Choice of the Cat

by E. E. Knight

  "I don't mean to be. Sorry."

  "Buddies, you know? Like before?" She held out her hand, turning her palm up so he could see the scar she'd made at his Cat invocation.

  He shook it, their common wounds touching. But it was still hard to meet her eyes. He'd found a soft spot in a woman he'd come to respect as he respected only a handful of other teachers in his life: the Padre, Eveready, Captain LeHavre. He relied on her, and up until the incident on the train, would have gladly followed her into any danger.

  He sneered at himself: Who was he to judge? Had he always made the perfect decisions?

  The Kurians would have relished the moment. Sworn allies suspicious of each other despite the danger all around. They would have gladly sacrificed the Overland guards to set a pair of Cats against each other. He had to quit letting his sensibilities do the enemy's work for them.

  By the time they reached Manhattan, Valentine knew as much about Roland Victor's operation as Duvalier did. She explained that his couriers always showed a V somehow when in public. For example, the driver of the truck they had swayed southward on had a pocketknife open in a V shape resting on his dashboard. Victor had his own network, which extended to Canada, the Mississippi, and down into Mexico—a web of friends of friends of friends who specialized in the underground trade the Kurians didn't bother to suppress, as long as it was furs instead of firearms.

  The driver had his own legitimate market to visit at a Militia camp, so they had to travel on foot the last few miles. They walked through the empty husk of learning that once was Kansas State University. They saw crates being taken out of a from a three-story hall, with new bars on the tall windows, but most were burned-out shells.

  "Just warehouses now," Duvalier explained as Valentine instinctively counted trucks and guards.

  She turned them up a road, the asphalt as black and smooth as molasses.

  Valentine marveled at Victor's well-tended grounds on the shores of Lake Milford. The smuggler made no attempt to hide the fruits of his luxury-goods labor. Clipped lawns, statues, neatly trimmed trees, decorative gardens, flower beds, and shrubs arranged to form secluded grottoes were a new experience to Valentine. He found himself estimating how many potatoes could be grown on the front lawn before him.

  The sturdy pinkish-gray brick house seemed built to flaunt its ostentatiously oversize door. Val wondered if guests dismounted outside or rode their horses into the entryway.

  "We'll go around the back. He uses the front door for Society. He has a smaller door to his office for business."

  Roland Victor greeted them after a discreet tap from Duvalier on the plain wooden door. He already had company in the form of a sawed-off-looking man in a leather cap. Or perhaps Victor's companion just looked small in comparison with the big, bluff smuggler. Victor had the hearty, meaty features of a beer-and-beef diet, concealed to advantage by a well-fitted suit. Valentine had seen only a half-dozen suits in his entire life, and never one with a starched shirt underneath.

  Victor's square face, framed by thick black sideburns and an equally bristly mane, broke out in a welcoming smile. "Ahh, out-of-town guests. From Nebraska, judging from the uniform, Trooper. Please, come in and don't worry about the boots. Can this be my dear Dee? It's been too long." He turned to his current guest. "I'm sorry, Mr. H, but we'll have to cut our pleasant afternoon short. Can I look forward to the pleasure of your company when you get back from your commission?"

  "Gladly, Mr. Victor," the man said, aping Victor's pleasantries if not his educated accent. "I'll be sure to stop by directly."

  Victor escorted his courier to the door. Mr. H was slightly hunchbacked, and seeing the two of them move toward the door together made Valentine think of an entertainer with a trained monkey he had glimpsed during his time in Chicago.

  The smuggler returned to his new guests. Duvalier introduced Valentine as simply David, and Victor shook his hand and gripped him by the upper arm as he did so. From another man his size, the gesture might be intimidating, if not overpowering, but from Victor it conveyed only bonhomie. "Coffee? Something to drink?" he asked, moving to a mirrored liquor cabinet.

  Valentine and Duvalier accepted Victor's coffee with appropriate oohs and ahhs at its aroma, and sat. At the first taste, Valentine's eyes widened in pleasure; the coffee had a rich, smoked chocolate taste and a stimulating kick. He watched Victor pour something from a crystal decanter into his own coffee and looked around the room. Victor had a fondness for statues, mostly blackened bronze interpretations of cowboys, riding like fury with horse, lariat, and gun. Valentine looked at the label. He'd never known the old Remington gun company made art, as well.

