Heritage

Jimmy had lived all his life in Boonville, a bedroom community just east of the sprawling Greater Evansville Metropolitan area, and because of this, was acutely aware of his shame.  At a very precocious 12, he was the only boy in his class who had never seen an Negro, at least not in person, and that because his father still refused to take him through the Buffer.  Kids being as casually cruel as cats, this was seen among his peers as reliable evidence that his own father thought him a coward.

He had tried to read up on the area that most just called the South.  But the Omnipedia article on the CSA was locked, and everything in it was just the standard public information that he had already learned in class.  Like the People's Democratic Socialist Republic of Nippon (or just "Japan"), the Confederacy was a nation more of speculation than too much readily available hard data.  The broad strokes might be known, but the day to day life was a mystery to all but - perhaps - the SS.

Jimmy wanted to join the Secret Service when he grew up.  He was an avid reader of spy novels, and had read all the Butler series till he had memorized the exploits of the Union's greatest spy.  He dreamed of infiltrating Richmond to liaison with some member of the Underground or to aid in sabotaging the hellish auto manufacturies of Tuscaloosa or Biloxi.  A part of him well knew that such work would be even more dangerous now, it having been 67 years since the Truce of 1950 had ended the Fourth War and created the Buffer.

His father had told him that most kids in his class were lying, but there was no good use to put that information.  Jimmy wasn't up for getting beat up, and that's what would happen if he expressed his doubt about the trips that his classmates claimed to have made South.  To hear them, all their dads went there weekly, and took them along each time.  In truth, Jimmy suspected his father was right, for while traffic was pretty brisk at this major trade hub, you still had to have real business there, the kind that could not be done by internet or phone.

Jimmy dreamed of going all the same, the more as his father actually had legitimate business that took him South regularly.  Not that his dad would speak of it, besides telling him that "there'll be time enough when you're older".  An older that Jimmy was convinced must be when he was as graying as his father already was.  Jimmy wondered about those gray hairs in a man only in his forties.  He speculated that maybe his own father was an SS spy, and not the sales rep for Blue Ribbon Sports he maintained.  A sneaker salesmen! But as his quirky father was fond of saying about his boring job, "It puts shoes on your feet, doesn't it?" and would chuckle at the tired witticism.

Tonight Jimmy turned 13, and it was another quirk of his father that his birthday could not be celebrated until the exact birth time of 8:10 in the evening.  Not that they couldn't get started a smidge earlier on dinner, but there'd be no gifts, no cake and no "Happy Birthdays" till then. Jimmy checked his watch and saw it was 8:02 now, or two minutes since last time he had checked.  He was pleasantly full from the burgers and fries his mom had made them all, but figured that he still had plenty of room for the chocolate cake that he knew was hidden some where in the forbidden kitchen.

At 8:10, his father looked up from his Square and said without fanfare, "Happy Birthday, son.  Come in here, please."  Jimmy did, and nodded briefly at his mother who was still looking at her Square but who now put it down and looked at him sadly, before then looking away.  Jimmy noticed no cake, and started to wonder what was going on.  "You're 13", his father said.  "As many cultures have reckoned it before, a man.  Tomorrow, you will accompany me to Spottsville, and start to learn a bit about the shoe business.  That is all.  Go get some cake."

Jimmy could barely suppress his excitement, but did so while ducking out to the kitchen.  His mom followed after him to cut him some cake.  He knew from visiting friends of his that most families were not as somber as his, but he also knew that his parents were Jews.  A fact that they would have been mortified to learn that he knew.  Jews were tolerated in the United States, at least in New York City, but not so much in the Midwest.  Most found it easier to either immigrate to the Kaiser's Europe, or become non-practicing and Anglicized. His parents had chose to stay and pretend they were Episcopalians.  Jimmy could care less, but knew instinctively to not speak of it to anyone.

He opened the gift on his bed, and was pleased, but unsurprised, that it was the latest Square.  SquareG, though he had thought SquareF had had more than enough data and access for him.  He checked his MeZone and saw Donny had posted a cartoon of Albert Beaux Wilkes, President of the CSA, standing at the docks of Biloxi watching an endless stream of cars being loaded onto a fleet of British freight ships.  The customary Little Sambo was in the corner saying, "We strives, he jives, 'n dey drives!"  Donny insisted that African lips really were that big, but Jimmy found it hard to believe.

He had no trouble believing that the British Empire relied upon the South for it's cars.  They had their own manufacturies in India and Australia and Indonesia, and there were some who said the labor wasn't strictly as free as the British would have you believe.  Yet they weren't property, they had some rights, like of the family unit staying together, their own choice of a few churches, and limited ability to move if they could prove employment opportunity elsewhere.  Not so the Africans of the CSA and the Republic of Brazil.  British manufacturies were responsible for a great many of the machines of the world, but when it came to cars - and trucks and tanks and other vehicles - it was the South that supplied the world.

