Valentine's Rising

by E. E. Knight

  “We’ve been ordered to rejoin Southern Command,” Valentine said to Post as the two groups eyed each other. “These kids are here to make sure we do it.” Ahn-Kha rose from a squat behind a wagon and some of the light platoon grabbed at their rifles.

  “What are you doing with Grogs?” Randolph asked, hand on the butt of his pistol.

  “As I explained to General Martinez, they’re on our side and they’re trained. They helped us in the KZ, and I expect them to be treated with the respect due any other soldier in Southern Command,” Valentine said.

  “And we speak,” Ahn-Kha added. “Have those children take more care with their rifles.”

  “Seems suspicious, you coming out of the Zone with Grogs.”

  M’Daw rose from the campfire. “Mister—”

  “Quiet, M’Daw,” Valentine said. Then, to Randolph: “He escaped the ambush in his underwear, Captain, and the only clothes we could find that would fit him were Quisling. We don’t have any dye, so I’d appreciate some, or a change in uniform for him. I don’t want him shot by accident on standing orders.”

  M’Daw sat back down and huddled under a blanket in such a way that his stitched-on name didn’t show.

  “Let’s load up, Post,” Valentine said. “Ditch the lumber; we won’t need to build shelters after all, and there’s no point hauling it up that hill. Let’s make Mrs. Smalls’ journey as comfortable as possible.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Valentine, Ahn-Kha, and the two Grogs unloaded the Quickwood while Post put the marines and the civilians in marching order. Valentine marked the spot, triangulating off of the peak of Magazine Mountain.

  “Something wrong, my David?” Ahn-Kha asked as they threw another beam on the pile.

  “I don’t like the way this outfit we’re joining is being run. I have no business challenging a lawful superior’s methods, but . . . hell, I’ve seen groups of Chicago hookers that are better organized. I didn’t come all this way to hand over the Quickwood to a bunch of outlaws.”

  “Do we have an option?”

  “Southern Command is finished, if this is representative of what’s left. I’m thinking we might be better off with your people in Omaha, or maybe mine in Minnesota. In six more months this crew is going to be robbing towns and trains to feed themselves, with the meanest knife fighter calling the shots. I want to see M’Daw and the Smalls safe, then we’ll talk about taking off.”

  Ahn-Kha’s ears sagged. “Better do it quickly. If they break the marines up into other units—”

  “Randolph is coming,” Valentine whispered. Ahn-Kha’s ears pivoted to the sound of footsteps.

  “Why’s everyone got wooden spears along with their rifles?” Randolph asked.

  Ahn-Kha growled an order, and led the Grogs back up to the wagon.

  “For the feral pigs in these hills. Those are boar spears.”

  “One of your men said it was for killing Reapers. That black cripple said the same thing.”

  “Have to tell them something or they just run at the sight of one. They think it’s got big medicine. But so far they’ve just been used on pigs.”

  “Hope you boiled the meat good. I’ve seen men die eating wild pig. You might want to have your men check their shit. Our doc has a great remedy for worms. Just tell him you need to be sluiced out.”

  “Thanks for the tip. Is there contact with any other pockets of resistance?”

  “General Martinez gets his orders through special channels. When it’s time to move we’ll hear it from him. There’s talk of a counteroffensive next fall, when the Kurians think the Ozarks are pacified.”

  “Seems to me they’re pacified already. How many do you lose each week?”

  “You won’t get far questioning the General, Valentine. The men love him. He’s daddy and Santa Claus and Moses all in one. Have patience, the Promised Land is there.”

  “The Promised Land is occupied. We don’t have forty years. We shouldn’t be acting like we have forty days. Inertia and illness are going to kill your General’s army; the Quislings and the Kurians are just going to be buzzards feeding off the corpse.”

  “Look, Valentine, I’m liking you less and less by the minute. You ever talk to me like that again and I’ll deck you. You weren’t here when it was raining Reapers, or when we got blown out of Fort Scott by so many guns you’d think they had enough to land a shell every six feet. Martinez took five thousand beat-up men who were ready to surrender and pulled us back together. Southern Command put him in charge of the central Ouachitas after that. He’s keeping us fed and armed without any help from a rear that plain vanished on us. Quit questioning him, or I’ll turn you in as a traitor.”

