The Victorious Opposition

by Harry Turtledove

  The Mormon leader said, “The worse the conditions in this state get, the more widespread that desperation becomes. We may see another explosion, Colonel.”

  “You are in a poor position to threaten me, Mr. Young,” Dowling said.

  “I am not threatening you. I am trying to warn you,” Young said earnestly. “I do not want another uprising. It would be a disaster beyond compare. But if the people of Utah see no hope, what can you expect? They are all too likely to lash out at what they feel to be the cause of their troubles.”

  “If they do, they will only bring more trouble down on their heads. They had better understand that,” Dowling said.

  “I think they do understand it,” Heber Young replied. “What I wonder about is how much they care. If all choices are bad, the worst one no longer seems so very dreadful. I beg you, Colonel—do what you can to show there are better choices than pointless revolt.”

  With genuine regret, Dowling said, “You credit me with more power than I have.”

  “I credit you with goodwill,” Young said. “If you can find something to do for us, something you may do for us, I think you will.”

  “The things you’ve asked for are not things I may do,” Dowling said.

  Impasse. They looked at each other in silent near-sympathy. Young got to his feet. So did Dowling. Dowling put out his hand. Young shook it. He also shook his head. And, shaking it, he strode out of Abner Dowling’s office without looking back.

  “Come on, Mort!” Mary Pomeroy exclaimed, sounding as excitable as her red hair said she ought to be. “Do you want to make us late?”

  Her husband laughed. “For one thing, we won’t be late. For another thing, your mother will be so glad to see us, she won’t care anyhow.”

  He was right. Mary knew as much, but she didn’t care. “Come on!” she said again, tugging at his arm. “We’ll all be there at the farm—Ma and Julia and Ken and their children and Beth—that’s Ken’s ma—”

  “I know who Beth Marble is,” Mort broke in. “Hasn’t she been coming to the diner for years whenever she’s in Rosenfeld to buy things?”

  “And us,” Mary finished, as if he hadn’t spoken. “And us.” They’d been married less than a year. A lot of the glow was still left on her—left on both of them, which made life much more pleasant. She gave him a playful shove. “Let’s go.”

  “All right. All right. See? I’m not arguing with you.” He put on a straw boater—a city fellow’s hat, almost too much of a city fellow’s hat for a town as small as Rosenfeld, Manitoba—and went downstairs. He carried the picnic basket, though Mary had cooked the food inside. They went downstairs together.

  Their apartment stood across the street from the diner Mort ran with his father. Mort’s rather elderly Oldsmobile waited at the curb in front of the building. Mary wished he didn’t drive an American auto, but there were no Canadian autos, and hadn’t been since before the Great War. As he opened the trunk to put the picnic basket inside, a couple of occupiers—U.S. soldiers in green-gray uniforms—went into the diner. They both eyed Mary before the door closed behind them.

  She slammed down the trunk lid with needless violence. All she said, though, was, “I wish Pa and Alexander could come to the picnic, too.”

  “I know, honey,” Mort said gently. “I wish they could, too.”

  The Yanks had shot Alexander McGregor—her older brother—in 1916, claiming he’d been a saboteur. Mary still didn’t believe that. Her father, Arthur McGregor, hadn’t believed it, either. He’d carried on a one-man bombing campaign against the Americans for years, till a bomb he’d intended for General George Custer blew him up instead.

  One of these days . . . Mary clamped down on that thought, hard. Smiling, she turned to her husband and said, “Let me drive, please.”

  “All right.” He’d taught her after they got married. Before that, she’d never driven anything but a wagon. Mort grinned. “Try to have a little mercy on the clutch, will you?”

  “I’m doing the best I can,” Mary said.

  “I know you are, sweetie.” Her husband handed her the keys.

  She did clash the gears shifting from first up to second. Before Mort could even wince, she said, “See? You made me nervous.” He just shrugged. She drove smoothly the rest of the way out to the farm where she’d grown up. She turned down the lane that led to the farmhouse, stopped alongside of Kenneth Marble’s Model T (which made the Olds seem factory-new by comparison), and shut off the motor. “See?” Triumph in her voice, she took the key from the ignition and stuck the key ring in her handbag.