Jimmy checked "affirmative" on the cartoon, as he and Donny had the same nerdy political views.  They both felt from such studies as they could make that the CSA elite were talking too much bluster, all in all, when they were in a weaker position then most seemed to think.  True, they were a power that had kept the USA, French Quebec and British Canada at bay, and together with the Mexican Empire they had it pretty cozy in the Caribbean and the rest of Central America.  But their attempt at "liberating" British Guinea had failed, and London and Rio were both still laughing about that fiasco.  

They were still only a regional power, and carried no weight with the real powers.  The British Empire, Bolshevik Russia, Imperial China, all had far more say over the affairs of the world.  He was glad to live in the relatively quiet backwater of the USA, where all they had to worry about was their perpetual Cold War with the CSA, and the craziness of the rest of world had nothing to do with them.  It was of such thoughts of the world that Jimmy fell asleep, to dream of his much longed for and now upcoming trip to the South.

He awoke the next morning to his father shaking him awake rather earlier than usual.  He got up at once, and had a quick and silent breakfast that his mother served more somberly than usual.  Then he and his father were off, in his father's Benz Forrest, last years model.  His father might dislike their politics, but he recognized that they made the finest cars in the world.  Certainly the cheapest.  It was only twenty minutes to the Buffer.

His father said, "I know you've learned some of this in your classes.  That we have fought four times for re-unification, starting with their original secession, and then on and off till it ended in 1950.  It didn't end with us about to beat them and we honorably dropping the matter for the joy of peace, like you have heard.  It ended as both sides were so crippled, and so near total destruction, that there was the real risk that both nations would cease to be.  The Mexican Emperor was about to take our advice to invade the CSA while they were weakened, but then we learned that Quebec was working out a deal with British Canada and Bolshevik Russia to part us into three subject states.  The great Truce was two badly weakened nations agreeing to stop so as to secure bare survival.  While each side still makes noise about the great rivalry, this Cold War, in truth, Washington and Richmond work hand in hand on almost all issues now, so as to hold off the other nations that would subdue us if they could."

Jimmy nodded and said, "I know, Dad.  But Dad, we're not so weak any more, and the South may be ripe for the taking!  Donny's dad was saying that there's a lot of unrest down there, and given the demographics, the slaves may have a real chance!  It's now almost 4 to 1 down there, Dad!  4 to 1!  My history teacher last year said that if the number of slaves ever came to be 75% of the population that it would collapse in revolt!"  Jimmy's dad put his hand on his son's knee.  He said nothing for a few seconds.  Then he said, "I'm glad you are in favor of that slave culture collapsing.  Your teacher was both right and wrong, though.  Right in that anything over 66% is dangerous, but wrong in that this was based upon studies done over a century ago.  Things have changed in this electronical age.  They can, and do, support a slave population that is already above 85% throughout most of their nation, save their capitols."  At his son's gasp, the father continued, "The news doesn't report that much, as then we'd have to realize that slavery may not die out like we've been taught all along."

Jimmy contemplated that.  It was an article of faith among the Usonians that slavery must collapse one day, when the numbers of the enslaved outnumbered the whites sufficiently.  And that it would have already, were it not for the disastrous reduction in population sizes of the USA and CSA back in the forties before the last war ended.  Now Jimmy was hearing that it could last even at this high rate, and that puzzled and concerned him.  His father said, "We're getting close to the Buffer.  You must remember that there is absolutely no free speech in the CSA.  Oh, they have what they call free speech, but it doesn't apply to any racial issue.  They will imprison you and set you to labor, and there will be nothing that you, I or Washington can or will do about it.  Do you understand?"

Jimmy nodded mutely, and his father just nodded back approvingly before pulling up to the entry to the Buffer.  For all the hoopla, it was simply five lanes in the style of paying a toll.  Trucks were lined up on the left, Jimmy's dad had drove to the furthest right lane.  A blinking sign said, "Have All Letters Ready.".  Jimmy's dad reached into his inner suit pocket and pulled out a slim leather folder that he flipped open.  In it were two letters from the Mayor of Greater Evansville, the first acknowledging that one James Granger and his son, James Granger, Jr., had business in Spottsville pertaining to the sales of shoes.  The second letter gave a brief and half-hearted description that would have applied to almost anyone.