  “In the Free Territory that trained me two officers speaking in private could criticize anyone without the word treason being thrown around. You swing on me anytime you like, as long as the men aren’t watching. If you do it where they can see I’ll have you up on charges for striking a fellow officer, Captain. Write up a report if you want. I’ll be happy to repeat everything I’ve said word for word to the General.”

  They returned to the wagon, both simmering. Post had Narcisse and Mrs. Smalls in the wagon and everyone else lined up behind it. Randolph’s platoon had been dispersed to form a screen. When all was ready, they hitched the team to the wagon and set off. Valentine elected to walk beside Ahn-Kha and the Grogs, picking the way southeast and ready to chop a path through the growth blocking the hill road if necessary. They forded a river and rested the team after the crossing.

  “Why did you leave the Quickwood, Daveed?” Narcisse asked as they rested. Valentine was inspecting a wobbling wheel on the wagon, wondering if it would make it the rest of the trip.

  Valentine glanced around, and found himself gritting his teeth at the gesture. He was used to looking over his shoulder in the Kurian Zone, but here, in the middle of titular comrades, the precaution grated.

  “The boys we’re joining up with, they’re one rung on the ladder over the bandits on the borders between the Kurian Zones and the Freeholds. For all I know this General is getting set to go Quisling. He’s keeping a lot of men who might be useful elsewhere liquored up and lazy. Their camp’s in a state any junior lieutenant in a militia company wouldn’t allow, but that doesn’t stop them all from talking like they’re the last hope of the Ozarks.”

  Mrs. Smalls rubbed her lumbar while her husband went to get her a drink from the river. “Some sergeant tried to disarm your funny-talkin’ island men while you were with the Grogs. Mr. Post put a stop to it.”

  “I’m liking this Captain Randoph less and less,” Valentine said.

  “Whoo-hoo boys, horsemeat coming in!” a voice called from beside the road.

  Valentine saw machine-gun nests set to cover the bend in the road running up against the taller hill of the camp. They’d been set up while there were still leaves on the trees and now looked naked against the hillside.

  “We’re here,” Randolph said from the saddle of what had been Valentine’s horse. The column had made good time; it was barely afternoon of the second day since setting out from the shadow of Magazine Mountain.

  “This isn’t much of a road, but it’s obliging of the others not to patrol it,” Post said.

  Randolph’s platoon led them up the hill, the Grogs and marines sweating to help the wagon up the incline.

  “Damn, they got them ape-men with ’em,” one of the idlers said, pointing with the stained stem of a pipe.

  “Prisoners? I thought we were getting a new company,” the other said. “It’s not even a sergeant’s platoon. Thunderbolt Ad Hoc Rifles—bah.”

  Word spread through camp and men gathered, hoping to see familiar faces. The Jamaicans, in their strange blue uniforms, excited some comment among the men with dashed hopes.

  “Can I speak to a supply officer?” Valentine asked. “I have to feed and billet my men.”

  Valentine heard a buzz at the back of the assembled men. General Martinez strode through. There wa
s something of Moses in him after all; the men parted like the Red Sea at his presence. Some removed their hats or wiped their eyeglasses clean as he passed, gorgeous in his braided uniform coat, Van Dyke aligned like a plumb line.

  “Welcome back to the Free Territory, Captain Valentine,” Martinez said. “Those rifles your men have; Dallas Armory, aren’t they?”

  “Yes, sir, we took them off the post at Bern Woods. Those were the ones who ambushed us coming back across the Red.”

  “Every man counts here. Every man is important,” the General said, loudly enough for all to hear. “The Grogs are another story. They’ll run back to their buddies as soon as they see ’em. Sergeant Rivers, shoot the Grogs.”

  A man with stripes sloppily inked on the arm of a long trenchcoat pulled up a shotgun.

  “Sir, no!” Valentine said. “They’re my men. Let me—”

  “Shoot, Sergeant,” Martinez ordered. The gun went off. A Grog fell backward, his chest planted with red buckshot holes, his legs kicking in the air.