  "Now what can I do for you children?" Victor asked, taking a sip of his Irish coffee, hardly enough to wet his lips.

  "Information," Duvalier said. "We're hunting something. Or someone."

  Victor leaned forward in his leather chair, which silently bore the shift in his respectable weight. He braced his massive head on a bipod created by his forearms, chin resting on the back of his right hand. "Yes? I shouldn't wonder the hunt isn't going well, if you don't know whether you're hunting a who or a what."

  Duvalier took a breath. "That's because it's a little bit of both. The what is some kind of new military organization the Kurians set up. Their banner is sort of like the old swastika one from the twentieth century. Only backwards. The who is a man. We don't know his name; he goes by the rank of General. 'The General,' his people seem to call him."

  "How do they get around, truck or train?"

  "We know they use trains," she answered, "disguised to look like ordinary freight cars. The last solid information we have is that1 they were in Oklahoma in March. Headed north, we believe. No information on trucks."

  "Hmmm, I've not heard anything about a 'General' from the Kansas Society. You never learned where they were going?"

  "No," Valentine chipped in, wishing to contribute to the conversation.

  "How large? Do they have enough men and equipment to make a try to conquer, say, Denver?"

  Duvalier shrugged. "We just don't know. It can't be too large an army. Anything bigger than a couple of regiments, and some of the other Cats would have picked it up and brought it to Southern Command's attention."

  Victor's jaw worked as he stared at the ceiling in thought. "I know there's a new line being driven west into Colorado. First new construction in that direction I've heard about in ages; our venerable Masters don't go in for civic improvement. You do know that they're also putting in new lines on your western border, right?"

  "We've had some word. Southern Command isn't taking it seriously," Valentine said. "They think it's just another rail corridor to make defending the border easier."

  Victor brushed out his sideburns with the backs of his hands. "I wouldn't be seen around where they are building.

  They'll either shoot on sight or impress you. Best case is you'll be cutting embankments and driving spikes for a daily issue of corn bread for what's left of your future. But you could ask my man out there. I've got an agent that does an occasional run into the Denver Zone. He sometimes comes back with word of what's going on in the mountains."

  Duvalier brightened. "How do we get there?"

  "I'll put in a word with the East-West Line Chief, and that'll get you as far as the high plains. I'd recommend horses once you're out there. I'll give you a letter of introduction to Cortez. He'll get you supplies and mounts if you want to head west from there. He might even agree to guide you."

  A gentle knock at the back door announced the arrival of another visitor.

  "It never rains; it just pours," Victor quoted. "Last week I sat and twiddled my thumbs, but today you're my fourth caller. You will stay the night, of course."

  Victor told his visitor that he would be just a few minutes, and introduced the Cats to a combed, pressed, and manicured servant named Iban. He charged Iban with preparing meals and bedrooms for the pair, and returned to the door to greet his latest arrival, a d
ust-covered man with a hat so wide it was just short of a sombrero.

  The well-tended rooms, rugs, and furnishings made Valentine long for a bath more than for a meal. Iban somehow telepathically picked up on his desire and suggested, "If you want to wash up before you eat, there is fresh soap and towels in the first-floor bathroom."

  "Dibs," Duvalier said quickly. "Victor's bathrooms are incredible. Hot running water at the twist of a knob, and a razor so sharp, you can shave with its shadow."

  "Prove it. What are you going to shave, anyway? I'd like to watch."

  "Oh fu— Dream on, Valentine."

  Valentine plunged into the prewarmed tub after a quick washup in the sink, fearing he'd leave a ring like a moon crater if he dipped immediately into the steaming water. The servant had poured some sort of scented oil in the tub; it smelled vaguely of cedar. Valentine lathered and shaved with a small hand mirror placed in a tub caddy, lingering over the rasping strokes and enjoying himself immensely.

  Iban discreetly knocked and entered, taking Valentine's dirt-encrusted clothing and replacing it with a heavy cotton garment, a thin robe the servant called a kimono. Valentine lingered in the tub, then finally rose and put on the wheat-colored wrap. His hiking boots had disappeared, as well, and as the efficient Iban had not replaced them with anything, even socks, he left the bathroom barefoot to find Duvalier wolfing a fruit salad in an airy corner room. French windows let in the warm afternoon air.

