[What Might Have Been 01] Alternate Empires

by Anthology

  “How long will you be gone?” asked Lisette.

  “Maybe a month or two,” said Placide. “Maybe longer.” He thought of the Cage, safe upstairs in his room. The War of Southern Independence was proceeding differently than he’d planned. Lee’s final northward thrust had been turned back at Gettysburg. The Confederate nation now had little hope of victory, but it still fought grimly on. Oddly, though, Placide was not wholly dissatisfied. What mattered was that Lincoln had been driven to a point of urgency. Politics might yet achieve for blacks what military might had not.

  Almost a year before, desperate to rally continued support for his war effort, Lincoln had issued what he called an Emancipation Proclamation. In Placide’s timeline, with Lee leading the Federal forces to quick victory in 1862, Lincoln was never pressed to make such a concession. And in Universe2, with Lee killed before the Insurrection even began, Lincoln considered freeing the slaves but put the idea aside when victory proved imminent in 1863.

  Only here in Universe3, in the spring of 1864, with Lee in a grim and determined struggle to hold off defeat as long as possible, could Placide see some hope that American blacks might avoid the horror of what President James G. Blaine had so sanctimoniously called Parallel Development.

  “Mr. Placide,” said Lisette sweetly, “would you bring me back something pretty from your travels? I’d be ever so grateful.” She gave him a dazzling smile.

  He was neither flattered nor fooled. He thought that with luck he’d bring her freedom and dignity, although he was sure she’d much rather have a new dress from New York. He only smiled back at the young woman, then turned his attention to the food Mrs. Le Moyne was carrying in from the kitchen.

  Universe3

  March 22, 1884

  New Orleans, Louisiana

  Shock has followed shock: Even with Lee at last general-in-chief, the Confederate hopes ended in 1865. It’s as if God Almighty has decreed that it must happen just so in all worlds, all timelines, across the breadth of the manifold realities. Evidently the South cannot win, with Lee or without him. There are economic, social, and political reasons too vast for me to correct with so simple a plan.

  Today, in a raging downpour, I witnessed the dedication of a handsome, brooding bronze statue of General Lee. The monument stands upon a column seventy feet above the traffic of St. Charles Avenue. Lee gazes resolutely northward, as if grimly contemplating the designs not only of the Union Army, but also of the subtle and guileful Yankee mind. It is a statue I have seen before, although in the world of my childhood the model was P. G. T. Beauregard, and not Robert E. Lee. I knew the area as Beauregard Place; here it has been newly named Lee Circle. In this timeline, of course, Lee is not the Great Traitor. He is idolized as a hero and the defender of the Southern way of life, despite the fact that it was his defeat that ended both the war and what is already being spoken of as the “Old South.” To me (and possibly to me alone), he is the Great Failure.

  I see that I must begin again. If Lee is to be successful in Universe4, I must take a greater hand in arranging things. Perhaps Lincoln should die in 1862. Perhaps Jefferson Davis should also be removed, or at least be firmly persuaded to leave Beauregard with his command and to make better and timelier use of Lee’s abilities. I have the leisure to consider these matters, as I intend to make a few more jumps to evaluate the fate of the Negroes in this timeline before I return at last to T0.

  On one hand, this world doesn’t know either the corruption of the Custer and Blaine administrations, or the abuses of Chase’s program of Reconciliation. On the other hand, it has suffered through the different though no less odious crookedness of Ulysses Grant’s two terms. I wonder where Grant came from. If he played any important part at all in the universe of my origin, I never read any reference to it. Yet here he emerged as a shrewd tactician, a victor, and a president. More important to me, though, is that he oversaw most of Reconstruction and permitted the wholesale rape of the South.

  Reconstruction was a grotesque injustice inflicted on a conquered population. In my world, the brief Confederate Insurrection and Lee’s vigilance as president prevented Congress from exacting such harsh penalties on the South. Even the ancient Romans knew better than to impose tyrannical conditions on a defeated people.

