Valentine's Resolve

by E. E. Knight

  He and Nageezi huddled together in the snow as they rested the second day, eating preserved food—appallingly small portions according to Valentine's cold-sharpened appetite—the green and white mountains of the Cascades around them. They warmed their food over chemical heat and pressed close together under a thin survival blanket, recuperating.

  The second night's run was a long, churning nightmare of white water as they were pulled by the strong swimming—or hopping, over some of the rapids—upstream. Nageezi had the knack of resting herself and her team in the occasional eddy better than Valentine, and by the time they went back into the water, with fresh chemical heat packs pressed to their feet and the small of their backs, he let Nageezi lead.

  The rotten weather carried one advantage: It made observation from the banks almost impossible.

  They waited out the third day at a lake on the Green River, with the Big Mouths philosophical about their empty bellies. They'd been trained to have a real gorge after penetrating the fake hotel built up in the airport on the third night....

  For the final night's run Nageezi took amphetamines. She offered a pair of white capsules to Valentine.

  "Benzedrine?"

  "I'm okay," he said.

  "Suit yourself," she said, popping the capsules and following them with a swig of water from a big bottle.

  Valentine would have just about given a finger for a thermos of Space Needle-quality coffee. He set his kayak in the current and took up the reins from the new team with winter-chilled muscles.

  "At least the weather's broke," Nageezi said, smiling. "Seattle stopped the rain."

  "That's a bunch of crap," Valentine said, irritated at her chemically enhanced cheer. "They don't control the weather."

  "Screw yourself," she said quietly, but Valentine's ears picked it up.

  "What's that?"

  "Suit yourself."

  She's a Quisling. What do you care what she things?

  Because, for one night, you're a Quisling too.

  Valentine could live with it. He just hoped the Outlook was filled with Bears fresh from a Resource Denial operation.

  The Big Mouths swam excitedly up the Green River. They could already taste the hot pork they expected to be waiting for them. Valentine marked the end of a lake on his map, and broke a chemical light. He signaled for the last portage.

  Nageezi took two more bennies at the end of the portage as they slipped into the Snoqualmie, heading downstream at last. Valentine unhooked the reins from his Big Mouth team. He could paddle from here. It would warm him up.

  He visualized the bodies strewn in the streets of the housing block, the fearful families in the church, and tried to summon a little of the Bear energy for the final push, but it stubbornly refused to come out of hibernation.

  They rounded a bend, shot past a few boarded-up buildings heavy with snow, and there it was. The Outlook.

  Valentine paddled his kayak next to hers. "Let's get a little closer." He shook a chemical light and stuck it under the water and repeated a circular signal three times; the red-eyed amphibian behemoths gath­ered round the kayaks.

  They pulled their craft to the edge of the river, beneath a sub­stantial lip of land, Valentine hiding the chemical light in his vest. He checked his knife, and took his guns out of their waterproof plastic sheaths.

  "Feel that ring on your finger yet?" Nageezi asked. They an­chored their kayaks in the shadow under the earth and rock lip. A paved river path was just on the other side of a set of white-painted warning stones.

  "Not just yet. I want to hit the Outlook first."

  She checked the safety on her .45, worked the slide. "If I get hit, try not to let them eat me."

  "Same here," Valentine said, trying to remember not to reach for the flare gun until all the Big Mouths were out of the water and hopping toward the entrances the way they'd been trained. He adjusted his rifle sling around his neck—the Chinese carbine had a hell of a kick and he wanted it tight against his shoulder....

  She peeked over the lip of the riverbank. "You know there's a tradition in the OXFs. If a commander falls, and the second still wins a victory, all the spoils go to him. Or her."

  The gun flashed toward him and fired.

  Valentine lurched away as the muzzle turned toward him—over a decade of being around guns taught one to keep out of the way of barrels—but even Cat reflexes weren't faster than a bullet. At first he felt a hard thump at the bottom of his right rib cage. Then he discovered he was in the water, bobbing toward the falls, blood warming the interior of his suit.

