Read The Probability Broach Online
Authors: L. Neil Smith
Tags: #Science Fiction, #General, #Fiction
The Probability Broach (11 page)
The list of Confederate presidents is short, many serving five or six terms without upsetting anybody. Year after year, their steadily diminishing power was less an object of envy or violent ambition. Nearly everybody got a chance to play King Log: there was another Indian president, Osceola; Harriet Beecher was her own First Lady; in 1880, a French-Canadian of Chinese extraction was elected—so much for the Yellow Peril,
mes enfants!
mes enfants!
Here and there odd familiarities pop up: the Chicago fire and San Francisco earthquake; Jeff Davis and James Monroe; the
Nicaragua
canal; the first atomic reactor in Chicago, but in 1922! Color TV appeared in 1947, and dirigibles remained important. There’s something resembling World War I, but no trace of the Spanish-American War, World War II, Korea, Vietnam, or New Guinea. And nothing about Karl Marx, Socialism, or Communism; European revolts in the 1840s are called “Gallatinite.” Men first walked on the Moon—with women right beside them—in 173 A.L.—1949! And North America fought a bitter war with Russia in 1957. The Czar was finally overthrown.
Nicaragua
canal; the first atomic reactor in Chicago, but in 1922! Color TV appeared in 1947, and dirigibles remained important. There’s something resembling World War I, but no trace of the Spanish-American War, World War II, Korea, Vietnam, or New Guinea. And nothing about Karl Marx, Socialism, or Communism; European revolts in the 1840s are called “Gallatinite.” Men first walked on the Moon—with women right beside them—in 173 A.L.—1949! And North America fought a bitter war with Russia in 1957. The Czar was finally overthrown.
The
Czar?
Czar?
“Well,” I said, over my CALIFORNIA TEN-HIGH—100 PROOF, “that’s certainly not the way I heard it in school!” We were sitting on the side terrace, my first excursion outdoors. The afternoon sun was beaming cheerfully, and I’d just had my first gawk at an airship, a mile-long apparition of titanium and ectoplasmic Mylar, on her way over the Rockies at three hundred miles an hour. Life seemed pretty good, and so did the company. The Telecom was filling Ed’s garden with beautiful music.
Captain Forsyth, head of the security contingent, was an old friend of Ed’s, a grizzled, wiry customer in a gray herringbone lava-lava and long black cutaway coat—right in style for Confederate rent-a-cops, and not the least bit funny once you took in the wide leather gunbelt and heavy automatic strapped around his waist.
Not that he was without his little peculiarities. He’s a nineteen-year veteran of Professional Protectives’ on-the-spot guard service, combat pistol champion of Greater Laporte, and “saw the elephant” during the Antarctican War. A pair of warm and twinkling brown eyes made up for the angry scar running along his left cheek. He plays gin for blood, but only off duty.
Oh yes. He’s also a chimpanzee.
My first day here, I’d noticed what I took fuzzily for an unusual number of dwarfs—mutants. Now I knew better. Half of Forsyth’s squad were chimps (and don’t say “monkeys,” for the same reason you don’t say “spics” or “slopes”), complete with guns, nightsticks, and corn pads.
I remembered the discovery in my own world that simians can’t talk only because their vocal apparatus isn’t up to it. We’d only just begun teaching them sign language. It had started here a hundred years earlier, maybe because Darwin’s opinions were more graciously received, or maybe because Confederates view innovation as a blessing instead of a threat. Or maybe because they haven’t wasted so much time and effort, so many useful lives, on war and economic disaster. Anyway, science and philosophy have never been separate departments here. Any critter who can handle more than a few hundred words is human. Killing it becomes murder.
As soon as they understood the setup, chimps, gorillas, a couple of other species waded right in and began exercising their rights. That didn’t arouse hostility the way it might back home: there’s too much work to do, and too few minds and hands to get it all done. Anyone’s welcome who can demand a place
and
carry his own weight: freedom and independence
aren’t synonymous.
The first time I mentioned “welfare rights” here, all I got was open-mouthed stares.
and
carry his own weight: freedom and independence
aren’t synonymous.
The first time I mentioned “welfare rights” here, all I got was open-mouthed stares.
