Valentine's Rising

by E. E. Knight

  Valentine looked out the window and saw Solon’s banner on the pole in front of the entrance. In the distance, across the graded rubble, the bone white Kurian Tower shone in the glare of spotlights.

  “Then you haven’t seen much, sir.”

  “Well, maybe it was the worst thing I’d seen happen. We came across some bodies once—jeez, that’s no conversation for a night like this. C’mon and have a drink. Steady our nerves.”

  “I’ve got to go see the parents. Want to come along and explain how it was all a mistake, sir?”

  Valentine’s icy tone stiffened the general. “You don’t have to say anything to them. If they start anything, the MPs can—”

  “No, I’ve got to do it myself.”

  “You’re the opposite of my other officers, Le Sain. You avoid the pleasurable, and you take on the worst jobs yourself.”

  “ ‘If you want to prosper, do the difficult.’ ”

  “Who said that?”

  “My father.”

  He left Xray-Tango, passed through the wooden Indians in the headquarters manning late-night communications desks, and walked back to the battalion’s camp. Dogs barked at each other in the distance as he crossed the scored scab on the old earth that was Little Rock.

  He entered his “battalion” camp. He took no pride in the condition of the tents, the cleanliness and order, or even the painted river rocks along the pathway, markers his old marine contingent had made.

  Candles still glowed within the tent. Valentine heard the regular breathing of Hank, and Mr. Smalls’ soft snores.

  “Ahem. Mrs. Smalls, may I come in?”

  “How is she? That wasn’t too long,” the mother’s voice answered. “Please come in.”

  Valentine let her absence from his arms speak as he entered.

  “Mr. and Mrs. Smalls, I’m sorry. It’s Caroline. There was a terrible accident. I was going down some stairs to the . . .”

  The scream from Mrs. Smalls woke Hank and brought Mr. Smalls to his feet.

  “It’s a lie! It’s a lie! Where is she?” Mrs. Smalls cried.

  “God’s sake, what happened? Tell us the truth,” her husband said, while she still spoke.

  Valentine had to turn his face partly away, as if he were facing a strong wind. “It’s as I said. I slipped, it’s my fault. You can’t know how sorry—she never felt anything, her neck broke—”

  Mrs. Smalls broke into wracking sobs. Hank looked from his grief-stricken parents to Valentine, and back again.

  “Where’s the body?” Mr. Smalls said. Valentine wished he’d get up and take a swing at him, anything was preferable to the bitterness in his voice.

  “It’s at the infirmary. Rules. Cholera because of the flooding . . . won’t get it,” Valentine muttered.

  “Should’ve known. It didn’t sound right,” Tondi Smalls sobbed, clutching at her husband as though dangling from a precipice. Valentine met her gaze, begged her to stop with his eyes. There were no more lies willing to come out of his mouth.

  “It was planned!” she went on. “What did you get for it? What did they give you? I hope it was worth it. I hope it was worth my baby! My baby!”

  Valentine backed out of the tent, but her words pursued him.

  “What was it? What was in it for you? What’s my baby gone for? What for?” Her voice broke up against her grief and sank into hysterical sobs.

  Twenty-four hours later. Dawn was far away. Empty hours until he had an excuse to do something stretched before him. He should be asleep. God knew he was tired . . . He’d spent the day on a borrowed horse, in a long fruitless ride along old state route 10, looking for Finner and the Wolves, and hadn’t returned until dark. The lonely hours alone on horseback had given him too much time alone with his conscience. He’d eaten a few bites of food before retiring to his tent, but sleep was impossible. Eventually he just sat up and went to work with his pistol.

  By the light of a single bulb—the Kurians were efficient at getting the camp electrified—Valentine sat cross-legged on his cot and looked into the open action of his .45. The classic gun was a fine weapon, in the right hands, and Valentine took care of it. He’d taken it apart, cleaned the action, lubricated the slide, then put it back together and wiped it down, rubbing the protective oil into the gun like a masseur.