But as Jimmy had been taught, IDs were for dictatorships, and only places like Kaiser's Europe or Bolshevik Russia or such had them. States where people were regarded as products to be weighed and measured and described and numbered for ease of the government in tracking them and placing them.  And the worse the nation's record on civil rights, they were also taught, the more thorough the identifications were.  In Bolshevized Japan, they apparently wore chips in their wristwatches.  In the CSA, he had heard rumors that it was all electronical bracelets.

The Union soldier at the Buffer entrance looked cursorily over the letters.  "Smuggling anything in that I'd like a cut of, Jim?" the bluecoat said smiling.  "Not today, sir, not today!" his dad replied with a joviality that Jimmy was sure was feigned.  And when the bluecoat gave the tired old line of "Don't call me sir, I work for a living!" his dad drove off amicably with a smart, "You do?  When'd that start?"  Always leave them laughing, his dad had always said.  But Jimmy was sitting in silence now, looking out at the Buffer which he was seeing for the first time.

At 20 kilometers per hour, it would take about a minute to traverse the 300 meter dead zone called the Buffer.  Even truckers in a hurry were not exceeding that maddeningly slow pace, because it was well known that you could be blown up for doing so, by either side, no questions asked, and certainly none ever answered.  It was not, Jimmy saw, that the fields were empty, but rather that it wasn't even a field.  The plain roads - three lanes to and three lanes back - were cutting through an endless sea of shards in either direction.  

Shards? It was broken glass and pieces of metal and sharp rocks and pieces of glass and sharp metal and broken rocks and sharp broken pieces of metal, rocks and glass over and over and it hurt the eyes in it's oddly diverse sameness in which all colors blended into no real color that the mind could focus on, so that the impression was a glittery black white red green - Jimmy looked at the other side and only got the minimal relief of seeing the return traffic before it went back to the shards.

The CSA was not content with a toll booth approach.  It was a massive structure that arced over the roads, so that you would be entering a vast building and be processed through to the other side.  "You are now entering the CSA.  IDs and papers are required.  All persons and vehicles subject to search."  Pulling up to the far right lane again, they were motioned to pull forward into the building and to come to a stop in front of a lowered bar that blocked further progress.  All the graycoats carried tommy guns.  Dogs were on leashes watching everything.  

"Please step out, Mr. Granger.  You and - your son? - yes, you may both come with me while your car is processed." said a man in a gray suit who the graycoat soldiers deferred to.  Turning he took them to a tiny office and motioned for them to sit on one side of a table while he sat on the other side.  He accepted the leather folder that Jimmy's dad passed to him and started going through it.  Jimmy was surprised to see that his father had an actual "ID"!  He strained to look at it without it being obvious that he was trying to look at it.  A task not made easier by the fact that he was trying to read it, too.  Jimmy's father put a hand on his shoulder, as if to deter him, but the agent, noticing, only chuckled and said, "First time, isn't it?  Well, here you go, take a look, you'll be getting one soon enough!"

Accepting the ID that was slid across the table to him, Jimmy looked at it in wonder.  Yes, that was his father's face.  It had his name and address and his birthdate and eye and hair color!  And height and weight!  There was also a long string of numbers and letters.  And over all of it, in reddish transparent ink were the letters USA.  "Do you know what this is?" the agent asked, pointing at the number and letter series, which for his father was W230-1726-8320.  Jimmy shook his head.  The agent said, "It lets us know how long your dad has been coming here, how far he can travel, what times and who he can see.  You will have one, too.  But at your age, it will be one good only for if you are with your dad, so do not travel about without him.  Do you understand?"

Jimmy nodded and his father looked still anxious.  The agent said, "Now, you stand up in front of the blue cloth."  Looking at his dad and receiving a nod of confirmation, Jimmy did so, and the agent took out a Square and took his picture.  He then opened up a drawer, pulled out a brochure and some papers and passed them to Jimmy.  "You will have to come with me now, to see a video, then you can meet with your father at the other end."  Jimmy felt a rush of fear, but his father said, "It will be okay.  I saw the same video.  Watch it, follow his instructions, and I'll see you soon."

Jimmy went into the next room and sat down.  Two others, adults, were already sitting.  A TV was just coming on.  "Welcome!  Welcome to the Homeland of the White Race, where the purity of genteel and civilized living is preserved as a model for the world!" said the spokeswoman on TV, a gorgeous blond in a long flowing dress, like the kind a movie princess might wear.  "We understand that our way of life is unfamiliar to most of our honored guests, and so we have this orientation film to acclimate you to our gracious way of life!  Remember, you are our guests, and we want you to be happy, but we ask that you respect our customs, so we may all be happy, too!"

Internally, Jimmy was rolling his eyes, this being like movies he had seen of Bolsheviks welcoming people to their Collectives where "worker/owners" toiled 14 hours a day for crusts of bread.  

