by E. E. Knight
“Quite a basement,” Valentine said to the doorman.
A man wearing the first true tuxedo Valentine had ever seen glided over to him. He had the coconut brown features of the subcontinent, and teeth as brilliantly white as his eyes. “Welcome, Colonel. I’ve been told of you and the service you did in the floods. Your first time here, yes?”
Valentine nodded.
“It was just a murky basement when I came here a year ago.”
“You got in early.”
“I’m an acquaintance of the good Consul’s from back east. He’s building a land of opportunity; when I heard his operations were a success, I was on the next train out of Baltimore. My name is Dom, and I’m pleased to meet you, Colonel. You are hungry, yes?”
“Yes,” Valentine said. “You must have been building this place while they were still fighting.”
“It is a principle of commerce as well as combat to get in first with the most. I’d like to think I’ve managed that. Your fellow officers wouldn’t think of going anywhere else for an evening out, or a celebration.”
“I can see why.”
Dom bowed, then turned to a screened-off corner to Valentine’s right. “Arsie, show Colonel Le Sain to General Hamm’s table, would you? You’re in luck, Colonel, you’ve got the best view of the floor from the whole restaurant. Enjoy your meal. If you wish to visit the gaming tables, they’ll close for an hour at nine for the show, then they’ll reopen.”
A tall woman, all chestunut hair and silken skin in a cocktail dress that complemented the décor, appeared at Dom’s side. Valentine saw a little tattoo of a faerie with heavy black eyeliner and lipstick winking out at him from her upper breast.
“Er, Dom, I haven’t—”
“None of that, Colonel. Everything but your table stakes and bar charges tonight are courtesy of Consul Solon; your liquor is being picked up by General Hamm. Convenient, yes? That just leaves gambling money, and your name is good here; just show your identification to the cashier, last alcove on the left. It’s as we’re welcoming you to the Combat Corps tonight. I understand your battalion was formally recognized this morning. Congratulations, Colonel. ‘Glory on your name, beauty on your arm, and a ring on your finger, ’ as they say. Speaking of beauty, Colonel Le Sain, I’d like you to meet Arsie, who’ll be your escort this evening.”
Valentine had sense enough, and joy-juice enough, to offer his arm. She was just an inch below Valentine’s six-two. The soberer part of him wondered if Dom paired the officers according to rank or height. “Nice to meet you, Arsie.”
“Congratulations, Colonel,” she said, taking him across the dance floor to a long table set so it had a central view of the stage. A few other officers and men, some escorted by Blue Dome girls, sat and stood around the finger food on trays there.
“There’s got to be a story behind your name, if you’ll pardon the phrase.”
“Ar Cee. Initials. RC.”
“Which is short for?”
“I don’t know. They said when I was a baby I was found in an old Royal Crown cola truck. You can say ‘Arsie’ if you like, Colonel.”
“Call me Knox, please.”
It was hard to tell just how false her smile was, but it did look a bit like the tattoo. “Thank you, Knox. Oh, you’ve got a stain on your shirt. Let me get some soda water,” she said, hurrying off to the bar.
“Colonel Le Sain, welcome,” General Hamm said, sitting at the end of the table with his boots up, stretching his stork-like legs. A purring, well-proportioned blonde was draped around his shoulders like a stole. “Old Extasy said you’d be coming. Welcome to the fun side of the Hard-Assed Third.” He introduced Valentine to a uniformed blur of colonels and majors; some he’d met that morning, and others were new faces. There was a civilian in the mix, a sleepy-eyed man in an open-necked white shirt and black trousers. Hamm introduced him as Captain Mantilla. “Mantilla is a good man to know, Colonel. He’s good at showing up where he’s needed with what’s needed. French wine, Italian clothing, Cuban tobacco, Mexican cabinetry, Belgian chocolate . . . he gets it all through connections down in New Orleans.”
