Valentine's Rising

by E. E. Knight

  “What about the security guards?” Lieutenant Zhao asked, extending the metaphor.

  Valentine tapped the corner of the map showing the Kurian Tower. “You don’t have to worry about that. It’s my job. Even if we don’t get him, we should be able to stop him from coming after you with the Hoods.”

  Styachowski’s face went blank. She would assume command of the operation if something happened to Valentine’s group. “Okay, our train up to the front is in two days. Those of you on the train detail, watch them send out the train north tomorrow morning. See where the guards are. They’ll be expecting spectators; it’s the first train to cross the bridge. Be sure to cheer your lungs out as it goes over.”

  The meeting dispersed, but one soldier waited outside with the patience of a plowhorse. Jefferson, the Texas teamster, smoked a cigarette wrapped up in the distinctive gray-green paper of a discarded New Universal Church Guidance propaganda sheet.

  “You had something for me, sir?”

  “Two things, Jefferson. First, these.” Valentine handed him a half dozen of the boxes of cigars he’d acquired from Mantilla in a waterproof canvas pocket. Jefferson smelled the tobacco as though it were a bouquet of roses.

  “Thank you, sir.” The teamster couldn’t keep his eyes from narrowing in suspicion, though.

  “You’re right, Jefferson, it’s a last favor. You’ve gone above and beyond the past couple of months. You were just supposed to get the wagons safely to a Southern Command outpost, and ever since the ambush outside of Bern Woods you’ve been running with us. Time for you to go home. If you’d like to try, that is.”

  As Jefferson smiled, Valentine could see the spaces where the Quislings had knocked out teeth. “I sure would. But I want to be here for this fight.”

  “Sorry. I’m giving you my horse, a TMCC map and a courier warrant clearing you to Hot Springs. One favor, though. I’ve got some papers I’d like you to drop off with Colonel Meadows at Bullfrog’s Station. Can you find it again?”

  “Easy enough, if I’ve got the right ID.” Valentine liked the cheery confidence in his voice.

  “You can leave whenever you like, but the sooner, the better.”

  Jefferson took a long drag on the homemade cigarette, muscles at the corners of his mouth working.

  “Out with it, Jefferson.”

  “You got some good men here, sir. I hate to leave them if a fight’s in the cards. Feels too much like running.”

  “It’s not Texas’ fight.”

  “There’s a lot who think that way. I’m not one of them.”

  Valentine offered his hand. “Jefferson, get to Meadows and you’ll have done more for what’s coming than a whole company of riflemen. And when you get back to Texas . . . there’s no way I can make this official, but any pressure that could be brought to bear on Oklahoma or Dallas . . . it’ll help us if they start screaming to have their troops returned.”

  “I’m a Ranger teamster, not a general.”

  “Jefferson, I’ll write up a promotion for you to lieutenant in Southern Command. That’ll make you an official emissary, if you think that’ll help.”

  “It might at that.” Jefferson tried a salute on for size. “Thank you, sir.”

  Valentine touched his eyebrow in return. “Take good care of that horse. He’ll get you there.”

  With the paperwork done, Jefferson rode out after the midday meal. Afternoon gave way to a warm evening; spring was truly on the way. Valentine and Ahn-Kha sat on mats on the floor of his tent, playing mahjong with the pieces Carrasca had painted for him.

  “It’s a good plan, my David. Stop chewing on it and swallow.”

  “I feel like I’m making a mistake. I’m basing this on Solon’s reaction. Suppose he just cordons us off and lets us sit?”

  “Maybe we’ll catch him in his hole.”

  “He’s off to Pine Bluff, trying to hurry up the rail gangs and get his precious airfield built. Don’t know why, since there aren’t any airplanes to bring in. Then it’s down to Hot Springs to see how the relocation of TMCC headquarters is coming.”

  “He doesn’t want to put too many eggs in any one state, I notice,” Ahn-Kha said, removing a green dragon pair.

  “I shoulda seen that coming,” Valentine said.

  “Colonel! Colonel!” someone shouted from outside.

  Valentine stood in a smooth motion, as if he’d been pulled up by wires. He went to the tent flap.

  “Yes, Yvaro?”

