The Disunited States of America ct-4

by Harry Turtledove

  Inside of ten minutes, the sheriffs car raced down Route 14 toward Jephany Knob again. This time, Sheriff Cochrane had his deputy along with him. "Oh," Beckie said. "Is that what you were looking for?"

  "Yeah," he answered. "Weren't you?"

  "I guess," she said. "I'm not from here, so I don't know for sure—how much trouble is what we found going to cause?"

  Even though Justin wasn't really from this alternate's Virginia, either, answering that was easy as pie. "Lots," he said.

  "Charlie?" Mrs. Snodgrass said. "Charlie up there on the knob with a rifle? I don't believe it."

  "I don't want to believe it," Mr. Snodgrass said, which wasn't the same thing at all. "If Charlie could do a thing like that. . ."

  "Ungrateful, is what it is," his wife said. "Everybody in town treated him almost like he was one of us."

  That almost was the problem. Beckie could hear it, and could hear that it was wrong. By all the signs, nobody born and raised in Virginia could. She thought about saying something, but she was sure nobody would listen to her. She'd hoped her grandmother might, but Gran was nodding along with what Mrs. Snodgrass said—for once, she'd found something she agreed with. You could take the young woman out of Virginia, but taking Virginia out of the young woman was much harder. Virginia's attitudes stayed in Gran even though she wasn't young any more.

  "If things are like that here," Mr. Snodgrass said, "what's it like places where they have lots of colored people?"

  "The TV hasn't talked about anything bad," his wife said.

  "It wouldn't, not unless things are so bad it can't pretend they're good," he said darkly.

  "Maybe the sickness has something to do with keeping everything else quiet," Beckie said.

  "Maybe it does. I wouldn't be surprised," Mr. Snodgrass said. "And when you've got to go and thank a disease for something, you know you're in a pile of trouble." Beckie wished she could think that was wrong, too, but she feared it was much too right.

  Late that afternoon, somebody rang the doorbell. When Mrs. Snodgrass opened the door, she exclaimed in surprise—it wasn't Mr. Brooks and Justin, and it wasn't any of her neighbors, either. "Who are you?" she asked, her voice a startled squeak.

  "We're from the Virginia Bureau of Investigation," one of the men at the door said in a hard, flat voice. "Here is my identification."

  "And mine," another man said.

  "We're here to see a Miss, uh, Rebecca Royer. Is she staying at this address?" yet another man added.

  "Yes, she is," Mrs. Snodgrass answered. She turned and raised her voice: "Beckie! Three men from the VBI to see you!"

  Beckie wanted to see men from the VBI, or even one man from the VBI, about as much as she wanted to lose her appendix without anesthetics. Nobody cared what she wanted, though. She was just a foreigner here, and Virginia, as Sheriff Cochrane had reminded her and Justin, was at war. If she gave these people trouble, they could give her more and worse. "Here I am," she said.

  In came the men from the Virginia Bureau of Investigation. They weren't quite so alike as three peas in a pod, but they came close. They wore sober suits, two of gray, one of navy. Their hair was cut short, military style. They were about the same size, and they all had serious expressions. The one in the blue suit said, "Miss Royer, I am Senior Agent Jefferson. With me are Agent Madison and Agent Tyler." They all flashed badges. Jefferson's was gold, the other two silver. The senior agent went on, "May I see your passport, please?"

  "Here." Beckie pulled it out of her purse. When you were in a foreign state, you always had to have it with you. She knew that.

  Senior Agent Jefferson didn't just examine the passport. He took a jeweler's loupe from his pocket and stuck the magnifier in front of his eye. Even that didn't satisfy him. He used some kind of handheld electronic sniffer on the passport, too. Only after a green light came on did he grudgingly hand the booklet back. "This does appear to be genuine," he said. "What is the purpose of your visit to Virginia?"

  "My grandmother grew up in Elizabeth," Beckie answered. "She and Mrs. Snodgrass are cousins."

  "That checks out," Agent Tyler said—Beckie thought the one on Jefferson's left was Tyler, anyhow.

  "Well, it would, whether or not. The other side isn't about to miss that kind of trick," the senior agent said.

  "What other side?" Beckie asked.

