The Valley-Westside War ct-6

by Harry Turtledove

  Once he walked into the house, she had to be more polite. This alternate had rules about hospitality. A guest was a guest. She brought Dan orange juice and bread and olive oil, and had some herself. They sat on a bench in the courtyard. She wasn't going to take him to her room-no way. That would have given him ideas he didn't need. Oh, he probably had them already, but he wouldn't do anything about them, not out here. She couldn't be so sure of that in a more private place. There was such a thing as asking for trouble.

  But right this minute Dan was too full of himself-and of his super-duper matchlock musket-to turn into that kind of nuisance. He unslung the musket and asked, “Do you want to know how it works?”

  “Oh, I'm dying to,” Liz said in a tone that couldn't mean anything but. You must be out of your mind, Charlie.

  Dan didn't get it. She might have known-she had known- he wouldn't. He walked her through the whole complicated process of loading and firing the gun. The only reason she would have wanted to know that was so she could shoot him with it. If he couldn't buy a clue, could he at least rent one?

  Not a chance. After he'd gone through his rigmarole, he said, “And then, after you've been shooting, you have to clean the inside of the barrel. Gunpowder builds up in there-we call it fouling.” By the way he said it, he might have coined the word himself.

  Liz knew she had to give him some kind of answer. Big deal was the first thing that came to mind. Somehow, she didn't think he'd appreciate it. She tried something safer: “How about that?” You couldn't get into too much trouble with three little words that didn't mean anything.

  “Did you know any of this stuff before?” Dan didn't ask it quite smoothly enough. He wasn't just interested in her. He still halfway thought she was some kind of spy. Maybe more than halfway.

  She shook her head. “No, not really. I told you-I'm not into guns.”

  “No. You're into history. And that's just freaky,” Dan said.

  Who was it who'd said, “History is bunk”? Henry Ford, that was who- Liz remembered it from a question on an AP test, and from reading Brave New World. Lots of people-most people, even-in the home timeline had thought so, right up into the middle of the twenty-first century.

  But when you could go from one alternate to another, when you could see how one change in history altered everything that sprang from it, and when you needed to figure out how the changes worked, history wasn't bunk any more. Along with chronophysics. history was one of the underpinnings of Crosstime Traffic. In the home timeline, that made it a very big deal indeed.

  But not here. Here, it was still bunk. People were still trying to get out from under the disaster history had dropped on them 130 years before. Understanding exactly why the disaster happened was a luxury they had no lime for.

  She couldn't explain that to Dan. So she pointed to his precious matchlock and said, “Do you think you'd be carrying that if somebody wasn't interested in history?”

  He looked at her as if she'd started speaking Russian. “Huh?” he said.

  “It's true.” she told him. ''We can't make guns like the ones they had just before the Fire fell, right?”

  “Well, sure. Everybody knows that,” Dan admitted. “But what's it got to do with history? Or matchlocks?”

  ''Matchlocks come from a time hundreds of years before the Fire fell. They aren't a new invention. They're a, a reinvention, I guess you'd call it,” Liz said. “After the Fire fell, somebody who knew the history of guns must have figured, Well, let's use these-they're the best we can make with what we've got left.”

  She waited. Would he think she was crazy? Would he understand any of what she was talking about? Or would he think she was making things up to freak him out?

  He looked at the matchlock, and at the powder horn on his belt. “I guess the same thing's true about machine guns, huh?” he said after a few seconds.

  Liz nodded. “Only more so, because they're more complicated.”

  “Okay. I guess you make sense. I hadn't thought about it like that before,” Dan said. But before Liz could get too happy about enlightening him, he went on, “You sure know a lot about guns for somebody who says she doesn't know anything about guns.”

  Oops, she thought. She threw her hands in the air, playacting only a little. “I don't know squat about guns. I don't care about guns-”

  “But-” Dan interrupted.

  “I don't!” Liz interrupted right back. “I know something about history. It's not the same thing. Can't you see that?” It wasn't quite the same thing, anyway. She hoped he wouldn't think it was.

