A Girl Called Badger (Valley of the Sleeping Birds)

by Colegrove, Stephen

  “Ask them if they’re happy,” said Wilson.

  “Let me change the subject,” said the man. “My name is Darius. The men tell me your name is Will. The young lady has refused to give me her name.”

  “You won’t live long enough for it to matter,” said Badger.

  Darius wrinkled his nose. “More boring bravado.”

  “Where did you learn English?” asked Wilson.

  “This is my interview. Stop asking questions or I pull bits off the girl, probably the ones you like.”

  Wilson watched him and said nothing.

  “Good,” said Darius. “Where’s your village?”

  “It’s to the west.”

  “That’s no secret. Be more specific.” With one hand Darius clacked a pair of pliers.

  Wilson knew he had to say something credible, but he didn’t want to reveal anything about Station or the valley. “It’s called David. It’s on old 24,” he said.

  Darius smiled. “Interesting. Your leaders have always refused a contract. Now it’s my turn to ask this question: How do you know English?”

  “Everyone speaks it there.”

  “Do you have machines hidden in the village?”

  “We can forge weapons and work with leather, cloth, and wood,” said Wilson.

  “Do you have machines?”

  “Only those we make ourselves.”

  “A lie. Why were these papers found on your person?” Darius held up the SWORD manual. “And these books?” He waved at the top of the table.

  “It’s a hobby,” said Wilson.

  Darius stepped in front of Badger, pliers in hand.

  “Stop,” said Wilson. “You’re right––the village has machines left from the old days. They’re not working and we were searching for a way to fix them.”

  “My scouts followed you through Springs to that old base. You have very specific knowledge on a locked room there.”

  “The books at my village mentioned it,” said Wilson. “I thought we might find parts.”

  “What kind of machines are you trying to fix?”

  “Medical machines.”

  “Good.” Darius stared at Wilson. “Circle scouts will travel to David and give them one last chance for membership. If they accept, a contract will be drawn up. We’ll provide weapons and medical supplies and the village will provide us with workers. The number and frequency will be spelled out in the contract. If you can spell, that is.” He chuckled then cleared his throat. “Another benefit is that other tribals who are part of our Circle will stop attacking your village. At least, not when anyone is watching. All we want is peace and safe trading between all members. However, if your people refuse the contract the village will be razed. At that point we’ll just take what we want.”

  “Your men will die,” said Badger.

  Darius smiled. “That’s why you’ll go with them,” he said. “And even if they’re killed, we’ll send more. The contract language will become harsher at that point.”

  “They’ll die too,” she said.

  “What an impolite and bloody-minded young lady. You’d be quite the spectacle where I’m from.” Darius cleared his throat. “Both of you speak English and claim some part of civilization but you act like homicidal maniacs. We bring order and technology into this lawless place and all the tribals welcome it. You’re deluded to think you can escape the march of progress.”

  “More a trail of tears than a march of progress,” muttered Wilson.

  Darius sighed and took Wilson’s pistol from the table.

  “I only need one of you as a hostage. I think my scouts will be happier with the young lady.”

  He aimed down the barrel at Wilson and fired. The bullet hit Wilson like a sledgehammer and he slid across the floor. Badger screamed. Burning fire, then numbness spread across Wilson’s stomach. He focused on breathing and watched Badger struggle against the ropes. She choked from the bonds around her neck.

  “Kira … don’t …”

  He tried to say more but his eyes wouldn’t stay open.

  IGNITION

  THIRTEEN

  The nose of the sea-green car sat deep in the manzanita bushes and two lines of muddy, squashed crabgrass led back to a gravel road. A man in a white t-shirt and jeans slumped in the driver’s seat, his shaved head against the door frame.

  A finger of morning sun gradually crept down the windshield and warmed his cheek like a mother’s hand. The man jerked forward with a snort. He opened his eyes and rubbed the gray stubble on his jaw.