  Jefferson didn't answer her, or maybe he did: "What was the purpose of your stops in Ohio prior to entering Virginia?"

  They think Fm a spy. The certainty she was right filled Beckie with fear. They even think Gran's a spy. If that didn't prove they'd never had thing one to do with Beckie's grandmother, nothing ever would. "Two of Gran's sisters live in Ohio," she said, as calmly as she could. "We stayed with them before we came here."

  "That also checks," Agent Madison said.

  "I told you—it would." Senior Agent Jefferson seemed to make a career out of not letting anything impress him. He turned back to Beckie. "And by chance you were one of the people involved in the discovery of Charles Clark's body?"

  "If that's what his last name was. I never knew. Nobody here ever used it." Beckie couldn't resist the little sarcastic dig.

  She might have done better to let it go. Jefferson looked at her with no expression at all on his face. "What is your opinion of Virginia's social structure, Miss Royer?"

  That one had teeth and claws and spines. She didn't need to be a secret agent to see as much. "In California, we treat everybody pretty much the same way," she said carefully. "We try to, anyhow. It seems to work for us."

  "And so you would be opposed to our forms of social control?" Senior Agent Jefferson pounced.

  If she said no, he'd think she was lying. He'd be right, too. If she said yes, he'd think she was some kind of subversive. What to do? What to do? "Well, if I were black, I sure wouldn't want to live under them," she answered. "But that doesn't mean I want to pick up a gun and start shooting people."

  "Would you give other people guns so they could pick them up and start shooting with them?" the VBI man asked.

  "No!" There was real horror in her voice, horror and terror enough to make all three agents blink. Tyler stepped back a pace. They didn't know—she hoped to heaven they didn't know—about Uncle Luke and about the rifles she'd helped smuggle into Virginia.

  The agents put their heads together. They plainly believed her. How could they not believe her after she let out a yelp like that? If they did believe her, they also had to believe she had nothing to do with the assault rifle poor Charlie Clark was carrying when lightning and the toppling tree did him in.

  "Why were you up on Jephany Knob when you discovered the dead man's body?" Agent Madison asked.

  "It felt nice to get out and about. It felt nice to be able to get out and about," Beckie said. "We'd had two days of thunderstorms like you wouldn't believe—like I wouldn't believe, anyway. We don't get that kind of weather in Los Angeles."

  "You were with"—Madison paused to check his notes— "Justin Monroe on the knob. What is your relationship with Justin Monroe?"

  "We're friends," Beckie said.

  "Are you . . . more than friends?"

  "No," she said. "We both got stuck here in Elizabeth. Gran and I couldn't get out after the war started, and he and his uncle couldn't leave after the disease broke out." Justin and Mr. Brooks had been exposed to it, too. She tried not to think about that, because it might mean she'd also been exposed.

  "Why did you make friends with him and not with some of the young men from Elizabeth?" Madison asked. "And how did it happen that two strangers found the body, not any of the locals?"

  "He's been over here a lot because his uncle does business with Mr. Snodgrass," Beckie answered. "He's nice enough, and he's from a city, too. We have more in common than I do with people in Elizabeth." She had less in common with people from Elizabeth than she did with anyone this side of men from the moon, but she didn't want to say that.

  Agent Madison was stubborn. "You only answ
ered the first half of my question," he reminded her.

  "Oh. Why were we the ones who found the body? I don't know what to tell you. Dumb luck is the only thing I can think of. It wasn't good luck, either."

  "We think it was," Senior Agent Jefferson said. "It shows that treason has reached even out-of-the-way places like this. Treason is a disease worse than the one Ohio turned loose on us, but we'll fix it." He sounded grim and determined. But then he eased—just a little. "I don't believe you were personally involved in it, even if you are from California. Thank you for your time." He and the other two agents left.

  Even if you are from California. They assumed she was a radical just because she'd grown up in L.A. By their standards, they were right, too. California and Virginia weren't only two different states. They were two different worlds. But she was stuck in this one now, no matter how much she wished she weren't. She'd got through this first grilling. What was coming up next?

  In movies and on TV, the knock on the door always came in the middle of the night. Justin and Mr. Brooks were getting ready to go the the grocery when it came in Elizabeth. They both jumped. They weren't used to company in their motel room.

