by Janis Ian
As she was taking her shower, he took a cup of coffee and moved over to his chair in front of the window. How had he managed to actually meet another person, let alone a woman he was attracted to? Had he dreamed the entire thing? Was the water running in the bathroom just his mind playing tricks on him?
And what was he going to do next?
Actually, more importantly, what was she going to do next?
~~~~~
By the time she finished the most heavenly shower she could remember in years, her mind had cleared some. She was still having a hard time believing that anyone else was left alive, let alone someone nice. But unless she was dreaming this shower, and that fantastic omelet, Toby was actually out there.
She put on clean clothes, stuffed the dirty ones in her pack, put her pistol back in her belt and went out, dropping her pack beside the door before petting Buddy.
"Everything all right?" he asked.
"Perfect," she said. "I haven’t had a hot shower since I left home. Thank you."
"No problem," he said. "There’s coffee on the counter in the big pot. Help yourself."
He suddenly jumped up, moved into the living room, and dragged the other matching chair back so that it sat at an angle, facing the window. She poured herself a cup of coffee and joined him.
"Sorry," he said, smiling at her as he finished moving the second chair beside the first. "I’m not used to having guests."
She sat and put her feet up. "I know the feeling."
She enjoyed the silence and the fantastic view for a few moments. Then he asked, "Do you know what caused all this?"
"I think so. I believe the cloud emitted an electromagnetic pulse that shattered the neural synapses of people and certain types of animal."
"An electromagnetic pulse?" he repeated, frowning.
"Basically, yes," she said. "I was protected by an experiment vault, as you must have been protected in the bank."
He jumped up and started pacing. "Do you know what this means?" he said, the excitement clear.
"What?"
"That there has to be others alive out there besides us. Maybe even an entire community of people. Maybe more than one community, in touch with others around the world."
"You’re not making sense," she said. "Where? And how?"
"Cheyenne Mountain in Colorado, for one," he said. "There are lots and lots of people who worked down in that mountain twenty-four hours a day. It’s protected from electromagnetic pulses like we were, and they all would have survived."
She remembered reading stories of how Cheyenne Mountain was built to withstand a direct atomic hit. Maybe, just maybe…
"And there were places like that under the White House, and on other military bases," he continued. "And some atomic subs were protected. If it’s electromagnetic pulses that did this, then there will be a lot of people alive out there. And they will gather in groups. All we need to do is find them."
He dropped into his chair and sat staring over the hot city.
She looked at him, then sat back as well, letting the notion sink in. Suddenly the world on the other side of those windows didn’t seem so dead.
Or so hopeless.
If he was right, there were other people out there, somewhere, maybe trying to rebuild civilization. She had skills that she could offer them.
So did Toby, if that computer surveillance room was any indication.
"I am very glad you decided to come back to the city," he said, looking at her. "And that you didn’t shoot me on sight."
"So am I," she said, smiling at him.
They both fell silent, staring at the river and the mountains to the east. She had never felt so comfortable in a silence.
And now the silence wasn’t because of death, but because of the chance of life. It was the silence of two people thinking—thinking of where to start their search, and what to do when it was successful, as she was sure it eventually would be.
And the thought that dominated all the others in her mind was that now, finally, there was a chance that she wouldn’t die alone.
(Back to TOC)
Joe Steele
Harry Turtledove
Stay flat, don’t rat
What’s a proletariat
Stalin was a Democrat
Washingtone is where it’s at
~ from god & the fbi by Janis Ian
America. 1932. Bread lines. Soup kitchens. Brother, can you spare a dime? Banks dying like flies. Brokers swandiving from the twenty-seventh floor.
Herbert Hoover. Dead man walking. Couldn't get reelected running with the Holy Ghost. Republicans nominate him again anyway. Got nobody better. Don't know how much trouble they're in.
Democrats smell blood in the water. Twelve long years sitting on the sidelines. Twelve lean years. Twelve hungry years. Harding—women got the vote for this? Coolidge—"I've got a five-dollar bet, Mr. Coolidge, that I can get you to say three words." "You lose," says Silent Cal. Hoover—Black Tuesday. The crash. Enough said. It's on his watch. He gets the blame. Blood in the water.
