American Empire : The Center Cannot Hold

by Harry Turtledove

  “I suppose you’re right.” Nellie sighed. Hal was the sensible one in the family. He was, as far as she was concerned, sometimes sensible to a fault. Clara came back out. Nellie absentmindedly ruffled her hair. Then she decided to be sensible, too, and said, “Now we’ve seen it. Let’s go inside. It’s cold out here.”

  “Oh, Ma!” Nobody had ever accused Clara of being sensible.

  But Hal said, “Your mother is right. If you stay out here too long, you could catch pneumonia, and then where would you be?”

  “I’d be out here, having a good time,” Clara answered. Pneumonia was just a word to her, not one of the many diseases that could so easily kill children.

  “Come on in,” Nellie said. She knew what pneumonia was, all right. “Edna and Uncle Merle and Cousin Armstrong are coming over in a little while.”

  That did get Clara back inside, at the price of continual questions—“When will they come? Why aren’t they here yet?”—till her half sister, Edna’s husband, and their son arrived half an hour later. Armstrong pulled Clara’s hair. She squalled like a cat that had had its tail stepped on, then stamped on his foot hard enough to make him wail even louder.

  He got little sympathy from his mother. “Serves you right,” Edna said. “I saw what you did to Clara.”

  “Happy New Year,” Merle Grimes said above the wails of the two irate children. Behind his gold-rimmed spectacles, irony glinted in his eyes.

  “Well, I do hope the rest of it’ll be happier than this godawful racket,” Nellie said. “Maybe the crown prince will bury the hatchet once and for all.”

  “He’d like to bury it in our backs, I think,” Grimes said. “One of these days, we really will have to worry about Germany. The Germans are worrying about us right this minute, and you can bet your bottom dollar on that.”

  Hal handed him a whiskey. After they clinked glasses and toasted 1926, Nellie’s husband said, “We’ll have a hard time worrying about Germany when we don’t even worry about the CSA.”

  “I know,” Grimes said. “Well, good old Kaiser Bill’s got other worries besides us, too, and that’s not bad.”

  Nellie raised her glass for a toast of her own. “Here’s to no more war anywhere,” she said once she’d caught everybody’s eye. “Haven’t we had enough?”

  “Amen!” her husband said, and drank.

  “I know I’ve had enough, enough and then some,” her son-in-law said. He drank, too. “Wasn’t for those . . . miserable Confederates”—he didn’t swear around women, but he’d come close there—“I wouldn’t limp for the rest of my days.”

  Edna also drank. “I hope they never, ever come anywhere near Washington again,” she said. Nellie eyed her daughter. Edna looked back defiantly, but couldn’t help turning red. She’d nearly married a Confederate officer. In fact, she would have married him if a U.S. shell hadn’t killed him on his way to the altar. Almost ten years ago now, Nellie thought, amazed, wondering where the time had gone. As far as she knew, Merle Grimes had no idea Nicholas H. Kincaid had ever existed.

  That was Edna’s worry, not her own. She had secrets in her past, too, secrets she wanted to stay buried till they shoveled dirt over her. Her husband reminded her of those secrets by pouring everyone’s glass full and proposing a toast of his own: “Here’s to our missing friends, gone but not forgotten.”

  “Oh, God, yes!” Merle said, and gulped that drink down. His mouth tightened; harsh lines sprang out at its corners. “Too many good fellows dead for no reason: Ernie and Clancy and Bob and Otis and—” Behind his spectacles, tears glinted.

  “And Bill Reach, too.” Hal Jacobs sounded as maudlin as his step-daughter’s husband. “He was worth a division, maybe more, in getting the Confederates out of Washington. I wish he’d lived to see this day, with an American empire stretching north to south, east to west. . . .” He sighed. “He should have, too. Just bad luck.”

  Now Edna eyed Nellie. Now Nellie flushed and had trouble meeting her daughter’s eye. She didn’t reckon Bill Reach a missing friend. Reach had mortified her during the war, drunkenly taking her for the strumpet she’d been a long time before. She’d never been able to tell Edna anything since, not hoping to be taken seriously.

