American Empire : The Center Cannot Hold

by Harry Turtledove

  “We’d be a lot further along than we are now, and we’ll have to find out. There. Aren’t I profound?”

  “That’s hardly the word I’d use, sir,” Michael Pound replied.

  He didn’t say what word he would use, which might have been just as well. Morrell said, “Shall we see if this miserable thing actually runs now?”

  “It had better,” Pound said.

  He was properly a gunner by trade, but he could drive. He slid down through the turret—an innovation when the experimental model was new, but a commonplace in barrel design nowadays—and into the driver’s seat at the left front of the vehicle, next to the bow machine gun. When he stabbed the starter button, the engine wasted no time roaring to life.

  “You see, sir?” he said in his best I-told-you-so tones.

  “I see,” Morrell answered. “All right, shut it down for now. We’re not ready to go anywhere, not with a two-man crew.”

  “We could if we were at war,” Pound said.

  “We could if we were but we aren’t so we won’t.” Morrell had to listen to himself to make sure that came out right. “Actually, we are at war, but barrels won’t do much against the Japs. Now we have to revive some more of the old machines, to have opponents to practice against.” He wished real barrels, modern barrels, would be so easy to face.

  These days, nobody around Baroyeca was likely to tell anybody how to vote. Hipolito Rodriguez hadn’t been sure things would work out that way, but they had. The unfortunate accidents that happened to Don Joaquin’s barn and stable—to say nothing of the even more unfortunate accidents that happened to Don Joaquin’s guards—had quickly persuaded the prominent men in this part of Sonora not to push too hard against the Freedom Party.

  “You understand what it is,” Robert Quinn said at a Freedom Party meeting a couple of weeks after those unfortunate things happened. “It has been a very long time since anyone told a patrón, ‘No, señor, you may not do this.’ They needed a lesson. Now they have had one. I do not think they will need any more.”

  “What could we have done if they had come after us with everything they have?” Rodriguez asked.

  Quinn looked steadily back at him. “It is like this. The rich men around Baroyeca have so much. The Freedom Party has so much.” He held his hands first close together, then wide apart. “If you put them in a fight, who do you think is going to win?”

  “But suppose they talked to the governor,” Rodriguez said stubbornly. “Suppose they said, ‘Call out the state militia. We have to put down these Freedom Party men with guns.’ ”

  “Muy bien—suppose they did that.” The Freedom Party organizer sounded agreeable. “Suppose they did exactly that. How many soldados in this state, Señor Rodriguez, do you suppose are Freedom Party men?”

  “Ahh,” Rodriguez said, and his voice was just one in a small, delighted chorus of oohs and ahhs that filled Freedom Party headquarters. He went on, “You mean they cannot trust their own soldiers?”

  “Did I say that?” Quinn shook his head. “I did not say that. Would I say anything that would go against the state government? Of course not.”

  “Of course not,” Carlos Ruiz agreed in sly tones. “We don’t want to go against the state government. We want to take it over.”

  “Ahh,” Hipolito Rodriguez said again. He found winning a national election easier to imagine than toppling the state government. Richmond was far away, and wouldn’t matter so immediately. A Freedom Party administration in Hermosillo would send shock waves rippling through Sonora.

  Of course, a Freedom Party defeat in November would send shock waves of a different sort rippling through the state. Quinn said, “Remember, we have to win, or the lesson Don Joaquin learned goes for nothing.”

  He didn’t say who had taught Carlos Ruiz’s patrón that lesson. He certainly didn’t say the men who’d taught that lesson had got their rifles and ammunition from him. Some things were better unadmitted.

  Quietly Hipolito Rodriguez said, “That lesson had better not go for nothing, whether we win or lose. If they push us too hard, we can still fight.”

  “You are a brave man, a bold man,” Quinn said. “You are the sort of man we want, the sort of man we need, in the Freedom Party.”

  Rodriguez shrugged. “If a patrón wants to stay a Radical Liberal, that is all right with me. I used to be a Radical Liberal myself. I changed my mind. They have no business telling me I may not change my mind. I would never try to tell them any such thing.”

