March in Country

by EE Knight

  The dark woman came out with a wooden tray. A little chrome-and-glass pot and some cups sat on it.

  “Three degrees to serve coffee,” the Baron said.

  “And five technical certifications, plus security clearance,” she said.

  Valentine sipped the coffee. It was rich stuff, but he felt a slight lift that wouldn’t be explained by caffeine as it warmed him. Probably a few drops of some KZ happy/alert mix favored by higher-level Quislings.

  “Why did you speak up for Beach Boy?” the Baron asked.

  “Knew him, room, gang same-same,” Valentine said.

  “That made you like him better? He’s been a problem since he hit the recruitment office in Davenport. He’s been here nine months. Never bothered to learn the first thing about military discipline. We tossed him into labor after his three months probation was up, figured he could serve out his term there, then let him muster out. But sleeping on the job—that’s a death sentence, whether it’s a sentry on duty, a rail switchman, or a guy with a shovel.”

  Valentine shrugged. The dark woman was staring at him. It made him uncomfortable.

  “You’re clearly tough, well-muscled, healthy. I’m impressed with your reflexes. I think you’re a lot smarter than you’re letting on. I’d like you in one of my service uniforms.”

  “Soldier—no good,” Valentine said. “Fighting—dead quick.”

  “Let’s drop this pidgin shit, shall we?” the Baron said. The dark-haired woman handed him a red paper folder. He unhooked a binding band.

  “David Stuart Valentine. Born date unsure, probably in 2047, Boundary Waters region, Northern Minnesota. Father Lee Valentine, formerly of Southern Command, formerly of the United States Navy. Mother—well, that’s a bit of a question mark, isn’t it? Mother is suspected to be Helen St. Croix, much of her information isn’t available to a mind of my level and capabilities, as the Kurian Order styles it. Recruited into Southern Command by guerilla fighters—”

  He turned the open folder around. Valentine felt cold sweat running over him, started to nerve himself for a fight. There was nothing on the desk that might be used as a weapon. There was an old picture of him, eyes closed, looking beat up, both full face and profile. It must have been when he was captured in Nebraska by the Twisted Cross, after the bullet to the leg in the General’s rail yards.

  “You might say I inherited it from your old friend the General. My Groggies used to guard his trains, sometimes. Valentine, let’s be civilized about this. We’re just talking.”

  “When do the Reapers show themselves?” Valentine asked.

  “Not giving away all my secrets, but yes, my bodyguard is nearby. There are other forces I’m a lot more worried about than you. I don’t think you understand the nature of my power. I determine my own destiny. I’m better than those ring-holding rabbits on their estates in Iowa with their board meetings and balls and cotillions. Those precious, precious, my precious rings. The Kurians can take those back.

  “No one, no one, can take my power away from me. I can lose it, through inattention, bad luck, bloody Christ, some Grog witch doctor might even declare me an evil spirit if he thinks the graybacks’ll stand by him. Have you ever drawn a truly free breath?

  “Out here, there’s no law but what I say is the law. I say I want seven new wives brought in and three old ones carried out, hippetyhoppety it’s done.

  “Want to know the secret of my success?

  “I employ oddballs. There are two kinds of oddballs in the world, those who are weird because they got nothing else going for them, and those who operate on a level where they just don’t fit in seamlessly with something like those Kurian ant farms. I’ll take both kinds and watch ’em for a bit, just to see if I’m mistaken about which group they belong to. But I can find a place for either.

  “I’m not asking you to join my team, Valentine. I’d like you as an ally, with that crew that’s about to get kicked out of Kentucky. I know you’re more open than most Southern Command military ticks to working with Grogs. I could arrange for you to take back Saint Louis. Think of all the human captives you’d free. You’d be the biggest liberator since Lincoln. All I’d ask in return is your help taking out a few Kurian towers of my choosing. The Rings in Iowa are worried that they’re about to get muscled, since they’re the only east-west connection left north of the Gulf, unless you count that patchwork in Minnesota connected to the Pacific Northwest through Oregon.”