  “You did fine,” Mort said. “But you put the keys away too soon. We’ve got to get the hamper out of the trunk.”

  “Oh.” Mary felt foolish. “You’re right.”

  Mort carried it up onto the porch. She remembered how he’d stood there the first time he came to take her out. But then she’d seen him from inside the house, and as a near stranger. Now she stood beside him, and the house in which she’d lived most of her life seemed the strange place.

  Her mother opened the door. “Hello, my dear—my dears!” Maude McGregor said, smiling. Mary had got her red hair from her mother; Maude’s, these days, was mostly gray. She looked tired, too. But then, what woman on a farm didn’t?

  Mary knew she’d had no idea how much work she did every day till she went from the farm into Rosenfeld. Keeping an apartment clean and cooking were as nothing beside what she’d done here. With her father and brother dead, she’d worked even harder than most women had to. But in town . . . There, keeping up would have been easy even without electricity. With it, she felt as if she lived in the lap of luxury.

  Now, coming back, she might have fallen into the nineteenth century, or maybe even the fifteenth. She shook her head. That last wasn’t right. Kerosene lamps gave light here, and her mother cooked on a coal-burning stove. They hadn’t had those in the Middle Ages. But water came from a well, and an outhouse added its pungency to the barn’s. Mary hadn’t needed any time at all to get used to the delights of running water and indoor plumbing.

  Even so, she had no trouble saying, “It’s so good to be back!” after hugging her mother. She meant it, too. No matter how hard things had been here, the farm was the standard by which she would measure everything else for the rest of her life.

  As soon as she stepped inside, two tornadoes hit her, both shouting, “Aunt Mary!” Her sister Julia’s son Anthony was five; her daughter Priscilla, three. Mary picked each of them up in turn, which made them squeal. Picking up Anth—that was what they called him, for no reason Mary could make out—made her grunt. He was a big boy, and gave the promise of growing into a big man.

  Julia was taller than Mary, and Ken Marble was a good-sized man, though stocky and thick through the chest rather than tall. “Glad to see you,” he said gravely. Both he and Julia were quiet people, though their children made up for it. He might have been talking about the weather when he went on, “We’ve got number three on the way. First part of next year, looks like.”

  “That’s wonderful!” Mary hurried to her sister and squeezed her. Julia looked even more weary than their mother. As a farm wife with two small children, she had every right to look that way. “How do you feel?” Mary asked her.

  She shrugged. “Like I’m going to have a baby. I’m sleepy all the time. One day, food will stay down. The next, it won’t. When are you going to have a baby, Mary?”

  People had started asking her that after she’d been married for about two weeks. “I don’t know exactly,” she answered in a low voice, “but I don’t think it’ll take real long.”

  Julia’s mother-in-law, Beth Marble, said, “What’s the news from in town, kids?” She was a pleasant woman with shoulder-length brown hair going gray, rather flat features, and a wide, friendly smile.

  “Tell you what I heard late last night at the diner,” Mort said. “There’s talk Henry Gibbon’s going to sell the general store.”

  “You didn’t even tell m
e that when you came home!” Mary said indignantly.

  Her husband looked shamefaced. “It must’ve slipped my mind.”

  Mary wondered if he’d saved the news so it would make a bigger splash at the gather. He liked being the center of attention. It was big—no doubt about that. She said, “Gibbon’s general store’s been in Rosenfeld for as long as I can remember.”

  “For as long as I can remember, too, pretty much,” her mother said.

  “That’s likely why he’s selling—if he is selling, and it’s not just talk,” Mort said. “He’s not a young man any more.”

  When Mary thought of the storekeeper, she thought of his bald head, and of the white apron he always wore over his chest and the formidable expanse of his belly. But sure enough, the little fringe of hair he had was white these days. “Won’t seem the same without him,” she said, and everybody nodded. She added, “I hope to heaven a Yank doesn’t buy him out. That’d be awful.”