  But not even Edna knew how Bill Reach had died. No one but Nellie knew that, which was just how she wanted things. She’d been foraging for supplies when he tried to rape her, counting on a broken bottle to intimidate her into cooperating. But she’d carried a butcher knife, and she’d been sober. Bill Reach’s body was one of God knew how many hundreds or thousands from the time of the U.S. bombardment, the time before the Confederate Army finally and sullenly pulled out of the U.S. capital. So far as she knew, nobody’d ever found it.

  I hope nobody ever does, either, she thought savagely. I hope he rots in the ground and burns in hell forever. It’d serve him right, by God.

  Her husband had said something to her, but she had no idea what. “I’m sorry, Hal,” she said. “I must’ve been woolgathering.”

  “It’s all right, sweetheart,” Hal said with a tender smile. He did love her. She knew that. She was absently fond of him, too, not least because, being a long way from young, he didn’t try to make love to her very often. She’d had more than enough of that. Now he went on, “I said, I know you feel the same way about poor Bill as I do. He always praised the information you got to the skies. He did like the bottle a bit too much, but he was a fine man, a first-class patriot.”

  Nellie managed a nod and a glassy smile. They sufficed. Edna made a small noise that might have been the start of a snicker, but did stop at Nellie’s glower. And then they all got distracted, for Clara came in shouting, “Ma! Ma! Armstrong went and put somethin’ down the potty and then he flushed it, and now there’s water all over everything! Come quick!”

  “Oh, for God’s sake!” Nellie sprang to her feet, as did the other grownups.

  Getting out the pair of long johns and mopping up the water didn’t take long. For Merle Grimes to wallop Armstrong’s backside with a hairbrush didn’t take long, either. Armstrong’s howls needed some little while to subside. So did Nellie’s temper. “He’s only a little boy, sweetheart,” Hal said.

  “Boys!” Nellie snorted, in the tone she usually reserved for, Men! “You’d never see a little girl doing something like that.”

  “You tell ’em, Ma,” Edna said. She and Nellie argued whenever they got a chance, but she would back her mother in a quarrel against the other half of the human race.

  Except there was no quarrel. Hal Jacobs and Merle Grimes looked at each other, as if wondering who would bell the cat. At last, Hal said, “Well, Nellie, you may be right. If the world held nothing but women, we probably wouldn’t have fought the Great War.”

  Merle chuckled. “Oh, I don’t know if I’d go that far. They wouldn’t have fought it over Serbia, though—I am sure of that. More likely over which was better, Macy’s or Gimbel’s.”

  He laughed. So did Hal. And so did Edna, betraying her sex after all. Nellie glared at her—yes, they would squabble over anything. Defensively, Edna said, “Oh, come on, Ma—it was funny.”

  “Well, maybe,” Nellie said with the air of one making an enormous concession. She was so obvious about it, her husband and son-in-law started laughing again.

  “Peace,” Merle Grimes said when he could speak at last. “Peace. It’s 1926, and we’ve already drunk to peace. Let’s keep it for as long as we can.” Not even Nellie could find anything to argue with there.

  Jonathan Moss got to his feet in the courtroom. “May it please your Honor,” he said wearily, “but I must object to the prosecution’s speaking of my client as ‘the guilty party.’ The purpose of a trial is to find out whether or not he is guilty.”

  His Honor was a U.S. Army colonel named Augustus Thorgood. Down came the gavel. “Overruled.” He nodded to the prosecutor, a U.S. Army major named Sam Lopat. “You may proceed.”

  “Thank you, your Honor,” Lopat replied. “As I was saying, Stubbs
there is plainly guilty of insurrection against the military government of the United States in the former province of Ontario, as defined in Occupation Administrative Code, section 521, subsection 17.”

  Horace Stubbs, Moss’ client, leaned toward him and whispered, “Thanks for trying.”

  “We’re not out of it yet,” Moss whispered back. But he was whistling in the dark, and he knew it.

  Major Lopat went on, “Before witnesses, the defendant said the United States deserved to be booted out of Canada on their backside. His very words, your Honor!” His voice trembled with indignation.

  “Objection.” Moss got to his feet again. “No witnesses have been produced before the court to show my client said any such thing.”

  “We have the testimony,” Lopat said smugly.

  “But no witnesses,” Moss persisted. “Testimony can come from a man with a personal grudge, or from one out for a profit. How do we know unless we can cross-examine a witness?”