  “Mind if I take a nap while you finish jerking off? That couch looks a lot more comfortable than those kennels.” Valentine had the odd feeling that he’d been called a bastard, if that word applied for the ridiculous circumstance of having one’s own mother unknown. Of course he was the son of Helen St. Croix, he had her cheekbones, hair, and dusky skin. He wished he had her kindness, or the gently teasing way she kissed fingers and toes as she put him and his baby sister to sleep.

  “Play the hard-ass, Valentine. I have some exciting news. There are several parties very, very interested in getting you back for a variety of reasons. Don’t worry, they think you’ve been captured in Minnesota, trying to get back to your birthplace. I have a smaller contingent up there, too. Bids are pouring in. The Ordnance in Ohio, the Lich King in Seattle, assorted lordships and illustriousnesses from New Orleans plus the plain old Coastal Marines, and one fat old rug runner in Michigan who resents what happened to his glorious, God-favored Moondaggers.”

  “An embarrassment of bitches,” Valentine said. “Don’t tell me there’s not some Twisted Cross colonel over in Nebraska or Kansas who doesn’t want his pound of flesh too.”

  “My Golden Guard did too thorough a job on them, Valentine,” the Gray Baron purred. “Before they had the good sense to come under my protective wing. There are some Twisted Cross in the Alps in Europe and the mountains of Asia Minor, I understand, but they have no special grievance and are muchly occupied with another tiresome Polish rebellion. No, I’m limiting myself to Kurians, I think. They have the most to offer, and will probably be the most creative in making use of human vermin. I don’t believe in hell in the classical sense, of course, but the Kurians can keep you alive and screaming for what seems like an eternity. Several human lifetimes of torment might be in your future.”

  “I imagine there’s an unless coming up.”

  “I can think of several. Unless you’re clever enough to kill yourself before a down payment is arranged and delivery worked out. Unless you escape. You’ve done it before, so I’m considering welding you into your cell and putting napalm somewhere where it can be delivered into the cells in a hurry in case of a disturbance.”

  “Or unless I join you.”

  “That makes me into a video villain, and a not very imaginative one at that. I do wonder if it wouldn’t be better to release you, at that. To my knowledge you’ve been involved in some very unlucky operations. Very unlucky indeed. Southern Command is much the worse for wear thanks to the David Valentines of its officer corps. Full of plots and plans ahead of them and lines of silent, shallow soldiers’ graves behind.”

  Valentine yawned and sat. “Mind if I stretch out? I’m not as much of a night owl, even with some of your drugged coffee.”

  The Gray Baron shrugged. “I don’t expect you to weep and crawl, but some recognition of the relative balance of power between us would be in order. Since I’m running a silent auction for your hide, I might not take the highest bidder and instead send you to whoever has the most vicious way of dealing with your brand of nuisance. You know, Valentine, when I risk something, I try and make sure it’s a pawn or a bishop at most. That’s why I lead Grogs. There are always more Grogs. That bright young lieutenant, Rand—how many more like him are in Southern Command? Or somebody like William Post—there’s an active, intelligence man who’d be an asset to any headquarters. He’s reading intelligence reports from his wheelchair these days, I believe.”

  Valentine put his feet on the elaborately knobbed armrest of the sofa. “You have my full attentio
n. If you’re going to offer an alternative to winding up in Seattle’s rooftop aquarium, I’ll be happy to hear it.”

  “Your name and abilities intrigue me, Valentine. You have some kind of understanding of Kurian Zone politics, I believe?”

  “I don’t keep up with the latest alliances and betrayals,” Valentine said. “It’s all I can do to stay current on Noonside Passions, and that has much prettier actors.”

  The Gray Baron smiled. “We can agree on that, Valentine. I’ve always had a bit of an obsession with that Barbara Diamate. Leggy and hippy, but it makes that Youth Vanguard Directing Executive uniform skirt look so much better during her walk and talks. Slit higher than regulation, of course, but that’s television for you. I’ve asked for a publicity tour in Iowa, of course, but they’re much too busy.”

  “We could have a Christmas Truce to watch it together, Baron.”