"...want them to be happy and safe, too" the blond was saying.  "So do not encourage them to break the law, besides distressing them, it wouldn't be very neighborly of you.  It would be like us trying to encourage some of your radical Tories in Seattle to agitate for breaking away to join British Canada!  It's just not nice!  Now, some have said that they hear you can't talk to the white citizens here, because they're not allowed to speak against the system!  Nonsense!  You may talk to any white citizen here on any subject you like, but we ask that you avoid the subject of race for in case our serving classes are in ear shot, and you'll find that such is their love of their labors and of service that one is always within ear shot!"

Jimmy was in amazement at the gall of that while the screen showed a smiling black waiter serving three beautiful ladies at an outdoor cafe.  He noticed that in some of the montages of Southern life that while they showed the massive factories of the Deep South, they did not show the insides of them.  He suspected he knew why.  The attrition rate in those factories was said to be enormous.  Originally slaves had been prohibitively expensive, as they could not be imported after 1804, and the birth rate was not much greater, and in some cases worse, than the general population.

But after the original secession, the CSA had managed, in spite of British naval patrols, to get a steady stream of fresh slaves from various Islamic states and even overland from Brazil.  And while the mid-twentieth century had finally seen that slow to a trickle, scientific breakthroughs had allowed the creation of great breeding factories where horror stories were told of specially lobotomized and blinded breeders who were artificially inseminated and kept cranking out babies from the age of 15 to 30, with fertility drugs insuring quadruplets - at the least - each time.  

This had dropped the price of a slave from two years of an average man's labor to just three months.  Suddenly - since the nineteen sixties, anyway - every white in the CSA could have afforded a slave or two.  And at least 25% of them did, with some restrictions.  Slave-owners now had to take and pass a course on how to handle "animate property", and only then could they be licensed to own such.  And could have the license revoked, if they proved incapable of keeping control of their slaves, or worse, taught them inappropriately or otherwise fomented discontent.

Soon enough the orientation was over, and Jimmy was met by his father at their vehicle on the other side.  Jimmy, still absorbing what he'd just seen and heard, and mulling over his thoughts, rode in silence with his father for a few minutes.  He took out his ID and looked at it, it was much like his father's, but had a light blue border around it.  He showed it to his dad, who briefly took his eyes off the road, glanced at it, then said "It's because you're underage here, and a boy.  If you were a girl, it'd be pink.  Just remember what the agent said, and don't wander off.  You can't know how seriously they take things here."

Jimmy saw they were entering Spottsville now, but something was off about it.  The traffic was mostly bus and taxi, with now and then a limousine.  Foot traffic was either whites walking with their heads down, or now and then a white with two Negroes in attendance - Negroes!  Jimmy gaped out the window, wanting to ask his dad to stop, but not wanting to be thought a child.  His face pressed to the window, he looked hard, not at the well dressed woman in a sea of folks wearing drab gray workingman clothes, but at the Africans flanking her.

Where her head was held up proudly, theirs were hanging down, like the unaccompanied gray clad whites.  Each wore plastic sandals and an orange skin tight body suit.  Each wore a bracelet that looked like it had a very small box on it.  But with a start, Jimmy noticed that so did all the whites.  Turning to ask his dad, it turned out his mind had been read, because his father held up his left wrist to show that he was now wearing a bracelet with a box on it.  "Son", he said, "They're like a Global Mapping System, they can tell who you are and where you are at all times.  Police can scan it any time they like, and it gives an alarm if you go places you aren't to go."

Jimmy shuddered.  "But you aren't a slave!  And neither are those whites!  How come you have to wear them, too?"  His dad said, "Let's get a coffee before we get to work, and I'll try and explain."  He pulled into a place that just said "Refectory" on it and they both went in and were shown a booth by a blank faced Negress.  She stood waiting to take their order, but before they had time to open the menus, the owner, noticing Jimmy's reaction, came over at once.  "You Usonians?" he asked, and Jimmy's dad nodded.  "First time for your boy?" the owner asked more relaxed at being able to account for Jimmy's strange staring at his waitress.

"Yes", Jimmy's dad said.  "It's his first time.  Please forgive him, he's never seen an African before, and his manners seem to have fled him."  This last was said with an under the table kick.  Jimmy started and looked sheepish, but the owner only laughed.  "No problem, happy to make him feel welcome!"  And turning to the Negress he said, "You girl!  Let the young master have a look at you!"  The Negress, still blank faced, put her pad down on their table, her having no pockets in the orange skin tight suit she was wearing.  She held her hands out to her sides, spreading her fingers a bit, looked up and to the left, and started slowly turning around while lifting slightly up on the front of her feet.