  “Yes. You have reason. That is how it should be,” Ruiz said. Several other men nodded.

  But Robert Quinn said, “Once we win, well, other parties will just have to get used to that. The difference between the Freedom Party and the other parties in the Confederate States is that we have reason and they do not. If they are wrong, why should we let them pretend they are right?”

  “They are political parties, too,” Ruiz said. “One of these days, they will win an election.”

  “I do not think so,” Quinn said. “I do not think one of them will win an election for a very, very long time once we take over.”

  “What do you mean?” Ruiz asked. “Sometimes you win, sometimes you lose. That is how politics works.”

  “Not always,” Rodriguez said. “How many times in a row have Whigs been presidents of the Confederate States? Every single time, that’s how many. If the Freedom Party is good enough to win, it will win just as many elections. That’s what you meant, isn’t it, Señor Quinn?”

  “Sure it is, Señor Rodriguez,” Quinn said easily, with a small laugh. “That is exactly what I meant.”

  Rodriguez wondered why he laughed. Because he hadn’t meant exactly that? If he hadn’t, what had he meant? What could he have meant? Rodriguez shrugged. Whatever it was, he didn’t think he needed to worry about it very much.

  Someone asked, “Señor Quinn, how do we make certain the Freedom Party wins in Sonora this November?”

  “That is a good question. That is a very good question.” Now Robert Quinn sounded not only serious but altogether sincere. “We ourselves here can only make sure we win in Baroyeca.” He waited for nods to show everyone understood that, then went on, “We have to do a few things. We have to let people know what the Party will do for them once it wins. We have to let them know what it will do for the country once it wins. We have to show them the other parties cannot do the things they promise, and that most of what they promise is not good anyway. And we have to do everything we can to keep them from having the chance to tell their lies.”

  Hipolito Rodriguez understood all of that but the last. “What do you mean, Señor Quinn?” he asked. “How do we keep them from doing that?”

  “However we have to,” the Freedom Party man said bluntly. “However we need to. Don Joaquin had a sad accident, verdad?” Again, he waited for nods. Again, he got them. Everybody here knew what kind of accident Don Joaquin had had. Nobody much felt like talking about details—better safe than sorry. Quinn continued, “When they come here to make speeches and stir up their followers, we do not let them. We shout, we heckle, we make enough of a disturbance to keep them from talking to an audience. If they cannot talk, they cannot get their message out, eh?”

  “Sí, señor.” Several men said it together. Rodriguez wasn’t one of them, but he nodded. If the Freedom Party got to talk and no one else did, that was surely a large advantage. But . . .

  He held up his hand. Quinn pointed his way. “Señor, how do we keep them from talking on the wireless?” he inquired.

  “Ah, Señor Rodriguez, you do ask interesting questions.” As always, Quinn was scrupulously polite. He treated the men who’d joined the Freedom Party as if they were dons. Most white men thought of Sonorans and Chihuahuans as nothing but greasers. If Quinn did, he kept it to himself. That was another reason his following grew and grew. He continued, “We cannot stop that, not altogether—not yet. But it does not matter so much here in Sonora, because fewer places here have electricity tha
n is true in most of the Confederate States.”

  Carlos Ruiz clicked his tongue between his teeth. “That is not fair. That is not right.”

  “I agree with you, Señor Ruiz,” Quinn said. “It is one of the things the Freedom Party will fix once we have power. But, whether we like it or not, it is true, and we have to take it into account.” He paused and looked around the room. “Are there any more questions? No? All right, then. This meeting is adjourned.”

  Rodriguez was the first one to start out of the Freedom Party headquarters. From across the street, a shot rang out. Whoever held that gun didn’t really know what to do with it. The bullet cracked past Rodriguez’s head and thudded into the planking of the building behind him. Automatic reflex made him throw himself flat. Another bullet sang through the air where he’d stood a moment before. Glass shattered. Chunks rained down on him.

  He rolled back into the building. “Blow out the lamps!” he cried. The headquarters plunged into darkness.

  “Here.” Someone pressed a Tredegar into his hands. “If they want to play such games . . .”

