by E. E. Knight
The Skeeter Fleet's ships weren't manned by pregnant women. The men liked the songs, and if the Kurians sounded some kind of civil defense alert for western Kentucky, they'd hear it over the broadcast.
"Make to route green," said Preville at the com set. "The colonel wants us to take over for the Wolf pathfinders."
Valentine relaxed a little. That was according to plan as well.
"Break open a box of green chemical lights," Valentine told Patel.
He heard a crump of artillery being fired downriver. Southern Command was supposed to be bringing a trio of big guns across. Rumor said they were Harry, Hermione, and Ron, three old 155mm behemoths. Hermione was famous for having fired the first shot of the Archangel counterattack.
Southern Command was sending them into the Kurian Zone with the same long-range blessing.
He instinctively checked the big-numeral watch looped through his top buttonholes. Oh five twenty-eight. The detail would be of interest to some historian or other. Valentine hoped it wouldn't be a New Universal Church archivist collecting notes for a paper on the suppression of the Cumberland insurgency.
Valentine formed his men into rather ragged lines, wishing he could find a high spot and see the light show. The Goobermaker's strange defense had been described to him, but he'd never seen the effect personally. All he saw was the occasional flicker of a shell heading east through breaks in the trees.
He didn't hear any counterbattery fire. One would think that the local Quislings would at least have mortars in place to harass the landing by now. Perhaps they were as wary of the Goobermaker's woods as the Wolves and Cats.
Pairs of Wolves marked the path to the old highway, looking even dumber than Valentine's company with painted tinfoil topping their weathered buckskins. A trail up from the riverbank gave over to a little road, which crossed a bridge and passed through a wood before jointing the old federal route. Valentine distributed his men in corporal-led units, supervising the placement of the glow sticks himself so that they'd be visible only to those coming up from the riverbank and following the trail.
The Wolves were glad to be relieved and hurried off in the direction of the firing.
It was a strange sort of KZ. As far as Valentine could tell, the Goobermaker made no attempt to build farms or settlements. He kept the old federal highway clear enough, though as they came into town he saw brush growing out of broken windows of otherwise fine brick buildings. The town looked like a decrepit old man with untrimmed eyebrows, ear, and nostril hair.
Jolla arrived and set up temporary HQ in an old primary school. As the rest of the support battalion showed up, he distributed the units so they'd be ready to move north.
"There's quite a show, if you want to go up to the school roof, Valentine," Jolla said. He'd ripped open a big triangle from his mask so it only half-obscured his face, making him look a bit like the Phantom of the Opera. "Just follow the power cords from the mobile generator."
Easily done. Valentine left Rand at company HQ with Glass and the heavy weapons Grogs and headed into the school, Bee trailing dutifully behind. Valentine had long since given up trying to get her to do anything but watch over him. Evidently he'd replaced Hoffman Price in her life some manner.
He followed the cords up the stairs and to the roof, where the main signals team was working. Seng's chief of staff, Nowak, was throwing orders like hand grenades. She was a rather willowy woman with baby-soft skin, though that too was obscured by tinfoil.
Valentine brought up his binoculars, focused on the torchlike flicker six or seven miles away.
The Goobermaker's turret-snail tower, topped by what looked like a broken minaret, was aflame, sending a long spiral of smoke like a question mark into the sky.
Artillery shells landed somewhere in the hills well south of the tower, looking like distant lightning in the growing dawn, big horizon-shaping flashes punctuated by smaller bursts. Someone was putting up a steel curtain between the Goobermaker's lands and Memphis.
Southern Command was apparently giving everything it had in the eastern approaches to start them off.
"They did it?" Valentine asked, astonishment making him ask self-evident questions.
"Really and truly," Nowak said. She told the person at the other end to stand by. "Chatter says they've captured a Kurian alive. It may be the old bastard himself. They've sealed him inside a glass fish tank, and a couple Cats and a Bear team are hauling ass back for the river."
"Has that ever happened before?"