“I supply the liquor for the Blue Dome,” Mantilla added, by way of proving his bona fides. He had fine whiskey lines about his hard eyes. “Unless you’re well connected down in Nawlins, you’d have to go to Chicago or LA to get a decent single malt or cognac. We’ve got it right on the other side of that bar.”
RC showed up with the soda water. She did what she could, using a table napkin Valentine wished he could use for bed linen, but the joy-juice resisted her efforts.
“Just stand close to me when we dance,” Valentine suggested.
“Of course,” she said.
“You’re from around Natchez?” Hamm asked.
“I’ve done time in New Orleans, too.” Valentine hoped any questions would fix on the latter; his year in the Quisling Coastal Marines would allow him to be conversant about its restaurants, bars and theaters.
“Don’t much care for bayou types,” Hamm said. “They don’t stick in a fight. Not like Texans or Sooners. But I’m prepared to wait and see, seeing as you’ve got some Indian in you.”
“Arsie’s got a shot at getting some Indian in her tonight,” a major guffawed.
RC waggled her eyebrows, and even Valentine had to laugh.
More food and drink arrived, and Valentine tore into pieces of steak served on thin iron spears, interspersed with vegetables on a bed of rice.
“The rice is native to your Trans-Mississippi,” Dom said, visiting the table to see that the party was progressing and noticing Valentine’s enthusiasm for the cuisine. “The vegetables come in from Missisisippi, since my usual sources in Texas are pricing themselves out of my reach at the moment. A tragedy, yes? The filet is from a friend’s estate in Iowa. He feeds his cattle on a mash of corn and beer, swears by it.”
“It is tender,” Valentine said. He finished a mouthful and RC wiped grease from his mouth with a napkin.
“You’ll need something to wash that down with, Colonel,” a colonel named Reeves said. “You still haven’t been initiated by the Division Cup.”
“By Kur, you’re right!” Hamm thundered. “The Division Cup! I brought it all the way here and forgot! Dom, brim it with hero’s brandy, would you?”
“Of course, General, but the show—”
“Hold the show, damn you.”
“Of course, yes, General.”
The Blue Dome’s owner returned with a silver two-handled loving cup. He presented it to the general, who took a sip, smacked his lips in approval, then passed it over to Valentine. Valentine looked at the cup, holding what looked to be a quart or so of liquor. The divisional insignia, a sneering, snorting donkey face with “Kickin’ Ass!” emblazoned beneath, was etched into the side.
“It’s not all brandy; there’s sweetwater mixed in,” Reeves assured him. “And a tab of Horny, to make sure you’re up for the evening.”
“You dosed it with Horny?” RC said. “I think I’m insulted, sir.”
Not just his fellow divisional officers, but also others looked at him expectantly. There was nothing to do but attempt it, New Order aphrodisiacs or no. He lifted the cup to his lips and drank. And drank. And drank. He felt it running out the sides of his mouth and joining the stains on his uniform shirt and tunic. The men began to pound on the table, chanting, “Kick . . . ass . . . kick . . . ass . . . kick . . . ass.”
It was empty. He crashed the cup back to the table hard enough to flip silverware over. The other officers applauded and cheered.
“Outstanding, Le Sain. Well done!”
The accolades whirled around his head as his stomach burbled its outrage. For a moment he was worried it would come back out faster than it went in, but through concentrated effort he kept it down.
RC kissed him on the earlobe. “Well done, Knox.” Valentine sat stupidly, staring at the band, which struck up a tattoo as a man in a red blazer appeared. His heart sounded louder than th
e big drum on the bandstand.
“Knox?” she said again, before Valentine realized she was talking to him. He tried to focus on her. “Knoooox!?”
“Yes?”
The man in the blazer must have told a joke; everyone was laughing. The band riffed.
“If you need to . . . hit the head, or whatever . . . it’s—”
“No, I’m fine,” Valentine said, fighting to make coherent conversation. “Warm in here, isn’t it?”