  More nods. Julia hated the Americans as much as Mary did, though she wasn’t so open about it. The Marbles had no reason to love them, either, even if they hadn’t suffered so much at U.S. hands. The only Canadians Mary could think of who did love Americans were collaborators, of whom there were altogether too many.

  “Let’s go take the baskets out to the field and have our picnic,” Maude McGregor said, which was not only a good idea but changed the subject.

  Sprawled on a blanket under the warm summer sun and gnawing on a fried drumstick, Mary found it easy enough not to think about the Americans. She listened to gossip from town and from the surrounding farms. The Americans did come into that, but only briefly: a farmer’s daughter was going to marry a U.S. soldier. It wasn’t the first such marriage around Rosenfeld, and probably wouldn’t be the last. Mary did her best to pretend it wasn’t happening.

  Far easier, far more pleasant, to talk about other things. She said, “These deviled eggs you made sure are good, Ma.”

  Her husband nodded. “Can I get the recipe from you, Mother McGregor? They beat the ones we fix in the diner all hollow.”

  “I don’t know about that,” Maude McGregor said. “If other people use it, it won’t be mine any more.”

  “Of course it will,” Mort said. “It’ll just let other people enjoy what you were smart enough to figure out.”

  “He’s a smooth talker, isn’t he?” Julia murmured. Mary smiled and nodded.

  In a low, confidential voice, Mort went on, “I’m not just talking to hear myself talk, Mother McGregor. That recipe’s worth money to my father and me. If we were buying it from someone else in the business, we’d probably pay”—he screwed up his face as he figured it out—“oh, fifty dollars, easy.”

  The farm barely made ends meet for Mary’s mother. Mary doubted the Pomeroys would pay anywhere near that much for a recipe—they’d be more likely to swap one of their own—but the diner was doing well, and Mort had a generous heart. After blinking once or twice to make sure he was serious, Maude McGregor said, “When we get back to the house, I’ll write it down.” Everyone beamed.

  When they got back to the house, Mary said, “I’m going out to the barn, Mort, and get us some fresh eggs. I wonder if I remember how to get a hen off the nest.”

  “You don’t need to take the big picnic basket with you, just for some eggs,” Mort said.

  “It’s all right. I’ve got a smaller one inside,” Mary said. That display of feminine logic flummoxed her husband. He shrugged and watched her go, then turned back to her mother, who was putting the deviled-egg recipe on paper.

  In the barn, Mary quickly gathered a dozen eggs. She put them, as she’d said she would, in the smaller basket inside the big one, cushioning them with straw. She didn’t go back to the house right after that. Instead, she walked over to an old iron-tired wagon wheel that had been lying there since the Great War, maybe even since before it started. The iron, by now, was red and rough with rust. It rasped against her palms—which were softer than they had been—as she shoved the wheel aside.

  Mary scraped aside the dirt under it, and lifted a board under the dirt. The board concealed a hole in the ground her father had dug. In it lay his bomb-making tools, the tools the Yanks had never found. She scooped up sticks of dynamite, blasting caps, fuses, crimpers, needle-nosed pliers, and other bits of specialized ironmongery, and put them in the basket.

  She was just replacing the wheel over the now-empty hole when her nephew Anthony charged into the barn. “What you doing, Aunt Mary?” he asked.

  “I was squashing a spider that had a web under there,” she lied smoothly. Anth made a horrible face. She made as if to clop him with the picnic basket. He fled, giggling. She went out to the car and put the basket in the trunk.

  II

  Saul Goldman was a fussy little fellow, but good at what he did. “Everything’s ready now, Mr. President,” he said. “Newsreel photographers, newspaper photographers, and the wireless web connection. By this time tomorrow, everyone in the Confederate States will know you’ve signed this bill.”

  “Thanks, Saul,” Jake Featherston said with a warm smile, and the little Jew blossomed under the praise. Jake knew Goldman was exaggerating. But he wasn’t exaggerating by much. The people who needed to know he was signing the bill would hear about it, and that was what mattered.

