Gunpowder Empire Read online

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  To Robert A. Heinlein,

  Andre Norton, and

  H. Beam Piper

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  One

  When Jeremy Solters found a note from his mother in his lunchbox, he started to laugh. He couldn’t help it. So many ways she might have got hold of him—e-mail to his handheld, e-mail to his desktop, voicemail to his phone, a tingle on the implant behind his ear. But what did she pick? The most primitive comm mode she could find, and the one most likely to go wrong. That was Mom, all right. Maybe she’d spent too much time out in the alternates. She forgot to use technology when she had it at her fingertips.

  He unfolded the note and made sense of her scrawl. Stop at the store on the way home and pick up two kilos of apples, she wrote. Jeremy laughed again and reread the note to make sure he had it right. He supposed he should have been glad she hadn’t talked about pounds and ounces. He never could remember which was bigger. And he supposed he should have been glad she’d remembered to write in English. He could have read neoLatin. But if she’d used Koine or Great Serbian or any of the Indic languages, she wouldn’t have got her precious apples.

  “What’s that?” Michael Fujikawa asked, as Jeremy wadded up the piece of paper and tossed it in the direction of the trash can.

  “Note from my mom, if you can believe it,” Jeremy told his friend. The crumpled note bounced off the front of the trash can. Jeremy sighed. He unfolded from his perch on a concrete bench, picked up the paper, and threw it out. He was tall and skinny, but he’d never made the Canoga Park High basketball team. This wasn’t the first time he’d proved he couldn’t shoot.

  Michael only nodded. “Oh, yeah,” he said. He was short and kind of round. Most of Jeremy’s friends were short and kind of round. He sometimes wondered if that meant anything. Before he could do more than start to wonder now, Michael went on, “My dad will do the same thing. When he comes home from an alternate, it’s like he has trouble remembering he’s at the end of the twenty-first century, not stuck in a fifteenth-century equivalent or whatever.”

  “Maybe that’s it,” Jeremy agreed. “I was thinking the same thing about Mom.”

  The sun beat down on him. It was only May, but it was supposed to get up past thirty today. The Valley was like that. When real summer came, it could climb over forty for a week at a time.

  Jeremy ate his sandwich and his yogurt and an orange from a Palestine that hadn’t seen a century and a half of murder and war. That Palestine was a sleepy Turkish province where nothing much ever happened. The oranges and lemons were especially fine there. He didn’t know whether that was better or worse than the Palestine in his own world. It sure was different, though.

  Michael’s lunch had a couple of golden plums of a sort Jeremy hadn’t seen before. He pointed to the one his friend was eating. “Where’d that come from?” he asked.

  “Safeway,” Michael said unhelpfully.

  “Thanks a lot,” Jeremy told him. “Which world did it come from, I mean? It’s not one of ours, is it?”

  “I don’t think so,” Michael said. “But I don’t know which alternate it’s from. All I know is, Dad brought it home when he did the shopping the other day. Half the time, the store labels don’t tell anyhow.”

  “They’re supposed to,” Jeremy said. “The EPA gets on ’em if they don’t.”

  “Well, the EPA’s pretty dumb if it bothers about these. They’re good.” Michael ate all the flesh off the plum. He tossed the pit at the trash can. It went in. He was a good shot. He took the second plum out of its plastic bag. Jeremy hoped for a taste, but Michael ate it all. He liked his food, which was no doubt why he stayed round.

  The lunch bell rang just after Michael finished the plum. He jumped up. “I have to go to my locker. I left my history paper in there, and Ms. Mouradian doesn’t let you print new ones in class.”

  Jeremy nodded sympathetically. “She’s strict, all right. I’ve got mine.” He slung his notebook and his handheld under his arm and headed off for U.S. History. “See you there.” His grandfather told stories about lugging around a backpack full of ten or fifteen kilos’ worth of books when he went to high school. It wasn’t so much that Jeremy didn’t believe him. He just thought old people remembered things as being much better or much worse than they really were, depending on what kind of message they wanted to get across.

  Boys and girls hurried through the dark, narrow halls. Canoga Park High was almost 150 years old. Some of the buildings were newer, replacing ones knocked down in the earthquake of ’27 or the bigger one of ’74, but a lot of them went all the way back to the 1950s. As far as Jeremy could see, they hadn’t known much about how to make schools back then.

  Of course, compared to what people in the alternates had, this was heaven. But that wasn’t how most kids looked at it. Jeremy didn’t look at it like that most of the time himself. He compared Canoga Park High to new schools, fancy schools. Next to them, it didn’t make the grade.

  Michael Fujikawa slid—skidded, really—into his seat just ahead of the late bell. Ms. Mouradian sent him a fishy stare. That was all she could do, though. He had beaten the bell. She said, “Now that we’re all here”—another fishy look for Michael—“we need to push. Only a couple of weeks left in the semester, and we still have a lot of ground to cover. First things first. Pass your homework papers to the front of the room.”