  "Quite a place," Valentine commented, feeling the rich texture of the draperies as he parted them to take in the lawn and sky.

  "Quite a person," Duvalier countered.

  "I didn't know they still made fabric like this."

  "Probably just well preserved," she said. "Every time I'm here, it makes me think of stories I heard of the Old World. It's like a museum or something."

  "Some of the higher-ups in the Kurians' favor live like this, I'm told," Valentine said. "You sure he's not one of them? How does he get away with it?"

  She paused to finish a forkful. "He doesn't fight the system. He provides things the Society wants, and that the Kurians can't be troubled to deal with. The nearest Kurian is seventy miles away. The Quisling who runs Manhattan has a brass ring, but all he knows is a lot of shiftless types come around this house. I've heard of Reapers visiting the area, and I know the Militia searched his house and buildings. No guns, no problem. The Kurians don't seem to realize that wealth and influence can be a weapon, maybe a better weapon than a battery of howitzers. He uses that wealth now and then to help us. Or Denver, I suppose."

  "What does he ask in return?"

  "That's the funny part. Nothing."

  * * *

  They rested for two glorious nights on clean sheets, groaning from stuffing themselves at Victor's table. Rack of lamb, roast beef, and delicate baked rolls that fell into buttery quarters left them torpid, barely able to make conversation. Their host asked no questions beyond pleasant inquiries about after-dinner drinks.

  After a hearty breakfast of pork chops and fried potatoes, Victor saw them off with the dawn. Wearing cleaned clothes and bearing Victor's letters of introduction, they shouldered their refilled packs bulging with canned food and hearty biscuits, and thanked their host.

  "I hope it puts you back on track," Victor said. "The length of Kansas is a long way to go on a wild-goose chase."

  Valentine said, "We'll be riding most of the way. You've made it a quick trip."

  "I'm a little worried about those guns. Nebraska Trooper's uniform or not, somebody might decide you shouldn't be carrying weapons. They'll be taken for 'safekeeping,' and you'll never see them again. The Line Chief will give you passports, but his stamp won't help much in that case."

  Iban produced a small, two-wheeled basket cart.

  "On the road you can pull it," Victor said, "and if you can't use the wheels, you can carry it between you. Negotiables. The usual assortment: tobacco, alcohol, watches, pens, and good paper. I've put in some real gold coins and some fake pearls that are very good. Optics are popular with the soldiers: you have two binoculars, a spotting scope, and two spyglasses. Once you get rid of those, it'll be a lot lighter. Always better to bribe your way out than fight your way out."

  "Amen," Duvalier agreed.

  "If you have to, use my name as an IOU with anyone in my network, but please use discretion. If you're caught burning down a police station, Dee, my name won't help you and will only hurt me."

  "Thank you. We're worth your trust, sir," Valentine said.

  "Then go out and prove it. I hope you'll have another

  Kurian notch in your scabbard the next time I see you, Dee."

  "Seems to me you're doing pretty well for yourself under them," Valentine said. He just as quickly regretted it.

  "Val!" Duvalier said.

  "It's okay, Dee." Victor looked at his nails, bitten to the quick. "Am I well? You try living your life smiling and dancing at parties and picnics and weddings of people you despise, boy. Cheering at Militia games where the teams are made up of murderers who keep their one sorry life in exchange for hundreds of their fellows. I've got a chronic ulcer, and my doctor says my liver is going to throw in the towel."

  He seemed to sag, ruddy skin now almost purulent. "It's not as easy a life as you think. I only hope my liver gives me enough warning so I can go to the Governor’s New Year's Ball wearing an explosive belt."

  Valentine felt his face go hot. "I'm sorry. I should be grateful. Not my place to criticize unless I'm in your shoes."

  "Live and learn. Emphasis on live."

  Chapter Seven

  The High Plains of Eastern Colorado, August: A better name for this upland might be the Dry Plains, as running water is scarce much of the year. The pumps and sprinklers that fed circular patches of crops, which had dotted the flats like some giant variety of lily pad, are now nothing but rusting empty skeletons and dry as marrowless bone. A little more rainfall, and the high plains would be a lush paradise: the sun shines three hundred days a year, and the winters are comparatively mild.