  He crawled up to the shot-out window. One of the men who’d fired at him was running across the street, straight toward the headquarters, a lighted kerosene lantern in hand. That made the fellow an even easier target than he would have been otherwise. He wanted to fight fire with fire, did he? The rifle leaped to Rodriguez’s shoulder. He squeezed the trigger. The man with the lantern shrieked, whirled, and crumpled, clutching his belly. The lantern fell on his chest. Burning kerosene poured out and made him into a torch.

  Never shoot twice in a row from the same place unless the cover is very good—one more lesson Rodriguez had absorbed during the Great War. Staying low, he wriggled over to the other side of the window. Another Tredegar banged, this one at the back of Party headquarters. No cry of anguish from outside, but a triumphant yell from inside the building: Robert Quinn shouting, in English, “Take that, you fucking son of a bitch!” For good measure, he added, “Chinga tu madre!”

  Bang! Bang! Bang! Somebody emptied a pistol into the headquarters as fast as he could shoot. Behind Rodriguez, a man yowled. At least one of those bullets had struck home. Rodriguez fired at the muzzle flashes. He worked the bolt, fired again, and then rolled away from that spot. He didn’t know whether he’d hit the enemy, but no more shooting came from that direction, so he hoped he had.

  Running feet in the street, these from the direction of the alcalde’s house. A sharp cry of “Vámonos!” came from behind Freedom Party headquarters. Rodriguez heard more running feet, these running away. Quinn’s Tredegar barked again. The Freedom Party leader whooped again, the high, shrill cry English-speaking Confederates called the Rebel yell.

  “Madre de Dios.” An officer of the guardia civil—a policeman, in other words—stared at the burning corpse in the middle of the street. He crossed himself, not bothering to take the heavy pistol from his hand first. Then, pulling himself together, he strode up to Freedom Party headquarters. In a loud voice, he demanded, “What happened here?”

  “I will handle this,” Robert Quinn declared. To the policeman, he said, “They tried to murder us. They tried to burn down our building and roast us inside of it. They wounded one of our men—I do not know how badly poor Carlos is hurt. All we did was defend ourselves.”

  “Some defense,” the officer muttered. “If you’d done any more defending, nothing would be left of Baroyeca. Come out here now, with your hands up, all of you.” He sounded nervous, as well he might have. If the Freedom Party men felt like fighting instead of obeying, the alcalde—the mayor—probably didn’t have enough force to make them follow orders.

  But Quinn said, “We are law-abiding citizens. The Freedom Party is the party of law and order. And I told you, we have a wounded man. We will come out.” In a low voice, he added, “Hip, stay behind and cover us in case this pendejo is not to be trusted.”

  “Sí, señor,” Rodriguez whispered. The other Freedom Party men strode past him and out into the street. Carlos Ruiz walked unsteadily, his right hand pressed tight to his left shoulder.

  A couple of more men from the guardia civil came up. They spoke with Quinn and the rest of the Freedom Party men in low voices, then led them away. Nobody made any move to shoot anyone, not now. Hipolito Rodriguez set down his Tredegar. As quietly as he could, he crawled to the back door and left. No one waited for him there—no one living, anyhow. Two bodies lay in the alley behind the headquarters. Magdalena wouldn’t be happy with him. He was happy just to be breathing. He expected he could deal with his wife. She argued much less than a bullet.

  Early summer in Nashville made a good practice ground for hell. Of course, that was true through most of the Confederate States. Jake Featherston had brought the Freedom Party nominating convention to the capital of Tennessee for a couple of reasons. Moving it off the Atlantic coast reminded people the Party was a national outfit. And looking just a little north into stolen Kentucky reminded them what was at stake.

  Flash bulbs popped when Jake got off the train from Richmond. Purple and iridescent green spots danced before his eyes. Supporters on the platform shouted, “Freedom! Freedom! Freedom!” Others called his name, again and again: “Featherston! Featherston! Featherston!” The two cries merged and blended in his ears. Together, they felt sweeter than wine, stronger than whiskey. Despite those spots before his eyes, he waved to the crowd.