  He picked up a bullet and rolled it around between his fingers. The brass was pitted here and there, scratched. A reload. But the Texas outfitter who’d given him the box of ammunition knew his business with the lead. The nose was a perfect oval, like the narrower end of an egg. Valentine took a tiny file he kept with his gun-cleaning bag and made a tiny X across the tip of the bullet. The shell was a man-stopper, but the channels would help the lead flatten out, or even fragment, and churn through flesh like a buzz saw. When he was satisfied with the modification, it joined the others next to his leg.

  The last was trickier. A private joke between him and his conscience. He went to work on it. It took him almost fifteen minutes to do it to his satisfaction, but in the end there was a little horseshoe. A symbol of luck. He regarded it for a moment, smelling the lead filings on the tips of his fingers. He took the horseshoe and added little lines on the ends of the arms of the horseshoe. Now it was an omega. The last letter of the Greek alphabet. The End. Also, oddly enough, an electrical icon indicating resistance. Perfect.

  He picked up the empty pistol magazine, examined it, and set it firmly between his legs, open end up.

  The eight completed bullets felt good in his hand.

  Of course, a piece of him would live on, barring complications with Malia’s pregnancy. Valentine couldn’t decide if this made ending it easier or harder.

  “The Valentine family,” he said, feeding the one with the omega on it against the spring. First in would be last out.

  “Dorian Helm, Gil, Selby, Poulos, Gator . . . Caroline Smalls,” he finished, as reverently as if he’d been saying the rosary, kneeling in his room next to Father Max. He put the magazine in the gun and worked the slide, chambering Caroline. He extracted the magazine again, and took the last bullet. There was space for it now.

  “Gabriella Cho,” he said. “Thought I’d forgotten you, didn’t you?” He blinked the moisture out of his eyes. The magazine slid back into the gun and he checked the safety. Handling the automatic with a shell chambered could be dangerous. He set the weapon down, admiring its simple lines. Then he placed it back in his holster. The holster was an ugly thing: canvas-covered something that felt like plastic within, TMCC stenciled on the exterior.

  Valentine put out the light. Time passed, then Ahn-Kha was at the door.

  “My David. The men are waking up. The review is in two hours. It would be best if we ate now.”

  “Coming.”

  Valentine put on the pistol belt. Ahn-Kha’s ears went up in surprise when Valentine opened the tent flap.

  “You still haven’t shaved, my David? It’s not like you.”

  “You’re right, old horse. Let’s hit the sink before breakfast.”

  Post was up already, shaving in a basin. Valentine took one just like it, filled it at the spigot and went to one of the shards of some greater mirror that the men looked into when cleaning their teeth or shaving. Valentine soaked his head for a moment to clear the cobwebs, and then shaved his face and skull.

  “My David, is all well?”

  “Right as rain, my friend.”

  “You’ve nothing to regret,” Ahn-Kha said. “What happened was out of your control. Narcisse has spoken to the Smalls. They understood.”

  Post watched them for a moment before abandoning the officers’ washroom. Valentine was glad of it; he was in no mood for his pity.

  Ahn-Kha checked to see the room was empty before continuing. “You haven’t been sleeping well. You’re hardly eating.”

  “We have a review this morning. Let’s look the part, old horse. Put a tent or something around you. I don’t want to present one of my best men in just a loincloth.”

&nbs
p; “Tell me what holds your mind in such a grip.”

  “Hell, Ahn-Kha, things are looking up. The men are armed. Clean clothes, good food, they’re getting healthier every day. All courtesy of Consul Solon. There’s talk that in a few weeks we’ll be transferred across the river. Once we’re in the front lines . . .” He left the rest unvoiced.

  “You have another agenda.”

  “Nothing for you to worry about.”

  He brought Styachowski her breakfast as the men turned out, sergeants checking the polish on their weapons and the state of their shoes. She’d been making herself useful in her tent with paperwork, since she could not move without aid of her crutch for weeks yet. Her cast was one blue-black smear of signatures and well wishes.

  “Think you can hobble out for the review?” Valentine asked.

  “I suppose.”

  “I want to introduce you as my second in command.”

  She frowned. “I’ve never been a line officer. The only command action I’ve ever seen was on the big bugout.”

  “Technically, you outrank Post and you’re known better around here. You’re familiar with the Ozarks. He isn’t.”