  At a gesture from the communications chief, klieg lights came on in the main office of the Gray House. Featherston smiled at the camera. “Hello, friends,” he said into the microphone in front of him. “I’m Jake Featherston. Just like always, I’m here to tell you the truth. And the truth is, this bill I’m signing today is one of the most important laws we’ve ever made in the Confederate States of America.”

  He inked a pen and signed on the waiting line. Flashbulbs popped as the photographers did their job. Jake looked up at the newsreel camera again. “We’ve had too many floods on our big rivers,” he said. “The one in 1927 came close to drowning the middle of the country. Enough is enough, I say. We’re going to build dams and levees and make sure it doesn’t happen again. We’ll use the electricity from the dams, too, for factories and for people. We’ve needed a law like this for years, and now, thanks to the Freedom Party, we’ve got it.”

  “Mr. President?” A carefully prompted reporter from a Party paper stuck his hand in the air. “Ask you a question, Mr. President?”

  “Go right ahead, Delmer.” Featherston was calm, casual, at his ease.

  “Thank you, sir,” Delmer said. “What about Article One, Section Eight, Part Three of the Constitution, sir? You know, the part that says you can’t make internal improvements on rivers unless you aid navigation? Dams don’t do that, do they?”

  “Well, no, but they do lots of other things the country needs,” Jake answered.

  “But won’t the Supreme Court say this law is unconstitutional?” the reporter asked.

  Featherston looked into the cameras as if looking at a target over open sights. He had a long, lean face, a face people remembered if not one conventionally handsome. “Tell you what, Delmer,” he said. “If the Supreme Court wants to put splitting hairs ahead of what’s good for the country, it can go right ahead. But if it does, I won’t be the one who’s sorry in the end. Those fools in black robes will be, and you can count on that.”

  He took no other questions. He’d said everything he had to say. The microphones went off. The bright lights faded. He leaned back in his swivel chair. It creaked. Saul Goldman came back into the room. Before Jake could ask, his head of communications said, “I think that went very well, Mr. President.”

  “Good.” Featherston nodded. “Me, too. Now they know what I think of ’em. Let’s see how much nerve they’ve got.”

  Ferdinand Koenig walked into the office. The attorney general was one of Featherston’s oldest comrades, and as close to a friend as he had these days. “You told ’em, Jake,” he said. “Now we find out how smart they are.”

  “They’re a pack of damn fools, Ferd,” Jake said sco
rnfully. “You watch. The people who’ve been running this country are damn fools. All we need to do is give ’em the chance to prove it.”

  Koenig had got to the office faster than Vice President Willy Knight. Knight was tall and blond and good-looking and very much aware of how good-looking he was. He’d headed up the Redemption League till the Freedom Party swallowed it. One look at his face and you could see he still wished things had gone the other way. Too bad, Jake thought. Knight wasn’t so smart as he thought he was, either. He never would have taken the vice-presidential nomination if he were. The vice president of the Confederate States couldn’t even fart till he got permission from the president.

  Four months on the job, and Knight still hadn’t figured that out. He went right on laboring under the delusion that he amounted to something. “For God’s sake, Jake!” he burst out now. “What the hell did you go and rile the Supreme Court for?” A Texas twang filled his voice. “They’ll throw out the river bill for sure on account of that, just so as they can get their own back at you.”

  “Gosh, Willy, do you think so?” Jake sounded concerned. He watched Koenig hide a smile.

  Willy Knight, full of himself as usual, never noticed. “Think so? I’m sure of it. You did everything but wave a red cloth in their face.”

  Featherston shrugged. “It’s done now. We’ll just have to make the best of it. It may turn out all right.”

  “How can it?” Knight demanded. “Sure as the sun comes up tomorrow, somebody’s gonna sue. You can already hear the Whigs licking their chops, slobbering over the chance to make us look bad. Whatever district court gets the law’ll say it’s no goddamn good.”

  “Then we’ll take it to the Supreme Court,” Ferdinand Koenig said.

  “They’ll tell you it’s unconstitutional, too, just like that reporter fellow said they would,” Willy Knight predicted. “They’re looking for a chance to pin our ears back. Once they get those black robes on, Supreme Court justices think they’re little tin gods. And there’s not a Freedom Party man among ’em.”