Jimmy stared, partly due to being 13 and the Negress being a well developed 35, if a bit solid looking.  But more than teen hormones, was his wonder at seeing an African up close.  His father looked on impassively, but the owner seemed delighted.  "You like what you see?"  Jimmy wasn't sure what the owner meant, but it sounded like it wasn't pleasant.  Blushing, he turned away and made as if to be studying his menu.  The owner seemed inclined to rib him over that, but his father gave an imperceptible shake of his head.  

The owner grumbled, "Suit yourself.  The young master has to learn some time and she's docile enough.  Enjoy your stay."  And with that he went to the back and the Negress picked up her pad.  Before she could, Jimmy noted that it was covered with a dozen or so sketches of burgers, chicken legs, fish and drink cups.  No words.  She held the pad in the same hand that had the box on it and waited.  Jimmy's dad said, "Two coffees.  Mine black, his with two sugars and three creams."  Jimmy watched fascinated as the waitress made scribbling motions on the pad.

He reached up to take the pad and she gave it to him at once.  She had circled a picture of a steaming coffee cup twice, a picture of what was probably a sugar bowl twice and a picture of a tin of creamer three times.  So it was true.  They were not even allowed to use numbers, let alone letters.  He thanked her and gave the pad back to her.  He looked like he wanted to ask her something, but a softer kick from his father and he remained silent while she went to get the coffee.  

"Everyone wears the bracelets, son." his dad started.  "The exceptions are the elite, the one percent that owns 80% of the slaves.  And children.  Which is why you don't have to wear a bracelet.  But is also why you must stay with me.  To be caught without a bracelet or a guardian is a crime."  Jimmy broke in, "But why?" and his dad replied, "Because when the percent of slaves reaches a certain point, you can't afford to take any chances at all.  Not just a matter of keeping track of the slaves, but of any who would rock the boat.  And who is more likely to rock the boat, an uneducated slave or an educated, but perpetually unemployed or under-employed white man?"

 Jimmy pondered that.  "White men can't get jobs?" he asked.  "Well", his dad answered, "There are middle management jobs and upper level executive work that they don't necessarily want Negroes to do.  And skilled trades like healer or barrister or engineer or electronicist.  But you know how the great majority of our population is busy at farming and factory work?  Here all that is done by slaves, so there's not much for an average white man to do.  Police forces and military, of course.  But it's still a problem.  And why you need a license to breed here.  They don't want as many whites born, at least not to poor white families.  Which is 75% of the white families."

Jimmy contemplated that, while looking out the window and seeing more of the same sad foot traffic.  His father got out some papers from his briefcase and did whatever fathers did with such papers.  Soon enough, he looked up and said, "Okay, let's get going.  I do want us back early this evening."  He gave the Negress a Dixie, she took it to the cash register, and rang it up, to Jimmy's wondering eyes.  She brought back the change and a receipt.  The father pocketed the whole amount, to the consternation of the owner pretending not to watch from the kitchen.  

Going to their car, Jimmy asked his dad about how the waitress knew to give the right change, and why his dad didn't tip her.  His dad said, "Jimmy, many of them know basic math, they have to in order to be useful in various professions.  Understand, they aren't just picking cotton or putting bumpers on autos, they to a large degree do every job there is in the Confederacy, and do it cheaper than any white man could be hired to do it.  This takes some math, and yes, even some literacy.  But old forms are still followed, and outwardly, it is still no 'reading, riting and rithmatic' as much as possible.  As to why I did not tip her, it's because she has no pockets, and would have promptly gave it to that fat pig who owns her."

Jimmy was rather surprised at his father's vehemence, the phrase "fat pig", though said calmly and without inflection, was more emotional than his reserved father usually was.  They drove in silence, to the manufactury his father had business with.  For the first time, Jimmy thought to ask what business his father had with this manufactury - and what kind of factory it was.  "Do they need to order shoes from us?" is what he finally asked as they took an exit marked "Sector Yellow".  

His father, not looking at him, said, "Son, at a certain age, you need to learn some hard truths.  And I hope you're up for learning them.  No, they do not need shoes.  I'm not here to sell shoes, I'm here because Blue Ribbon Sports has shares in this manufactury."  Jimmy didn't say anything, not really understanding what his father was saying, until his father elaborated.  "It's our manufactury, son.  We can't as foreigners own more than 49%, but we own that 49% and have 'wink and nudge' proxies for 2% more besides that."

Jimmy felt his world was exploding.  He gave a shiver.  Finally he said, "You're a slave owner."  His father nodded, not to his son, but as if to himself, and said, "I understand you seeing it that way.  But there are practical realities involved, so that however I might personally believe, I still have to deal with the world as it is.  And in this world, shoes can be made cheaper at a manufactury in the CSA, and if I insisted on us using free labor in the USA, we'd quickly go out of business to our competitors."

