Baltic Gambit

by E. E. Knight

  She was right under a skylight, too, so on impossibly hot summer nights she could escape to the roof and sleep in the open air. Gamecock, the Bear commander who’d made a couple of good-natured passes at her, joked that she was going to roll off one night and suggested that she tie a safety line around her waist. He’d even help with the knot… .

  She liked to take a little food and a big glass of milk up on the roof and watch the goings-on in the main house. She wasn’t exactly prying—she just had spent so much time as an observer, watching the action through a window and trying to piece together what was happening.

  She cleaned herself up, then popped her head through the skylight. Sure enough, Lambert was still in her office, tunic off and hung on a hook in the wall. Knowing Lambert, Duvalier figured she probably ran a hot iron over the tunic quickly before hanging it up, just in case. She threw on fresh underwear and a shirt and strolled over to the headquarters for the promised chat. There were rumors that Lambert was expanding her staff to help cover the greater number of sub-posts reporting to Fort Seng. She hoped she wouldn’t be asked to serve at headquarters rather than in the field. Headquarters meant people, and people meant annoyance. She’d rather be in the boonies working alone.

  The colonel had a private office, too. It had probably once been a dressing room or something in the lavish house. There was a tall window and a mirrored wall opposite the desk. A carpenter had put up organization shelves and bins for a collection of pre-2022 reference books. The mirror had delicate etching in it, curlicues of burnished, softened black running around the edges. The other wall, opposite the mirror, had a large map of Eastern North America on a pinboard to better hold the myriad of colored pins designating known concentrations of Kurian Zone forces.

  Lambert was studying a map. “Just a sec,” she said, making a note. When she finished, she returned the pencil neatly to a small tray—she had two, one for pens and one for pencils of various colors—and looked at the rather ragged Cat sitting across the desk from her.

  “I like the new towels in the bathroom,” Duvalier said, by way of starting a friendly chat.

  “There’s an amazing little market that’s sprung up on the Evansville riverbank. All sorts of people with little barges of goods. One of the staff, Barranco, enjoys visiting it and found them for us. Dirt cheap.

  “We’ve been tearing through the documents you brought out of the conference. It’s interesting stuff, all about defensive arrangements should the Kentucky Free Zone make a move north, east, or south. They seem to think the next most likely target is Memphis, in cooperation with Southern Command.”

  “Is it?” Duvalier asked.

  “It might be if I were our esteemed commander in chief, General Martinez. As I’m not, it’s anyone’s guess. The Kentuckians have had enough fighting these past couple of years; they’re just trying to organize what they’ve won, and Southern Command seems to have fallen into a military funk. Right now they’re fighting over force drawdowns more than they’re fighting the Kurians.”

  Duvalier didn’t really follow politics, but the Free Republics must be pretty sure of themselves if they were returning troops to civilian life.

  “What did you need?”

  “I’d like to hear again how you came across these.”

  Duvalier retold the story. She was pretty sure she’d put it in her report, but she hated paperwork, and the events at the stables didn’t have much to do with the operation against the hotel one way or another.

  “Okay, we can be pretty sure they aren’t deliberate misinformation, then. Your colonel was well away from the fighting.”

  “And trying to get farther,” Duvalier said.

  “There is one interesting tidbit in there. You know there’s a big all-freehold conference coming up this summer.”

  “Ummmm, no.”

  “It’s sort of an open secret. They have one every four or five years. It’s mentioned in the colonel’s notes on the meeting. They spent a long session on what was expected from the Resistance this year, and among the details was a mention of the conference and that they were expecting a report shortly after it finishes. Do you know what that implies?”

  This was a field closer to her interests. “That they have a reliable source that will tell them what happened at this big meeting. Or that they’ve managed to insert one or more agents to attend the conference personally and gather information.”

  “Yes,” Lambert said. “I’m wondering if the colonel didn’t screw up and make a physical note of something that was classified. I did some quiet checking, and it appears that no one is aware of this little fact. It seems a little vague to make a big deal about it with the conference people, but if I can open a line of communication to the Baltic League I’ll tip their security people that their conference might be penetrated. I also need to send a copy of the evidence by courier, and I was hoping you’d take the trip, since you found it.”

  “To the Baltic? I wouldn’t begin to know how to get there. I’d have to read a map to even find it.”

  “Oh, no, I wouldn’t expect you to get there on your own. The Kentucky delegation consists of exactly one representative tagging along with Southern Command. Since the invite allows up to five, we thought we could add you on for the trip. You’d be a passenger the whole way.”

  “Not interested,” she said.

  “Might make a nice break. Really, you just have to have a quiet word with the head of security at the conference, show the evidence, and you’re done. You can enjoy yourself the rest of the time.”

  “Send some kid on the errand. Send Clay—he deserves a treat after running his ass off. Some vodka and a bedspring bounce with a Swedish gal sounds about right.”

  “Val’s been in to see me a couple of times, Smoke,” Lambert said. Usually only fellow Cats would call her by her old code name, but Lambert had been her CO back when they both were on the other side of the Mississippi and Lambert was overseeing special operations outside of the usual Southern Command areas. Duvalier decided she was using it here to make the conversation less formal, old soldier to old soldier. “About you.”

