The Disunited States

by Harry Turtledove

  "Nobody messes with California. We're strong enough so nobody dares," Beckie said, which was just what Justin was thinking. She went on, "When I came east, I never thought I'd get stuck in the middle of this dumb, pointless war." Justin coughed. Under her California tan, Beckie turned pink. "I didn't mean it like that," she told him.

  "Well, I didn't think you did." He had to act like a Virginia patriot in spite of what he thought about racial politics here. He didn't like that—he despised it, in fact—but he didn't see what he could do about it. How many people like Senior Agent Jefferson and Agents Madison and Tyler did Virginia have? Lots of them.

  "Can I say something and not have you get mad?" Beckie asked. "I mean, I know I'm a foreigner and everything. Will you remember?"

  "I'll try." Justin thought he knew what she'd come out with. He waited to see if he was right.

  She took a deep breath and brought it out with a rush: "If you treated your Negroes the same as you treat other people, then other states couldn't use them to give you trouble."

  She was right. She couldn't have been righter, as far as Justin was concerned. He wanted to sink into the ground because he couldn't just come out and say so—it would have been too far out of character. He had to sound the way an ordinary Virginian from this alternate would, even if that meant sounding like a jerk.

  "I don't know," he said. "How much have they done to show they deserve to be treated like anybody else?"

  "How much of a chance have you given them?" Beckie returned.

  "Well, if we did give them a chance like that and they didn't take it, we'd be even worse off," Justin said. "We can't ship them anywhere else, after all." The trouble was, every bit of that was true. Not all problems came with neat, tidy solutions all tied up with a pink ribbon and a perky bow. When two groups hated each other and were stuck on the same land ... In the home timeline, Palestine had been a disaster for a century and a half, and showed no signs of getting better.

  "We don't have troubles like this in California," Beckie said.

  "You don't have very many Negroes, either," Justin reminded her.

  "No, but we have lots of people from the Mexican states," she said. "Some of them lived there all along. Others come over the border looking for work, because we pay better. We treat them like people. We aren't like Texas. Anybody who isn't white in Texas is down two goals with five minutes to play."

  Somebody from the home timeline would probably have said, Anybody who isn't white in Texas has two strikes against him. Rounders here, which was close enough to baseball for government work, was most popular on the East Coast.

  No matter how Beckie put it, she wasn't wrong. Whites did rule the roost in this Texas, which was bigger than the one in the home timeline. In state after state, people who were on top clung to power, and no bigger authority could make them change their ways. People in the home timeline grumbled about the things the U.S. government did, but North America without any kind of federal rule was no paradise, either.

  Beckie probably would have agreed with Justin had he said that. After all, she was nostalgic for even the weak United States of the Articles of Confederation. But he changed the subject instead. He didn't want her to start wondering how he knew some of the things he was saying. What he did say was, "I hope Mrs. Snodgrass pulls through. She seems like good people."

  "She can be snippy sometimes, but she's a lot nicer than Gran—that's for sure," Beckie said. "I wonder what her chances are."

  "Don't know," Justin said. That sounded better than not very good. Mrs. Snodgrass wasn't young, and, if she had the military virus, it was specially designed to kill people. This alternate's bioengineering was thirty or forty years behind what they could do in the home timeline, but the viruses the home timeline was able to cook up thirty or forty years ago were plenty nasty. He went on, "I'm sure they're doing everything they can."

  She could have taken that the wrong way—she might have thought he was sneering at this alternate's medicine. But she said, "Yeah, but how much do they know in Parkersburg? She might die there even if she'd get better in Los Angeles."

  People from the home timeline often thought of each alternate as a unit. That was only natural. Compared to the people who'd lived in an alternate since birth, Crosstime Traffic workers couldn't help being superficial. But every alternate was as complicated as the home timeline. The locals understood that.

  People like Justin had to pick it up as they went along. This California was richer than this Virginia, and likely ahead of it in a lot of ways.

  Or is that so? Justin wondered. Beckie thought it was, but she came from California. She wasn't. . . what was the term? An objective witness, that was it. What would Ted Snodgrass say about the quality of medicine in Parkersburg? Would he know better than she did? He wasn't objective, either.