"If it had, guys like us wouldn't have heard of it," Nowak said in a tone that indicated she was smiling. "Of course, they're yakking about it almost in the clear. Might be a diversion trying to sucker in a big effort to recapture him, catch the patrol under our guns."
The sun was visible.
Valentine smelled food cooking. He suspected that if they moved out again, his troops, in their uniforms designed to confuse identification, might have to lead the way again. Best see if they could be relieved and get them fed, to keep their strength up for the next lap.
Valentine organized the distribution of hot chicory coffee and sandwiches for his strung-out platoons. Jolly had a quick meeting, showing the next route that they'd take as soon as a few more companies of Guards arrived, and set the next leg of the march to begin at noon in any case. Seng wanted everyone through the Goobermaker's lands and out the other end, heading for Kentucky, as soon as possible.
A tired-looking figure in black rode into camp on a lather-streaked mule. It was Brother Mark under a thick coat of dirt and dead twigs. He dismounted stiffly, handed his mount to groom, and tottered to the field kitchen.
Valentine found a folding camp stool and brought it to him.
"You have my profound gratitude, son," he said, seating himself. "You wouldn't know if my baggage has been unloaded?"
"You need a change of clothes?" Valentine asked. Brother Mark smelled of sweat and smoke.
"My goosedown pillow. I've been on my feet or in my saddle since ... is it Sunday already? Since Friday morning. I feel as though I could sleep propped up against that wall over there."
"I thought only the Wolves went over before Saturday night."
"Oh, I was well ahead of them. Meetings to attend. You can remove that ridiculous tinfoil now, young man. Not that it ever provided anything but psychological comfort."
Valentine would have liked nothing better—his skin felt itchy and he had sweat in his eyes—but decided to wait for official orders.
"Meetings?" Valentine asked, since Brother Mark seemed in a mood to answer questions.
He dipped a doughnut in his coffee and ate half of it. "Yes, concerning the settlement of the estate of the late Ri-Icraktisus. I beg your understanding—the Goobermaker, you boys call her. The Goobermaker's estate."
Valentine felt the ground beneath his feet tilt. "Who attended this meeting?"
"Some of the local Kurians," Brother Mark said, pulling off his boots and socks. "He was quite unpopular with the Nashville clan, and Memphis only just tolerated him because of his military acumen. When she switched over to female and started budding off her own clan, that was the last straw. The feel went out that Memphis was willing to withdraw her support...." He rubbed a finger between his toes, sniffed, and made a face. "If I were in the old bishop's palace, after a night like that I'd take a steam with pair of flexible fourteen-year-olds scrubbing me down. I'm reduced to cleaning my own feet. I wish I could indulge my humanist patriotism in a more comfortable manner."
"You're saying the Kurians ganged up on one of their own?" Valentine wasn't sure what he had a harder time believing: Southern Command helping other Kurians bring down the Goobermaker or Brother Mark, ostensibly a high Church renegade, meeting with other Kurians and returning alive to tell.
"Not so much ganged up as withdrew their minds from her contact, leaving her rather alone at a key moment. Once the conspiracy started, everyone wanted to join. There's an old proverb from the Silk Road: A falling camel a
ttracts many knives."
"So the tinfoil was pointless?"
"Not pointless. Useless, maybe, but it did its job. Everyone was afraid to set foot on this side of the river near that great tower. It gave the troops confidence. I understand the Bears were quite a sight, blowing open holes in the bottom of the tower with turbans of glittering foil wrapped around their heads."
"Those Kurians are not going to be happy when we march into Kentucky," Valentine said.
"Memphis or Nashville don't give two figs about the legworm ranchers. The only ones who claim control over central Kentucky is the Ordnance up in Ohio, and they're happy to cause trouble for them. They see it as removing two turds with one flush. Is that how you say it? I'm still not used to all this colorful cracker-barrel talk you fighting men use down here."
"There's a rumor that she was captured."
"No, one of her detached buds. Developed enough to inherit much of her mind. He may prove useful."