  Now, why would she name Valentine? Strange for such a squared-away officer. She wasn’t surprised that Valentine had been quietly nudging the colonel about her, but why give him away? To irritate her into something? Did she know she was touching a sore but private spot? “Asking permission for my hand in marriage?”

  Lambert looked puzzled at the jibe. “No. Actually, he’s worried about your health. He thinks you need a long rest.”

  Always thinks he knows me better than anyone. “Don’t we all?” Duvalier said.

  “I can’t exactly order you to stand down. Cats aren’t like Wolves and Bears—you’re neither fish nor fowl, not combat or support. I’m specifically required to aid you logistically and with combat support at discretion, so you’ve got the upper hand with me. By the book, as the Fort Commander I can order you to keep out of certain buildings, or turn in your weapons, or see the doctor, or keep off the friggin’ grass. As Zone Commander, Southern Command, I can ask a Cat to do something, and if I really press my authority, I can issue a written set of orders limiting your interaction with the locals or sending you packing out of the Kentucky area of operations entirely. I can court-martial you for a crime. What I can’t do is order you to put your feet up for a couple of weeks. Only a doctor can do that. I think.”

  Duvalier was a little shocked. That last sentence indicated Lambert was unsure about some element of regulations.

  “I’d say Major Valentine needs the rest more than I do,” she said. “He does three or four ops for every time I go out.”

  “Those are mostly patrols and training runs. You put in serious time in the KZ. You’re due for a vacation from all that.”

  “Still, he looks ragged as hell lately. He’s been killing himself getting everyone organized. No one’s ever tried to integrate Grogs and Bear teams before. It’s not working real well. I can’t decide if it’ll be a heart
attack or a nervous breakdown.”

  Lambert smiled. “You exaggerated. I’m a pretty good judge of human machinery and, without the hyperbole, I’m of a like opinion. I’m going to see if I can’t get both of you away from the bullets for a while. You both deserve a holiday.” She reached out and patted Duvalier on the hand.

  Duvalier was shocked at the physical contact. It felt as unnatural from Lambert as a blow job scene in one of those Jane Austen naturals that Val secretly read.

  “What we’re about to discuss is classified at the highest level. So, usual discretion.”

  “I’ve never had trouble keeping secrets. I bet I’m better than you at it.”

  Colonel Lambert gave her a look that was at once both friendly and a glare. “Don’t be so sure.”

  “But back to my way to kill three Reapers with one stake. There’s an all-freehold conference to take place in a couple months. I can’t tell you where—nobody’s told me that yet, even—other than that it’s on the other side of the Atlantic, in one of the Baltic League freeholds. Kentucky, as the newest freehold east of the Mississippi, is invited to attend, of course. The problem is the Kentucky delegation doesn’t have the ability to travel thousands of miles across the ocean, so they asked if they could travel with Southern Command’s group. Southern Command and the Ozark Free Republic agreed, which I find curious because we’ve always been the proverbial redheaded (beg your pardon) stepchild. There’s to be one delegate per freehold, and the delegate is allowed to bring up to two assistants and two security guards for travel. I intend to have you and Valentine as the security. Think you could convince him to join you? The trip won’t be easy, but it shouldn’t be dangerous beyond the typical risks of long-distance travel. Might be a pleasant change of scenery.”

  She sighed. As if she had any leverage over Val. But she could offer some insight. “He won’t accept. He’s convinced the Georgia Control is going to hit us with everything they have, and soon.”

  “Well, the Georgia Control seems to have gone quiet. In fact, it’s been the most peaceful summer worldwide in the history of the Resistance. What do you think of that?”

  “Maybe the Kurians are having a conference, too, to figure out what to do with us. Why a security detail?”

  “It’s a long trip. Southern Command has made arrangements through the Resistance network for transport up to Halifax. You’ll take a boat over.”

  “Arrangements—Halifax? That’s way at the eastern tip of Canada, right? Just getting there would be the farthest I’ve ever been, anywhere.”

  “You’ll still have a long way to go after that. That’s why I like you and Valentine for the job. Hopefully you’ll spend most of your time sleeping in transport. The conference itself has its own security, so once you’re there you should—should—be able to relax.”

  “You’ve no idea where it is?”

  “It’s certainly going to be one of the north-shore Baltic league states. Norway, Sweden, or Finland, probably toward the north. Kurians shy away from cold climates.”

  “Except in summer, and it’ll be summer by the time we get there, I’ll bet.”

  “Maybe you’ll see the midnight sun. That would interfere with the Kurians, too. They’d lose all kinds of distance on their Reapers.”

  “They don’t need Reapers to kill a bunch of people. They have Grogs, a big bomb, commandos… .”

  “They’ve never managed to hit a conference before. Anyway, that note indicates that the agent or agents is just going to gather information. That’s probably more useful to them than killing a bunch of overfed delegates.”