  Here in Universe3, almost twenty years after the war’s end, I see continued evidence of the South’s rage and indignation. The Southern attitude, shaped by the war and by Reconstruction, is a desperate desire to cling to what little yet remains of the old ways and the old life. There have been many attempts to circumvent the will of the Yankee, even to reviving slavery under new guises. This is, all in all, a bitter, unhealthy society.

  And yet I will remain in this timeline a little while longer. I plan to look around 1884 for another few days, and then jump to 1938 and Göttingen, just a week or so before T0, so that I will remain in Universe3. I’m very curious to see what changes my experiment makes in the rest of the world after seventy-five years.

  Despite the problems here, it is a more hopeful world for the Negro. Amendments to the U.S. Constitution have abolished slavery, guaranteed civil rights, and given Negroes the right to vote. Southern state legislatures have seated many Negroes, and some Negroes have been elected to office as high as lieutenant governor or been sent to Washington as senators and district representatives. In my timeline, slavery wasn’t abolished until 1878, while in 1939 most Southern Negroes still can’t vote, let alone run for office.

  The version here of Blaine’s Parallel Development is segregation, which is not so absolute and despotic, but is still highly offensive. In the New Orleans of my world, Negroes may live only in specially zoned Liberty Boroughs, which are crowded, undeveloped neighborhoods with virtually no communication or trade with each other or with the white community. Negroes here are permitted by law to take up residence wherever they choose, although in actual practice it is impossible for Negroes to find homes in many white areas.

  In Universe3, Negroes may travel freely within the city and throughout the South. They may not always be made welcome, of course, but no official restrictions are placed on their movements. In the America I abandoned, a Negro must still carry an endorsement book, which records his assigned Liberty Borough and prevents him from traveling beyond it without a special permit. At any time the state government may move individuals or groups of Negroes from one Liberty Borough to another, sometimes without warning, explanation, or recourse. There are many more similar provisions of the Blaine program, and most of them are happily absent from this timeline.

  At the close of the war, the South lay ruined and bankrupt. My experiment ended in tragedies I did not foresee and that have no counterpart in my world. The burning of Atlanta, Sherman’s march of devastation from that city’s ashes to the Atlantic coast, and the assassination of Abraham Lincoln all occurred as a result of what I set in motion. The war went on three and a half years longer than in my timeline, where some one hundred thousand soldiers died in the Confederate Insurrection. In Universe3, more than six hundred thousand perished in the Civil War.

  That nameless army guard outside General Twiggs’s quarters did not seem real to me at the time. Why has it taken vast mountains of dead soldiers to make me see the full extent of what I’ve done? Nevertheless, I believe now that although the cost has been high, I have succeeded in my dream of improving the lot of my people, at least to a small degree. I am confident that the end has truly justified the means.

  Placide jumped to 1938, to T0 minus seven days. He felt like a trespasser. It gave him an eerie feeling to walk around the university town of Göttingen, knowing that there was very likely a duplicate of himself nearby, one who had lived his whole life in Universe3.

  There were important differences between the two timelines. Some of the streets and buildings here had new names, clothing styles were oddly altered, and there were unfamiliar flags and signs wherever he looked. The degree of change depended on how much influence the United States had in this alte
rnate reality. After the Confederate Insurrection in his own timeline, the North and South hadn’t joined together strongly enough to make America an international power comparable to England, France, Germany, or Russia. Placide could not predict how in Universe3 the bloodier Civil War might have affected that situation.

  He climbed the steps of the laboratory, which in his own world had been in the Kaiser Wilhelm Institute; the building was now called the Max Planck Institute. He found what had been his own office, but a stranger’s name was now on the door. As he walked down the darkened hallway reading notices and posters, he met the building’s elderly porter. Placide was cheered that, despite all, some things remained the same. “Good afternoon, Peter,” he said.

  The old man cocked his head and studied him. “May I help you?” he asked. His tone was suspicious.