  The starter clacked angrily when he turned the key. The man got out and kicked his way through the red-branched manzanita to the front of the car. The chrome bumper was pushed in half a foot and the right quarter-panel was crumpled. He lifted the bent hood and held it in place while he re-connected a line to the battery. When he turned the key again the engine roared to life.

  “Nice,” he said.

  With a sledgehammer he smacked the damaged steel in the quarter-panel away from the right wheel. He tossed the sledge back in the trunk and put the car in reverse. The transmission ground like an old coffee mill and the car stayed put.

  The man sighed and felt his pockets for a wallet and pack of cigarettes. He smoked while his boots crunched along the road.

  Because of the mountains it took a few miles of walking to get any kind of signal. A glowing bar of bright azure appeared on his right thumbnail. As soon as he noticed it he snapped his fingers.

  “Call Michael.”

  “Dialing Michael Wong,” said a voice in his ear.

  “Lower the volume!”

  “Sorry, sir. Lowering volume.”

  The connection buzzed until Mike’s voice mail picked up.

  “Hang up. Call the– hell, just call me a taxi.”

  THE CAB LEFT HIM under the rotten portico of the Silver Spur in Woodland Park. He walked to a second-floor room and stripped off his shirt and jeans. His left arm was covered with black fabric and straps. He unwrapped it and dropped the tarnished silver hand on the floor. A red scar ran along the outside of his left arm and ended abruptly in a pink nub.

  After showering he shaved with an old-style four-bladed razor.

  “Jack, you’re one ugly bastard.”

  The mirror was cheap and old. Instead of responding it scrolled faded white text from right to left: “… in Tokyo today for a summit with ASEAN leaders. Friday, August 29, 2053. Sales of the Sparrow vehicle on the rise, according to Apple …”

  Jack tapped the razor on the sink and rinsed.

  His dress uniform was in the closet and he put it on: plain white shirt, black tie, dark blue jacket with rank and insignia, black trousers with a red stripe down the legs, and black shoes. He fastened a gold symbol to his tie inscribed with “79th IBCT” and left with his blue dress hat. A cruising bike stood in one of the corner spaces and he put his hat in the helmet compartment.

  He pushed the bike hard in the curves to the highway. At the Stop & Save in Divide he filled up then broke a few laws speeding through the flats. The rough brown and arid yellow of the hills changed to evergreen and sharp mountains striated with snow as he drove higher. An hour later he turned left at an unmarked road and stopped at a guard post.

  “Cold day for a ride, Sarn’t,” said one of the MPs. Jack kept his mouth shut while the other scanned his ID card. “Have a good day.”

  To Jack, Altmann looked the opposite of a military operation. The valley with open fields, pine forests, and peaks on three sides could have been a small college, or a religious retreat. A circular plaza in the center surrounded by white-painted concrete buildings concealed the labs and offices that stretched a dozen levels underground.

  Jack parked in front of his building. The guard cleared him and Jack took the elevator down.

  On the way to his office he didn’t see a soul. He checked a few messages. Still nobody walked by or came to talk to him. Jack heard murmured conversation and followed it down the hall. When he opened a meeting room chee
rs burst out.

  “He’s here!”

  “Surprise!”

  Uniforms and civvies crowded around and pulled him inside. A banner covered one wall with the text, “Goodbye and Good Luck!” Someone slapped his back and shoved a drink in his hand.

  Jack twisted his mouth but had to smile. “You bastards. I told you no parties. I bet this is Mike’s fault.”

  A large Asian man grabbed him around the neck and pretended to twist. “You’re so smart, Jack. Were you born that way or did mommy drop you?”

  “Jack wasn’t born, he was kicked out of Hell,” said a woman in dark Army blue.

  “Both of you are happy as pigs I’m leaving, aren’t you? Mike gets my job and Parvati only has to look at me half the time.”