Lacking vocal speech, simians wear a device which translates tiny muscular movements—subliminal sign-talk—into sound. As with individual handwriting and telegraphy, each “voice” has its own personality: natural variations in bone-structure, muscular development, perhaps even character. Really accomplished Telecom entertainers employ a speech device on
each
wrist—a whole new wrinkle in ventriloquism.
each
wrist—a whole new wrinkle in ventriloquism.
Gallatin and Spooner believed it: any creature who can
think
is, Q.E.D., “people.” It’s calmly anticipated here that someday there’ll be computers with rights—and
they’ll
be welcome too.
think
is, Q.E.D., “people.” It’s calmly anticipated here that someday there’ll be computers with rights—and
they’ll
be welcome too.
“Then how
did
it go in your world,
Win?”
Clarissa asked, “I’ve heard bits and pieces, but Captain Forsyth hasn’t heard any of it yet.” She wore a long, simple, celery-colored empire gown she thought of as casual, with a white cross in a circle on her left shoulder, the symbol of her profession.
did
it go in your world,
Win?”
Clarissa asked, “I’ve heard bits and pieces, but Captain Forsyth hasn’t heard any of it yet.” She wore a long, simple, celery-colored empire gown she thought of as casual, with a white cross in a circle on her left shoulder, the symbol of her profession.
I shrugged. “I can’t say exactly. Everything seems more or less normal, right up through the Whiskey Rebellion. But in my history, George Washington went right on drawing expenses.”
“So what happened to old Albert?” Lucy had a tumbler in her hand twice the size of mine, but wasn’t showing a sign of it. Her monster Gabbet Fairfax hung from an ornate shoulder strap like a
bandito
’s cartridge belt. “How come he chickened out?”
bandito
’s cartridge belt. “How come he chickened out?”
“I wish I knew. Gallatin’s hardly remembered at all in my world. Only reason I ever heard of him was …” I showed them the coin I’d taken off Meiss.
Forsyth put down my forty-one—he was fascinated—revolvers had gone out here ninety years ago—and examined the golden disk. “Nothing but an ordinary gold ounce. What’s so unusual—besides the fact I never see enough of them?” He scratched idly and reached for the salted nuts.
Ed smiled wryly. “It showed up on the other side. Win’s world. People there aren’t
allowed
to own gold. They use paper for money!”
allowed
to own gold. They use paper for money!”
I grimaced. “I still don’t understand you people. You’re all a bunch of crackpots—like the Propertarians. Only in this society, it’s the anarchocapitalists who run things!”
“‘Don’t understand’ is an understatement, Winnie my boy,” Lucy said.
“Nobody
‘runs things’ here—’cept their own business! And folks with other cravings …” She patted the holster on her hip.
“Nobody
‘runs things’ here—’cept their own business! And folks with other cravings …” She patted the holster on her hip.
Forsyth wrinkled his upper lip and screeched with laughter. Ed grinned ruefully. “Lucy’s the last of the vanishing breed—a revolutionary with nothing left to revolt against. Blew up half the Winter Palace getting at the Czar, to hear her tell it—but tends to embroider her adventures a little, as you’ve probably—”
“Embroider?” Lucy lowered her eyebrows and hunched forward. “Eddypoo, you’ll be hearing from my
seconds.
And speaking of seconds, my glass is empty!”
seconds.
And speaking of seconds, my glass is empty!”
North Americans adore any contraption that moves under its own impetus; they’ve harnessed every conceivable form of energy (and not a few inconceivable ones) to propel that most fantastic of their inventions, the private ground-effect machine. Steam and internal combustion compete with electricity and flywheels; there are fables of “hoverbuggies” run by enormous rubber bands, caged animals, charges of dynamite; and now, nuclear fusion. Secretly playing Prussian Ace in a cloud of turbodust or reading quietly while computers guide them along the Greenway at 300 miles per hour, they don’t care much about the power source. Within the portable privacy of their road machines, they have tapped a greater source of energy, the inner contemplation of a powerfully creative people, which is the source of all their lesser miracles.—Alistair Brooke
Telly from America
When I was a little kid, I could never get to sleep the night before Christmas. With Dad gone, Mom tried hard to make that day special for me, but she left me with a curse: I’ve never faced a crucial day in my life with a full night’s sleep.