  He saw a Big Mouth turn toward him. Its jaws opened and Valentine instinctively pulled his feet away, oddly calm.

  The last thing he remembered before the jaws engulfed him was Nageezi's face in the dark, as she gestured, lifting a chemical light of her own.

  She was smiling.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Bearfire: Ask twenty different Bears to describe the feeling of Bearfire running through their bodies and you will get twenty different answers. Some speak in terms of space and time, everything slowed down and yet compressed. Others describe it mentally, as a determined form of psychosis, where every obstacle, from a minor vexation to a hail of machine-gun fire, is overcome by boundless violence. Most describe physiological changes: heat, euphoria, a terrible driving energy.

  Ask the same number of doctors to describe the injuries they've seen Bears survive, fighting on to victory and recovery or toppling only once what's left of their bodies falls apart, and be prepared to have a short book's worth of incredible stories.

  This is one of them.

  * * * *

  You fueling cunt!

  Valentine realized he couldn't breathe or see, and all he felt was a horrible, slimy mess surrounding him, seeping into hairline and nostril, lip and ear hole.

  Can't breathe, wet cold panic

  And flipped around again, violently jostled.

  Wet hot fear

  —turning into

  White-hot anger.

  Valentine wriggled a hand up, closed fingers around the corded knife hilt.

  Red!

  He lashed out, hand and foot, head and arm. Stabbed hard with the knife handle, punctured, punched through resistance, then with a long backhanded sweep opened up the voluminous gullet of the Big Mouth.

  It vomited him out before he could fight his way free, rolled away, stricken and thrashing.

  Valentine broke the surface of the hard-flowing river, hurt as he sucked air, found himself bouncing, got his toes pointed downstream, fetched up against a rock, lost it, slid against another, caught it, losing his knife in his desperation to get a grip.

  He pulled himself half out of the rushing river, saw a long leg flail as the wounded Big Mouth went over the falls.

  He climbed up onto the rock, thought about his wound, reached, and felt the hot wet blood against his palm. The bullet had plowed one long furrow along his rib cage.

  You'll live.

  She won't.

  He jumped to another rock, sucked a deep breath of air, felt pain again, realized his rifle was still bouncing against his chest.

  He removed the weapon's final proof against liquid infiltration, a heavy-duty condom over the barrel, and found a stone to crouch where he could watch events at the Outlook.

  A stream of sparks cut across the night sky, exploded into red light as a flare wobbled down, blown northeast by the wind.

  The parking lot where Valentine had once watched a few drunk figures play basketball was alive with slithering, hopping, humpbacked shapes.

  Glowing red goggle eyes fixed on the snow-dusted gables of the Outlook. Warm yellow light shone within, fell in checkerboard patters on the virgin snow in front of the hotel.

  Slee-kee, slee-kee, slee-kee...

  Mr. Norman Rockwell, meet Mr. Hieronymus Bosch. Mr. Bosch, Mr. Rockwell.

  Valentine lifted his gun, chambered the first round in the magazine, sighted on Lieutenant Nageezi. An urge to run at h
er, grind her face into mush, was suppressed as he straightened up and felt the pain in his side. He lowered the front sight to her thigh as she paused behind a parked truck in the lot, Big Mouths flapping and surging around her.

  No, she knows her business. Wait. Get back to the kayak. First-aid-kit.

  The Big Mouths knew their business too. They divided into three streams of hopping shapes. Leap-gather-hunch-leap-gather-hunch-leap-gather-hunch on their way to the front and side entrances.

  Crashes, screams, somehow softened by all the snow. There it was, the mad music of gunfire.

  He gained the kayaks and tore open a dressing, pressed it to his wound, found the surgical tape, and went to work.

  A Big Mouth made it all the way to the roof of the Outlook in a single leap. Another chased a shadow on a curtain right through the window, crashing through window, frame, screen, and curtain. Valentine heard a squelching noise and blood sprayed on a wall, three quick arterial jets.

  A man fled out the front door, uniform coat torn, one shoe off, running into the night toward the parking lot with arms pumping. A Big Mouth flung itself out the door after him, flew over the footprints he'd left in the snow, and fixed its mouth over his head as it landed, folding its prey like a clasp knife.