  She was almost looking forward to it. Of course, the last time she’d been promised a long, easy trip, she’d wound up sweltering on the Gulf Coast posing as Valentine’s wife, and had returned home in the middle of Solon’s takeover of the old Ozark Free Territory. Valentine had been briefed with her and received the same assurances. He wouldn’t care to hear them again. “One problem, though. Valentine. He’d never agree to go. So unless you give Ahn-Kha and me orders to tie him up, stick him in a diplomatic bag, and label it ‘Kentucky Delegation,’ your security detail won’t have a full complement.”

  She returned to her little garret platform and watched the sky. It was a partly clouded night without enough ambient light to really make out the clouds, so the night sky seemed like a jigsaw puzzle with two thirds of the pieces missing.

  Did she need a rest? Maybe. She wondered how her stomach would handle an ocean trip. It used to be she had good days and bad days with her digestion; now they were mostly bad days. Valentine suggested milk and yogurt, and even brought her yogurt back from a dairy in Evansville that he bused over to for his own purposes—Val was a big milk drinker and liked it as straight from the cow as possible, whereas most of the time Fort Seng made do with reconstituted powdered milk that was hard to distinguish from a piece of chalk dissolved in a glass of water.

  It would be nice to be tasked with something that didn’t involve penetrating a Kurian Zone and taking out some manner of well-guarded target. The delegates would have plenty to eat and drink—what did they live on up there? Vodka, herring, and reindeer meat, she suspected. If it was to the north. Maybe it was, who knows, Malta in the Mediterranean. She’d once read a book on Malta and all the sieges it had survived—everyone from Greeks to Turks to Germans. Sun would be better than glaciers.

  Transport. Her feet could use a rest, too. The idea of not walking or bumping along on horseback appealed.

  She wondered if they could shoehorn Ahn-Kha into the trip. Kentucky was more than just people now; there were a couple of thousand Golden Ones and a few hundred Gray Ones camped out south and west of Fort Seng. The Golden Ones had already scouted out a limestone quarry for building dwellings that would be more substantial than tents. His reassuring, muscular bulk sometimes prevented problems with local roughnecks from even starting. And he’d be warm at fifty thousand feet, or if the weather turned on them at the North Pole, or wherever over there they were heading.

  Her closest thing to a partner, in war and in her personal life, slumbered in his loosened uniform. Only his soft, moccasin-like legworm-leather boots with their crepe-rubber soles were off.

  He had a sparse little room. He had a few books, most of them histories. Valentine was a Civil War buff and swapped books with other enthusiasts. His little collection of toiletries, the expensive soap that he always managed to acquire one way or another, was arranged on a small shelf by the door, with his towel and washcloth both hanging on hooks. A wardrobe held spare and dress uniforms and a smattering of civilian stuff, and some overalls he wore when quartering logs with axe and wedge and sledge and splitting maul.

  He kept himself exercised that way when at Fort Seng. Something of the old hot desire she used to feel for him could still rekindle when she watched him quartering wood. He worked relentlessly, back muscles writhing like coiling snakes as he placed his logs. Then he let the axe slide through his fingers until he swung it effortlessly around, letting the weight of the blade build momentum through the swing until it struck with a resounding thwack! that echoed off the barn and south hill.

  Wood cutting was a metaphor for how he approached most jobs. He broke any task up into smaller pieces, then struck hard at each little piece of it. She heard him give a talk about strategy on the campaign in Texas to his Razorbacks once, where he predicted that the Kurian rule in Texas would be quartered and split into kindling.

  She’d recruited David Valentine after his name had been passed to her by the Lifeweavers. She read his confidential file—it was easy enough to swipe, since in those days Southern Command’s headquarters had very little security in the personnel department—and she’d become intrigued by him after reading a lengthy report he’d written about his experiences in Wisconsin and Chicago. Chicago was not mission-related; he’d gone there chasing after a girl named Molly Carlson who’d helped him when he was slowed by a wounded comrade.

  The old-fashioned gallantry of the gam
bit impressed her, though she wondered if he could make a good Cat. To operate in the Kurian Zone, you had to have no more regard for those rounded up for the Reapers than you would for a livestock car full of pigs rattling toward the slaughterhouse. She had been a Cat for five years at that time—she started very young, still in her teens—and had seen his type. They usually ended up doing something courageous, suicidal, and ultimately useless.

  One odd thing about his file also intrigued her, and years later she still had no idea of the real answer. His mother’s name was missing. Not missing, as in never entered, but missing, as in someone had gone in with a razor blade and cut the name out of the permanent record, then made a fresh copy so that a quick glance made it look blank.

  Valentine had told her, openly enough, that his mother was a beautiful Sioux originally from the Canadian side of Lake Superior, and his father a Pan-American mutt from the San Francisco area. Easy to believe, given his features, bronze skin, and thick black hair—now with a contrasting brush of gray at the temples and an off-color strand or two up top. He didn’t seem to think his mother any big secret, so why did someone at Southern Command want it that way?

  Still, the men liked him. In the field he was a fighter; back at the fort he spent most of his time trying to make their conditions more livable. She liked him. She wouldn’t mind travelling with him again on what was basically courier duty. Maybe they’d get some of their old closeness back that they’d had down south when he was posing as a Quisling marine. She found herself more than half looking forward to the trip.