.

He admired Troeger's performance and hoped the lad wasn't seriously injured. He wished him a full return to health… tomorrow.

A hush had fallen over the bar as the next Germanian stepped onto the field. Wolleston's commentary filled the room.

"Lange is lining up for his kick. Some people are spilling out of the stands. They think it's all over… it is now! That's four."

Flemons felt his shoulders slump. It had been a thin reed, but up until the last shot had gone in a part of him had still refused to believe that they might lose. Football was an Albish sport. The only reason the continent had picked it up was because of clubs organized by bored Albish expats. It boggled the mind that they had already been beaten at their own game.

A feminine hand patted him on the shoulder.

"Cheer up Mr. Flemons. There's always next time."

He looked up to see a pretty blonde collecting his empty pint glasses and depositing them on the tray she was holding above her head. Well, maybe the day wouldn't be a complete waste.

"I'm sorry love, you seem to have me at a disadvantage."

"You don't remember," she sniffed, turning up her nose. "Typical."

He watched her walk away for a moment before lowering his forehead to the bar with a groan. Drunk and depressed, he was in no state to be pulling birds. He just needed to remember where he put his notebook so he could go home and try to sleep. Hopefully, everything would look better in the morning.

ooOoo

September 2, 1940

In the end, we managed to get through the World Cup without embarrassing ourselves. Even after the foreign journalists had a chance to go home and sober up, they continued to treat us with kid gloves. If they were hoping that I would keep spreading around freebies in exchange for positive press for the next big event to roll around, I could only applaud their good judgment.

Miss Caldwell finally played her hand a month after the tournament had ended. The popular Life magazine did an issue commemorating our team's surprising victory: The World Cup: A Germanian Triumph. She secured for herself top billing and almost half the magazine for a compilation of her satirical travel journal. Her interview with me was reproduced word for word in a separate article.

It seemed that whatever bargain she had struck with the magazine had required that she play the interview straight. It was probably just my own good fortune rather than any deliberate courtesy on her part, but I still resolved that if she tried to call in a favor, I'd do my best to oblige. It was never a good idea to pick a fight with anybody who bought ink by the barrel.

On the financial side of things, the balance sheet turned out shockingly well. Hosting weeks-long citywide parties in four major cities probably didn't do any favors to our industrial productivity, but it had certainly brought in the tourists. While Germania's central location made it irritatingly easy to get drawn into a multi-front war, it also meant that most of Europe could reach one of the World Cup hosting cities by way of a very affordable train ticket.

The real boost to the bottom line, though, was the real estate development. It turned out that developing a semi-rural piece of land into a middle class urban neighborhood, complete with a rail link to the city center, really drove up property values. Once we finished selling off the non-stadium portions of the stadium villages, the whole World Cup project would be firmly in the black.

To be fair, it was still a bit of a loss if you included the cost of all of the television broadcasting infrastructure, but I considered that to be an investment in the future. By showing the commercial viability of television, I would encourage competition from the private sector, ensuring that within a few years our citizens would become cynical, sophisticated consumers of the news. For now, I just reminded Elya that our nightly news broadcast should be fair and balanced.

On the more intangible balance sheet, Germania's national enthusiasm for football had certainly taken off. The professional league had been organized and leases signed for the use of the World Cup stadiums almost immediately after the tournament ended. If I had to identify one disappointment, it was that Carl Troeger had enlisted in the army as soon as he turned eighteen, costing the new professional league a valuable promotional tool. Even so, it seemed set to be a great success.

Matters in Ildoa also continued to tilt further and further in our favor. The democratic side had pushed past the Arno, and it looked like they would capture the capital by Christmas. I didn't even have to do anything.

With everything falling into place, I spent an entire beautiful fall day without having to make a single important decision. When I went to bed, I found myself starting to believe that I would be able to serve out an uneventful term as Chancellor and retire in peace.

Naturally, the next day I woke to the news of a Francois army storming into the Po Valley.