  “Don’t you know me?”

  Peter shook his head. “We don’t see many black men here.”

  Whatever other changes had been made in Universe3, Placide evidently had not pursued his studies in the German Empire. “I’m looking for a few of my colleagues,” he said.

  Peter raised his eyebrows.

  “Werner Heisenberg,” said Placide.

  “Ah, Dr. Heisenberg’s no longer here. He’s gone to Berlin, to the other Max Planck Institute.”

  “Well, then, how about Dr. Schrödinger?”

  “He went to Austria. That’s where he’s from, you know. But I think I’ve heard that since then he’s gone on to England.”

  “Paul Dirac?”

  “He’s at Cambridge now.”

  Placide wondered if this scattering of his colleagues meant that the discoveries they’d made together had not been made in this world. “La Martine and Marquand?”

  “I’m sorry, but there’s never been anyone here by those names in the years I’ve worked here.”

  That made Placide uncomfortable. “Yaakov Fein?”

  Peter’s expression grew even more cautious. “Who are these men?” he asked.

  “Albert Einstein?”

  “Gone to live in America.”

  “Tell me about Max Born. Max must still be here.”

  “He’s now at the University of Edinburgh. He’s a British subject.”

  Placide felt gripped by a cold despair. He suspected that there was no Placide-Born-Dirac Effect in Universe3, and no Cage, either. “These men were friends of mine,” he said. “Do you mind if I look around here for a little while? I planned to come work here myself once.”

  Peter gave him a dubious look, but nodded his head. “I guess it will be all right, if you don’t disturb anything.”

  “I won’t.” The old porter left him alone in the dusty, drafty corridor.

  A quarter of an hour later, while Placide was inspecting some primitive laboratory equipment, two men in the uniform of the town’s police approached him. “Will you come with us, sir?” one said.

  “Why should I?” asked Placide.

  “We must establish your identity. Please show us your papers.” He’d been afraid this might happen. He knew he could be in serious trouble now. “I’m a German citizen,” he said.

  It was obvious that the policemen didn’t believe him. “If that’s true,” said the second officer, “we’ll get this cleared up quickly at headquarters.” There was nothing else for Placide to do but go along.

  Some time later he was led to a jail cell. He’d had no identification, and none of his references existed in this timeline or could be produced to vouch for him. As the jailer clanged the cell door shut he said, “Make yourself comfortable, Dr. Placide. I’m sure there’s been some misunderstanding. In the meantime, you’ll just have to make the best of it here.”

  Placide nodded. The jailer went away, leaving him in the small, dim cell with another prisoner. “How good of you to drop in,” said the other man. Placide lay on his hard bunk and stared sullenly at the ceiling. The air was stale, and there was a heavy smell of urine and vomit.

  “My name is Schindler,” said his cellmate. “I’m a thief, but not a very good one.”

  “Apparently,” murmured Placide.

  Schindler laughed. “What got you nicked?”

  “No identification.”

  “That’s a hanging offense in this town, friend. Where are you from?”

  “The United States, originally. But I’ve lived in Germany for a few years.”

  Schindler whistled tunelessly for a little while. “What do you do in Germany?” he asked at last.

  “I’m a scientist,” said Placide. “Particle physics, quantum mechanics. Nothing that would interest the average person.”

  “Jewish physics,” said Schindler, laughing again. “Einstein and that gang, right?”

  “Yes,” said Placide, puzzled.

  “No wonder you’re locked up.”

  “What do you mean, Jewish physics?”

  “The government’s official policy is that sort of thing isn’t politically correct.”

  “Politically correct?” cried Placide. “Science is science, truth is truth!”

  “And the National Socialists decide which is which.”

  They talked for some time, and Schindler gave him a great deal to think about. After a while, Placide told the good-humored thief about the Cage and his adventures traveling from one universe to another. Schindler was skeptical, but he stopped short of calling Placide a liar. The two men compared what they knew of recent history in their divergent worlds.