  She watched him wrestling with it. “Well, maybe,” he said. “But you know about Russians, too.”

  He'd never let her live that down, would he? “I don't know a whole lot about them-I really don't,” she said.

  “You know more than any right-thinking American's got any business knowing,” Dan said.

  Most of the time, he thought of himself as belonging to the Valley. It was his kingdom, and Zev was his king. The Westside was a different country to him and to his fellow soldiers-and to the Westsiders, too. But he remembered the murdered United States on the Fourth of July… and whenever he talked about the Russians.

  “It's a democracy, isn't it?” Liz said. Democracy was still a potent word here, even if it didn't mean what it had before the Fire fell. Duties got split up so lots of people did them-that was democracy. The rulers on the Westside called themselves city councilmen and not dukes-that was democracy, too. Liz went on, “So I have the right to find out about whatever I want to, don't I?”

  ''Maybe you do.” Dan sounded troubled. “But just because you have it doesn't mean you should use it. We gave the Russians what they deserved. After all, they hit us first.”

  Not if you listen to them. But he wouldn't want to hear that. And nobody knew who'd launched the first missiles. After 130 years, it mattered only to historians. This alternate was too busy trying to take care of itself to have the time to train historians and give them a chance to work. If not for people like her family, people from the home timeline, nobody would try to find out till all the best evidence had crumbled to dust.

  A lot of evidence had already crumbled. Liz wasn't sure she and her folks would ever be sure what had happened here. At least they were trying to find out, though. The survivors of the nuclear exchange-here and in Russia-were too busy blaming each other to care about the truth, whatever it turned out to be.

  She frowned at Dan. “You're saying I shouldn't try to know what's so if that doesn't go along with what people believe.”

  “Right on!” He didn't try to deny it. “If all the people believe it, it's so. That's democracy, too, isn't it?”

  No! She wanted to scream it. But that was democracy, at least the way they used the word here. “I'm sorry, but I want to know what's what no matter what,” she said. She knew she could have put it better, but too bad. “Everybody here on the Westside thought we'd beat your army, but we didn't turn out to be right enough, did we?”

  “I should say not. We creamed you.” Dan frowned again, this time at himself. “Okay, though. I guess I see what you're trying to say.”

  Liz breathed a silent sigh of relief. She'd wondered if he would. A lot of the time, il somebody knocked a hole in your argument, you just pretended it wasn't there. She was glad Dan would admit there was a difference between what everybody thought and what was true.

  “A long time ago, people thought the earth was flat. They thought it was the middle of things, too, and the sun went around it,” she said.

  “It sure looks flat,” Dan said. “They teach us in school that the earth goes around the sun, but I'm dogged ii I understand why. I don't know ii I believe it, either. Il looks like it ought to be the other way around, doesn't it? I mean, you can see the sun move and everything. Just, like, watch our shadows.”

  Tears stung Liz 's eyes. In another 130 years, people in this alternate probably would think the earth was flat again. They would think the sun went around it
. If your own eyes told you so… If everybody's eyes said the same thing… That was democracy, wasn't it?

  Sure it was. And it was wrong, wrong, wrong.

  “If you try to figure out the phases of the moon, or how the planets move, you get better answers if you put the sun in the middle than you do if you put the earth there,” Liz said.

  “But I don't much care about the phases of the moon. I don't care about the planets at all,” Dan said. “How do you figure that stuff out, anyway?”

  “It takes more math than I know how to do,” Liz admitted.

  “There you go,” Dan said. “Even if it’s true, it's complicated. But I can see the sun. There it is, right up there.” He pointed at it, squinting and blinking. “If you watch for a while, you'll see it move, too.”

  “No, you'll see the earth turning.” Liz wasn't about to quit.

  “You sound like my teacher.” Dan laughed. “She taught what was in the book, but who says the book was right? Maybe it was one of those waddayacallits-fiction books, that's what I want to say. I mean, it just stands to reason. You can see how little the sun is. and how big the earth is. How could we go around that and not the other way around?”

