Valentine's Rising

by E. E. Knight

  It took guts for Hanson to tell Valentine that he didn’t feel up to the job.

  “I’ll talk it over with her.”

  “Thanks, sir. We’ll get ’em firing again.”

  “I’ll talk to Beck about getting your ready magazine rebuilt.”

  “Yeah, it’s probably landing in Berlin right about now.”

  Valentine finished his walk of the perimeter. The men were in better spirits than he would have expected; killing the Reapers and resisting the probe had made them confident.

  What success they enjoyed should be shared with Beck’s defenses. There were clearings along the easier paths up the hill for open fields of fire, and a series of foxholes and trenches, many lined with logs, for the men to do their shooting. They were still digging dugouts for the men to wait out shellfire, adding interconnecting trenches and access to the flatter hilltop so the men could bring food and water forward safely, and laying mines and wire along likely alleys of approach. Valentine saw one of Kessey’s—now Hanson’s—forward observers teaching the other soldiers the defensive fire mission zones. With the use of a simple code word, they could call in mortar fire on their attackers.

  He returned to the headquarters building, and asked around for Styachowski. She was in her usual spot, beneath the speaker in the radio lounge, eating a bowlful of rice and milk. Her skin had that translucent look to it again; she’d been pushing herself too hard.

  “What is that?” Valentine asked.

  “Rice pudding. Narcisse made it.”

  “Don’t you ever sleep? You were up all last night.”

  “Listening to the radio is like sleep. I can zone. What I really need is food.”

  “I’d still rather see you flat on your back.”

  “Major, under the Uniform Code, I believe you’ve just made a sexual suggestion.”

  Valentine snorted. “That’s not what I meant and you know it.”

  “I was trying to make a joke. You look like you need one.”

  “Hank Smalls is missing. Since last night. Hanson sent him with a message . . . He never came back.”

  “A Reaper?”

  “Could be. We never knew how many they sent in, just how many we killed. Poor kid.”

  “And naturally you’re blaming yourself.”

  Valentine left that alone. “I did dig you up for a reason,” he said. “I need your help. How would you like a change of duty?”

  She brightened visibly. “The Bears? I know Lieutenant Nail’s hurt again—”

  “Sorry. Hanson isn’t confident in his ability to run the battery. I want to put you in charge of it.”

  Styachowski pursed her lips. “I only know mortars.”

  “But you know the theory, right?”

  “Of course.”

  “You’ve done everything I’ve asked you. You can do this, too. Those guns have to be kept good and lethal. They’re the reason the Quislings are all corked up.”

  “Major Valentine, I’ve got a question for you, if you don’t mind.”

  “Shoot.”

  “Last night, you sent me down into the communications bunker. That’s the safest place on this hill. Even a Reaper would have trouble clawing through that door Solon had put in. Why did you want me there of all places?”

  “I notice you didn’t stay. You’re my second in command. I couldn’t risk us both being killed.”

  “I’ll take over the battery if you take my place in the headquarters. I heard what you did last night, running around in the dark with Reapers everywhere. I’ve been scared all day thinking about it.”

  “Are you afraid of having to take command?”

  “Not that. I—”

  “Courier, Major Valentine,” a staff soldier called. “A courier’s come in. She’s asking for you, and she said for you to hurry.”

  “She?”

  “Yes, popped up on the west side. Pretty gal, red hair, says she’s your mama but she’s too young for that. I think she climbed the cliff, just like the Reapers.”

  “Where is she?”

  “Eating in the main galley.”

  “Thanks.” Valentine turned to Styachowski. “Sounds like we’re getting intelligence. Want to come?”

  “For news? Naturally.”

  They found Alessa Duvalier shoveling rehydrated scrambled eggs into her mouth. She had changed into an outfit Valentine knew as her “traveling clothes.” She wore a long, deep-pocketed riding coat, wide-brimmed hat, hiking boots and a backpack blanket-roll combination.