  “You’re a nasty piece of work, that’s true,” said the big Asian. “But I’ll have problems trying to fly your desk, Mr. Chair Force.”

  “You’ll have even more problems once I rip off your joystick.”

  “I knew you loved me,” said Mike.

  A bearded man in a sport coat shook Jack’s hand. “I know I’ve said this before, but thanks for all your help the past few years.”

  “I’d say it’s been fun, Greg, but that would be a lie.”

  “We need people like you, Jack. The irony is, you don’t seem to need us.”

  “I wouldn’t say that. I just need a change of pace.”

  Greg shook his hand again. “Thanks and good luck.”

  The party came to an end after an hour and employees trickled away. Jack wandered back to his desk slightly buzzed. He tried to concentrate on a few message threads.

  Parvati knocked on his door. “You haven’t boxed up your stuff yet.”

  “I took the bike. Car problems.”

  She leaned a trim, athletic hip against his desk. “What’s wrong?”

  “Your skirt’s too tight. That can’t be regulation.”

  “Seriously? Jack, look at me. Was it the party?”

  He glanced at Parvati and shook his head. “She wouldn’t let me talk to the kids again, so I had a few at Padre’s. Next thing I know it’s morning and the Impala is in the bushes.”

  Parvati touched his face. “Oh my God. Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine. Had the car towed.”

  “I know you better than that. Get your stuff together and I’ll take it to my place.”

  HE CLEANED OUT THE office and sent a last few messages, then erased the system memory in his portable and turned it in with his badges. He said goodbye to Parvati and left without talking to anyone else. On the long ride back to the Silver Spur he listened to house rentals on the listfeed and told the phone to search for more.

  He stopped his bike in the space next to the Impala and looked it over. The tow driver had put it right where he said to. Jack ordered parts from Hemmings as he looked over the damaged front end then went inside and changed.

  When he called the house Colleen answered.

  “Dad?”

  “How’s everything, baby?”

  “You know.”

  “Yeah. I–”

  “Mom’s not here. She won’t let us pick up if it’s you.”

  “That’s too bad. Want me to come by?”

  “I’m pretty busy. I’ll give you a call, okay?”

  Jack rode his bike through the back roads to Padre’s. It was popular with the local ranchers and the occasional bored drunk from Springs. It reminded him of the old bar in that two-dee film with Patrick Swayze, and he liked bars and old things. The people who came here were usually forgotten old drunks. Including Padre. He was the vision of old Saint Nick, if Santa were half-Arapaho.

  Padre saw him walk in. “Look what’s crawled from the devil’s litter box.” He poured a glass of Fat Tire.

  “Evening.” Jack drained the glass.

  “I see you made it home last night.”

  “Halfway right.”

  “Well don’t blame me,” said Padre. “I water down the beer. It’s your fault if you keep drinking it.”

  “I’m not blaming anyone.”

  “If you weren’t so stubborn you’d get a car with auto-drive.”

  “Yeah. When pigs fly.”

  Padre refilled the glass. “Did you get a place yet?”

  “No.”

  “That house I got across the road is empty.”

  “I thought your cousin was there.”

  Padre laughed. “Well, he and the sheriffs had a polite debate on the terms of his parole. Any sane person would think he won, because they gave him a pair of shiny bracelets and free room and board from the county for six months.”

  “Super.”

  “So the place is vacant. You can stay there for five hundred.”

  Jack shook his head. “Highway robbery.”

  “It’s a real house, you ungrateful wretch. Consider what you’ll save in car repairs.”

  “All right. I’ll do it.”

  The little finger on Jack’s right hand twitched and he snapped his fingers.

  “Hello?”

  The voice of his ex-wife vibrated in his head. “You’re drinking, aren’t you?”

  “What’s it to you?”

  “Don’t call the house again.” The connection dropped.

  Padre smacked a fly on the counter. “Damn cold-callers.”

  “Yeah.”