“If you need to cool off I’ve got good air on . . .”
The band drowned her out with a flourish, and two pairs of female dancers each stepped out from either side of the stage. They wore what Valentine guessed were once called biking shorts and sports bras. They started a hip-hop dance number to pre-2022 techno that seemed designed to make Valentine’s head throb. Valentine lapsed into silence and watched the girls through their routine, then some kind of magician came on stage and levitated a pair of them into a variety of pseudoerotic poses. RC gave the inside of his leg an exploratory squeeze.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” Dom said, taking the microphone from the blazered master of ceremonies when the magician and the girls had gone off stage and the hooting faded. “We’ve come to the highlight of our show. Returning to our stage, after a too-long absence, is someone I’m sure you all remember well. She needs no introduction, so just let me say . . . Miss Tanny Bright!”
The jazz band exploded into noise again.
A woman marched out onto the stage, smiling and confident, basking in the cheers, applause and wolf whistles from everyone but David Valentine.
He’d even forgotten the witch’s brew bubbling in his stomach in the shock of recognition.
Alessa Duvalier wore a stripper’s version of the TMCC uniform. A peaked hat was perched on her glorious red hair, tipped so far over it must have been held on with hair pins. Thick layers of stage makeup covered her freckles. She wore a choker with some kind of medal on it, and a sleeveless fatigue shirt cut away to reveal her midriff, held closed by two buttons struggling against her upthrust bosom. A uniform skirt, which ended about where her thighs began, was cut up each side to the web belt. Her stocking-clad legs and patent-leather shoes made the most of her toned limbs. She carried two sheets of flimsies in her hand.
“Oh, how I miss him,” she said, pretending to read the pieces of paper in her hands. “All I can think of is the last time we were together.”
She looked across the faces in the audience, found General Hamm’s eyes, and winked at him theatrically. The men guffawed, and Valentine heard twenty variants of “lucky bastard” muttered. She pretended to finish the letter. “And he’s coming home! To me!”
The trumpeter in the band let loose with something that sounded like a bugle call. Duvalier planted her fishnetted legs wide, held the papers to her bosom, and broke into a dome-raising song, set to a marching beat.
“My sweetheart’s slung his rifle
And marched away from me,
For duty sounds beyond my door
A call to destiny.
Waited true these lonely days
Until his letter came.
I saw the words: ‘My darling,
We’ll soon be one again!’ ”
It was a cheerful, upbeat song, and Duvalier marched across the dance floor, stepping high with her legs, swinging her arms in parody of a dress parade, touching and bouncing from man to man at the edge of the dance floor like a pool ball ricocheting across a billiard table. She ran her fingers up the arm of one, pressed her barely covered derriere against another, brushed a third’s hair with her breasts.
Valentine felt the Blue Dome grow warmer, brandy and lust heating his blood.
The other dancers came out on the stage for the chorus, costumed in variants of Duvalier’s getup. As they sang, she pretended to wipe the sweat from an officer’s brow with the fake letter crumpled in her hand.
She lingered at Valentine’s table, tousling the hair of each man as she continued the song. She sat on one’s lap and sang into his face, then moved on to Valentine. She wrapped her arms around him and nipped him on the ear as she thrust her hands into his tunic, unbuttoned by RC in her efforts to clean his shirt. Valentine noticed, when her arms came back out, that she only had one sheet of paper in her hand. She kicked up a leg and planted a foot on the table, and all eyes went to her as Valentine buttoned his tunic over the note.
She finished the last chorus of the song at General Hamm’s side, singing it to him. She hopped up on the table before him, feet planted wide to either side of his plate, joining the other dancers for the last chorus.
“Wait at the station
For the victory train.
We’ll run from the siding,
Dance up lovers’ lane,
Stroll along the river
Where first you became mine,
Lose all our worries
In my ring’s golden shine!