Democrats smell it. Whoever they put up, he's gonna win. Gonna be President. At last. Been so long. Twelve years. Sweet Jesus Christ! Want it so bad they can taste it.
Convention time. Chicago. End of June. Humidity's high. Heat's higher. Two men left in the fight. One wins the prize. The other? Hind tit.
Two men left. Franklin D. Roosevelt. D for Delano, mind. Governor of New York. Cousin to Teddy Roosevelt. Already ran for Vice President once. Didn't win. Cigarette holder. Jaunty angle. Wheelchair. Paralysis. Anguish. Courage. As near an aristocrat as America grows. Franklin D. Roosevelt. D for Delano.
And Joe Steele.
Joe Steele. Congressman from California. Not San Francisco. Not Nob Hill. Good Lord, no. Fresno. Farm country. That great valley, squeezed by mountains east and west. Not a big fellow, Joe Steele. Stands real straight, so you don't notice too much. Mustache, a good-sized one. Thick head of hair just starting to go gray. Eyelids like shutters. When they go down and then come up again, you can't see what was behind them.
Aristocrat? Aristocrat like Franklin D. (D for Delano) Roosevelt? Don't make me laugh. Folks came from the ass end of nowhere. Got to Fresno six months before he was born. He was a citizen years before they were. Father was a shoemaker. Did some farming later on, too. Mother tended house. That's what women did.
They say Steele's not the right name. Not the name he was born with. They say God Himself couldn't say that name straight two times running. They say, they say. Who gives a good goddamn what they say? This is America. He's Joe Steele now. Then? What's then got to do with it? That was the old country, or near enough.
Franklin D. Roosevelt. D for Delano. And Joe Steele.
~~~~~
Chicago Stadium. Sweltering. Air-conditioning? You've got to be kidding. Not even in the hotels. You put on two electric fans when you go back to your room, if you ever do. They stir the air around a little. Cool it? Ha! Hell is where you go for relief from this.
First ballot's even, near enough. Roosevelt's got a New Deal for people, or says he does. Joe Steele? He's got a Four-Year Plan, or says he does. Got his whole first term mapped out. Farms in trouble? Farmers going broke? We'll make community farms, Joe Steele says. Take farmers, get 'em working together for a change. Not every man for himself like it has been. People out of work from factories? Build government factories for 'em! Build dams. Build canals. Build any damn thing that needs building.
Some folks love the notion. Others say it sounds like Trotsky's Russia. Just don't say that around Joe Steele. He can't stand Trotsky. You put the two of 'em in a room together, Joe Steele'll bash out Trotsky's brains.
First ballot. Even's not even good enough. Democrats have a two-thirds rule. Had it forever. Goddamn two-thirds rule helped start the Civil War. Douglas couldn't get over the hump. The party split. Lincoln won. Five months later—Fort Sumter.
All the same, goddamn two-thirds rule's still there.
Roosev
elt's back in New York. Joe Steele's in Fresno. You don't come to a convention till you've won. Out on that smoky, sweaty, stinking Chicago Stadium floor, their handlers go toe to toe. Roosevelt's got Farley, Howe, Tugwell. Back-East people. People everybody knows. They think they're pretty sharp, pretty sly, and they're pretty close to right.
Joe Steele's got a smart Jew named Kagan. He's got an Armenian raisin grower's kid named Mikoian. Stas Mikoian's even smarter than Kagan. His brother works for Douglas, designs fighter planes. Lots of brains in that family. And Joe Steele's got this pencil-necked little guy they call the Hammer.
A big, mean bruiser gets a name like that hung on him, he's liable to be very bad news. A little, scrawny fellow? Ten times worse.
You think a smart Jew and a smarter Armenian can't skin those back-East hotshots? Watch 'em go at it.
And watch the hotshots fight back. Second ballot, not much change. Third, the same. By then, it's not nighttime any more. It's a quarter past nine the next morning. Everybody's as near dead as makes no difference. Delegates stagger out of Chicago Stadium to get a little sleep and try it all over again.
Second day, same damn thing. Third and fourth, same again. Ballot after ballot. Roosevelt's a little ahead, but only a little. Joe Steele's people, they don't back down. Joe Steele doesn't back down to anybody. Never has. Never will.