  Perhaps it is the sun that keeps the Kur away, or just the lack of sustainable population for their feeding. The inhabitants of Denver and the Eastern Slope might also have something to do with it. Their outpost garrisons scattered in this empty land imitate the forts of the Old West, with wooden walls high enough to prevent a Reaper's leaping over them.

  The few souls living in this expanse hide their paths and habits from both the vigorous Denver Freehold in the West and the Kurians to the East. The Denverites have been known to "relocate to safety" anyone found on their borders, confiscating property too large to move at the point of a gun. As for the Kurians, it is the old story. Any group larger than a family is too hard to feed, and too big a risk of becoming a lifesign lure for a roaming Reaper.

  So only the occasional house is inhabited, though the isolation can be as hard to live under as the Kurian avatars.

  * * *

  Valentine did not know whether to call it a sod house or a cave. The House of Cortez had none of the scope and glitter its conquering namesake inspired. The front of the structure protruded from the side of a grassy hill, as if it had been fired from a gigantic cannon and embedded there. An overhang sheltered the wide porch, with rough wooden trunks holding up the dirt-and-grass-covered roof. Flowers in hanging baskets and planters added a splash of color to the weather-beaten wood and straw-colored grasses covering the hillside and the crown of the house.

  They drew near the house to a crescendo of barking. Valentine guessed three dogs, and he and Duvalier approached empty-handed.

  "At least we know we have the right house. We haven't seen another one for five miles," Duvalier said.

  "I've got a gun," a female but not very feminine voice called from the shadows of the house. "You're welcome to water from the pump, but there's no food or roof here for strangers."

  "We're here to speak to Tommy Cortez," Valentine called over the barking.

  "No one here by
that name. You're lost, sounds like."

  "We have some messages from Mr. Victor. We got the directions from him."

  The unseen figure contemplated the news for a moment, and even the dogs went silent. "My husband's not home. Your business is with him. If you want to wait, just tell me where you'll be, and I'll tell him when he returns."

  "Ma'am," Duvalier said, "we've come clear across Kansas, and we're heading farther west. We've lugged this case all the way from the railhead, hoping for some help when we got here. Food and horses, in other words."

  "Horses? You see a barn here?"

  Valentine put a restraining hand on Duvalier's shoulder.

  "Mrs. Cortez, we're here to help if we can. Is your husband missing?"

  Valentine felt the hard casing of the unseen woman's manner break inside the shadowy interior. "Three weeks and two days," a much smaller voice said from the shadows. The door opened, and a short raisin of a woman in a denim smock stepped out onto the porch, gripping a rabbit gun. Years of dusty Colorado summers were written on her face in vertical lines. "Never been gone this long. I'm about out of my head with worry. It wasn't even much of a trip, just up to Fort Rowling."

  They ate a meal of corn bread and drippings and drank prairie tea under the low ceiling of the Cortez home. Like a rabbit warren built for humans, the house behind the half-buried facade was a series of rooms and passages, mostly filled with cobwebbed relics as a sort of indoor junkyard. A generator chattered away; judging from the piping, it burned local natural gas to light and ventilate the house. The musty smell was offset, to Valentine's mind, by the welcoming, earth-insulated coolness of the interior after the hot August sun.

  "My husband brought me out of Garden City, Kansas, almost thirty years ago, now," Mrs. Cortez explained while moving about the tiny kitchen. She had grown garrulous after letting them in. "He always was a traveler. Tall and handsome, he was. Still is, even with the mileage. Just his size made most of the varmints in Kansas avoid him. He made money getting messages into Denver, New Mexico, wherever. The New Order had just got itself worked out by then, everything all organized to suit them. After years of fighting and starvation, lots of folks were happy to stay put where they were told and do what was ordered. But I saw there was no future in it, and when Tommy asked me to go, I went. He had found this place in the middle of a whole lotta nowhere and had been slowly fixing it up. We were happier than we had a right to be, considering what was going on beyond the horizon." She removed a pistol from her apron and sat down to her own meal.