  “There’s been . . . Sergeant M’Daw, he’s stabbed, on the edge of camp. I think he’s dying.”

  The night turned cold and unfriendly. What in God’s name? With Boxcars so close he’d been having M’Daw watched. Valentine still wondered if he wouldn’t return to his old allegiance when the time was right.

  “Ahn-Kha, tell Lieutenant Nail about this, and have him bring a stretcher. Let’s treat him here. Okay, Yvaro, what happened?”

  “He’d turned in for the night. I thought so, anyway. Then I hear a shout from the latrine. It was him, and I ran over and saw him. Someone stuck him in the back with one of those wooden spears the Smalls made.”

  “Your breath smells like coffee,” Valentine said. “You got a cup to help you through the watch, I suppose.”

  “How—yes, sir, sorry sir.”

  “Just take me to M’Daw. We’ll worry about it later.”

  Valentine ran to the NCO latrine and showers. The men still lived in tents, but Valentine saw to it they had huts for shower and privy. The corporal panted, trying to keep up with Valentine.

  M’Daw was unconscious. He lay behind the showers. He’d pulled out the spear and lost a lot of blood. Soldiers were gathered around, and one had a bloody dressing held tight against M’Daw’s lower back. Across the mounds of rubble, the lights of the other installations of New Columbia were alive. Valentine did a quick search from the top of a ruined wall, but whoever had stabbed him could easily get away without being seen among the smashed buildings.

  Hank Smalls ran up one of the hills toward the camp, crying. Blood ran from his nose and drops covered the front of his shirt.

  “Hank!” Valentine called.

  “Captain!” Hank sobbed, sinking to his knees.

  “Raintree,” Valentine called over his shoulder to one of the medics. “Help me here. It’s the boy.”

  Valentine went to his knees and hugged Hank. The boy was a sniveling mess.

  “Sir, my folks are running. Decided to run and tell the others about y’all. I din’t know about it. Mister M’Daw tried to stop him and Pa stuck him.”

  Good God. We’re dead.

  “Where’s he gone?”

  “They want to turn you in. Did I do right?”

  Valentine couldn’t tell a boy that turning in his parents was the right thing to do, no matter the circumstances. Even as his mind regained its equilibrium, he grew angry with himself for not just telling the Smalls the whole truth. They knew he was lying. They’d just misinterpreted his lies.

  “If you thought it was right, it was right. This is important, Hank; do you know where they were headed?”

  Hank rubbed his eyes and climbed a mound of concrete to get a better view. He held a reinforcing rod and pointed.

  Please don’t let it be the Kurian Tower, Valentine prayed.

  “That building.”

  Valentine followed Hank’s finger. He was pointing at Xray-Tango’s headquarters.

  “Raintree, get Hank and M’Daw to the first aid tent. Do what you can for both of them.”

  Valentine had learned to run and think in his years with the Wolves. He ran to his tent, grabbed his gunbelt, and stuck his fighting claws in the cargo pockets in his pants. He took up the flash-bangs and his bolo knife, putting the first in his pocket and the second on his belt. What else, what else? He grabbed a few pieces of wax-paper-wrapped gum from the little box of luxuries beside his bed.

  As he pulled his tunic back on, Ahn-Kha, Post, Styachowski, Nail and assorted faces gathered outside h
is tent, all in various states of undress.

  “What’s going on, sir?” Post, a flare gun in his hand, asked as he emerged.

  “We’ve set a new record for things going wrong in an operation. It’s started to fail thirty-six hours before the jump-off hour. Our masquerade is over.”

  “Miracle it lasted as long as it did,” Nail said.

  “No miracle,” Narcisse said, appearing from the darkness. “Magic of the right hand.”

  Valentine took the gun and a satchel of flares from Post. “We’re going to start Boxcars in thirty minutes; you all are going to be occupied. First thing is to get everyone up and ready. Don’t go yet. I’ve got to run down a renegade. I’m taking Ahn-Kha. If you see a red flare from Xray-Tango’s headquarters, we’re aborting; head west into the mountains and do your best. A green flare from the Kurian Tower means commence Boxcars. Just hit whatever you can as soon as you can. Nail, your team has farthest to go, get your team to Alpha and I’ll catch up. I’ve got to go confuse the issue. Post, get the pikes and stabbing spears, and the spare guns; I hope we’ll need them. Make sure Ahn-Kha’s platoon gets to the ferry. Styachowski, set up operational HQ at Alpha. You’re in charge. Remember, red, run; green, go.”