  Here in Universe3, the United States had taken part in the Great War, and the German Empire had come to an end. In response to the Depression, and growing out of Germany’s bitterness after the war, a party of fascists came to power in Berlin. Many talented people, liberals and Jews and other persecuted groups, fled Germany soon after that.

  “You shouldn’t admit that you even knew those people,” advised Schindler. “You won’t do yourself any good.”

  “What can they do to me?”

  Schindler laid a finger alongside his nose and spoke in a hushed voice. “They can send you to the camps,” he said.

  “What kind of camps?”

  “The kind of place where your friend Einstein might have been sent. Where lots of brilliant but racially inferior scientists are hauling boulders around until they drop dead.” He gave Placide a meaningful look.

  It was too crazy for Placide to believe, but still he began making plans to escape. When he was out, he’d use the Cage to get out of this stifling reality as quickly as he could. In the meantime, he hoped that the mechanism of the German government would operate efficiently.

  Weeks later he was granted a hearing. He sat in a small room at a wooden table, while several strangers testified that he was insane. Peter the porter was brought in. He identified Placide as the man who’d wandered into the laboratory and asked after the decadent physicists. Schindler reported everything Placide had told him, and added his own embellishments. Quite obviously, he’d been put in the cell with Placide as an informer.

  Placide himself was not permitted to testify. He was judged insane. The American embassy could find no record of him in New Orleans; the examining board ironically chose to believe only one item of Placide’s story, that he was a naturalized German. Therefore, it had the authority to remand him to a clinic for the mentally disturbed in Brandenburg. After the hearing, he was locked up again, along with Schindler.

  “You goddamn spy!” cried Placide. His voice echoed in the cold stone cell.

  Schindler shrugged. “Everyone is a spy these days,” he said. “I’m sorry you’re upset. Let me make it up to you. I’ll give you some advice: Be careful when you get to Brandenburg.” He lay down on his narrow wooden bunk and turned away from Placide.

  “What are you talking about?”

  Schindler took out a penknife and began chipping at the mortar between two blocks in the wall. “I mean, that clinic isn’t what it appears to be. The Brandenburg Clinic is a euthanasia center, friend. So when you go in, just take a deep bre
ath and try to hold it as long as you can.”

  Schindler’s knife was making a rasping, gritty sound. Placide stared at his back. “I’m being sent to a mental health clinic.”

  “Carbon monoxide,” said Schindler, turning to face him. “That’s the only treatment they use. Look, you say you helped the Negroes of your country, but see what you’ve let loose in the world instead! When they drag you into that narrow room, think about that. Think about all the other people who are going to follow you to the gas, and decide if it was worth it.”

  Placide shut his eyes tightly. “Of course it was worth it,” he said fiercely. “All that I’ve discovered. All that I’ve accomplished. I only regret that I won’t be able to go back to T0 and report to the others. Then I’d go back to 1860 and try again, correct my mistakes. Even if it took me two or three more attempts, I’d succeed eventually. And then I could move on to another time, another problem. We could create a committee to guide similar experiments all through history, relieving suffering and oppression wherever we chose.”

  Schindler jammed his penknife into the wooden frame of the bunk. “You are insane, Placide, do you know that? You haven’t learned a goddamn thing. You’d charge right ahead if you could, and who knows what new horrors you’d instigate? You’ve got a rare talent for making good times hard, and hard times worse.”

  “I have one chance,” Placide murmured thoughtfully, not hearing Schindler’s words at all. “Another Thomas Placide, from another parallel reality, may be aware of my trouble here. He may be searching for me this very minute. I have to hang onto that hope. I must have faith.”

  Schindler laughed as if he’d never heard anything so funny in his life.

  And while Nazi guards patrolled the hallway beyond the cell’s iron-barred door, Placide began planning what he would do when he was released, and where he would go, and on whom he’d revenge himself.

  WE COULD DO WORSE

  Gregory Benford