  “This is not an ordinary criminal proceeding, Mr. Moss, as you know perfectly well,” Colonel Thorgood said. “Testimony from certified informants may be admitted without their being liable to appear in open court, for fear of reprisal against them from the unreconciled.”

  “How can you possibly hope for justice under such conditions?” Moss asked.

  “We aim to stamp out rebellion,” the military judge said. “We will, too.”

  “Yes, your Honor. No doubt, your Honor.” Moss turned Thorgood’s title of respect into one of reproach. “But, sooner or later, ignoring the needs of justice and caring only for the needs of expedience will come back to haunt you. As Ben Franklin said, your Honor, ‘They that can give up essential liberty to obtain a little temporary safety deserve neither liberty nor safety.’ ”

  He’d pulled that quotation out of his Bartlett’s, hoping he wouldn’t have to use it. If he did, his client would be in trouble. Well, Stubbs was in trouble, and Moss, like any lawyer worth his pay, used whatever weapons came to hand. And this one struck home. Colonel Thorgood turned red. Major Lopat jumped to his feet. “Now I object, your Honor! Incompetent, irrelevant, and immaterial.”

  “Sustained.” Thorgood thumped the gavel. “The record will be stricken.”

  “Exception!” Moss said. “If you’re going to railroad an innocent man, at least be honest about what you’re doing.”

  Bang! The gavel came down again. “This inflammatory speech will also be stricken,” Colonel Thorgood declared. He nodded to Lopat. “Carry on, Major.”

  Carry on Lopat did, with soldierly precision. The case against Horace Stubbs was strong—was, in fact, airtight—as long as one believed what informants said about him. Moss was convinced the informants were lying through their teeth. But he doubted whether Colonel Thorgood cared one way or the other. Thorgood’s job was to keep Canada quiet. If he had to shoot every Canuck in sight to do that job, he would, and go to dinner with a hearty appetite five minutes later.

  When Major Lopat finished, the military judge nodded to Moss. “Now, Counselor, you may have your say.”

  “Thank you, your Honor.” Moss fought to keep sarcasm from his voice. He thought he still had some small chance, not of getting his client off—that was plainly hopeless—but of earning him a reduced sentence. Further affronting Colonel Thorgood wouldn’t help there. He set forth the evidence as best he could, finishing, “May it please your Honor, the only people who claim Mr. Stubbs was in any way involved with recent unfortunate events in Ontario are those whose testimony is inherently unreliable and who have a vested interest in giving him the appearance of guilt regardless of whether that appearance is in any way justified.” He sat down.

  From the prosecution’s table, Major Lopat muttered something about a “damn Canuck-lover.” Moss sent him a hard look. The military prosecutor gave back a stare colder than any Canadian winter. Had he worked in the CSA rather than the USA, he would surely have muttered about a “damn nigger-lover” instead.

  But, to Moss’ surprise, Colonel Thorgood’s gavel came down again. “That will be quite enough of that, Major,” the judge said.

  “I beg your pardon, your Honor,” Lopat said politely. He didn’t beg Moss’ pardon, though.

  “Very well, Major. Do keep your remarks to the business at hand. Having said as much to Mr. Moss, I can hardly fail to say the same to you.” Thorgood looked down at the notes on his desk. He picked up a pen and scribbled something, then said, “Horace Stubbs, rise to hear the verdict of this court.”

  With a sigh, Stubbs got to his feet. He could see the writing on the wall as plainly as could Moss. He was a small, thin, middle-aged man. On looks alone, he made an unlikely insurrectionist.

  “Horace Stubbs,” Colonel Thorgood said, “I find you guilty of the crime of participating in rebellion against the U.S. occupying authorities in the former province of Ontario.” Stubbs’ shoulders slumped. The military judge scribbled something else. He continued, “Due to the unusual nature of this case, I sentence you to six months’ imprisonment and to a fine of $250: failure to pay the latter will result in a further six months’ imprisonment.” Bang! went the gavel. “This court is adjourned.”

  A couple of husky U.S. noncoms strode forward to take Horace Stubbs off to jail. “Just a minute,” he told them. “Just one damn minute.” He grabbed Jonathan Moss’ hand, hard enough to hurt. “Thank you, sir,” he said. “Everything they told me about you, it was all true, and then some. God bless you.”