  “Make it a go, sir, I’ve been running for near a year now,” Hanson said.

  “You’re the best hope of the Ozark Free Territory. Act like it.” Valentine gave them all a salute. “Ahn-Kha, let’s go. Good luck, everyone.”

  The Golden One slung Valentine’s old PPD—Ahn-Kha had made a few hundred Mauser reloads for it by hand—and trotted into the darkness.

  “By now Smalls has had time to tell his story,” Valentine said as they ran together, Ahn-Kha moving at his Grog canter using both hands and feet. “Xray-Tango’s been woken up. Will they come for me or call an alert?”

  “They’ll ask Smalls more questions.”

  “Hope I can get there before Xray-Tango makes any decisions.”

  Ahn-Kha slipped the red flare into the gun as they approached the old bank. “My David, let’s just fire this. We can get away clean into the hills. Much better off than when we walked up to the Ruins. We’ll still cause them trouble in the mountains.”

  “Old horse,” Valentine said, sticking a piece of chewing gum in his mouth. “I want them mad as hornets. I want Solon so peeved that he won’t rest until I’m hanging from a gallows. I don’t want to just be a distraction; I want to be an obsession. Put a green flare in. I’ll be out in a couple of minutes.”

  Valentine left Ahn-Kha well hidden with a view of the headquarters building. With the gum softened he pulled it out of his mouth, shaped it and stuck a piece in each ear. He trotted out to the street, and came up to the guards in front of the building.

  “Did some civvies just run in here? Man and a woman?” he asked the corporal.

  “Yes, Colonel Le Sain, they—”

  “Thank God. They don’t come out the door, and if you see them climb out the windows, you shoot.”

  “Uhhh—”

  “Surround the headquarters with your men. Right now, Corporal. I don’t want them getting away with this.”

  Valentine ran up the stairs and into the light of the headquarters. One of Xray-Tango’s staff had a field phone to his ear. He tapped the lieutenant on the shoulder.

  “Yes, a security detail. Something’s—” the man began, and then turned, recognizing him. “Just a moment,” he said to the phone.

  “There’s been a murder in my camp. A sergeant is dead. I need to find General Xray-Tango.”

  “Downstairs, Colonel. Ummm . . . a man and a woman came in . . . it’s rather confused, sir. You’re to be taken for questioning.”

  “I’ve got some angry answers. Where are the Smalls?”

  “Downstairs, with . . . Wait, sir, you can’t go down there with your weapons.”

  Valentine took off his pistol belt and hung it on the chair in front of the lieutenant. “Easily done. Send the security detail downstairs, too, there’s someone I want arrested.”

  He didn’t wait for any more protests. He descended the stairs and listened for voices in the quiet of the basement offices. Even through gum-clogged ears he could hear questions and crying coming from a room down the hall, in a different direction from the one where he had his conversation with Mu-Kur-Ri’s avatar. A military policeman stood outside the door.

  “That was quick work,” he said, looking behind Valentine expectantly.

  Valentine advanced on him. “Sorry, Corporal, I beat the detail here. Where’s that renegade, Smalls? I want you to put him under arrest for murder.”

  “He’s being questioned now. Wait, sir, you can’t—”

  “You’re under arrest,” Valentine said. “Insubordination, for a start.” The corporal shrank back as if Valentine had waved a hot poker at him.

  The Smalls were already under what might be called intensive questioning. They sat in chairs, side by side, in a darkened room with a bright light shining on them from a desk set in the center of the room. Their questioners stood with backs to Valentine. He could see blood on Mrs. Smalls’ hands and frock, the fear in Mr. Smalls’ eyes at events spinning out of control.

  An MP, three officers, Xray-Tango and the Smalls. Seven.

  “Now it’s not just Le Sain, it’s the whole battalion? Seven hundred men?”

  “Horseshit!” Valentine roared, unscrewing the bottom of his flash-bang. The trigger button popped out. Armed. “You left something behind, Smalls. Take a look, everyone.”