  “Back to business. I mean to say—I and the Iowans have certain enemies . . . Kurian enemies ... who it would be expedient to be rid of, or at least see greatly weakened in power and influence. Now, I could provide you with information, possibly even a contact or two on the inside, and you and your barefoot little Kentucky band could, what’s the phrase—choke a bitch for me.”

  “My troops aren’t barefoot,” Valentine said.

  “Then perhaps someone’s been feeding me bad intelligence. Since my sources are in Southern Command proper, I’d suggest keeping your own superiors more up-to-date.”

  Valentine needed to buy time. He said he would have to consider their conversation carefully, at leisure.

  “Tell me one thing. What clued you in?”

  “Something funny happened. After you spoke up for Beach Boy, Sergeant Stock here asked for Scar to be assigned to him for a day. Except he didn’t call you Scar. Called you Valentine. I mentioned it to Chuckles here and she recognized the name and dug up your file.”

  They took him to a no-fooling jail car in a wired corner of the rail yard. It was well lit and noisy from the sound of work on the trains.

  He reviewed the conversation. Whoever was feeding the Gray Baron intelligence wasn’t doing a very good job of it. Or perhaps they were passing on misinformation.

  Should have kept my fool mouth shut, Valentine thought. Well, he’d been playacting the laconic, insolent veteran and let it get away from him.

  They let him stew behind bars for two days. Then, on the final night of the Warmoon Festival, they put him in irons again, under gunpoint from a pistol close, a shotgun at the door, and a rifle outside the bars.

  “You got another fight on, buck,” his guard said.

  On the way to the headquarters, they saw that festivities had spilled out in front of the headquarters, where a throng of Gray Ones and some men were gathered around parked vehicles.

  “Hey, the roamin’ emporium’s set up already,” he said.

  Valentine couldn’t believe they’d arrived so quickly. He’d figured it would be another few days at least.

  They were parked there, bold as brass in a line of thick-wheeled trucks in the vehicle loading lot between headquarters and the motor pool. Valentine recognized two of the trailers from near Brostoff’s headquarters.

  Frat rode on the hood of one, sitting cross-legged with yards of woven hair and necklaces of dog teeth and ear-reamers made out of shinbones. God knew where he accumulated the Grog trade goods, probably from some back room at Hobarth’s Truckstart and Trading Post.

  “Name’s China Jack, they say,” the guard said. “Sergeant Major Quince knows him from Kansas City.”

  Valentine wondered if this was some strange ability that went with Frat’s background as a Kurian agent. As far as these men were concerned, he was somebody they knew from way back.

  “I met him south of Omaha. Got a great pair of boots,” the shotgun man said.

  “Bought my kids a baseball and two gloves from him, couple years back, at Hannibal,” the rifleman put in. “He’s upgraded his vehicles since then. Used to be old truck frames pulled by horses.”

  Bee rode shotgun in the first truck, Chieftain in the second. Chieftain had toned down his look a great deal, and wore some greasy mechanic’s overalls.

  The third truck had ROOT BEER in giant black stencils on a white sheet. That had the largest crowd around it. Valentine almost smiled. The Baron’s headquarters was in for a wild night.

  Already, the Gray Ones were lining up to buy.

  They brought him to the atrium. A temporary wire cage had been set up, the sort of thing used to keep dogs in, about eight feet high.

  The Baron looked down on it from a balcony.

  Again, it was mostly Gray Ones on the main floor, though in the smaller atrium there was a good deal of shoving and standing on flower beds and other interior decor of the old church to get a view. Men and Gray One elders were ringing the balcony.

  The Grogs were unusually agitated, pushing each other and snarling. Some were idly digging daggers into the woodwork.

  Luckily there were few women in the Baron’s command. Valentine hoped Snake Arms wasn’t dancing in the moonlight tonight.

  They turned down the lights and some brighter spots were focused on the white floor in the cage. Valentine was led in. He saw Bee outside the cage, looking at him, fighting off paws reaching for her. She snapped her teeth at the more aggressive suitors.

  Snake Arms came into the cage and began to unlock his shackles with a key. They must have figured she wouldn’t kill him.

  “We’ve arranged a special fight tonight,” the Baron said. He saw a commotion next to him, caught a flash of one of the Baron’s pet Reaper faces.