Fifth day, still no winner. Goddamn two-thirds rule. Papers start talking about 1924. Democrats take 103 ballots—103!—to put up John W. Davis. Damn convention takes two and a half weeks. Then what happens? Coolidge cleans his clock.
Nobody quite knows what goes on right after that. Some folks say—whisper, really, on account of it's safer—the guy they call the Hammer makes a phone call. But nobody knows. Except the Hammer, and he's not talking. The Hammer, he wouldn't say boo to a goose.
~~~~~
Albany. State Executive Mansion. Where the Governor works. Where he lives. Governor Roosevelt. Franklin D. (D for Delano) Roosevelt. Southwest corner of Engle and Elm. Red brick building. Big one. Built around the Civil War. Governor works on the first floor, lives on the second.
State Executive Mansion. Old building. Modern conveniences? Well, sure. But added on. Not built in. If they kind of creak sometimes, well, they do, that's all. Old building.
Nighttime. Fire. Big fire. Hell of a big fire. Southwest corner of Engle and Elm. Fire hoses? Well, sure. But no water pressure, none to speak of. That's what they say, the ones who get out. Awful lot of people don't.
Roosevelt? Roosevelt's in a wheelchair. How's a man in a wheelchair going to get out of a big old fire? The time that fire's finally out, Roosevelt's dead as shoe leather. He's done about medium-well, matter of fact, but that don't make the papers.
~~~~~
Kagan? Kagan's in Chicago. Stas Mikoian? Same thing. The Hammer? He's in Chicago, too. None of 'em goes anywhere. They're all there before, during, and after. Nobody ever says anything different.
Joe Steele? Joe Steele's in Fresno. All the way on the other side of the country. Joe Steele's hands are clean. Nobody ever says anything different. Not very loud, anyhow. And never—never—more than once.
~~~~~
Joe Steele is shocked—shocked—to hear about the fire. Calls it a tragic accident. Calls Roosevelt a worthy rival. Says all the right things. Sounds like he means 'em. Says the Democrats have got to get on with the business of kicking the snot out of the Republicans. Says that's the whole point of the convention.
And the eyelids like shutters go down. And then they come up again. And you can't see what's behind them. You can't see one goddamn thing.
~~~~~
So they nominate him. What else are they gonna do? John Nance Garner? Who the hell ever heard of John Nance Garner? Outside of Texas, John Nance Garner ain't worth a pitcher of warm spit. Hoover might even lick him. No. It's a moment of silence and a round of applause for Franklin D. (D for Delano) Roosevelt. And then it's Joe Steele. Joe Steele! Joe Steele!
Joe Steele for President!
John Nance Garner for Vice President!
Hoover mostly stays in Washington. When he goes out, he campaigns on his record. Proves how far out of touch he is, don't it?
Joe Steele's everywhere. Everywhere. Whistlestops on the train. Car trips. Airplane trips, for crying out loud. In the newsreels. On the radio. Joe Steele and his Four-Year Plan! Drummer can't shack up with a waitress without Joe Steele peeking in the window and telling 'em both to vote for him.
And if they're like everybody else, they do.
November 8, 1932. Hoover takes Delaware. He takes Pennsylvania. He takes Connecticut. And Vermont, New Hampshire, Maine. Joe Steele takes the country. Every other state. Better than fifty-seven percent of the vote to less than forty. And coattails? My Lord! More than three-fifths of the seats in the Senate. Almost three-quarters of the seats in the House.
March 4, 1933. Joe Steele comes to Washington. Inauguration Day. Hoover's in top hat and tails to go out. Joe Steele's in a flat cloth cap, a collarless shirt, and dungarees to go in. Watch the flashbulbs pop!
He takes the oath of office. Herbert Hoover shakes his hand. Herbert Hoover sits down. He's done. He's gone. He's out of this story.
Joe Steele speaks. He says, "We will have jobs. Labor is a matter of honor, a matter of fame, a matter of valor and heroism. We will have jobs!" Oh, how they cheer!
He says, "Yes, I admit I'm abrupt, but only toward those who harm the people of this country. What is my duty? To stick to my post and fight for them. It isn't in my character to quit."
He says, "We will do whatever we have to do to get the United States on its feet again. You cannot make a revolution with silk gloves." He holds up his hands. He's worked in his life, Joe Steele has. Those hard, hairy hands show it. More cheers. Loud ones.