  “Le Sain, what—” Xray-Tango began, but Valentine shouldered his way through the questioners, pushing the general up against a wall, and slammed the flash-bang down on the table—triggering the button on the bottom. Three seconds.

  The top was hand-painted with a vintage nude. Marilyn Monroe knelt against a red satin background, her arms behind her head, back arched, milky breasts lifted, a go-for-broke smile on her face.

  He swung toward Xray-Tango, turning his back on Marilyn. He shut his eyes and shoved his hands in his pockets. “General, I’d like—” he said, and clapped his hands over Xray-Tango’s ears.

  Crack!

  It wasn’t a concussive explosion—more like someone loosing both barrels of a twelve-gauge—though even outdoors it left unprotected ears ringing. In the confines of the underground room the noise hit like a hammer blow. Even worse was the flash. Through his screwed-shut eyes Valentine still saw orange. Valentine popped Xray-Tango between the eyes with a strong jab. As the general’s head thunked against the wall like a tossed coconut he followed through with a body blow to the solar plexus. Xray-Tango let loose with an asthmatic gasp and folded. Valentine slipped on his fighting claws.

  He waded into the stunned Quislings. They were staggering around in ululating confusion, a six-player game of blind-man’s bluff held under the influence of bad LSD. The confusion turned to screaming when Valentine opened the first throat with his claws. The questioning officer had caught himself in a corner. Valentine dug his claws into each side of the man’s neck and pulled. The blood of opened arteries went everywhere. He raked another across the kidneys. The man went spinning in shrieking pain into Smalls, knocking both to the floor. Mrs. Smalls could still see; she turned her face from her husband to see Valentine advancing on her.

  “You—not—no,” she cried, more or less able to see what was coming.

  He caught her with an elbow in the temple, and she sagged. He stabbed her husband in the Adam’s apple, driving the extra-long straight middle claw into his voice-box. Maybe the Reaper would be in a forgiving mood, and delay killing him until he could tell the story in a few weeks.

  But he doubted it.

  It was awful, and it took too long.

  Valentine looked around the abattoir. The knocked-over desk lamp illuminated walls splattered with blood, a floor painted in black and red depending on the fall of the light. The man with the slashed kidneys still twitched, in too much pain to rise again.

  “General,” Valentine said
, lifting Xray-Tango to his feet. “General!”

  “Spots. Alls I seeze spots,” he said, drunkenly.

  Valentine shook him in frustration.

  “Scottie! Scottie!” he barked.

  “Huh? Le Sain, what the hell—” The general’s face fell into limp horror as he picked out a few details of the room with his damaged retinas.

  “Everything the Smalls said is true. I’m a soldier with Southern Command. It’s a rising, all over the TM,” Valentine said, exaggerating the last a little. “I want you to join us. Fight the Reapers, instead of feeding them.”

  “God, the blood—”

  “What’ll it be, General? Fight or feed?”

  “Ouch, you’re hurting me, dammit.”

  Valentine felt a Reaper coming. Coming in anger, coming in fury, coming in haste.

  “No time, General.”

  “Good God, they’re all dead.”

  Coming fast.

  “With me, General. You back me up, or I’ll kill you. Give me that!”

  Valentine gripped the pistol being taken from the general’s holster. It turned into a wrestling match—which he had no time for. He raked his claws across the generals forearm, opening skin. The pistol came free. Valentine kicked it away, slipping off his claws.

  He retrieved the gun, a standard KZ officer’s revolver, rugged and reliable. He pulled back the hammer; the click sounded muted to his recovering ears.

  “Out the door. I want you in front of me if anyone’s shooting.”

  He heard banging somewhere below. In the direction of the Reaper. Locked in an underground chamber? “In case of emergency, wake the vampire”?

  Xray-Tango poked his head into the hallway. Neither bullet nor Reaper claw removed it.

  “It’s clear. Don’t get nervous, that thing triggers easy.”

  “Hurry, there’s a Reaper coming.”

  “Jesus.”

  “The stairs. The gun stays pointed up as long as you keep quiet.”

  Valentine took a good two-handed grip on the gun. He heard a door give way and shoved the general with his shoulder. “It’s coming. Upstairs! Upstairs!”