Jimmy only needed that hint, to come to the fast conclusion as to how immorally logical that was, and how it would apply to almost everything.  "So no wonder Washington and Richmond get along like you said.  You aren't the only one who's company has deals down here to make use of slaves.  And you aren't a salesman, are you?"  His father nodded again, but this time at Jimmy.  Answering the last question first, he said, "No, I'm not a salesman.  I'm one of the major stockholders in the Blue Ribbon Sports company.  I'm also the principle liaison officer for relations with our manufactury down here.  And yes, about 40% of the companies in the USA - at least the ones who make things - have various 'Gentlemen's Agreements' with manufacturies down here."

"So you really don't like slavery?", Jimmy asked.  "Son", his father replied, "I honestly hate it.  I suppose I should tell you I hate it for what it does to the coloreds, but to be honest, I hate it more for what it does to our own kind.  Slavery is an immorality that once tolerated in the least only spreads, because since it is cheaper to force a man to work for you then pay him to, it means that there will always then be another immoral man willing to join in to get some of that action.  But worse, good men, like I'd like to think I am, have no choice but to participate, because if I were to close this place down, or sell all our shares, we'd fast go out of business.  Nor would that end slavery, it would just be done by someone else."

"I see", Jimmy said.  "If we didn't do it, someone else would, and why should we go hungry if it's not going to solve the problem?"  His father seemed to look at him warily, but said, "Yes, that's a concise way of putting it.  I admit it makes us all out to look a bit shabby, but I didn't make this world, I only do as best I can in it.  If I had the authority, I'd end all slavery everywhere.  Then it would be easy to run a moral company, as everyone else would have to, and you'd not be bankrupted over your conscience!"

Jimmy said nothing, and his father seemed willing to let him have a few minutes to ponder that, as he slowed to stop at the checkpoint marked "Sector Yellow".  He showed his ID to the graycoat who asked, "Are you aware you are entering Sector Yellow, sir?"  When his father nodded, the guard then said/asked by rote, "Please-know-that-giving-rides-to anyone-even-if-you-think-they-are-white-is-a-crime-punishable-by-forced-labor-and-ignorance-of-race-is-no-defense-do-you-understand-sir?"  His father nodded again.  More relaxed, the guard then said, "High yellows, eh?  What can you do?  More trouble than they're worth if you ask me!"

"I didn't", his father curtly said, at which the guard went pale.  "No offense meant, sir.  I know there's a need for them, too." And without reply, his father drove on.  Jimmy noting this asked, "The graycoats fear you?  Why?"  His father answered, "Not 'fear-fear', as such, but a healthy respect.  If I was breaking a law, they'd have no fear of me at all, but as a wealthy businessman in favor with their government, I have a great deal more pull then the 'cracker class' down here does.  He knows it, and knows that class is everything in a slave state, and that if I wanted to make a thing of it, I could.  I won't, of course.  One must tolerate a bit from those who safeguard the very system I'm relying upon."

After a pause, his father smirked and added, "But just a bit."

Jimmy had heard enough, though.  At the next stoplight, and to his father's utter shock, Jimmy slipped off his seatbelt, opened the door and got out all in one fluid motion and before his father could even begin to cry out, was streaking across a parking lot.  Jimmy, ignoring his father's yelling, was three blocks away before he ducked into another alley and sat down near a dumpster to catch his breath.  As his heart rate slowed down, his mind still raced, but his thoughts started shifting from "My dad owns slaves!" to "What do I do now?" for already he knew that he was probably in quite a bit more trouble than usual.

And perhaps, he thought and gave a small shudder, even more trouble than he was currently imagining.  How, for instance, could he get back home without being caught?  For that matter, how could he even get back to his father if he wanted to, without being caught?  He had not been running so fast as to not see some of the faces of those who watched in wonder as he raced by.  Quick glances, and as quickly they looked back down as if to convince themselves they saw nothing.  But at least one well-dressed lady had openly gaped before scrambling to take her Square out.  She must surely have called some authorities.  

And he could see that his clothing was a dead giveaway.  No one else dressed remotely like Usonians.  He caught movement out of the corner of his eye, and turned in time to see someone closing a window that they might have been peering out.  A moment later, as Jimmy was scrambling up to move on, a basement door opened and calling up to where Jimmy was in the alley, a man said in a thick Southern drawl, "You, boy!  Get in heah!"  Jimmy did so, but only for figuring there wasn't any worse trouble this could get him into, and it would at least get him off the street.

