The Vampire Earth: Fall with Honor

by E. E. Knight

  For David Valentine, out of thousands readying themselves for a party of special magnificence, the night held little promise.

  * * * *

  David Valentine drove the cart back into company headquarters, fighting tears. All around the people were putting up colorful bunting (red, white, and blue or yellow being the colors of choice, but some folks were making due with tinsel and other old Christmas decorations).

  Blueberries were in season, and Bee happily scooped out an entire pie Ediyak purchased for her. Ediyak was whistling Southern Command marching tunes, rather off-key. Every storefront had fresh baked goods for sale, and around the back door bottles and flasks and mason jars of liquor were being passed out in exchange for everything from gold or silver coin to overcoats, old eyeglasses, and boots.

  Southern Command's officers and NCOs spoiled not a few prospective evenings by checking packs and ammunition pouches of those traveling to and from town.

  Valentine pulled himself together enough to institute a liquor search of his own when he returned, and three bottles were emptied into the thirsty Allegheny dirt and Patel had new miscreants for latrine and garbage duty. Though he'd laid out his best uniform for the banquet, the prospect of a feast had lost all its luster and he decided not to attend. He checked in at headquarters and swapped purchases he'd made in town for twenty-four duty-free hours after the banquet. He wanted quiet and solitude.

  Jolly was left in command of the camp. He said he'd heard enough speeches about Kurian tactics of fear never conquering the human spirit in his life. But he almost ordered Valentine to go.

  "If anyone deserves a good feed, it's you, Valentine," he said. "You've kept us in fresh eggs and vegetables for three months."

  Moytana saved him from being ordered to attend by appearing. His Wolf patrols were routed or posted, and this bit of Virginia was at peace, though they had intercepted some high-ranking Quislings scuttling north with a couple wagons of clothing and valuables, and Moytana needed orders.

  Valentine, hearing that the brigade was still attending to basics despite the festival, went to the commissary and got a sandwich. He found a comfortable stump and watched the partiers depart. Seng led the way with several other officers, some with hardy wives and husbands who'd come along for the march, plus select NCOs and regular soldiers—the wounded or those deserving of special consideration. Music echoed up from the Kentucky hills.

  He finished his sandwich. Tasteless, despite the fresh vegetables and mayonnaise.

  Duvalier waited for him in his tent. She was reclining in his hammock, her boots off and her bony feet greasy with something that smelled of lanolin and mint. "What's got you down?" she asked, dropping a Kurian newspaper bearing a headline about a rail accident in Kentucky.

  "I was in town," Valentine said. He decided to tell her. Talking might ease the heartache. Ahn-Kha's loss was real, fresh and raw again like a stripped scab. "I saw a Golden One. Thought it was Ahn-Kha. It wasn't."

  She sat up. "That bites. I—I can't believe it. I heard the stories about him organizing the partisans."

  "Ahn-Kha's not the only Grog who could organize a revolt. This one wasn't as well-spoken. I got about three words out of him," Valentine said. "He's probably wary of strange uniforms."

  "This is still a big deal, Val. You helped make it happen. I remember you laboring over reports about Kentucky, when we wintered. You had a stack of papers the size of—well, you remember."

  Valentine didn't say anything, willing her to be as miserable as he was.

  "In a way, it's still Ahn-Kha's victory. You decided Southern Command could march across Kentucky, what with the Kurians few and far between in the legworm ranch country."

  "I know."

  "Look, I should just say it: I was an ass to you back then. You were killing yourself looking for Ahn-Kha. I thought you were wasting your time, tried to slap you out of it. Plus we fought about that baby Reaper. Is it doing well? Did you tame it—er, him?"

  "Blake's well enough. Growing fast. I don't think anyone but Narcisse could have brought him up."

  "Want to talk about Ahn-Kha some more?"

  "No," Valentine said. He hated the celebration he was missing. It felt like a dance on the Golden One's grave.

  "I've got a bottle," she said, patting one pocket on her long coat. "Want a drink?"

  "I ordered everyone in camp searched," Valentine growled.

  "If they can't locate someone, it's a lot harder to search them," Duvalier said. "You've got some good guys here, but they're not that good."

  He could stand her company. She'd known Ahn-Kha almost as long as he had. "Pour it out. I don't want liquor in the camp. We'll arrange passes soon so people can go into town if they want to get drunk."

  "I'll do no such thing. There's no swiping liquor. I had to buy that with some of Karas' funny money."