  Instead of walking over to a column and banging her head on it, Liz said, “A mountain looks little cause it’s a long ways off. The sun's a lot farther away than any mountain. Of course it looks small.”

  “Ninety-three million miles,” Dan said. “That's what the book said in school, anyhow. But how could there be that many miles? And even if there were, how would anybody know how many there were? You couldn't go all that way yourself. You'd be traveling forever.” And you would run out of air. And you would roast as you got closer to the sun. And a lot of other things. Liz didn't mention any of them. She didn't remember how you went about learning how far it was from the earth to the sun. Since she didn't, she couldn't very well explain it to Dan.

  What she did say was, “Well, if they knew that stuff back in the Old Time, chances are they were right about it.”

  Dan grunted. “Yeah, I guess that's true,” he said.

  Liz had won the argument. Then she wondered if she'd cheated. He was trying to be logical about things, to argue from what he could see. She'd hit him over the head with authority. Wasn't that like the Church coming down on Galileo because he said the earth moved?

  The difference, she told herself, was that the Church was wrong and she was right. But the churchmen had thought they were right. And they'd had authority on their side, too.

  So she felt pretty rotten when Dan left. But he didn't give her any more trouble about Russians, anyhow. Whether the sun went around the earth or vice versa wouldn't get him so excited.

  She hoped.

  After practicing like a maniac, Dan could load his matchlock almost fast enough to keep Sergeant Chuck happy. He was no slower than the rest of the new musketeers. Chuck screamed at all of them impartially.

  “You have to keep up with the men who've been doing this for years!” the sergeant shouted. “A volley's not a volley if everybody doesn't shoot together. So move, you stupid, clumsy lugs! Move!”

  Dan rammed his bullet home and brought the musket up to his shoulder. So did the rest of the new men, all at about the same time-except for one luckless fellow who dropped his ramrod. What Chuck called him would have curdled milk.

  'Tm sorry. Sergeant,” the soldier said miserably.

  “You do that in the middle of a real battle and you'll be sorry you're dead, you-” Chuck found a few more compliments to pay the luckless musketeer. Then he growled, “Are we ready at last? We'd better be, don't you think? Let's find out. Ready… Aim… Fire!”

  Dan pulled the trigger. The match came down on the priming powder in and around the touch-hole. Hiss-Boom!- Kick. He coughed as the smoke went up his nose.

  The musketeer just to his left puffed on a cigar. A lot of the men who carried matchlocks smoked either cigars or a pipe. That meant you usually had a hot coal handy if you needed to get your match going again. Dan didn't usually smoke all that often, but he knew a good idea when he saw one.

  Chuck walked out to the target and brought it back. He showed the soldiers the punctures their musket halls had made. “Well, you're starting to scare the enemy, even if you don't always hit him.” But he wasn't about to let them think that was good enough. He went out to the far end of the range and set up a new target. “Now let's see how last you can give me another volley. I want everybody ready when I give the command. Go!”

  It would have been easier if Chuck hadn't gone on yelling at them while they reloaded. Dan wanted to hate him for that, but found he couldn't. He'd been in battle by now. He knew how much noise and chaos there was. You had to block it all out if you were going to do your job. If you let it rattle you, you endangered yourself and your buddies.

  Nobody dropped his ramrod this time. If anyone had, Chuck would have eaten him raw-probably without salt. And the volley went off in a close-packed set of thunderclaps that left Dan 's ears ringing. People who'd used guns a lot also tended to use hearing trumpets. But what could you do?

  “Well, you weren't too slow.” Sergeant Chuck said. That was about as much praise as the underofficer ever doled out. He retrieved the target. When he came back, he looked like somebody trying hard not to smile. “Seems like some of those… people would have stopped lead, that's for sure. Now let's see you do it again, so I know it's no fluke.“

  Some of the musketeers groaned-but none of the men at whom Chuck was looking directly. He would have blistered them if they'd tried getting away with that. Dan didn't want to fire another volley, either. But he wanted to do the shooting and not get shot if he had to fight some more, so he kept practicing without making any noise.