  The more you looked at things, the more complicated they got. That was one of the first really adult thoughts Justin had ever had, but he didn't even know it.

  He said, "They could probably do better in Charleston or Richmond than in Parkersburg, too." Chances were that was true. Charleston was a real city, and Richmond was the state capital. Anybody who was anybody went there.

  "Sure." Beckie nodded quickly. "I didn't mean to say Virginia was backward or anything, Justin."

  "Okay," he said. Chances were she'd meant exactly that. This Virginia was backward in some ways. Only somebody who lived here would say anything different. Since Justin was supposed to live here, he had to act as if he did. He felt like a hypocrite a lot of the time.

  But Beckie worried about hurting his feelings. That was worth knowing.

  "I hope we don't get it," she said.

  "Yeah. Me, too," Justin said. "Every time I sneeze or I itch or I... do anything, I guess, I start to wonder—Is this it? Am I coming down with it?"

  "Oh, good!" Beckie said.

  "Good?"

  "Good," she said firmly, and nodded again. "Because I feel the same way. It's ... a little scary." She paused, then added, "More than a little," and nodded one more time. That took nerve, admitting how scared you really were.

  Justin gave her a hug. She hugged him back, but she still looked relieved when he didn't hold on real tight or get too grabby. "It'll be all right," he said as he let her go. Then, since she'd been honest, he felt he had to do the same: "I hope it'll be all right, anyway."

  Every time Mr. Snodgrass' phone rang, Beckie jumped, afraid it would be the hospital in Parkersburg with bad news. Mr. Snodgrass flinched, afraid of the same thing. Gran didn't seem to act any different from the way she always had. Maybe that meant she was holding things inside. Maybe it meant she didn't feel anything much. Maybe it just meant she didn't hear the telephone ring. You never could tell with Gran.

  So far, the hospital hadn't called with the worst news. Mrs. Snodgrass was still alive. But everybody in Elizabeth seemed to be calling to find out how she was. People from Palestine telephoned, too. Mr. Snodgrass seemed to think that was a wonder. "Most of the time, the folks down in Palestine don't care if we live or die, and we feel the same way about them," he said. "It's only a couple of miles, but it might as well be the other side of the moon."

  Beckie thought that was strange. Back in Los Angeles, a lot of her friends lived farther from her than Palestine was from Elizabeth. Nobody there thought anything of it. The city stretched for kilometer after kilometer. Things were on a different scale here. Elizabeth and Palestine were rivals, each wanting to be the boss frog in a tiny pond. Elizabeth was the county seat, but Palestine had more shops.

  She also thought she knew why people in Palestine were calling. It wasn't just because they felt like burying the hatchet with Elizabeth. They were scared, too. Mrs. Snodgrass and Gran had gone down there to shop. Had they brought the disease with them? Nobody knew, not yet.

  When the ambulance came back to Elizabeth two days later, no one seemed much surprised. Hearing the siren screech, Beckie worried that it was coming for Justin or his uncle. Outside of the S
nodgrasses, they were the people she knew best here. And she'd needed that hug Justin gave her. If he'd tried to make it into something more than she needed . . . But he hadn't, so she didn't need to worry about that—yet, anyhow. It wasn't as if she didn't have plenty of other things to worry about.

  And the ambulance didn't stop at the motel up near the county courthouse. The siren kept right on coming, and the ambulance pulled up three doors away from the Snodgrasses' house. A middle-aged woman burst out of the house, calling, "Come quick! Fred's got it, sure as anything!"

  The men in the biohazard suits raced into the house. When they came out a few minutes later, they had a man—presumably Fred—on a stretcher. An IV drip ran down into his arm. They put him into the ambulance and slammed the doors. The ambulance sped away, red lights flashing.

  "Fred Mathewson," Mr. Snodgrass said glumly. "He's hardly been sick a day in his life till now."

  How do you know? Beckie almost asked. But in a town like this, Mr. Snodgrass would know. She offered the most hope she could now: "Maybe he isn't sick with . . . this."