Tonight was going to be like that. Our cocktail party had turned into dinner, then into a few more drinks. Eventually the ladies had gone home, Captain Forsyth, outside to supervise the evening shift. Before taking off, Clarissa had given me the happy news: the cast was coming off tomorrow, and I’d get my first excursion around the city of Laporte.
To me that sounded like a visit from Saint Nick—
and
I was back in the detective business: Ed came in just as I was getting ready for bed, sorting my pocket contents on the dresser top. Even wearing a bathrobe, I’m a traveling junk collection.
and
I was back in the detective business: Ed came in just as I was getting ready for bed, sorting my pocket contents on the dresser top. Even wearing a bathrobe, I’m a traveling junk collection.
“You’re on your own tonight. I have to go check security for a client.” He watched me disgorge my pockets with the fascination of a small boy watching seventy-three clowns get out of a Volkswagen.
“I guess I can take care of myself—with the help of Forsyth’s finest occupying every foot of the property line.” I pulled out
Toward a New Liberty,
dog-eared half a dozen places where I’d given up in disbelief, and tossed it on the bed. At least Mary Ross-Byrd was easier to understand than three-quarters of what was on the Telecom, and she never failed to put me to sleep.
Toward a New Liberty,
dog-eared half a dozen places where I’d given up in disbelief, and tossed it on the bed. At least Mary Ross-Byrd was easier to understand than three-quarters of what was on the Telecom, and she never failed to put me to sleep.
Ed shook his head. “Don’t let your guard down. They’re good men, but load that blunderbuss of yours anyway, and tuck it under your pillow—or would you prefer a real gun?” He indicated his autopistol.
I reached for the Smith & Wesson lying amid the ruins of my once functional shoulder holster. “This’ll do fine—it and its little brother. Wish I had some ammunition for the Browning, too.”
“What for?” he asked with a fairly straight face, “—shooting mice?”
“Meiss was shot with a .380, wise guy, I was thinking more of cockroaches, the two-legged kind, and I’ll have you know this fine specimen of Belgian gunsmithing develops over three hundred foot-pounds of—”
“And this”—Ed swept back his cape to uncover the .375—“develops nearly four
thousand!
Look, Win, we can find somebody to make you ammunition for these toys, but you owe it to yourself—”
thousand!
Look, Win, we can find somebody to make you ammunition for these toys, but you owe it to yourself—”
“Hell—with any luck, I won’t be needing more ammunition, anyway.”
“We could use some luck like that.” He stood, idly poking through my personal debris: badge carrier, pocket change, empty cartridge cases. I might have objected, but these artifacts must have been as curious to him as the Gallatin coin had been to me. He straightened, took a deep breath. “Well, can’t stand here all night.” He glanced at the bureau again and felt around in his tunic. “So
that’s
where it got to! Mind if I confiscate my pen?” He held out the one I’d found in Meiss’s desk drawer.
that’s
where it got to! Mind if I confiscate my pen?” He held out the one I’d found in Meiss’s desk drawer.
“Welcome to it, brother, but that one I brought with me from the other side. It belonged to my defunct physicist.”
“What? Impossible! I—wait a second.” He slammed out of the room, was gone a few minutes, came back holding his hands like a freshly scrubbed surgeon, in each fist a felt-tip pen. “Found it. Look at
this!”
They were cheap advertising giveaways, identical right down to the commercial inscription: PARATRONICS, LTD., LAPORTE, N.A.C., TELECOM GRAY 4-3122.
this!”
They were cheap advertising giveaways, identical right down to the commercial inscription: PARATRONICS, LTD., LAPORTE, N.A.C., TELECOM GRAY 4-3122.
Here, obviously, was a clew (as they spell it here) I shouldn’t have overlooked. I’d carried this damned pen every day without so much as twitching a gray cell. Clarissa could take the cast off my arm and reapply it to my head.
But the upshot was that I’d be employing my newfound mobility tomorrow following a sure-enough lead—asking the Paratronics folks how come their property was winding up in the Twilight Zone. It was more important than it might seem: it was Paratronics, Ltd. that Ed was working for that night, investigating losses somewhat more significant than felt-tip advertising pens. The coincidence bore examination.