  Justin was closer to the door, so he opened it. He didn't expect to see three somber men in this alternate's somber business suits. "Who are you?" he said foolishly.

  "Senior Agent Jefferson, VBI." The one in the middle flashed a gold badge. "With me are Agents Tyler and Madison." The other two men showed silver badges. Jefferson went on, "You would be Justin Monroe, correct?"

  "That's right."

  "And your uncle is Randolph Brooks? Is he here now?"

  "I'm here," Mr. Brooks said from behind Justin. "What's this all about?"

  "We have some questions for your nephew, Mr. Brooks, regarding his discovery of the body of Charles Clark," Jefferson answered. He gave his attention back to Justin. "May I see your identification, please?"

  They were in a state called Virginia. It was a democracy of sorts. They spoke an English not much different from that of the home timeline. Even so, Justin couldn't tell them to get lost, not unless he wanted to see the inside of a cell in nothing flat. He'd already found that his forged documents were good enough to pass muster. All the same, his heart thumped as he handed them over. Senior Agent Jefferson examined them with a lens and with an electronic gadget, then nodded and passed them back. Justin tried not to show how relieved he was as he stuck them in his wallet and put the wallet in his pocket.

  "Thank you," Jefferson said, plainly not meaning it in the least. "Please describe how you found Charles Clark's body. You were not alone on Jephany Knob when you did—is that correct?"

  "Yes, uh, sir," Justin answered. Jefferson had to know that. He would have talked with Sheriff Cochrane. If he hadn't, he wouldn't be in Elizabeth at all. Had he already talked to Beckie? Justin wouldn't have been surprised. He said, "Do you people want to come in instead of standing in the doorway?"

  "Thank you," the senior agent said again, this time with a little more warmth in his voice. The three VBI men walked into the motel room and sat down on the ratty couch. Without missing a beat, Jefferson continued, "Who was with you?"

  "Beckie Royer," Justin said.

  "From California." That was Agent Tyler. In the home timeline, people from states like Virginia sometimes looked down their noses at Californians—and vice versa. It seemed all the more true here, where the two states really were separate countries instead of just acting that way.

  Justin only nodded. He couldn't very well deny that Beckie was from California. "Nice-looking girl," Agent Madison remarked, as if cutting him some slack. He nodded again. Madison asked, "Why did you go up onto the knob?"

  "Just to have something to do. It was nice to get out after the rain." Justin made a face. "If I knew we'd find a body up there, we would have gone somewhere else, believe me."

  He got a thin smile from Madison, a stony stare from Jefferson, and a dirty look from Tyler. "How did you find the body?"

  "We smelled it." Justin would never forget that odor for the rest of his life. "He must have been dead a couple of days by then. The smell led me to the body, and I saw the gun by it. That's when I called the sheriff." They couldn't think there was anything wrong with that. . . could they?

  "You were not on Jephany Knob while the thunderstorm was at its peak?" Senior Agent Jefferson asked.

  "You'd have to be nuts to go up there then," Justin said. "It wasn't just raining cats and dogs—it was raining cougars and wolves."

  That got him another smile from Agent Madison. But Agent Tyler said, "Clark didn't care about the weather."

  "No, sir," Justin agreed, "but he should have, shouldn't he?"

  The VBI men only grunted. In the background, Mr. Brooks coughed once or twice. Justin supposed that meant he shouldn't rattle the agents' cages. Part of him knew the coin and stamp dealer was giving him good advice. Part of him insisted their cages needed rattling—after all, they were trying to rattle his.

  "How do you feel about Virginia's social system?" Senior Agent Jefferson asked.

  I hate it. I think you deserve every pound's worth of trouble you've brought on yourselves, Justin thought. Sometimes the truth wasn't the best answer. If he told the truth here, they would haul him off to an unpleasant jail and do even more unpleasant things to him. He didn't like being a hypocrite, now or any other time. But the question rubbed his nose in the fact that you couldn't always say what you thought.

  And so he gave what he thought was a casual response: "The same as anybody else does, I guess." It wasn't even completely a lie. Anybody else from the home timeline was likely to feel the same way he did.