  “Hello, Ali. Tired of the showgirl routine?” He and Styachowski sat down opposite her. The cook brought a plate of fried potatoes and Duvalier loaded them with salt before digging in.

  “They’ve got you boxed in tight here, Val. I had to wade across a swamp to even get to that damn cliff. This sort of reminds me of the day we met.”

  She still had her fast, deft hands, now working knife and fork instead of tying dressings. Both of them had added a few pounds since then. They shared a smile at the memory.

  “Then it must be important.”

  “First, Hamm’s back in town with his whole division. Another is moving for Pine Bluff. They won’t be there for a couple days maybe; bad roads, guerillas, mines and no rail. Hamm’s going to be going across the river in small boats to get south.”

  “You’re not going along?” Valentine asked.

  “He’s always been unpleasant. Last night he was a bastard. Mean as a stuck pig. The Trans-Mississipi is crashing down around his ears, he’s angry at everyone. Executed a junior officer himself.”

  “Anything from us?”

  “Yes. Two days ago a Cat came in from Mantilla. He got your answer, and it’s in this letter.” She reached into her coat. “What good can come of it beats me. We had to run risks to get this to you. Hope it was worth it.”

  Valentine opened the envelope and looked at the page. A few bare paragraphs, handwritten, told him what he suspected.

  “Where are you off to, Duvalier?”

  “South. Every Cat’s on the hunt for Solon. He was supposed to be assassinated at the outset of all this, but the Cat shadowing him missed. He disappeared and the Cat’s dead.”

  “Damn. Hamm’s division is moving on too?”

  “He was supposed to dust you off this hill cheap. They were supposed to take you out while the Reapers were up here causing trouble, but there was some screw-up at headquarters. Only half his division got here in time. The Ks lost a lot of Reapers. I think they’re gonna blame him.”

  “What happened that made you choose last night to leave?”

  Duvalier’s eyes shifted to her eggs. She added more salt. “He said something about wanting to climb this hill and piss on your body. Accused me of sneaking with you. I think I was going to be arrested. When he went to the CP, I took off; around morning I came up on some pickets along the old interstate north of you. They were talking about how you were still up there. Thought I might as well deliver the message before moving on.”

  “And check to see if I was still breathing?”

  “I brought you along as a Cat. Call it a family interest. Hope the packet helps.”

  “Your soaking was worthwhile. What’s your opinion on Xray-Tango?”

  She shrugged. “Typical high-ranking goon. I did hear a rumor from Hamm. The Reapers took his wife away some years back. They thought she was a Cat.”

  “Remember our Invocation? The blood in our palms?”

  Duvalier scrunched up her eyebrows. “Yes. Of course.”

  “Wonder if that’s what passed on our abilities. Something in the bloodstream. Maybe she somehow passed on some abilities to him.”

  “I don’t know Lifeweaver technomagic. Hope it’s not something that would show up on some kind of blood test. Might make it easier for them to find us.”

  “Perish the thought,” he said.

  She finished her meal and drummed her fingers on the table, so fast each tap combined into a single dull noise. “Sorry I can’t be more helpf
ul. Don’t try to figure Quislings, especially high-ranking ones. Might as well try to win over a scorpion.”

  Valentine took his eyes away from her hands. “Feel free to load up with whatever you need. I’d like to ask one more favor of you, though.”

  “What would that be?”

  “The sound of your voice.”

  It felt a little like a producer doing radio theater that night. Valentine, Styachowski, Jimenez and Duvalier were crammed into the little room, each holding a page of notes. Jimenez twiddled the dials.

  “We’re on TMCC New Columbia band now,” Jimenez said.

  “Contact GHQ New Columbia, do you read? Over,” Jimenez said. There was a pause of just a moment.

  “GHQ here, reading five-five,” the speaker crackled back.

  “I have priority com from Colonel Le Sain on Big Rock Mountain to General Hamm. He requests that the general come to the mike, wishes to discuss terms of surrender, over.”

  “Nulton, cut the crap,” the voice said.

  “Check your RDF and signal strength,” Jimenez said. “I’m just up the hill from you, over.”