  “Does he know you’ve decided this?”

  “He’s the one who suggested it. He wanted you in front of the troops, too.”

  “Well, the number-one uniform they gave me has never been worn. I didn’t want to spoil the pant leg with the cast. Want to get busy with a scissors?”

  Getting Styachowski dressed was something of a comic opera. Valentine tried to ignore the graceful shape of her small breasts under the white cotton T-shirt as he forced the leg of her pants up and over her cast. All at once the material slid over in a rush; he stopped himself from pitching head-first into her belly by grabbing her thigh.

  “Sorry,” he said.

  “That’s all right. Thanks, sir, I can finish the rest.”

  He turned his back as she hiked her buttocks off the cot to pull her pants up the rest of the way, and tuck her shirt in.

  “The review is at nine-thirty. Looks like it’s going to be nice spring weather. After it the men have a free day. See if the scroungers can set up a bar and some music. I have to go to a meeting.”

  “Xray-Tango going to have yet another bull session on finding a new crane and a road grader?”

  “Solon’s brought down some other Combat Command generals. There’s going to be a discussion of the endgame for the Ozarks.”

  “You’re invited?”

  “Xray-Tango got me in. Our brigade figures in on the plans, somehow, so it’s important enough for me to be there.”

  “Lucky you.”

  “Exactly what I was thinking.”

  The men were laid out before their tents along one of the cleared roads, six neat companies dressed according to height, in the wood-bark camouflage of AOT Combat Corps Light Infantry. Then there was Ahn-Kha’s scout-sniper platoon in boonie hats, scoped rifles slung. The other men wore coal-scuttle Kevlar helmets and trousers bloused into new boots. Finally, the headquarters and support company, larger than any of the others, badges on their shoulders indicating each soldier’s specialty. Nail’s Bears were among them in a hulking cluster, assault engineer patches on their shoulders.

  He had to hand it to the men running the AOT. What was requisitioned showed up, promptly and in the correct quantity. Very different from Southern Command, where if one put in a request for thirty assault rifles, in a month or two you might get a dozen rebuilt M-16s sharing space with a collection of deer rifles and Mini-14s with folding stocks.

  Valentine had already been trained on the guns they’d be issued. The cases of rifles were now waiting to have the Cosmoline cleaned from them. The arms-smith who’d briefed him and his senior NCOs on the long blue-black guns introduced them as “Atlanta Gunworks Type Three Battle Rifles.” The principal virtue of the “three-in-one” was its simplicity, but two features intrigued Valentine. With the addition of a bipod and a box magazine to replace the thirty-round magazine, they could do duty as a light machine gun. The interchangeable air-cooled barrel was a little nose-heavy, but the arms-smith showed him how veterans would balance it by adding a sandbag sleeve to the stock that also cushioned the shooter’s shoulder against the weapon’s kick. By swapping the regular barrel out for a match-grade version with flare suppressor, and adding a telescopic sight and adjustable stock, it made a formidable sniping rifle, throwing its 7.62mm bullet 1200 meters or more. He watched the arms-smith knock three 155mm shell casings off three posts at a thousand meters with three shots as a way of proving his point.

  Valentine stood in front of the men, with Styachowski on her crutches to the right, Post to the left. A pair of motorcycles came around the corner from the direction of the headquarters, followed by an enormous black something, as wide as a Hummer but higher. Valentine had never seen a prewar sport-utility vehicle in such good condition before. Another truck followed, this one roofless, various subordinate officers arranged in the open seating. A diesel pickup rigged with benches in the bed brought up the rear.

  The miniature column pulled up before Valentine’s battalion. The cyclists lowered their kickstands. Valentine tried to look into the restored black behemoth, but the windows were darkened to the point that nothing could be seen from the side. The passenger door opened, and a man hopped out.

  “Attend! Consul Solon is present.”

  A speaker on top of the SUV blared out an overamplified version of “Hail to the Chief” and Valentine stood at attention. The soldiers behind followed his example.