  Jefferson's face showed none of what he thought. He probably made a dangerous poker player. "Doesn't it bother you that Rebecca Royer plainly believes in the pernicious doctrine of Negro equality?" he asked.

  No, it doesn't bother me, because I do, too. Again, Justin didn't say what he thought. Instead, he just shrugged. "She's from California. What can you expect?"

  That was the right answer. All three VBI agents nodded. "Kid's got some sense," Agent Madison muttered.

  "Why do you hang around with her, then?" Agent Tyler asked.

  Now Justin looked at him as if he wasn't very bright. "We don't spend a whole lot of time talking about politics," he said. Let them use their imagination to figure out what he and Beckie did talk about.

  Agent Madison snickered, then tried to pretend he hadn't. Agent Tyler turned a dull red. Senior Agent Jefferson, grinding as a glacier, said, "Miss Royer states that the two of you are just friends."

  "Well, yeah," Justin admitted, and his sorrowful tone of voice made Madison snicker again. Justin went on, "But there's no law that says I can't keep trying, is there?"

  "Maybe California has one—I don't know." Jefferson tried a smile himself. It didn't look quite natural on his face. He changed the subject: "Are you acquainted with Irma Davis?"

  "Not any more—she's dead," Justin blurted.

  "Well, yes. But were you acquainted with her?"

  "Sure. She was the waitress at the diner across the street. Uncle Randy and I would eat breakfast over there all the time till she, uh, got sick."

  "So you have been exposed to the biological agent Ohio wickedly unleashed on our innocent population?" Jefferson sounded as if he'd listened to too many Virginia newscasts.

  "We hope we haven't," Mr. Brooks said before Justin could reply. No matter which of them said it, that was no lie.

  "So do we," Agent Madison said. They weren't wearing gas masks and protective gear, the way the paramedics who put Irma in the ambulance had been. Maybe they had nostril filters that didn't show, but those could do only so much. Getting ordered to Elizabeth wouldn't have made the agents jump up and down with glee. Justin wondered if they'd have to get decontaminated after they drove away. He also wondered if that would help.

  "What will you do in case of Negro unrest?" Jefferson asked.

  "Hope things settl
e down before too many people get hurt," Justin answered. That seemed to satisfy the VBI men. Justin was afraid he knew why: when they thought about people, they didn't include African Americans. And the blacks in Virginia were as ready to hate him because he was white as whites would have been if he were black. Did that have any good answers? If it did, he couldn't see them.

  Seven

  The first time Mrs. Snodgrass sneezed, Beckie didn't pay much attention. But when she did it four or five times in a row, each sneeze more ferocious than the one before, Beckie said, "Good heavens! Bless you! Are you all right?"

  "I... a-choo! . . . think so." Mrs. Snodgrass made a liar out of herself by sneezing three more times. She pulled a tissue from a box on the end table and blew her nose. Then she sank down onto the couch. "I hope I'm all right, anyway. All that sneezing kind of takes it out of you."

  "I guess it would." Beckie looked at her. Was she flushed? Beckie thought so, but she wasn't sure—or maybe she just didn't want to dwell on what her being flushed might mean.

  Mr. Snodgrass came into the room. "You trying to blow your head off, Ethel?" he asked. That made Beckie smile—her father and mother teased each other the same way. But he stopped teasing when he got a look at his wife's face. "You okay, sweetie?" Sudden worry roughened his voice.

  "I think so," Mrs. Snodgrass said again, but she didn't sound so sure this time.

  Mr. Snodgrass walked over, stooped, and pressed his lips to her forehead. Beckie's mom would do that when she or one of her brothers or her sister wasn't feeling well. The lines between Mr. Snodgrass' eyebrows and the ones that bracketed the sides of his mouth got deeper and harsher. All at once, he looked like an old man. "You're warm," he said. It sounded like an accusation.

  "Well, maybe I do feel a little peaked." Mrs. Snodgrass screwed up her face and started sneezing again.

  "You reckon I ought to call the doctor?" Ted Snodgrass asked.

  "Now how would you get him to come out to Elizabeth with things the way they are?" His wife blew her nose again, as if to say how silly the idea was.