Jimmy followed the man down stairs going even further down, and into a room.  The room was filled with white people, like the man he had followed, sitting in various chairs, looking like they were waiting, he knew not for what.  All were in drab gray or brown colored clothing.  Some children were in attendance, but they were subdued and sitting quietly on the floor near their mothers, and in one case, what must have been his father.  All looked at him at once, then made an effort to not look at him again.  The man who had took him here hustled him through this room and into a small office in the back.  An "office" that looked like it had once been a mop closet, for it had a drain in the floor and a chair in front of a broke off spigot.

The man motioned Jimmy to the chair, and leaned against the opposite wall and cooly appraised him.  "You uh Nor'ner, aintcha?" he asked in that same drawl.  Jimmy nodded.  "Tought so.  Dem close aint for none round heah.  Watchoo doon?  Wheah yo bracelet o gahdian?  Jimmy found the man's accent almost too thick to understand, much thicker than any slight accent the white Southerners he'd met so far had demonstrated.  But understand it he did, so for this accounting of these events it will be wrote in regular English.  "Come on.", the man continued.  "We have a right to know who you are, if you expect any help from us."

Jimmy said, "My father and I are from the North.  I got separated.  I just need to get back home."  The man pondered this.  "Back home, eh?" he finally said.  "But not 'back to my dad'.  You and he not get along?"  Jimmy answered with questions of his own, "Who are you people?  Are you hiding?  What kind of help do you give?"  The man said, "You must be a Northerner to not recognize a bunch of runaways!"  Jimmy started, "Runaways?  But you're all white!"

The man shook his head.  "To you, sure we are.  But 'high yellow' doesn't have any more rights than pitch black in the Confederacy.  We're ones who can 'pass', and so are confined to various Sector Yellows where brainwork is needed.  Various think tanks and R&Ds and labs.  And of course, some plants that prefer that even the middle managers be slaves."  Jimmy gasped.  "You mean you're all Negros?" he asked in wonder.

"Mostly", answered the man.  "But two out there are regular honest crackers, who just want more opportunity than they can get down here.  To do real work, and not be limited to slave patrol, police or military duty."  Jimmy pondered that.  "So you're all trying to get to the USA?", he asked.  "No", said the man.  "What would be the point of that?  Your own nation has been in a crisis of unemployment for 30 years now, since more and more of the businesses up there figured that if they can't beat the CSA, they could join in some of the 'benefits' of it.  No, we're going to BritCan, like the old days."

"Besides", he continued as he got up and Jimmy followed him back to the main room, "Your freedom loving government has been quietly sending back down here any of us they catch.  It's never stated 'runaway' on the paperwork, no, it's 'infiltrator' or 'saboteur'.  This keeps their population happy that they are freedom lovers, while also keeping them on good terms with the CSA.  It was inevitable, if you think about it.  Do they still teach Lincoln up there?"

"Him?", Jimmy said contemptuously, "Why wouldn't they?  The fool who lost the First War!"  The man said, "You ever hear how he said that a house divided against itself couldn't stand?  That it would either turn all slave or all free?"  Jimmy nodded, not so sure, but not wanting to seem like he didn't remember his history.  "Well", continued the man, "It didn't turn all free, so what did you think it would turn to?"  Seeing Jimmy's dawning comprehension, he finished, "That's right.  All slave.  Just they have to do it long distance, since the last native Negros were drove out of the North decades ago, even before the last war."

Jimmy roused himself, "They weren't drove out, we re-settled them in Liberia for their own good!"  "Yes", answered the man, "They were re-settled, but it was not for their own good, it was a part of a great ethnic cleansing.  And so you know, at least 65% of them never got to Liberia, but instead were quitely sold under the table in various ports from Norfolk, to Charleston, to Jacksonville."  Jimmy felt that he was going to be sick, it was if his whole life had been a lie.  It had been an article of faith to he and his generation that his nation were the 'good guys' and the Southerners the racist bad guys.

Now, from what his father had confessed and what he had seen and what he was hearing now, it was apparent that the evil of slavery had spread from just one place and had made every where it touched bad also - and every one it touched bad.  His nation did have an age old unemployment problem, and this explanation did make a lot of sense.  It was one of those truths that you didn't come up with on your own, but once you heard it, it was obvious in retrospect.

And why wouldn't some have sold the exported Negro population to those they knew in the South?  If even as good a man as his dad could own slaves - even if long distance - then why wouldn't other men, not as kind, have out and out sold them?  "But wait", Jimmy interrupted his own reveries, "How is it that BritCan is not doing this?  How come all aren't?"  

