Harry Turtledove - Drive to the East

“Hell, no. I never even worried about making corporal,” Jeff answered, which was the God’s truth. “Thank you very much, sir.”

“You’re welcome. A raise comes with the promotion. I expect you’ll earn the money,” Koenig said. “More responsibility comes with the promotion, too. You’re going to be in charge of a really big operation out there, and a really important one, too. I wouldn’t do this if I didn’t think you could swing it.”

“I’ll do my damnedest, sir,” Pinkard said. “It’s for the Party and it’s for the country. You can count on me.”

“I do. So does the President. You’ve shown you’ve got what it takes,” Koenig said, which made Jeff button-popping proud. The Attorney General went on, “Those bulldozers and their crews’ll show up in the next few days. You tell ’em what needs doing, and they’ll do it. Anything else you need-barbed wire, lumber, whatever it is-you holler, and you’ll have it. If you don’t, somebody’s head’ll roll, and it won’t be yours. Freedom!”

“Freedom!” Jeff echoed the Party slogan, but he was talking to a dead line.

He got up from his desk, stretched, and went to the window. Out beyond the barbed wire, and out beyond the railroad spur and the road that ran alongside it, what was there to see? Nothing but more prairie-sagebrush and tumbleweed and jackrabbits and little gullies that turned into torrents when it rained. Leveling them out would be the dozers’ main job. They could do it, and it wouldn’t take long.

“Son of a bitch,” he said softly. “A women’s camp.” They were serious back there in Richmond. He’d known they were serious-he wouldn’t have been a Freedom Party man if they weren’t-but he hadn’t known they were that serious. If they kept on the way they were going, there wouldn’t be a Negro left in the CSA before too long.

Pinkard shrugged as he headed out the door. He wouldn’t shed a whole lot of tears if that happened. If there weren’t any Negroes, white men wouldn’t have to worry about them taking away their jobs. They wouldn’t have to worry about Negroes eyeing white women. And they wouldn’t have to worry about Red uprisings. He’d got his baptism of fire in 1916 against Red Negro rebels in Georgia. They’d fought harder than the damnyankees had. Of course, the USA and CSA took prisoners. Neither side in the black uprisings had bothered with that very often. So… good riddance to bad rubbish.

Out into the sunshine he went. Spring was in the air, but the sun wasn’t biting down with full force yet. He’d grown up in Alabama and spent time in Louisiana. Texas summer was no fun for anybody, but it wouldn’t be any worse than what he was used to.

With several submachine-gun-toting guards at his back, he did his usual prowl through Camp Determination. That he did it was normal. How he did it wasn’t. He tried not to make his rounds the same two days running. He’d stick his head into barracks halls, or he’d go through the kitchens, or he’d go around just inside the perimeter checking for signs of tunneling, or he’d talk with prisoners, or… He never knew ahead of time. He just followed whatever gut feeling he had.

The Negroes had found they could complain to him if they stayed respectful. “Suh, we needs mo’ food,” a skinny black man said. He didn’t ask for better food; that was obviously a lost cause.

“You’re getting what I can give you,” Jeff said, which was more or less true. “If I get more in, you’ll get more, too.” That was also true, although he didn’t expect to see the camp’s supply increased. To drive the point home, he added, “I can’t make you any promises, mind.”

“Do what you can, suh, please,” the black man said. Pinkard nodded and went on to the next barracks hall. The Negroes there grumbled about the food, too. Jeff listened and nodded and again said he’d do something if he got the chance. As long as they were grumbling about the food and not about the trucks that transported them to other camps, everything was fine. The trucks were what really mattered-and the Negroes didn’t seem to know it.

For once, Cincinnatus Driver felt as if he were leading a charmed life. The Confederates had arrested him-and they’d let him go. To him, that went a long way toward proving white men weren’t as smart as they thought they were. He might even find himself on the U.S. border one of these days before too long. He dared hope, anyhow.

Meanwhile… Meanwhile, life went on in Covington’s colored quarter. It wasn’t much of a life. Even compared to what he remembered of times before the Great War, it wasn’t much of a life. He shrugged. He couldn’t do much about that. He couldn’t do anything about it, in fact. All he could do was try to get through from day to day.

He thought about staying away from Lucullus Wood’s barbecue place. He thought about it, but found he couldn’t do it. His showing up there wouldn’t make alarm bells go off at the police station. The only Negroes who didn’t show up there were the unlucky ones too poor to afford any of Lucullus’ barbecue.

He hoped-he prayed-he wouldn’t see Luther Bliss at the barbecue place anymore. He hated, despised, and feared the former head of the Kentucky State Police. Of course, he also hated, despised, and feared the Confederate States of America. Bliss was one of the CSA’s sincerest and ablest enemies-and gave Cincinnatus the cold horrors just the same.

If the Confederate police didn’t have informers posted in the barbecue joint, they were missing an obvious trick. Despite the risk, talk there was freer than anywhere else in Covington that Cincinnatus knew about.

By now, everybody who worked in the place recognized him when he came in. More than a few people also recognized that he had a special connection with Lucullus. They would always find a seat for him, even when the ramshackle restaurant was packed. He got extra barbecue when he ordered, and some of the time they didn’t bother charging him. He’d always been a man who paid his own way, but he appreciated that now, because he didn’t have a whole lot of money.

Policemen and Freedom Party stalwarts came into Lucullus’ place, too. They also recognized Cincinnatus-recognized him and left him alone. They’d caught him once, and it hadn’t stuck. Not all of them understood why it hadn’t stuck, but they knew it hadn’t. They were no more energetic than most mere mortals. They didn’t feel like doing anything they didn’t have to.

Lucullus came up to Cincinnatus while he was eating a big plate of beef ribs. The barbecue cook was a massive man, muscle more overlain by fat with each passing year. Who could blame him for liking his own cooking? Everyone else did, too. His father, Apicius, had been even wider and thicker.

Cincinnatus set down a rib. “Afternoon,” he said.

“Afternoon.” Lucullus had a big, deep voice that went with his bulk. “Mind if I join you?”

“You throw me out on my ear if I’m dumb enough to tell you yes in your own place,” Cincinnatus said. “I done plenty o’ dumb things in my time, but nothin’ dumb as that.”

“Glad to hear it.” Lucullus squeezed into the booth, across the table from him. He waved to one of the waitresses. “Bring me a cup of coffee, would you, Aspasia honey, when you git the chance?” Nodding, the woman waved back.

The coffee arrived faster than when you git the chance. Cincinnatus hadn’t expected anything different. When the boss asked for something, only a fool kept him waiting-and Lucullus wasn’t the sort to put up with fools. Casually, Cincinnatus asked, “So what do you hear from Luther Bliss?”

He’d timed it well; Lucullus was just taking a sip. The cook choked, but the coffee didn’t-quite-go up his nose. After managing to swallow, Lucullus sent him a reproachful stare. “Damn you, you done that on purpose.”