I had a big day ahead of me—which, of course, was the problem. I squirmed restlessly under the blankets, resigned to being something of a zombie the next day, finally drifting into that miserable state where you can’t quite tell if you’re asleep, staying there about a century and a half, sweating into the sheets, then freezing to death, struggling with the pillow, discovering my feet weren’t comfortable in
any
position …
any
position …
“YAWWP!” went the Telecom. I jerked awake—both feet on the floor, gun in hand—stuck a speed-loader between my teeth, wishing for my other arm, and dashed into the hall. “INTRUDER AT FRONT GATE! INTRUDER AT FRONT GATE!” I fumbled with the door, found myself on the sidewalk, then the driveway. At the gate a cluster of forms wrestled just inside the entrance. Forsyth’s men, human and otherwise, were rushing in from other posts. I hoped this wasn’t a feint.
One guard lay on the ground, blood seeping ugly black onto the driveway, someone in charcoal-colored coveralls standing over him. Ed was on his back, arms outstretched and empty. A huge figure, also in gray, was pointing a weapon at his face. I lined up on the stranger’s chest and pulled the trigger, launching a blinding fireball in the semidarkness. The figure leaped and crumpled. The first gray-clad tough lifted a gun toward me, did a double take, and lowered his hands for a moment. It cost him his life. I put two ragged holes through him; he was dead before he hit the ground.
The intruders started to scatter. I snapped a shot at one, but misjudged the distance. He stumbled but kept on, hopping on one leg, until the guards piled on top of him. The rest of the bad guys, four, maybe five, were gone.
Ed sat up on the dewy rubber paving, dabbing one side of his face with the hem of his cloak. He winced a little. “Win. How nice to see you—or anything at all, for that matter. Is that a Denver police uniform you’re wearing?”
I looked down and was suddenly chilly, attired in the gun in my hand and the cast on my arm. I took the speed-loader from between my teeth. “Didn’t know this was a black-tie gunfight. That’s a nasty bruise!”
“It’ll mend.” He heaved to his feet, swaying for a moment with one hand on my shoulder, then steadied and took command. “Is the captain all right? Take the other guy into the house.” That other guy, the one I’d winged, clutched his thigh and whimpered. He was on his feet with a little uniformed assistance; must have had a bootful of type O by now. A guard was tying on a tourniquet. Maybe I’d missed the femur. Too bad.
Forsyth had been brained the same as Ed, but more effectively. They were carrying him into the house, but he was “talking,” issuing instructions and calling for reinforcements.
He wasn’t the only simian casualty. My second and third shots of the evening had bagged a gorilla, R.I.P.
AT 2 A.M., Ed didn’t want to bother Clarissa, even though we had three wounded bodies to take care of, plus a couple of deaders out in the driveway. He was willing to let what passes for the authorities handle things.
Lucy, jolted out of bed by the fireworks, came plunging over, frustrated at missing all the excitement. She absolutely insisted on calling my favorite M.D., who was on the way by the time Lucy got out three words and a grimace. The captain frightened us by throwing up—a bad sign with a head wound. By then Ed was glad we’d yelled for help—he was pretty groggy himself.
That left our friend with the hole in his leg parked sullenly in a corner, two angry chimpanzees holding him none too gently and exchanging interesting notions about what to do with him if Forsyth got worse. That gave me an idea, so I went upstairs to put some clothes on. Draped in a bathrobe, I came back with my forty-one. Ed was on the Telecom while Lucy looked after the captain. The prisoner stiffened visibly when I caught his eye, kept looking over at Ed, then back at me, with an occasional wild glance at the S & W.
“Okay, asshole,” I said in my best backroom rubber-hose voice, “You gonna come clean, or do I hafta ventilate you some more?” I aimed at his other leg, resting my thumb on the hammer. The guards got a little wide-eyed, but stood their ground.
“Barbarian!” he spat, “You don’t frighten me!”
“Is that so?” I shifted the muzzle to rest between his eyebrows. “I got two more slugs left. Think the boys here’d mind if I splatter your brains all over their uniforms? I’ll pay for the dry cleaning. Or would you like it somewhere neater, fellas?” I pointed the gun at his crotch.