  Several volleys later, the smoke was making tears run down his face from eyes that felt as if they had ground glass in them. “Well, that'll probably do for today,” the underofficer said. He grinned a crooked grin. “If I told you to load for another one, chances are you'd aim it at me. And you might even hit what you were aiming at. I don't think it’s real likely, but I don't want to take the chance, either. So we'll knock off for the day.”

  He stood only a few feet from his weary students, not a hundred yards down the range. If they turned their matchlocks on him, he would have more holes than a colander, and he had to know it. But he didn't want to admit, to himself or to the musketeers, that they were getting the hang of it.

  They were plenty glad to knock off for the day. The sun was sliding down the western sky toward the nuclear glass and rubble of Santa Monica and toward the Pacific beyond it. Supper soon, and then sleep, except for the ones unlucky enough to draw evening sentry duty.

  Dan always looked forward to sleep. He did enough on any day of soldiering to leave him tired. Garrisoning Westwood wasn't so bad as the strike through the Sepulveda Pass, though. Then he'd always wanted to curl up and grab what rest he could. He'd always wanted to, and never been able to. He didn't know how much sleep he'd got in that mad dash south. He did know it wasn't enough.

  Fowls were roasting on spits above cookfires. Cooks basted them with chilies and cilantro and other spices in olive oil. The delicious smell made Dan 's stomach growl. He could hardly wait till the savory birds got done.

  Sergeant Chuck reacted differently. Pointing to the birds, he said. “I wonder whose goose they're cooking.”

  “Oh, wow!” Dan groaned. “After a joke like that, Sergeant, it ought to be yours.” You could be rude to a superior as long as you used proper military courtesy when you did it… and as long as you picked your spot with care.

  Chuck grinned at Dan. “I've got no shame. How's your girl, and what's she really pulling out of the UCLA library?”

  “She's not my girl,” Dan said regretfully. Liz was polite, but he could tell she liked him less than he liked her. He didn't know what he could do about that. So far, he hadn't been able to do anything. Sighing, he went on, “you know what we talked about the last time I was over t
here?”

  “Tell me,” Chuck said.

  “You're gonna laugh,” Dan said. The sergeant shook his head and held up his right hand, as if to swear he wouldn't. Thus encouraged, Dan went on, “'Whether the earth really does go around the sun like you learn in school.”

  Chuck stared at him, then threw back his head and let loose. He didn't just laugh-he howled. “I'm sorry,” he said at last, not sounding sorry at all. “You go visit a pretty girl, and you talk about that? The moon and the stars and how pretty they are, sure. But the sun and the earth? C'mon, man! You can do better than that.”

  “See? I told you you would.” Dull embarrassment made Dan 's ears burn. It also heated his defiance. “And you know what else? It was interesting, too.” So there, he thought.

  “Okay, okay. Don't get all uptight about it. I said I was sorry,” Chuck replied. Dan realized you didn't get an apology out of a sergeant every day, not if you were a common soldier. “So what does she think about that? Me, I don't know if the teachers are as smart as they think they are.”

  “I'm with you,” Dan said. “If the people in the Old Time were all that smart, would they have let the Fire fall? So they didn't know everything there was to know-you can bet your sweet hippy on that.”

  “There you go,” Chuck said. “That sure makes sense to me. How'd Liz like it?”

  “Not even a little bit,” Dan answered. “You hear her talk, the earth spins around to make days, and it goes around the sun to make years.”

  “You know what?” Sergeant Chuck said as they lined up to get their pieces of chicken or duck or whatever the cook dished out. “The real deal is, so what? I mean, who cares? It doesn't make a penny's worth of difference in your life or mine. It wouldn't matter if the earth was shaped like a.50-caliber bullet. We're just going to see this little bil of it, and that's all.”

  “Yeah,” Dan said. Back in the Old Time, you could fly all over the world. Those people might not have been all that smart-must have been human, in other words-but they knew more than their modern descendants. That seemed unfair to Dan. He wondered what Liz thought about it. She knew a lot. Did she miss not knowing even more?