  Valentine pressed the transmit trigger. “This is Colonel Le Sain, boy. Get the general to the radio rikki-tik, would you? Standing by.”

  “Ack—acknowledge,” the voice responded.

  Jimenez cut the static as they waited.

  “You really think turning this into a soap opera will work?” Duvalier said.

  “Life’s been hard on him lately. I want to make it all my fault,” Valentine said.

  The minutes passed. “This is Stanislaw, GHQ New Columbia, with General Hamm online. Do you read, over?”

  “Zippety do-dah,” Duvalier said. “He went for it.”

  “Colonel Le Sain here. Put the general on the phone.”

  “I’m here, you turncoat,” Hamm’s voice cut in. “They said you wanted to do a deal.”

  “Yes. I’m in charge of guerrilla activity north of the river. I’m in a position to accept your surrender.”

  “Drop dead, dunk. Signing off.”

  “Any unarmed man who comes up the switchback road will be taken prisoner, no reprisals.”

  “Le Sain, if you called me here to joke around—let me tell you my terms.”

  “Hey, Hambone,” Duvalier cut in. “Guess who this is?”

  There was static at the other end.

  “Yes, sir, I’m up here, too. You were right about one thing, Knox and I had a little fling. He’s a man with a future, treats me good, and you know what they say about Indian guys—”

  “Get stuffed.”

  Duvalier checked her notes. “I told him all about you, Hambone. To all those out in radio land, tune in at oh-one-hundred for a detailed description of just how pathetic General Hamm is in bed, complete with what he begged me to do to him. Sorry, General, Knox said this was just too good to keep from the world. We had quite a laugh.”

  There was no response. Styachowski took over the microphone, and Jimenez switched it to a different frequency.

  “This is Ozark Central Command. Ozark Central Command to all stations. Latest intelligence has Third Division moving south of the river. Activate Zones Nuthatch and Finch, alert Jay and Crane. Authentication Z-4, repeat Z-4, P-9, repeat P-9. Signing off.”

  Jimenez killed the transmitter as she finished the farrago of nonsense.

  “That’ll give him something to chew on,” Styachowski said, looking over at Duvalier.

  “I hope he chokes on it,” she said.

  Valentine put Duvalier in his room, ordering her to get some sleep before her after-midnight broadcast. “Makes me feel like a whore, but if you think it’ll help,” she said, as Valentine transcribed a few bedroom details about General Hamm. Valentine wrote it so there were five minutes of gossip, then a teaser for the next night’s performance, describing what Hamm liked to do to elicit an erection.

  Then he had the observers fire a star shell above the river while the moon was down. There was no sign of boat activity; the Third Division showed a lot of activity in its posts.

  He gathered Styachowski, Post and Beck for a late-night briefing.

  “I want us to be extra alert this morning. Anyone else noticed an increase in activity?” Valentine asked.

  “Yes, spotters saw a ferry shuttling back and forth upriver in the last four days,” Styachowski said.

  “I’d rather have that division busy with us than moving down to Hot Springs,” Valentine said. “Earlier this evening we stuck a couple of banderillas in Hamm. Tonight Smoke is going to wave the red cape. He might charge at dawn.”

  “With the division?” Beck said.

  “That’s my guess. He’ll try to overwhelm us. Captain Post, get every man you can into your line, but quietly. Captain Beck, I want you in the western command post. Send out pickets to listen—again, quietly.”

  “Yes, sir,” Beck and Post said.

  “Styachowski, have all your gun crews ready. Good people on the mortars; we’ll be dropping shells close to our lines.”

  “I’ll have everyone on station at 3 A.M.”

  “Major Valentine, report to the radio room, please,” the PA blatted.

  “Excuse me, please,” Valentine said.

  He made his way down the hall and to the stairs. There were crowds of men in the radio lounge, grinning and joking.

  “Sir, we’re going to be on the news,” a private said.