  Jeremy pulled his paper from his notebook. He sent it forward. Looking relieved that he’d remembered his, Michael did the same. Ms. Mouradian snatched up the homework with impatience she couldn’t hide. Jeremy almost laughed, but managed to hold it in. He’d never had a history class where they didn’t cover the last part of the material at a mad gallop.

  Ms. Mouradian said, “Yesterday we talked about how energy problems started showing up as early as the 1970s.” Jeremy’s desktop came to life. It showed him a long line of incredibly old-fashioned–looking cars in front of a gas station just as far out-of-date. The history teacher went on, “Things only got worse as time went on. By the time we reached the 2040s, our oil reserves really did start running dry, the way people had said they would for years. Nobody knew what to do. Many feared that civilization would collapse from lack of energy, lack of transport, lack of food.”

  The desktop showed skinny people plundering a truck outside a supermarket. Jeremy’s grandfather talked about those days, too. Jeremy hadn’t taken him too seriously till he found out on his own how bad things had been. The video on the desktop looked a lot better than the stuff from the 1970s. It had started out digital. It wasn’t so grainy, and the color and sound were better. Jeremy felt more as if he were really there, not watching something from ancient history.

  “What caused the change?” Ms. Mouradian asked. “Why don’t we have troubles like those now?”


  A dozen hands shot into the air at the same time. Jeremy’s was one of them. Behind him, a girl said, “Why doesn’t she ask easy ones like that all the time?”

  Two or three people couldn’t stand knowing and not saying. Before Ms. Mouradian could call on anybody, they shouted out the answer: “The alternates!”

  She nodded. “That’s right. The alternates. Without the work of Galbraith and Hester, the world would be a very different place.” When she suddenly smiled, she didn’t look a whole lot older than the kids in her class. “And that’s what the alternates are all about, isn’t it? Look at your desktops, please.”

  Jeremy did, even though he’d already seen this video a million times. There were Samaki Galbraith and Liz Hester announcing their discovery to a startled world. He was tall and black and dignified. She was a little redhead who bounced and squeaked, excited at what they’d found. Considering what it was, she’d earned the right, too.

  Then the desktop cut away from the chronophysicists. It showed some of the worlds they’d found—worlds where things had gone differently from the way they’d happened here. Jeremy had seen a lot of these videos, too. Here was footage from a world where the Vikings had settled North America. Here was one where successors of Alexander the Great ruled half a dozen empires that stretched from Spain to the borders of China. Here were gaudy pictures from a world where civilization in the Old World had got off to a later start than it had here, so the Native American cultures were the most advanced anywhere.

  Here was a triumphal procession through the streets of Rome in a world where the Roman Empire hadn’t fallen. Jeremy smiled when that one came up. His folks spent a lot of their time trading there. He and his sister went there, too. Sometimes the locals needed to see a whole family. It added realism.

  And here, quickly, one after another, were worlds with breakpoints closer to here-and-now. Here were Spaniards with bayoneted flintlocks swaggering through a town on the border between their empire and Russia in a world where the Armada conquered England. Here was a race riot in a town that didn’t look too different from the ones Jeremy knew, but where the Confederate flag flew. And here was one in a world where nobody had discovered atomic energy. The United States and the Soviet Union were fighting World War VI there right this minute.

  The desktop went blank. Jeremy knew how many more alternates it might have shown: the one where the Chinese had discovered the Americas; the one where the United States was a contented part of a British Empire that covered three-quarters of the globe; the nasty one where the Germans had won World War I; the even nastier one where they’d won World War II; and on and on.

  Ms. Mouradian said, “How did finding the alternates change things for us?” Again, a lot of hands went up. Again, Jeremy’s was one of them. Nobody yelled out the answer this time, though. It wasn’t so simple.

  The teacher pointed at him. “Jeremy.”

  “We aren’t limited to the resources of one world any more,” he answered. “We can get food and raw materials and ideas from a lot of different places, a little from here, a little from there. We don’t take enough from any alternate world to hurt it.” He’d known all that stuff long before he took this class. With his mom and dad both working for Crosstime Traffic, he had to.

  Ms. Mouradian knew where his folks worked. Maybe that was why she’d picked him to answer. She nodded when he was done. “That’s good,” she said. “And what are some of the problems we’ve had since we started traveling to the alternates?”

  Jeremy raised his hand one more time. He didn’t want Ms. Mouradian—or anybody else—to think he didn’t know there were problems. She didn’t call on him again, though. She picked Michael Fujikawa instead. His folks worked for Crosstime Traffic, too. He said, “Probably contamination is the worst one.”

  “That’s right,” the history teacher said. “Please look at your desktops again.” Jeremy looked down. He saw the video he thought he would. There were long lines of people waiting to get shots for Hruska’s disease. An early explorer had brought it back from a world that was off-limits now. There were also pictures of the blank, idiotic stares on the faces of people who’d come down with the illness. Then the desktop showed some of the plant and animal diseases and parasites that had come back here from other alternates.

  A girl named Elena Ramos raised her hand. When Ms. Mouradian called on her, she said, “The other big problem is keeping people in the alternates from knowing we’re visiting them.”