  They threw a figure off the balcony. It pivoted neatly in fall, and landed on its feet.

  Duvalier!

  She had a bandage on her left hand and an ugly bruise on her chin, but otherwise looked healthy. Like Valentine, she was stripped to the waist. Unlike Valentine, she was armed, with a Kabar-style fighting knife.

  “We caught one of Southern Command’s finest sneaking around the woods in civilian clothes,” the Baron said. “By rights, she can be shot as a spy. But we’ll give her a fighting chance against our champion, here. Only one of these two will leave the cage alive, tonight. The other’s head will go up on the ancient cross for Warmoon!”

  “Sorry, Val,” Duvalier said. “Whaddya suppose they’ll do to us if we don’t fight.”

  “That’s easy. You all three die. Snake Arms, too,” the Baron said.

  Snake Arms flew to the cage’s door, but a chain closed it. “No, this isn’t part of the deal! I could be pregnant! You can’t—”

  “We’ll fight, all right,” Valentine said. “Bee, tell the Gray Ones what I’m saying. Speak my words!”

  Bee nodded. She swung up to the top of the cage, standing balanced at the joints with one arm bracing herself, like King Kong atop the Empire State Building.

  Valentine smiled at the hubbub. The Gray Ones were putting their heads together and muttering.

  “I’ll give you all a fight,” Valentine said. “I’ve mated with a woman under the Chief’s protection. I’m part of the Deathring Tribe now, and demand my rights.”

  He patted Snake Arms on the belly. He had no idea if she might be pregnant, nor had enough time passed for her to have an inkling either, he suspected, but the Grogs understood the gesture.

  “Don’t talk tribe to us, buck,” one of the Iowans said. “This is a military organization, not some Grog’s head hut.”

  “To you, perhaps,” Valentine said. “I’m challenging the Chief’s leadership.” He switched to his poor Gray One dialect and repeated it. “Has he ever had to fight to win it or defend it?”

  A few laughs broke out among the humans, but the Grogs began to go quiet. He spoke the words again, louder. Bee amplified them.

  “When night stalkers come, does Chief protect? Does he give? Where are herds, where are wives? Deathring Tribe fight hard for no reward. Where are the wives?”

  The excited Grogs digging their d
aggers into the woodwork and pawing at Bee looked up and began to bellow at the Gray Baron.

  “You fucking idiot,” his dark assistant he called “Chuckles” said in his ear.

  “Honor much. Weapons taken and kept,” the Baron said.

  “Wives! Wives! Wives!” the Grogs chanted.

  “Oh, screw that,” the Gray Baron said, reaching for his shoulder holster. He pulled his pistol and fired at Valentine.

  Valentine needed every iota of his hair-trigger reflexes to throw himself sideways and down out of the path of the bullet.

  A hail of plates, bones, and bottles rained on the Gray Baron and his officers. One of the Chief’s clan had issued a challenge all could understand, and the Chief had neither pacified the malcontent nor met him in fair fight! No wonder his teeth had turned black and lies came from his mouth.

  The cage suddenly collapsed. Grogs pushed, prodded, and poked Valentine. It felt uncomfortably like the way he’d seen an old Wolf cook testing hung meat. Were they planning a mixed buffet barbecue?

  A massive shape loomed over him, blotting out the light.

  “Dvfud,” it mouthed.

  Bee!

  She reared up on her hind legs and shoved the Gray Ones apart. Valentine basked in the air and space that two muscular arms the length of a good road bike could provide.

  Bee put her back to him and began to talk, loudly and quickly. To Valentine, Grog speech always sounded like old boards being pulled apart and melon-sized rocks being tossed into a pond.

  Then Ahn-Kha was beside him. A hairy arm wrapped about his chest, took him carefully under the armpit, and lifted him clear of the mass of Grogs.

  Valentine ignored Ahn-Kha’s rescue, mesmerized by the sight of Bee. Usually she remained quietly at heel, like a companionable older dog who simply enjoyed watching events rather than creating them. This new version of Bee might be mistaken for Snake Arms doing her dance. She talked with mouth, arms, fingers, and foot stomps, half dance and half speech.