American Empire: The Center Cannot Hold by Harry Turtledove Page A

think even of your brother-in-law. Remember what he thinks of the British. The United States will not be kind in Canada.
      They will crucify the whole country, and they will laugh while they are doing it.”
      “The Canadians are brave,” his son said.
      “They’re foolish,” Galtier replied.
      “Haven’t we seen enough war? Haven’t we seen too much war?” Marie said. Actually, this part of Quebec had fallen to the Americans fairly fast. It had seen occupation, but not too much true combat.
      Near Montreal, near Quebec City, the story was different.
      “ They don’t think so.” Georges sounded excited. He knows no better,  Galtier thought. War around here hadn’t seemed too bad.
      “Listen to this, son,” Galtier said after turning the paper to an inside page so he could see the rest of the story. “Listen carefully. ‘American occupying authorities vow that these uprisings will be put down, and all rebels punished under martial law. This is a rebellion against duly constituted authority, not a war; captured rebels do not have the privileges granted to legitimate prisoners of war.’ Do you know what that means? Do you understand it?”
      “I think so, Father.” Georges, for once, sounded serious. He didn’t try to make a joke of it.
      Lucien Galtier spelled things out anyhow: “It means the Americans will hang or shoot anyone they catch who rose up against them. They won’t waste time with a lot of questions before they do it, either.”
      “And we take money from the Americans for the hospital they built on our patrimony,” Georges said.
      “We even have an American in our family.”
      “You have a half-American nephew,” Galtier replied. “You have an American brother-in-law, as I have an American son-in-law. And Leonard O’Doull is a good fellow and a good doctor, and you cannot say otherwise.”
      “Nooo,” Georges admitted reluctantly. “But if they’re doing these things in Canada—”
      “They’re doing them because the Canadians have risen up,” Galtier said. “If the Canadians had stayed quiet, none of this would have happened. None of it has happened here in Quebec, n’est-ce pas?  ”
        “Oui, tu as raison, Papa,”  Georges said. “But even if you are right, is it not that we have made a deal with the Devil, you might say?”
      That same thought had crossed Galtier’s mind, too. He did his best to fight it down whenever it did.
      Now he said, “No. We are a small man. The United States, they are a large, strong man who carries a gun. Are we foolish because we do not go out of our way to step on his toes? I think not.”
      “Maybe,” his son said, more reluctantly still. Then he asked, “What time is it?”
      “Am I a clock?” Galtier said. “You can look at one as easily as I.” Georges did, and then exclaimed in dismay. “Is it half past four already? Tabernac!  I thought it was earlier.”
      “And why does the hour matter so much?” Galtier inquired with a certain ironic curiosity, part of which was about whether his guess was right.
      Sure enough, his younger son shuffled his feet a couple of times before answering, “When I was in town, I heard there would be a dance tonight. I thought I might go.”
      “Did you?”
      “Yes, I did.” Georges attempted defiance. He didn’t do a good job of it. His older brother, Charles, or any of his four sisters could have given him lessons.
      Lucien and Marie shared amused looks. They’d met at a dance, somewhere a little more than thirty years before. Nor were they the only couple in the neighborhood who had—far from it. Galtier said, “All right, son. Have a good time.”
      Georges started to argue, to protest. Then he really heard what his father had said. He blinked. “It’s all right?” he asked suspiciously.
      “I said so, didn’t I?”
      Marie added, “There’s plenty of hot water on the stove, if you have time to bathe and shave before