  There was something childlike about the Consul, though he had the lined skin of a man in his fifties. He had the delicate features of someone who has survived extreme malnourishment, or even starvation, as a child. Overwide eyes, sparse brown hair, and rather thin lips looked out from a fleshless face bobbing on a scarecrow frame wrapped in a heavy coat and muffler despite the warmth of the spring morning. Valentine had not seen many movies in his life, but there had been a theater in Pine Bluff that showed old pre-2022 films on some kind of projector, and Consul Solon reminded him of a character in an old Bogart picture called Casablanca. There was a wariness to the eyes that reminded Valentine of the black-and-white image of Peter Lorre looking around the café.

  Valentine took a single step forward, and Xray-Tango got out of the rear of the SUV. He trotted to join the little big man.

  “Consul Solon, this is Colonel Knox Le Sain. You’ll remember he and his troops were a godsend during the flood.”

  “Yes,” Solon said with a nod to Valentine. None of the other officers were saluting the civilian coat, so Valentine didn’t either. “The new battalion. You left the bayous for a healthier climate, as I hear it, Colonel. I like officers with initiative, Le Sain. I trust you’ll restrict yours in the future to carrying out orders, rather than inventing your own.” The Consul had a clipped manner of speaking, biting off the words. Solon’s retinue carried out a small portable microphone, and strung a wire from the SUV to power it.

  “Yes, sir,” Valentine said.

  He began introductions. Solon shook hands with Styachowski, thanking her for her injury sustained in saving the new capital of the Trans-Mississippi. He was polite with Post, but cut the interview short when Post hemmed and hawed out his respects. The lieutenants of each company stepped forward to meet him. Only one forgot himself so far as to salute Solon, but the Consul returned it in good humor.

  As Valentine walked him back to the mike, Solon raised an eyebrow. “You have a big Grog there, Colonel.”

  “He’s a good officer, Consul. Smart as a fox, and he tracks like a bloodhound. The men follow his orders.”

  “I’m not a fan of Grogs, Colonel. Putting them in any kind of position of responsibility, well, it’s like Caligula putting his horse into the Senate.”

  “He’s not like the gargoyles or the gray apes. He reads, writes and beats me at chess.”

  “Indulge yourself, then. But don’t allow him to issue orders. The Grogs
have no place in the Trans-Mississippi. There’s already trouble with them further north.”

  He stepped to the microphone and faced the men. Post returned to his place in front of the infantry companies, and Styachowski her spot before the headquarters company, Valentine halfway between the two.

  “Men of the Light Infantry Battalion, Third Division, Army of the Trans-Mississipi Combat Corps. Your comrades in arms welcome you. The civilized order you are part of thanks you. But before you can call yourself soldiers, with the pride and honor that title entails, you are required to take an oath to the Order I represent. Together we’ll build a happier and more hopeful world. Please raise your right hands and repeat after me—”

  Solon waited until he saw the hands in the air before continuing. Valentine spoke the empty words, listening to Ahn-Kha’s booming voice behind him. “I do now solemnly swear allegiance to the Articles of the Consular Law of the Trans-Mississipi Confederation, to guard its integrity, to obey the orders of those officers placed above me, and to hold it above my life and those of its foes, foreign or domestic, or all I am and hold will be forfeit, until I am released from duty or am parted from service in death.”

  Solon spoke the words well. “Congratulations, soldiers, and welcome to the privileges of your new position. General?”

  Another man stepped forward, part of Consul Solon’s entourage. Solon handed him the microphone. He had streaming gray hair tied in a loose ponytail, and the same blue-black uniform as the guard Valentine had seen outside the Reaper’s door, though his legs from polished boot-top to knee were wrapped in black puttees. The thinness of his legs and clear, hard eyes made Valentine think of some kind of predatory bird.”

  “Officers and men of the light infantry,” the man said. “I’m General Hamm, of the Third Division. I’m your new commanding officer. We’re the best division in the Trans-Mississippi, both now and once we’re through mopping up that hillbilly rabble.” Valentine wondered briefly how his hillbilly rabble felt about that choice of words. “You’ll find I expect a great deal, but when this is all over, you’ll get a great deal in return. In my old grounds in Texas, those who served me well in war found security in peace.