Valentine tried to digest that. "How do you meet—"
Patel walked up, using the help of his metal-tipped hickory cane. When in front of the men, he mostly used it as a pointer or to scratch maps in the dirt.
"Colonel Jolla's called for all the staff-level officers, sir," Patel said. "The route's been changed. Moytana's Wolves have captured a motor pool and fueling station. We're to move there at once."
Brother Mark finished his coffee. "Go and line your men up neatly, Major. I think I shall despair of my pillow and just sleep on my coat for whatever length of time God and Colonel Seng allow. Oh dear, it looks like rain. As if I'm not uncomfortable enough."
* * * *
By nightfall they were almost out of the Goobermaker's territory, camped at the captured garage that reminded Valentine of the rig yard he'd briefly siezed back in his days as a Wolf lieutenant. This one had no organic labor force, however, just a few mechanics and relief drivers who took a motorbus in from Memphis every day.
Just before setting off on the hard march for the garage, Jolla had ordered the men to discard their tinfoil and officially announced the destruction of the Goobermaker's tower.
Valentine wasn't able to determine which bit of news made the men cheer harder. But he was glad to feel air on his skin again.
* * * *
The march out of the Mississippi camp marked the last time the Valentine's company stepped in ranks and files together for weeks.
Once out of sight of the river valley, they were put to work, scattered into details and squads gathering news and sustenance, watching road crossings, finding fords or paths, siphoning gasoline and warning off wandering locals.
Two days later they crossed into Kentucky, following old Route 79. Patel and a platoon rode scout, traveling ahead or around the flanks to major intersections where they could idle beside a utility pole or beneath a bridge, quietly keeping watch. Glass and Rand stayed with the main body at company headquarters. Valentine switched between the scouts and the men riding with the Logistics Commandos gathering supplies.
Valentine was happy to quit Tennessee, mostly because it meant he wouldn't have to deal with Papa Reisling any more.
Reisling was an unpleasant individual, a former Logistics Commando who'd married and settled on the fringe of the Goobermaker's grounds north of Clarksville. He was a strange figure of a man, old yet hale, thick-haired but gray flecked with white.
He didn't like Valentine from the moment he first set eyes on him, when a local underground contact arranged a meeting. Perhaps it was due to Bee, who didn't like the look of the old Dairy Queen garbage nook where they met while Reisling's brother-in-law kept watch from the roof.
Reisling considered the entire Southern Command invasion of Kentucky—the first true offensive across the Mississippi in the history of that Freehold—a deep-seated plot to make his life difficult and bring the Reapers down on him.
"I can make a pork loin disappear, or ten pounds of flour and molasses," Reisling complained, showing Valentine a flyleaf from an old book scrawled with requirements. "But this. Two thousand eggs, powdered or fresh. Thirty pounds of salt. Six hundred chickens at the very least, and 'as many more as I can provide.' Fruit juice or dried fruit. Where am I supposed to get dried fruit by the goddamned barrel, you?"
"Nobody's going to die if you miss a few line items," Valentine said. "It's a great help to us to get anything. Every mouthful you provide means less that comes out of stores that we carry along for emergencies."
"Three weeks ago I was told to start setting aside food for a big operation. I thought it would be a company of Wolves. Got a pen of year-old pigs and two fifty-pound bags of beans the local production officer doesn't know exist. Thought I'd done my job and done it well. Then half of the goddamned Southern Command crosses over the river and stands here, mouths open like baby birds expecting me to stuff'em."
Reisling's voice reminded Valentine of a transmission giving out, all grind and whine.
"Old tricks are usually the best," Valentine said. "Find a Church relief warehouse, loot it, and set it on fire."
"And have Church inquisitors questioning half of Clarksville? No thank you, Lieutenant."
"Major," Valentine said.
"That's why we're in the state we're in. Kids with momma's milk still on their lips throwing rank around."
It had been a while since anyone called Valentine "kid"—Brother Mark's "my son's" hardly counted; churchmen of his rank called everyone obviously beneath their age son or daughter.