  “Oh, yes.” The teacher nodded again. “That is the other important one. Wherever we go where there’s civilization, we have to keep the secret. That’s why we always pretend to be part of the world where we trade. Some alternates are advanced enough that they might be able to use the technology if they got their hands on it. That could be very, very dangerous.” The desktop showed another clip from the world where the Nazis had won the Second World War. It wasn’t pretty. Ms. Mouradian went on, “That rule is also why we drill for oil and do our mining on alternates where there are only hunters and gatherers, or else worlds without any people at all. On worlds like those, we don’t have to hide.”

  On the desktop, oil rigs stood like steel skeletons in the middle of a vast, golden desert. Antelope with enormous horns watched, wondering what the fuss was about. An oil worker in grimy coveralls walked up to one and stroked its nose. It stood there and let him. It had never learned to be afraid of men. In that alternate, there were no men to be afraid of.

  The antelope disappeared from the desktop. Jeremy sighed, and he wasn’t the only one. Ms. Mouradian said, “Now we’re going to go over some of the Supreme Court decisions that center on crosstime travel.” Jeremy sighed again, on a different note. Again, he wasn’t the only one.

  Amanda Solters stood under the awning at Canoga Park High. She stayed out of the sun while she waited for the bus and for her brother to show up. She hoped Jeremy would get there before the bus did. His last class this year was on the far side of campus, so sometimes he cut things close.

  While she waited, she checked her handheld to see what she had to do tonight. She made a face at the thought of algebra homework. That was old-fashioned, boring drill and practice. She had to understand what she was doing to get it right. It wasn’t like a foreign language, where she could soak it up in a few sessions with the implant. She’d learned Spanish that way, and French, and neoLatin and classical Latin for trips out to the alternate with her parents and Jeremy.

  Here he came, as usual half a head taller than most of the kids around him. He’d tried out for the basketball team the autumn before, but he hadn’t even got onto the JVs. Being tall wasn’t enough. You had to be able to run and shoot, too.

  He spotted her and waved. Amanda was tall herself, for a girl—one meter, seventy-three centimeters. Her grandfather, who was old-fashioned as well as old, sometimes said she was five feet ten. That meant next to nothing to her, any more than pounds or quarts or degrees Fahrenheit did.

  “We’ve got to stop at the store and get apples,” Amanda said importantly when her brother came up. He started to laugh. She scowled at him. “What’s so funny?”

  “Did Mom leave a note in your lunchbox, too?” he asked.

  “She left me one, all right,” Amanda said. “You mean she gave ’em to both of us?”

  Her brother nodded. “She sure did.”

  “Why didn’t she just carve the message on a rock and leave it here at the bus stop?” Amanda said. “Sometimes I think she’s even more stuck in her ways than Grandpa is.”

  “I wouldn’t be surprised.” Jeremy pointed up the street. “Here comes the bus.”

  It was old-fashioned, too. The school district couldn’t afford anything newer and cleaner. It burned natural gas, which meant it spewed carbon dioxide into the air. Most vehicles, these days, were either electric or ran on fuel cells that gave off only clean water vapor. Global warming hadn’t stopped, but it had slowed down.

  They got on the bus. As soon as it was full, the driver p
ulled off the side street where she’d picked up her passengers and turned north onto Topanga Canyon Boulevard. The bus rattled almost enough to drown out the trills of telephones as friends on other buses and in cars started catching up with people here. Kids on the bus made calls, too. Back in the old days, Amanda’s grandfather said, everybody could listen to everybody else talking. She had trouble imagining that. It sounded like an amazing nuisance. Throat mikes let people keep conversations private, the way they were supposed to be.

  Jeremy’s phone trilled as the bus rolled past the green of Lanark Park on one side of the street and the rival green of an old, old nursery on the other. His lips moved. His Adam’s apple bounced up and down. All Amanda could hear was a faint mumbling with no real words. Like everybody else, she and Jeremy had learned to use throat mikes before they got out of elementary school.

  She had to poke Jeremy when the bus stopped in front of the Safeway. “Apples!” she said. He nodded and got up. He kept right on talking while they got off the bus. Probably Michael, Amanda thought. He and her brother had been best friends since the second grade.

  When she and Jeremy went into the store, he asked, “Did Mom’s note to you say what kind of apples she wanted?”

  “I wish!” Amanda exclaimed. “No—we’re on our own.”

  You could have too many choices. Amanda saw that when she walked into the produce department. This was a big store, even for a Safeway. It tried to stock some of everything. As far as fruits and vegetables were concerned, it couldn’t. It couldn’t even come close. Still, as Amanda peeled a plastic bag off a roll, she looked at a couple of dozen different kinds of apples, all in neat bins.

  She eyed red ones, golden ones, green ones, golden ones with reddish blushes, red ones streaked with gold, green ones streaked with gold. The sign above one bin said RAISED RIGHT HERE, SO YOU KNOW WHAT GOES INTO THEM! Other signs announced the alternates from which those apples had come.