  A soldier ran across the deck, heading for the wire gondola cross­ing the falls, spraying bullets from a pistol back through the door. Valentine sighted on him, but another shot rang out and Valentine caught sight of Nageezi's features in the shadows of a station wagon parked in the lot.

  Gunfire shattered a second-floor window, peppering the station wagon, deflating a tire, and forcing Nageezi to flatten. Two men hurled themselves from the shattered window, hit the snow rolling, and came up with assault rifles ready. One poured a magazine into the Big Mouth on the lawn, tearing its still-gobbling head to pieces.

  They ran for a red full-cab truck. One paused, turned to look up, and waved at something in the broken window as the other made it to the driver's-side door on the truck.

  Valentine recognized Thunderbird's features as he turned, bathed in the light of the Outlook.

  Adler was at the window now. He hesitated, jumped, fell for what seemed to Valentine an eternity, but landed lightly and with more skill than the Bears.

  Nageezi popped up from behind her bullet-stitched car, aiming, but Thunderbird spun and tore her to pieces with a short blast of his assault rifle.

  Adler seemed to flow over the snow-covered yard, legs a blur. Thunderbird covered him as he approached the pickup.

  Glass exploded and a Big Mouth followed the glittering pieces out onto the lawn, drawn by the motion. Thunderbird put in a new magazine as the creature turned, watching Adler run as the truck came to life, gathered—

  And was brought down by a long tongue of muzzle flash from Thunderbird's weapon. He took two steps forward, pumping more bullets into it, flesh flying everywhere in the night.

  More screams, more gunfire, a grenade explosion within the Outlook, and the red truck backed out of its spot, Adler slamming the rear passenger door.

  Another Big Mouth, having passed all the way through the Outlook only to emerge at the far end of the wraparound porch, liked the look of the truck and covered half the distance to it in a jump. Thunderbird turned, but something went wrong with his gun. He threw it down, pulling a pistol as the jammed weapon hit, and sidestepped for the turning truck.

  Now it was Valentine's turn to sight, not at Thunderbird, or Adler, but at the driver of the truck as he reached out to clear ice from the windshield. He flipped the selector to single shot and put three 5.56mm shells through the front windshield into him.

  Valentine ducked and changed positions. He came up again to see the truck rolling across the parking lot at the purposeless speed of an unpushed accelerator in drive, turning slightly to follow the path of least resistance downhill.

  Thunderbird sprinted for the truck and Valentine fired at him, knocking him down. The Big Mouth liked the look of his fall and pounced.

  The truck waggled, then turned, and Valentine saw Adler climbing into the front seat—too late. It bounced over the curb and nosed into the river, doors flying open as it hit.

  Valentine splashed, slipped, recovered, and hurried toward the truck before Adler could escape. He saw a shape dive out the door on the opposite side, marveled at Adler's fluid athleticism. Ex-Cat? Valentine jumped up onto the river-walk path and pounded after him, saw Adler slipping and floundering on rocks, arms waving so fast in the light it looked as though there were three of them.

  Valentine whipped his rifle behind him on its sling and launched himself into a flying tackle, brought down his quarry in a body blow that felt more like he hit a badly stuffed tackling dummy than a man.

  He hauled Adler up by his slippery, oily hair and dug for the eyes, the nostrils, his left hand reaching for the windpipe and finding only cool squishiness.

  But the blood was wrong—

  "Turn around, Valentine," Colonel Thunderbird said. "I'm putting this right between your eyes. I want to see them empty as the bullet pops the back of your head off."

  "Before you pull that trigger," Valentine said, turning and raising his hands, "have a look at this."

  Thunderbird's blood-circled eyes widened; the pistol in his hand shook and lowered. Valentine held aloft the leaking, slippery body of a Kurian. Or perhaps a Lifeweaver. Or both. Only the dying mind, twitching as it passed into inferno, glory, or nothingness, could say for sure.