  “You’re welcome,” Moss said in slightly dazed tones as the noncoms took charge of his client and led him away. He’d hoped Colonel Thorgood would go easy on Stubbs. Never in his wildest dreams had he imagined Thorgood would go this easy. Six months and $250? From a military court? That was hardly even a slap on the wrist.

  Major Lopat must have felt the same way. As he put papers back into his military-issue briefcase, he sent Moss a sour stare. “Well, Clarence Darrow, you pulled a rabbit out of the hat this time,” he said.

  “Oh, come on,” Moss said—he was damned if he’d admit surprise to the other side. “You didn’t have a case, and you know it.”

  Lopat didn’t even bother arguing with him. All the military prosecutor said was, “Yeah? So what? Look where we are.”

  “Canadians deserve justice, too,” Moss said.

  “Oh, yeah? Since when? Says who?” Having fired three clichés like an artillery barrage, Major Lopat added, “And a whole fat lot you’d care, too, if you weren’t sleeping with a Canuck gal.”

  That might even have been true. Even so, to Moss it had only one possible answer, and he used it: “Screw you, Sam.” He packed his own papers in his briefcase and left the courtroom, grabbing his overcoat as he went. The calendar said spring had started three days earlier, but Berlin, Ontario, paid little attention to the calendar. Snow whitened streets and sidewalks, with more falling even as Moss walked along the street.

  He paused thoughtfully in front of a sign that said, EMPIRE GROCERIES. Below the words, a large, American-looking eagle was painted. Maybe the storekeeper meant the American empire, the one that stretched from the Arctic Ocean to the Gulf of California, from the Atlantic to the Pacific. But maybe, too, it was meant to call to mind the name Berlin had briefly borne during the Great War, when its citizens decided living in a town named for an enemy capital was unpatriotic.

  Moss chuckled. Laura Secord still refused to call the town anything but Empire. As far as she was concerned, the occupying authorities had no right to change back the name. There were no Canadian patriots more fiery than Laura.

  And yet she’d warned him the uprising was imminent. He still didn’t fully understand that, and she refused to talk about it now. His best guess was that she hadn’t thought the revolt had any chance to succeed, and so she wasn’t committing treason by talking about it. But that was only a guess, and he knew it.

  He stopped at a diner a few doors down from Empire Groceries. A waiter brought him a menu. The man walked with a limp; he’d taken a bu
llet in the leg trying to hold back the U.S. Army. He knew Moss had flown aeroplanes for the USA, but didn’t hold it against him—much. “Case over?” he asked as Moss sat down at an empty table.

  “That’s right,” Moss answered. “Let me have the corned beef on wheat, and coffee to go with it.”

  As the waiter scribbled on a pad, he asked another question: “They going to let Horace live?”

  “Six months in jail and $250,” Moss said exultantly.

  The waiter dropped his pencil. “Be damned,” he said, grunting in pain as he bent to pick it up. He called back to the cook, who was also the owner. “Hey, Eddie! This fast-talking Yank got Horace off easy!”

  “What’s ‘easy’?” Eddie called back. “Twenty years? Ten?”

  “Six months,” the waiter answered, sounding as excited as Moss. “And $250.”

  “Be damned,” Eddie said, as the waiter had. That impressed him enough to make him come out front. He had on a cloth cap in lieu of the toque a cook at a fancier place might have worn. He tipped it to Moss. “Lunch on the house, pal.”

  “Thanks,” Moss told him.

  “You did it,” Eddie said. “Seems like our own barristers haven’t had much luck in Yankee courts. Maybe it takes one to know one.”

  That wasn’t exactly praise, though the cook no doubt meant it as such. It also wasn’t so, or not necessarily. With a sigh, Moss said, “That fellow they said was a bomber, they threw the book at him no matter what I did.”

  “Enoch Dupree, you mean?” the waiter said.

  Moss nodded. “That’s right.”

  The waiter and Eddie looked at each other. After a long pause, Eddie said, “Hate to tell you, but Enoch, he was a bomber. I happen to know it for a fact, on account of his brother-in-law’s married to my cousin. I—”

  “I don’t want to hear about it.” Moss held up a hand to show he really meant it. “My job is to give people the best defense they can get, regardless of whether they’re guilty or not.”

  “Don’t know I much fancy that,” the waiter said. “Shouldn’t be guilty people running around loose just ‘cause they’ve got smart lawyers.”