  Ahn-Kha ran from the back of the column, knocking aside Valentine’s old marines as he burst through them.

  “David!” Ahn-Kha shouted.

  “Druk?” the other Grog said, looking from the kicking corpse to the sergeant with the shotgun. Its confused eyes turned to Valentine as the gun fired again.

  Everything slowed down. The Grog wavered like a red-wood with its trunk severed, then crashed to the ground. Valentine heard his own heart, louder in his ears than the gunshots, beating in time to Ahn-Kha’s footfalls as the Golden One ran to his Grogs with arms outstretched. The smoking shotgun muzzle swiveled to Ahn-Kha as the red shell casing spun through the air. Valentine’s hand went to his belt.

  Valentine moved. Faster than he had in his encounter with the corporal the other night.

  “Rivers,” Valentine said, stepping behind the General with his .45 pressed to the back of Martinez’s ear, “you shoot again and I’ll kill him, then you.”

  “Valentine, have you gone—-awwwk,” Martinez started to say as Valentine grabbed a handful of goldenrod shoulder braid in his left hand and whipped it around the General’s neck.

  “Everyone calm down,” Valentine said. “I don’t want any more shooting. Post, don’t draw that.”

  “Valentine!” Randolph shouted, pointing his pistol at Valentine’s head in turn. “Let him go, right now.”

  “Men!” Valentine roared at the assembly. “General Martinez is under arrest for ordering the murder of soldiers of Southern Command. Randolph, you heard me tell him that the Grogs were part of Southern Command, under my authority. Twice. Uniform Code says no soldier of Southern Command can be executed without trial and unanimous verdict of three officers.” Valentine decided not to add that the penalty for summary execution was a bullet in the back of the head.

  “Southern Command is gone,” General Martinez gasped. “There’s no Uniform Code anymore.”

  “Then it’s law of the jungle, Martinez. You’re not a general, you’re just some bastard who killed two of my friends. Last words?” Valentine thumbed back the hammer on the automatic.

  “Shoot these bastards! Every one of them!” Martinez yelled.

  “Guns down! Guns down! Keep order, there,” a female voice shouted from the crowd.

  Valentine looked across the heads of the crowd and saw men being pushed aside, before returning his eyes to the men around him. A stocky woman elbowed her way to the front. No, not stocky; short and powerful. She wore the cleanest uniform Valentine had seen yet in Martinez’s camp, her muscular shoulders filling the Southern Command jacket in a way that would do credit to a Labor Regiment veteran fresh from six months of earth moving. Near white-blond hair disappeared up into a fatigue hat. The captain’s bars on her collar were joined by an angled crossbar, forming a shortened Z.

  The crossbar meant she was in the Hunters. Perhaps staff, but part of the organization that encompassed the Wolves, Cats, and Bears.

  “You two,” she called to Valentine’s marines, “open the bolts on those rifles. Sergeant Rivers, lay down the shotgun.” The men, even those who had never seen her before, obeyed. She looked over the situation, smelled the cordite in the air, and shook her head at the dead Grogs Ahn-Kha knelt beside. She turned to Valentine.

  “Captain, you can put up the gun. I saw what happened from up the hill. General Martinez, it’s my duty to place you under arrest for murder.”

  “I bet you’re just loving this, aren’t you, Styachowski,” Martinez said. “I wouldn’t fall asleep for the next week or so, if I were you. These men know their duty.”

  Styachowski’s pallid features showed no sign of even hearing the threat, though her face had gone so white that Valentine wondered if she was about to faint at the sight of the bodies. Valentine released Martinez, carefully brought down the gun’s hammer, and offered the pistol to Styachowski.

  “Keep it, Captain Valentine. You’re not under arrest. Neither are you, Rivers,” she called over her shoulder. “But don’t count on keeping those stripes, or the shotgun. You’ll do your fighting for the next year with a shovel.”