"Just give us what you can. Even if it's just those yearling pigs and the beans."
"Harebrained operation you're on, Lieutenant—Major," Reisling said. "You want to fool the Kurians, you gotta go one tippy-toe. You boys are stomping into the KZ in clown shoes. They're going to slap down on you, hard."
"Just get us what you can. We'll be back tonight with a truck."
The supplies showed up, including a surprising quantity of eggs. The underground men who helped them load it said practically every family in Clarksville had given up little reserves of food they kept in case of shortages. Word had gone out that eggs were needed, and they came in straw-packed, ribboned baskets. Many of the eggs had been decorated using vinegar dyes, red and blue mostly, with gold stars stuck on.
God bless you, read the tiny, cursive ink letters on one.
But Reisling just stood with arms crossed in an old overcoat, watching them load.
"You'll get your food. The people here are going to pay for every bit. Mark my words."
Valentine could taste his grudge in every mouthful.
* * * *
At the first camp in Kentucky, Seng had a ceremony inviting members of all the companies in his command to see him hand out commendations and medals. Most were going to the Bear and Wolf teams who destroyed the Kurian tower.
Valentine and Patel decided to send Glass and his Grogs under the supervision of Patel and Rand. Valentine wanted the rest of the brigade to get used to the sight of the Grogs, lest some nervous picket open up on them as they brought a cartload of pork back. He called Glass into the company headquarters tent.
"Send someone else, sir," Glass said. "That crap doesn't impress me."
"Glass," Patel said.
"Oh, he's free to talk," Valentine said. "You've got something against medals, Glass?"
"The right guys never get 'em, that's my problem."
Valentine felt he should reprimand Glass, but he wasn't speaking contemptuously of any particular person, just the practice in general. Valentine could hardly upbraid him for having an opinion and expressing it when asked. "Don't tell me you think that way about Colonel Seng too. He's got too many medals to wear, and probably deserves twice that."
"Only medal that means much to me is the combat badge. If you've faced fire, you've proved all you ever have to prove in my book. The valor medals look pretty, but valor's just another word for something getting screwing up. A well-run fight's where you throw so much shit on target what's left of the enemy crawls out begging yo
u to stop."
* * * *
As they camped in the quiet, greening hills of Kentucky the first day of April, Rand brought him the front page of the Nashville Community Spirit ("Giving a little good for the betterment of all" read the motto just under the rather imposing looking font of the newspaper's logo).
Rand pointed to an article at the bottom of page one.
Mississippi
Secure Again
Guerrilla WRECKERS STRIKE OUT! A full-scale raid on rail and river routes north of ENDED WITH A WHIMPER Monday. The last elements of the bandit incursion gave up or swam for their lives as LOCAL VOLUNTEER HEROES restored ORDER AND SAFETY to north GREATER MEMPHIS.
Security spokesmen affirmed that there had been unusually DESPERATE WINTER SHORTAGES IN TRANS-MISSISSIPPI. The attack failed utterly as a heavy barrage pinned them against the river. The barrage, which ALARMED PEACE-LOVING MEMPHIS FAMILIES, lasted only long enough to organize the COUNTERATTACK which SWEPT TO VICTORY against the banks of the Mississippi.
This paper is one of many voices happy to see GREATER COOPERATION BETWEEN MEMPHIS AND NASHVILLE SECURITY ZONES and looks forward to further SUPPRESSION OF TERRORISM.
The paper had helpfully printed a few blurry pictures on the second page of bodies lying along the edge of a dirt road and a group of men sitting cross-legged, with arms tied behind their backs.
"Skinny Pete showed up again. That boy makes a good living," Ediyak said, glancing at the pictures but not bothering to read the rest.
"Skinny Pete?" Valentine asked.
"That's what we used to call him. He's a little wisp of a thing from Alabama; looks like he's never had more than two mouthfuls of soup at one time in his whole life. He's always sitting there with his collar pulled up around his ears in the prisoner mock-ups, since he looks hungry as sin."
"Doesn't anyone else notice him?"