“Get this savage away!” he screamed. “I stand on my rights!” Every face turned toward us, even Forsyth raised his head, took in what was going on, and sank weakly back. Ed rang off and limped slowly across the room.
I turned and gave him a broad wink out of sight of the prisoner. “Win”—he shook his head wearily—“that’s not the way we do things here.”
I knew. I’d unloaded the revolver after dressing. Now if only Ed would catch on. “What the hell do you mean? This guy and his friends rough you and Forsyth up, and now I can’t even
bend
him a little? We’d know how to take care of him back home!” I began describing the Spanish Inquisition, the Iron Maiden, certain North Korean variations. I was just warming up the hot pincers when Ed worked himself in between the prisoner and me.
bend
him a little? We’d know how to take care of him back home!” I began describing the Spanish Inquisition, the Iron Maiden, certain North Korean variations. I was just warming up the hot pincers when Ed worked himself in between the prisoner and me.
“Look, Win, we’ll do this
my
way. I’ve just called Civil Liberties Association—”
my
way. I’ve just called Civil Liberties Association—”
“Huh?”
“What would you prefer, a lynching? He’s got
rights
, my friend, the same rights you’ll want, if
you’re
ever accused. The CLA or some other professionally neutral organization takes care of everything. They’ll call his security company, his relatives, friends—”
rights
, my friend, the same rights you’ll want, if
you’re
ever accused. The CLA or some other professionally neutral organization takes care of everything. They’ll call his security company, his relatives, friends—”
“Or maybe his
employer,
” Lucy contributed. “
That’d
be educational!”
employer,
” Lucy contributed. “
That’d
be educational!”
“And what do
they
do, send him to the country club?”
they
do, send him to the country club?”
Ed looked exasperated. “He’ll spend the night in custody, just as I might, under similar circumstances, wind up under Professional Protectives’ supervision. No, they won’t let him go—not the way they’re bonded!”
“Y’gotta admit, Eddie,” Lucy butted in again, “the accommodations’ re pretty accommodatin’. Shucks, the guest pays for ’em—and recovers with interest if he’s proven innocent.”
“Innocent?
This son of a—”
This son of a—”
“Lucy’s only generalizing. The CLA collects evidence and testimony. There could also be some lawsuits over the bodies outside. The CLA does that, sometimes, just to make sure no one can murder some friendless wino, for instance. Or, if the accused, here, is destitute, they’ll defend him. In that case, they pass official neutrality on to some other group in the business. Then we’ll get together and hire a judge acceptable to all sides. Any appeal will go to a second judge—”
“Paid for by the first!”
“Yes, Lucy, paid for by the first. And if
that
decision doesn’t stick, a third judge may be called. His vote is final. Any two judges finish the matter. The whole process could take as long as a week.”
that
decision doesn’t stick, a third judge may be called. His vote is final. Any two judges finish the matter. The whole process could take as long as a week.”
A
week?
Ed spelled out the rest of the procedure. There aren’t any real prisons in the Confederacy. People who hurt others are expected to pay for it,
literally.
There are no “victimless crimes:” shoot heroin, snort a little coke, ride your bike without a helmet, do anything—to
yourself.
week?
Ed spelled out the rest of the procedure. There aren’t any real prisons in the Confederacy. People who hurt others are expected to pay for it,
literally.
There are no “victimless crimes:” shoot heroin, snort a little coke, ride your bike without a helmet, do anything—to
yourself.
The “law” only compels you to restore your victims to the state they’d be in had the crime never occurred. Fail in that, and your name and face get plastered all over, a formidable threat in a society geared to something like the Telecom. Who’ll do business with somebody who refuses his
moral
debts? No place to purchase food, clothing, shelter, ammunition—any of the necessities of life.
moral
debts? No place to purchase food, clothing, shelter, ammunition—any of the necessities of life.
And one
certain
way to get ostracized is to commit an
irrevocable
crime, like murder, for which restitution cannot be made.
certain
way to get ostracized is to commit an
irrevocable
crime, like murder, for which restitution cannot be made.
Insanity is no excuse. The judge is only interested in how you’re planning to make up for what you did. Society never takes the rap: in North America, there are only individuals.
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