  “Men!” Martinez roared. “Handcuff and gag this little bitch. Two-step promotion to any man—”

  “The General’s no longer in a position to give orders; he’s relieved of command pending trial,” Styachowski countershouted. Valentine couldn’t help but be impressed by the volume she put into her roar. She coughed as she got her wind back. Perhaps she was ill; that might account for her pallor. “Corporal Juarez, I need you and your men to escort General Martinez to his quarters. Sergeant Calloway, have Private Rivers grab a shovel and start digging graves for the Grogs.”

  “But Grog bodies go—”

  “Soldiers’ bodies get buried on Watch Hill. That’s where they’ll go, right with our men.”

  Martinez glared at them from between two nervous soldiers. “Good luck finding three officers to convict, Styachowski. You and this other mutineer here both arrested me. You can’t serve as judge and accusing officer. After I’m acquitted I’ll try and hang you both for mutiny.”

  “Captain Randolph, find a place for Captain Valentine’s people, please,” Styachowski said. She nodded at Valentine, then turned and followed the corporal’s guard up the hill.

  “Post, have the men make litters for the Grogs. I’m sorry, Ahn-Kha,” Valentine said.

  Ahn-Kha looked up. Golden Ones cried; in that they were like humans. He held one of each of his Grog’s hands in his own. “Nothing seems to change, my David. Always expendable.”

  “Ahn-Kha, I’ll try and prove you wrong someday. First I want to see some justice done for the Lucky Pair.”

  The irony of the nickname tasted bitter, like hemlock in his mouth.

  Valentine’s only look at the trial came when he gave evidence, and he didn’t like what he saw. The crisis in command required prompt action. The trial was held, without a preliminary inquiry, the next day in the old brick ranch-style home that served as a guardhouse. Perhaps it had once been a vacation home, or a quiet retirement spot at the end of a winding, mountainside road. The owner liked his architecture low and spacious: wide porches, wide doors, wide windows. Inside, a great brick wall bisected the house into a huge living area and smaller bedrooms, which now served as cells, thanks to the limestone blocks of the walls.

  Tables and chairs were arranged, nearly filling the big living room, with the three judges pressed up against the longest wall and facing the prosecution, the defense and a witness chair between the two. The temporary commander of the camp, Colonel Abraham, had excused himself from the trial, as traditionally no officer who stood to replace an accused superior could serve as a judge. The next senior officer in the shattered chain of command was a colonel named Meadows, who presided over the trial. At other times he might have been a good officer, but all Valentine saw was a nervous man seated between Randolph and a lieutenant colonel who smelled, to Valentine’s sensitive nose, of marijuana.

  Meadows had only o
ne finger to accompany the thumb on his right hand, which clutched a handkerchief used every fifteen seconds on his sweating brow. A throng of men outside, given no duties by officers sympathetic to Martinez, listened through open windows as best they could and added boos and cheers accordingly. Captain Moira Styachowski—Valentine learned her first name when she took his statement—acted as prosecuting officer. She performed admirably under the circumstances, which at one point included a rifle bullet coming through a window and whizzing past her ear. Court adjourned to the floor.

  The rifle was eventually found, dropped in a stand of bramble, but not the shooter.

  After the missed shot Valentine swore to himself that he’d get his charges out of the camp. This bit of Southern Command was turning into a madhouse of angry, well-armed drunkards. But how far could they get on foot with a pregnant woman, old M’Daw and a boy, with a grudge-holding General following?

  Valentine told his story, and answered five questions from Styachowski, stressing that he had told General Martinez at the evening meeting the nature of his command and his use of the Grogs. He tried to keep his voice even as he told of the summary execution of the Grogs, simple but skilled creatures with whom he’d served for a year.

  “Did it occur to you, Captain, that General Martinez and his men had been fighting those very creatures for years?” the officer acting as defense counsel asked, leaning down to put his face close to Valentine’s, probably in an effort to intimidate. Both the defense counsel and the General had been drinking during the previous night as they talked over the coming trial, according to Styachowski, and his breath made Valentine turn his face toward the triumvirate of judges to avoid the fumes.

  “He’s been fighting Quislings, too. Does that mean he kills every man who comes into the camp?”

  “Answer the question, Valentine,” Randolph said.

  “I’ve fought Grogs myself.”

  “That’s still not an answer,” Randolph said.