  "Maybe." But Mr. Snodgrass didn't sound as if he believed it. "Bessie sure thinks he is, though. And why would they come out if they didn't?" That only proved he had good reasons not to believe.

  "They could be wrong," Beckie said. "He could have the flu or something, and his wife could be panicking."

  "Bessie Mathewson wouldn't panic if she found a baby rattler in her coffee cup," Mr. Snodgrass said. He knew the woman and Beckie didn't, so she shut up. He went on, "I just wonder why I haven't caught it yet."

  "So do I," Gran said. "I thought I did a couple of times. I may yet." She couldn't stand having other people around who were sicker than she was. "I don't know how much longer I can go on."

  Probably about another thirty years, Beckie thought. Even if Gran always complained that she was about to shuffle off this mortal coil, she seemed ready to outlast people half her age. Everybody could see it but her. Besides, her aches and pains gave her something else to grumble about.

  "Well, we've all been exposed, that's for sure," Mr. Snodgrass said. "The one I worry about is Rebecca here. I've pretty much lived my life, and so have you, Myrtle. Rebecca's got hers all out in front of her. Cryin' shame to see that go to waste."

  Gran only sniffed. She might have lived a long time, but she wasn't ready to check out yet. Beckie didn't suppose she could blame her. Who was ready to up and die, when you got right down to it? Terminally ill patients in a lot of pain, sure. Their time really was up. Anybody else? No.

  Mr. Snodgrass looked in the direction of Parkersburg. "I wonder when we're going to give Ohio something to remember us by," he said.

  "Maybe you already have," Beckie said. "Ohio would keep it quiet if you did." Virginia wasn't we to her, and never would be. She'd stay a Californian all her life. If you lived in California, why would you want to move anywhere else?

  "I don't reckon we've done anything," Mr. Snodgrass said. "You're right—Ohio wouldn't blab, not unless they found a way to lick it. But the consul'd be all over the TV and the radio and the papers and the Net. He'd want people to know we were hitting back."

  That made more sense than Beckie wished it did. "I just wish the war would stop so we can go home," she said.

  "Don't hold your breath, even after it does stop," Mr. Snodgrass said.

  "Huh?" Beckie said brilliantly. Even Gran looked surprised.

  "Don't hold your breath," he repeated. "Don't you reckon they'll stick you in quarantine before they let you go home? Even if you don't come down sick—and I hope to heaven you don't—you've sure enough been exposed."

  Gran let out a horrible squawk. It had no words. Had it had any, it would have meant something like, Oh, no! Beckie felt the same way. And, again, Ted Snodgrass was bound to be right. California wouldn't want to see her and Gran again till it was sure they weren't carrying the latest bioplague. How long would her home state need to decide? She imagined a glass cage with an air filter about three meters thick at one corner and an air lock for passing in food. It wouldn't be just like that—she hoped—but that was the picture that came to mind.

  For that matter, what airline would let her and Gran on a plane? Half the passengers—more than half—might be infected by the time they got off.

  She wanted to cry. If you lived in California, why would you

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  want to move anywhere else? Suddenly, she had an answer. Be­ cause your own state wouldn't let you back in, that was why.

  "I wish I never came back here," Gran said. By the way she scowled at Beckie, it might have been her granddaughter's fault. Before long, Gran likely would think it was. She wouldn't blame herself, that was for sure.

  Before Beckie could ask who'd wanted to see her relatives before she died, thunder rumbled off in the west. For a moment, Beckie took that for granted. You hardly ever saw rain in the summertime in L.A., but it happened all the time here. But even in Virginia, you didn't see rain on a bright summer day.

  If it wasn't rain .. . "Is that. . . guns?" Beckie hesitated be­ fore the last word, as if she didn't want to bring it out. And she didn't. The deep rising and falling roar went on and on.

  "Don't be silly," Gran said.

  But Mr. Snodgrass was nodding. "That's guns, all right. Now—are we giving the dirty Ohioans what-for, or are they invading us?"

  "Turn on the TV," Beckie said.

  He did, but slowly. "I wonder if I really want to know," he said. "If those . .. people are in Parkersburg, they'll grab the hospital—either that or they'll blow it sky-high. My poor Ethel." He sat in front of the screen with his head in his hands, the picture of misery.