  Despite those shouts, his bodyguards formed up around him, protecting his flesh with their own. One bastard with a rifle had gunned down a Confederate president and sent the Freedom Party on a ten-year journey through hell. Another one now could wreck things again. If they put Willy Knight in the top spot instead of number two, could the Party win in November? Probably, Jake thought. This year, probably. But it wouldn’t be the same. He was sure of that. Willy Knight had a handsome face and handled himself pretty well on the stump. Jake . . . Jake had plans.

  Maybe, just maybe, Knight had plans, too. Maybe, just maybe, those plans involved a hero’s funeral for Jake Featherston. That was another reason the bodyguards in their almost-Confederate uniforms didn’t leave an assassin a clear shot.

  “What will you do if you’re elected, Mr. Featherston?” a reporter shouted through the din.

  “Put this country back on its feet,” Jake answered, as he had so many times before. “Settle accounts with everybody who’s done us wrong.”

  “Who would that be?” the eager beaver asked.

  “You know who. You know what we stand for. Traitors better run for the hills. Niggers better behave themselves. The Confederate States have been too soft for too long. We won’t be soft any more.”

  “Would you—?” The reporter never got to finish the question. The phalanx of guards, with Featherston at its core, pushed off the platform and through the station towards a waiting limousine. Freedom Party men and women waving Confederate and Party flags surrounded them, hands reaching between the bodyguards to touch Jake, if only for an instant. He shook some of them. When he squeezed one woman’s soft, plump fingers, she moaned as if she were coming right where she stood. He almost laughed out loud. He’d seen that before, and heard it, too.

  The limousine took him to the Heritage Hotel. The lobby was full of painted scenes of Confederate victory in the War of Secession and the Second Mexican War; a plaque said they came from the brush of Gilbert Gaul. There were no scenes from the Great War, perhaps because Gaul died in 1919, but more likely because there were no victories to record.

  The Hermitage Hotel had come through the war without much damage. Most of Nashville hadn’t been so lucky when Custer’s First Army seized it from the Confederate defenders in 1917. The Memorial Auditorium, across the street from the hotel, was a postwar building. What ever had stood there before wasn’t standing when the damnyankees grudgingly gave the land south of the Cumberland back to the CSA in exchange for the bit of Kentucky they hadn’t overrun. Jake reluctantly acknowledged that that was smart—with all of Kentucky in
U.S. hands, no Confederate Senators and Representatives from the rump of the state could fulminate in Congress about how it needed to be redeemed.

  His suite looked out at the Memorial Auditorium. Confederate flags and Freedom Party banners flew above it. Inside, delegates would be going through the motions of a political convention. Going through the motions was all they’d be doing. Unlike Whig and Radical Liberal conventions, this one was sewn up tight as a drum.

  And I know who did the sewing. Featherston peered into a mirror with a gilt frame of rococo extravagance. His lean, leathery features suddenly lit up in a grin. “Me,” he said aloud, and pointed at his own reflection.

  He’d just fixed himself a drink when someone knocked on the door. He had guards in the hallway. They wouldn’t let anyone dangerous past. He opened the door without hesitation. There stood Ferdinand Koenig, who’d come west from Richmond with him. “Come on in, Ferd,” he said.

  “Willy here yet?” Koenig asked as he stepped into the suite.

  Featherston shook his head. But then another door down the hall opened. Out stepped Knight, dapper in a gray pinstriped suit with sword-sharp lapels. He waved and walked down the hall toward the two longtime Freedom Party men. “Pat him down, boss?” one of the guards asked out of the side of his mouth.

  “No, it’s all right,” Jake whispered back. “Nothing to worry about.” The guard looked dubious. So did Koenig. They both played it Jake’s way, though. Everybody plays it my way from now on, he thought, and smiled. Everybody.

  Maybe Willy Knight thought the smile was meant for him. He grinned back and stuck out his hand. Jake took it. The clasp turned into a quiet trial of strength. Knight was a little taller and a lot wider through the shoulders, but Featherston’s rawboned frame carried more muscle than it seemed to. When the two men let go, Knight was the one who opened and closed his hand several times to ease the pain and bring it back to life.