The man nodded appreciatively.  "You are a bright one", he said, "And I get that it's a lot to take in at once.  You have to understand that the CSA and USA were both one nation, long ago, and so there were ties all along.  That's one way it was easier for the USA to succumb to the poison of slavery than other nations.  But you also know from history classes that the British Empire made a conscious decision to abolish slavery.  And while some might quibble over when 'slave wages' to the local populations of their various vassal states turns into slavery, the truth is, 'slave wages' are NOT the same as 'slavery', and so no companies in their Empire can engage in this like the USA does without fearful penalties."

Jimmy nodded.  He was precocious and he had took plenty of courses on economics in the private school his parents insisted he go to.  He knew that under various capitalistic theories that an individual, if not prevented forcibly, would always unswervingly seek out his best interests, even if such were immoral.  And that while a man might in reasonable confidence make some questionable business transactions with various cousins and connections in a country next door, that others in nations with heavy penalties for just that might avoid it.  Especially with no one they trusted to aid them in it.  

"If you're going North", Jimmy finally asked, "Can you take me along?"  The man looked at him strangely.  "Yes.  But you have to follow the same rules as everyone else.  No special exceptions, just for you being white.  This is riskier than you know." Jimmy's heart soared!  This was dangerous, sure, but part of him was excited as this was becoming like any of the spy novels he loved reading!  What an adventure this would be!  Surely he'd have some terrific tales to tell back home, and certainly no other kid at school would think of calling him a coward again!

It was then that the door at the top of the steps, leading to the alley door Jimmy had entered, blew in with the incredibly loud sound of an explosion.  Another explosion seemed to go off very near Jimmy, then another, and the whole room was filled with stinging smoke, gray darkness and shrill cries of terror from the children, and some deeper cries, and howls of fear, from the adults.  A shot rang out, from who Jimmy could not say, hardly even able to process that a shot had rang out.  But instantly the cellar was filled with the deafening cacophony of return fire, as the gray coats, taking no chances, unleashed the full fury of their tommy guns.

Jimmy had no way of knowing that the soldiers always deliberately aimed at chest level when strafing any room or area, as the whole populace of the CSA knew that when they started up, the only safe place for you to be was on your belly, face down.  And certainly all the high yellows and crackers there were prostrate on the floor, having gave up instantly that the door exploded open.  The scathing fire then only landed on two targets.  

One was the lone armed resistor who had no intention of being put back to forced labor with a lobotomy and his tongue cut out and this thumbs amputated - the usual punishment for runaways.  He chose death, and he got it, and it was a choice the others would have cause to regret not choosing in the days to come.

The second target the bullets caught was Jimmy himself.  Who at his age only knew of life from books and TV shows, neither terribly accurate at showing the world as it is.  His newly found guide had valiantly reached up from the floor to pull him down, which probably was why Jimmy did not instantly die.  But his wounds were still sufficient that death was surely coming.  Jimmy had just time to think, "It's not like the books, there's nothing glamorous in this, it's not like the books, there's nothing gla - " when he died.

Later that day, charges against his father for failure to keep his son with him at all times were discreetly dropped, with the understanding that he'd not be needing to visit the CSA again, but could have a proxy conduct future meets instead.  It wasn't in anyone's interest for this to be drug out, and such incidents were hardly rare, nor were the authorities slow in dealing with such as quickly and quietly as possible.

The Police Chief and a local magistrate did make a special effort to meet with Jimmy's dad and offer condolences.  Given his wealth and status.  And to make sure everyone was on the same page, and there'd be no "international incident" however minor, over this somewhat routine "regrettable circumstance".  They had him escorted to the Judge's office to hear all that high level doublespeak in person.  And they assured him that the "cremains" of his son would be sent north at once.  Along with the "auto accident report".

They had him initial a few places, and sign that "accident report".  There was an understanding that he could have faced some heavy time in a labor camp had he made a fuss, and a significant loss of all his investments would still be on the table, should he change his mind about this "resolution" later.

Jimmy's dad sat in the chair across from the Judge, having listened to the gravely seated figure cover all this, and also having observed the equally grave Police Chief standing behind the Judge nodding agreement.  He was a man of the world.  He understood.

Then his eyes drifted up further, and stopped at an odd red flag displayed on the wall with a blue X, and white stars on the blue X.  Noticing him noticing, and wanting to break the awkward silence that came after the Judge's condolence speech, the Police Chief said, "Oh, that's a special replica of an old battle flag, the Judge here collects such.  You've only seen our Stars and Bars, but this was what President Lee - at the time, General Lee - had carried into battle in the First War!  It's a part of our history!  A real bit of heritage!"

Jimmy's dad contemplated that dully.  "Yes.  And apparently our heritage, too.", he said softly.  And left so as to get home.

Still by early evening.