  A truckload of mestizos came to spend the Friday paycheck and Jack moved to the far end of the bar. Padre came over later.

  “One thing I always wanted to know about you, Jack.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Why you never had your arm fixed. Don’t get me wrong, you’ve got a right to your business. Just seems like you’ve got a phone, why not fix the rest at the same time?”

  Jack pulled off his glove and flexed the metal fingers. “You ever lost someone, Padre?”

  “Both of my parents.”

  “You never want to forget, right?”

  “Of course not.”

  “How? Do you visit the cemetery? Do you look through old photos?”

  “Sure.”

  “Well, this is how I never forget Karachi. Their wives moved on, the Army moved on, hell, everyone moved on but not me. I owe them.”

  Padre sighed. “Remember how fleeting is thy life. For what futility you have created all humanity!”

  “Don’t start quoting the Bible again.”

  His finger twitched and it was Parvati.

  “Jack, are you at Padre’s?”

  “Yeah.”

  “All right, I’ll drive over.”

  Jack finished his beer. He asked for a car-bomb and Padre brought over the beer and shot.

  “You were never a priest,” Jack said.

  “My friend, the world drags down the best of us.”

  PARVATI WENT BACK TO the motel with Jack but didn’t stay over. The next day was Saturday and she had a thing.

  He skipped his morning run and rode over to Mike’s place with a heavy backpack. Mike and his family piled into the minivan and Jack followed them along the interstate to Red Rock Canyon. Gina and the two girls relaxed in a green picnic area while he and Mike sorted through climbing gear at the base of red sandstone crags.

  The face was a two-pitch climb with a middle belay point. A narrow crack split the face like a fossilized lightning bolt and widened to a chimney after the middle belay.

  Mike used a Grigri to hold the belay rope while Jack chalked his hands and began to climb. Around his waist clinked an array of small ropes with nuts, cams, or wedges at the ends. Jack had triple-strapped his metal hand for safety, and wore a tight, rubberized glove made for prosthetic climbers. Two opposing points on his body were always in contact with the rock. He scaled the rough, uneven surface to the first crack. He forced a wedge inside and clipped to the belay rope, then continued up the sheer face by jamming his hands and toes into the vertical gap. Wedges or nuts went in every few feet for safety.

  Jack pulled himself up to the short ledge of the middle belay p
oint and tied off to a bolted anchor. Mike removed the Grigri and started up. As he climbed, the big Asian removed the nuts and wedges Jack had placed. In the middle of the pitch he slipped but Jack held the belay line and Mike fell only five feet.

  “Was that your robot arm?” Mike yelled.

  “Does it matter?”

  At the rest point he took over the belay and Jack took the chimney up. He pushed with his legs and locked with his arms, then turned to the other side of the chimney to repeat the slow process. At the top he clipped in to another bolted anchor and pulled slack on the belay while Mike ascended. Jack watched the children kick around a soccer ball in the green grass below as a breeze dried the sweat on his face and back. After Mike pulled himself over the top they both took a break and looked over the jumbled red sandstone and green meadows dotted with the chit-chit wedge of sprinklers.

  “The first time I came here, I thought those crags looked like scattered dinosaur teeth,” said Mike.

  “Don’t be scared. It’s just rocks.”

  Mike waved at his daughters in the meadow. “You’re not the romantic type, Jack.”

  “Do I look it?”

  “Not ‘romantic’ romantic. I mean a dreamer.”

  “I have simple dreams. Beer and women,” said Jack.

  “But use your imagination. Think about the people who lived here hundreds of years ago. No cars … no pollution …”

  “No beer.”

  “What if those people could see us? Maybe they’d think we had it made. Wouldn’t that be a laugh,” said Mike.

  “Does it matter?”

  “I’m just thinking out loud.”

  Jack sniffed. “That’s the problem, people think too much. Everyone pulls their hair out over what’s happened or what might happen. The moment’s all you got, so enjoy it.”