  Chapter Eight

  THE ARTILLERY FIRE was getting closer. Justin was sure it was louder than it had been the day before. Virginia didn't want to admit that Parkersburg was lost, but it seemed to be.

  "What do we do when somebody else gets sick?" he asked Mr. Brooks. One of the things he most hoped was that the coin and stamp dealer would stay healthy. The last thing he wanted was to be stuck in this little town on his own. For one thing, he would start going hungry unless his mother could transfer him some money—the credit cards belonged to Mr. Brooks. Justin was supposed to be nothing but a kid along for the ride. He wanted that supposition to stay true.

  "Maybe they haul them down to Charleston," the older man answered. "Or maybe they decide the Ohioans are going to take Elizabeth, too, and so they're welcome to all the diseased people in it."

  "That's—disgusting," Justin said. It also sounded a lot like the way governments thought, especially during wartime. Then something else occurred to him. "If we're occupied and Charleston isn't, how do we get back to the home timeline?" How do I get back to Mom? was part of what he was thinking. The way he said it, though, sounded much more grown-up.

  "Good question," Mr. Brooks said. "If you don't have any other good questions, class is dismissed."

  What did that mean? Justin saw only one thing it could mean: Mr. Brooks had no idea how they'd get back to Charleston, which meant getting back to a transposition chamber. Justin sent him a resentful look. What good were adults if they didn't have the answers when you really needed them?

  Sometimes there weren't any good answers. Was this one of those? It better not be, Justin thought, not that he saw anything he could do about it. He didn't want to get stuck here the rest of his life. Oh, it wouldn't be horrible, not the way getting stuck in a low-tech alternate that had never heard of antibiotics or anesthesia would be. But it still seemed backward next to the home timeline. And he would be a foreigner wherever he went, a foreigner with a tremendous secret he could never tell.

  Maybe I could settle down with Beckie in California, he thought, and then laughed at himself. How many conclusions was he jumping to with that? Enough to set an Olympic record, probably.

  If he talked about such records with her, she'd give him a funny look. They'd never revived the Olympics in this alternate.

  "Why are
n't there any Virginia soldiers here?" he asked.

  "They're coming up Highway 77 from Charleston to Parkersburg—the highway we turned off of to get here," Mr. Brooks answered. "That's the easiest road they can come up— and almost the only road the Ohio soldiers can go down if they want to get anywhere worth having. Nobody cares about Elizabeth, not one bit."

  "I guess not," Justin said. "If I weren't stuck here, I wouldn't care about Elizabeth, either."

  "You're not the only one," Mr. Brooks said with more feeling than he usually showed about anything. "At least you've got a pretty girl to keep you company. Ted Snodgrass is a nice man— don't get me wrong. But he's not the most exciting company in the world. And he doesn't care about anything now with his wife sick—who can blame him?"

  "There's always Beckie's grandmother," Justin said. Mr. Brooks didn't dignify that with an answer. Had he suggested it to Justin, Justin wouldn't have dignified it, either. Some people were just natural-born pains in the neck, and Beckie's grandmother fit the bill.

  Something made itself heard over the hum of the air conditioner: a deep diesel growl and the rattle and clank of tracks. While Justin was still trying to figure out where it was coming from, Mr. Brooks said, "Unless we've been invaded by a herd of bulldozers, those are armored fighting vehicles."

  "Armored . . . ?" That was a mouthful for Justin.

  "Tanks," the older man translated. Before Justin could say, You're welcome, Mr. Brooks went on, "Armored personnel carriers. Mobile antiaircraft guns or missile launchers. Self-propelled artillery. Engineering vehicles. That kind of thing."

  "Oh," Justin said in a hollow voice, and then, "Oh, boy. How'd they get here, anyway, if they didn't come up from Charleston?"

  "Well, they could belong to Ohio," Mr. Brooks said, which was certainly true. "Or they could have come up Route 14 to get here. It's the long way around and not a good road, but they could have done it. They might think they can hit the Ohioans in a flanking attack."