And he says, "When banks fail, they steal the people's money. Have you ever seen a hungry banker? Has anyone in the history of the world ever seen a hungry banker? If I have to choose between the people and the bankers, I choose the people. We will nationalize the banks and save the people's money." This time, the cheers damn near knock him right off the platform. Joe Steele looks out. The eyelids like shutters go down. They come up again. Joe Steele ... smiles.
~~~~~
Congress. Special session. Laws sail through, one after another. Nationalize the banks. Set up community farms for farmers who've lost their land—and for anybody else who wants to join. Factories for workers who've lost their jobs. Dams on every damn river that doesn't have any. That's how it seems, anyway. Dams put people to work. Stop floods. And make lots of new electricity.
Joe Steele, he's crazy for electricity. "Only when the farmer is surrounded by electrical wiring will he become a citizen," he says. "The biggest hope and weapon for our country is industry, and making the farmer part of industry. It is impossible to base construction on two different foundations, on the foundation of large-scale and highly concentrated industry, and on the foundation of very fragmented and extremely backward agriculture. Systematically and persistently, we must place agriculture on a new technical basis, the basis of large-scale production, and raise it to the level of an industry."
Some people think Joe Steele's just plain crazy. Soon as the laws start passing, the lawsuits start coming. Courts throw out the new laws, one after the next. Joe Steele appeals. Cases go to the Supreme Court. Supreme Court says unconstitutional. Says you can't do that.
Don't tell Joe Steele no. Bad idea. There's a young hotshot in Washington. Fellow named J. Edgar Hoover. Smart. Tough. Face like a bulldog. Headed the Justice Department Bureau of Investigation since before he was thirty. Not even forty yet. Knows where the bodies are buried. Buried some himself, folks say.
Joe Steele calls him to the White House. He leaves, he's smiling. You don't want to see J. Edgar Hoover smile. Trust me. You don't. Back in the Oval Office, Joe Steele's smiling, too. Here's somebody he can do business with.
Three weeks go by. Supreme Court calls another law unconstitutional
. "These nine old men are hurting the country," Joe Steele says. "Why are they doing that? What can they want?"
Three more weeks go by. Arrests! Justice Department Bureau of Investigation nabs Supreme Court Justice Van Devanter! Justice McReynolds! Justice Sutherland! Justice Butler! Treason! Treason and plotting with Hitler! Sensation!
Habeas corpus denied. Traitors might flee, Joe Steele says. Anybody who complains sounds like a goddamn Nazi. No ordinary trials, not for the Gang of Four (thank you, Walter Lippmann). Military tribunals. They've got it coming.
J. Edgar Hoover has the evidence. Bales of it. Documents. Witnesses. Reichsmarks with the swastika right there on 'em. But some people—you just can't figure some people—don't believe it. They figure the Justices'll come out in court and make J. Edgar and his boys look like a bunch of monkeys. Even if they're in military tribunals, they'll get to speak their piece, right?
Right. They will. They do. And they confess, right there in front of the whole country. On the radio. On the newsreels. In the papers. They confess. We did it. We were wreckers. We wanted to tear down what Joe Steele's building up. We wanted to see the USA go Fascist. Better that than what Joe Steele's doing.
Oh. And we got our marching orders from Father Coughlin. And Huey Long.
More arrests!
Father Coughlin 'fesses up in front of a military tribunal, same as the Supreme Court Justices. More radio. More newsreels. More newspaper headlines. Huey Long? They shoot the Kingfish trying to break out of Leavenworth. That's how they tell it. Shoot him dead, dead, dead. Show off what's left of him on the screen and in the papers.
Then they shoot Van Devanter. And McReynolds. And Sutherland. And Butler. It's treason. They've confessed. Why the hell not shoot 'em? Sunrise. Blindfolds. Cigarettes. Firing squads. No last words. Die for treason and you don't deserve 'em.
Father Coughlin goes the same way. Somebody gets his last words, though. Order to fire goes out right between "Ave" and "Maria." Ave atque vale. And a hell of a volley to finish him off.
Joe Steele picks four new Justices. They sail on through the Senate. You think the Supreme Court'll say unconstitutional again any time soon? I sure as hell don't. Don't reckon Joe Steele does, either.