  “Really? Well, by God, we should be. You’re causing Kur a lot of grief, for only fourteen hundred men. We’re tying down something like ten thousand, you know.”

  “Go tell the Spartans,” a better-read soldier commented quietly to a friend, but Valentine’s ears picked it up anyway.

  Valentine went down to the radio room, where Jimenez’s relief was at the headset.

  “I’ve got Baltic League on shortwave, sir. They’re doing the news. In the news summary they mentioned us, and we’re about to catch the repeat broadcast.”

  “Pipe it up, good and loud. Hell, put it on the loudspeakers.”

  “. . . in the Caucasus continues,” the vaguely English-accented voice announced. “Another Kurian Lord in the Rhone Valley went the way of his cousin last month when humanist guerillas seized his chateau, proving that the flames of resistance still burn in Western Europe. This is Radio Baltic League, broadcasting in the first language of freedom to humanity’s patriots around the Baltic and around the globe, finishing the European part of the broadcast. Turning to America, an update on the news flash earlier. We have more details from Southern Command in the Ozark Mountains, lately the scene of heavy fighting. General Martinez reports that forces in his organization infiltrated, seized, and destroyed a major supply base on the Arkansas River, formerly the city of Little Rock. For those of you mapping at home, that’s a major red-white-and-blue flag for our Cause. General Martinez’s command has guns on a nearby hill commanding the entire town, and recently sank river traffic moving to resupply the forces engaged with Southern Command on the South Arkansas Front. He reports that the senior officer on the scene in command of the guns, Lieutenant Colonel Kessey, was wounded in the action, but has hopes for her speedy recovery. Congratulations to the daring and resourceful general, this morning’s broadcast is in tribute to you and your men fighting on the Arkansas. Turning to other news from America, with spring coming to the Green Mountains and the Saint Lawrence Seaway—”

  Valentine forced a smile across his face and went up into the radio lounge. The men gathered there looked like they’d been slapped.

  “What the hell was that, sir?”

  “Yeah, Major, that ain’t right.”

  Valentine looked around. “What part isn’t right? Did they get the location wrong?”

  “No . . . no . . .”

  “The lieutenant colonel is dead, but you can’t expect them to know that detail. I’ve only just reported it.”

  “It’s not that sir,” Sergeant Hanson said. “They didn’t mention you. Valentine’s Razors. We’
re the ones that done it. Martinez, he’s—”

  “He’s in charge of the central part of Arkansas. I send my reports to him, and he communicates them to Southern Command. They don’t know everything that happened in his camp yet.”

  “But it’s not right for him—” Hanson persisted.

  “Sergeant, let’s try to stay alive until this is over. They’ll get the story right. It just takes some time. Get some food and rest, men. We might be busy tomorrow morning.”

  The next morning, they came in fire and thunder.

  Duvalier’s short broadcast gave the men a chuckle before they crept into Beck’s fortifications. Soldiers always enjoyed a general getting his ego pricked.

  The harassing fire started at three A.M., the mortars on Pulaski Heights peppering the whole hilltop with shells. Most of the men were in their trenches and posts, and those who weren’t underground ran to safety in a hurry.

  Valentine participated in the battle from the basement of one of the smaller buildings on the hilltop, between the gun pits and the western command post. All he saw of it was shellfire, all he heard of it was over scratchy field phone lines.

  The men on Pulaski Heights came first. They’d obviously been given orders to pressure them with a river crossing, to look as if the attack were going to come by water. Styachowski dropped a few flechette shells among their boats, and the Quislings thought again about sacrificing their lives just to draw the attention of the artillery.

  The listeners returned to their lines before light, with reports of men coughing, swearing and giving quiet orders. Beck ordered his handful of claymores—mines that swept the ground before a position with bursts of dartlike fragments like an enormous shotgun shell—placed above where they were concentrating.

  When dawn came the artillery started. The divisional artillery was on the other side of Park Hill; Valentine wished he had a few trained men and a radio somewhere with a view. If Southern Command saw fit to send him a company or two of Wolves and a Bear team—