The general helped her down and gave her a lip-smacking kiss. Valentine winced, feeling like a man who has just come across his sister in a brothel. Jealousy and disgust, infinitely fouler and more upsetting than the brandy and sweetwater, swirled and bubbled within him.
She looked around the table. “Good evening, Captain Mantilla . . . who’s the new face?”
“Colonel Knox Le Sain.”
“You don’t like oldies, Colonel?”
“A bump and grind on top of my dinner puts me off my feed, funbunny,” Valentine said.
“Colonel,” Hamm growled. “I won’t have you talking about Tanny like that.”
“I’ll give him funbunny,” Duvalier said, reaching for a fork.
RC leaned forward. “The colonel just finished off the brandy in the Third Division Cup—and a tab of Horny. Cut him some slack, Ty.”
Valentine’s former mentor sat back down on Hamm’s lap. She didn’t flinch as Hamm rested his hand across her shoulder, fingertips touching her breast. Valentine looked away and back at the stage, nauseated.
“You’re in for a messy night,” Duvalier said, looking at RC.
“You never know,” Valentine’s escort answered.
“I am feeling a little—” Valentine began.
“I’ll get you some air,” RC said, as Valentine rose from his chair.
“No, I’m all right . . . or maybe not.” Valentine hurried for the exit. The furniture and décor were an unearthly primary swirl around him. He staggered past the doorman and up the stairs. . . .
When the paroxysm passed he found he was resting against a Dumpster, sweating like a pig and feeling like a small rubber duck floating in a very big lake. He looked around, and reached into his tunic to retrieve the handwritten note. By the blue light of the neon sign, he read Ali’s block-capital scrawl.
Must See You AM Good
Will be here one day more then to AFB
Love the (lack of) Hair
Meeyao
T
Apart from her creative spelling of “meow” it was pure Ali; short, to the point and equivocal in case it ended up in someone else’s hands. Much of his education in operating in the Kurian Zone had been from her; though she was just under his age, she had twice his experience as a Hunter. While he wondered if she really was good, he was certain the “AM” referred to A.M. AFB probably meant the old air force base to the north as her destination. Hamm had his headquarters there for the refit; Valentine had been told his battalion was to move north and join him in another week or so. Xray-Tango had promised him more time on the range to practice with the new rifles.
For Valentine, it could not come soon enough. He wanted out of the Kurian Zone; Southern Command needed the Quickwood.
“Feeling better, Knox?” a female voice asked from somewhere across the Missouri line. He dropped the note into the Dumpster, startling a rat sniffing at the vomitus within.
He turned, half expecting to see Ali, but it was RC, holding a hurricane glass full of bubbling water.
“I brought you some more sod
a. It’s good for more than just stains.”
“You always this nice?”
“Inside there? Yes.”
Valentine accepted the glass and took a mouthful. He spat it into the alley, then drank the rest.
“Better,” he said, handing it back to her.
“Is the air helping?”
“Yes. Sorry I’m not converstational. I need sleep.”
He couldn’t take his eyes from the shadowy vertical line between her breasts. Her chest was lovely, dark, and deep, but I have promises to keep, and miles to go . . .
She put a hand on his forearm and drew it from the Dumpster. “My room’s just around the corner. We could go up the back stairs.”
“Nice of you, but I just need to sleep.” If anything, she was more desirable in the muted light of the alley, every turning curve of skin a promise.
“Fine with me, Colonel. If I’m with you, I don’t have to make nice in there.”
Valentine looked at her, wondering if this was yet another Kurian Zone test or trap. What the hell.
“Lead on,” he said, holding out his hand.
She took him down the alley and around the corner to the back of the Blue Dome. They went up a wooden stairway, the timbers of which were bolted onto the building like an afterthought. She walked him down a long common balcony.
“Yes, oh man, oh baby, oh my, yes, do it!” A female voice drifted through one of the windows.
“I prefer ‘yes, do it, oh my, oh baby, yes,’ myself,” RC said, turning a knob on a windowless door.