  "Is that—"

  "A Kurian Lord," Valentine said.

  Valentine threw the corpse up at Thunderbird, then hopped into his kayak and started across the river, half expecting a bullet in the back. He chanced a look over his shoulder.

  Thunderbird was on his knees, crying.

  * * * *

  Two days later Valentine staggered into a motorcycle-cavalry depot in Maple Valley, scribbled a message to be transmitted to Troyd at the Redeye Run, and promptly collapsed.

  He woke in an ambulance, and paid a brief visit to a hospital, where they found him suffering more from exhaustion and blood loss than any specific injury—though he did carry a recently healed bullet wound—and after feeding him, they sent him back to his old temporary apartment in Silas' building.

  Troyd visited him, called him "ring brother" or something just as insipid—Valentine could never remember later—and dropped off a few personal possessions from his berth at the Redeye Run.

  "Three of your Big Mouths made it back the day before you did. We found two more in Lake Sammamish, but they were making a nuisance of themselves and had to be destroyed."

  "Nageezi got it in the parking lot of the hotel," Valentine said.

  "I dunno about her," Troyd said. "You know we found one of Burlington's shoes in a bunch of BM shit? I'm thinking she chummed him after getting him to write that desertion note. You're lucky she didn't try to rung-jump over your corpse."

  "I guess I am," Valentine replied.

  He found he'd suddenly acquired a personal chef and regular visits from Miss L. to ascertain any needs beyond food and sleep. "Does the hero of the hour require anything else?"

  "My ring, as soon as I'm feeling up to it."

  "Does it mean that much to you?" she asked, looking a little disappointed.

  "I went through hell to get it. Cold, angry hell. It's worth it to me."

  Even Silas stopped by, with a gift-boxed bottle of brandy to put an edge on his constitution. Valentine suddenly couldn't stand his presence, and pretended to be overcome with yawns. Silas took the hint.

  But he found himself leaving his bed, again and again, to look at the downtown skyline and the crystal-capped Kurian Tower. But how?

  * * * *

  Once up and around and evidently with plenty of time and money for his recovery, Valentine walked into the student cafe he'd visited when touring Seattle, but unfortunately didn't see the kid with the drum.

  He recognized the girl who'd fought with Double Deck, working behind the co
unter.

  "Young lady," Valentine said. "Double Deck's not around, is he?"

  "He's got class. I think he said he had to report to community center later. You might catch up to him there."

  "How much are those T-shirts on the wall?"

  She raised her eyebrows in surprise. "You don't look like the Ear-worm Cafe type. They're twelve dollars, two for twenty."

  "I'll take six. But I don't have to walk out the door with them, if you'll just get Double Deck here."

  "What do you want with him?"

  "Babylon's going to make him an offer of extremely brief, extremely lucrative employment."

  "If you're wanting to ditch your tracer for a night or two, you'll need an excuse." She stuck out a fleshless hip. "If the price is right, I could say you were tied up to me."

  * * * *

  Thanks to a dead tracer and a borrowed mountain bike, Valentine made it to the north tip of Lake Sammamish. From there it was a fairly easy run to the borders of the Seattle Kurian Zone.

  "We don't know how he kept himself fed," Captain LeHavre said. "There are a couple of theories, mostly flavors of shit whirling off the fan blades."

  They spoke inside a sentry checkpoint just outside the headquarters, a little prefabricated set of roof and three walls built like an outhouse and just as cozy. Valentine didn't want his presence known to the men, so he waited until he saw a familiar face and hailed him from cover. He in turn got LeHavre.

  "He liked to tour the nurseries a lot, where the babies grabbed in the Action Group raids would be taken. Seems like a crib death or two struck now and then. Some staff got suspicious at an Ellensburg orphanage and they all were 'disappeared.' "

  "He had to have some help somewhere."

  "There's a Kurian Tower out by the Grand Coulee Dam that might have been visited too. He kept going out that way to survey it with an eye toward taking the power station, but conditions never seemed right for him to give the go-ahead."

  "On the inside too."

  "I hope most of them took it in the neck at the Outlook."