  "Strange that they took his coin. Or did you offer a little personal bonus to get the boozer"

  "Fuck off. I've blown a few sentries to get over a bridge or through a fence, but I'm no whore." She angrily shoved the bottle back into the coat.

  Valentine retrieved his ten-dollar piece from his pocket. It was crude, and it had nothing more than the word of some jumped-up legworm rancher behind it. Maybe the citizens of Utrecht were swept up by patriotic fervor.

  "I sometimes think we fight just to keep from falling in love," Duvalier said.

  Valentine almost dropped the coin.

  She rolled on her side, not the easiest thing to do in a hammock. "So, you going to dance with me at the glam-up? I'll get dressed. Ediyak has a civilian skirt and a top she said she'd loan me." She gripped the edge of the hammock and put her delicate chin over the edge, smiling like the Cheshire cat after a three-canary meal.

  "I volunteered to stay in camp," Valentine said, shaking his head. "Speaking of which, my four hours starts soon."

  "I'm not a fan of parties either. But I did go to the trouble of swiping some new underwear. Cute knit stuff, like lace from a fancy doily."

  "Ali, these people are patriots," Valentine said. "It's not some KZ three-dollar store."

  "I guess so. They're making a very patriotic profit on fresh bread and pies for the soldiers who liberated them."

  In worthless coin, Valentine thought. Something about that was bothering him.

  "Do me a favor. Stick close, okay? I want to talk to you when I get off."

  "That sounds kinda perverted for sterling Major Valentine," she said.

  * * * *

  With the tent next to empty, his duty time at brigade headquarters crawled. So he spent it roving. He walked the posts, checked the firewood and water supply, saw to it that no one had dug the latrines so they drained toward the food preparation area. The reserve supply dumps were still being built and a mini-backhoe was still at work digging magazines for their small supply of artillery.

  Seng had chosen the spot for their new base well. Utrecht stood on the heel of a short mountain range, at a crossroads that would allow a shift northeast up either side of a mountain ridge, or to the southwest, and there were further cuts east and west, old roads and disused rail lines that were in poor shape but better than hacking one's way through woody mountains. At the last officers' meeting, Seng had stated that the first order of business would be a new survey of the area; Seng wanted to know every cow path and bike trail.

  Valentine's company would probably be put to work improving old roads or creating connecting trails.

  Valentine thought he saw the shape of the coming campaign. He guessed Seng hoped to imitate Jackson's Valley Campaign from the American Civil War near Winchester just on the other side of the Appalachians, as a matter of fact, popping in and out of mountain passes and sliding up and down roads to catch the Kurian forces unawares.

  Even now Valentine saw some dozens of legworms being driven into a brushy area south of town, on the other side of a twisting, turning stream where he saw some old, collapsed roofs. Ever since the linkup with Karas's group of rebel
tribes, Seng had his regulars learning to handle the creatures. Legworms didn't need much more width than a jeep, and they never got stuck in mud or hung up on a rock. He watched them feed their way into the tangle of bush and young trees. They'd soon have it grazed down into open country, potential pasture or field. Legworms were better than a Bush Hog.

  Some of the goats he'd purchased back on the Cumberland Plateau had made the long trip. Valentine paused to scratch one. A few of the men were already developing a taste for goat milk. He wondered if they had anyone with cheesemaking experience in the brigade.

  The wind was blowing sound away from the torchlit town, but every now and then when the wind died he thought he caught words punctuated by music.

  * * * *

  At the end of his duty he made a brief report to Jolla, who was dozing in a chair in his office near the headquarters tent. He turned the duty over to Nowak and left, walking past Brother Mark's tent. Valentine's ears heard soft snores form within. The old churchman had pushed himself hard, riding ahead with parties of Wolves, setting up meetings and last-minute details for the unification.

  He wondered why he wasn't at the party. Brother Mark, from what he could tell, led a rather Spartan existence. Maybe he didn't like parties.

  Duvalier waited in his tent. The soft, comforting aroma of a woman in the canvas-enclosed air was more welcoming than the thermos of coffee she opened on his return.

  Instead of some dripping trophy, she'd brought two big slices of cherry cobbler. She smelled faintly of sandalwood too.

  "You snuck a little whiskey into this," Valentine said, trying the coffee.

  "Just a tetch, as they say here. I think we deserve a celebration too.

  Valentine sipped the coffee, thinking of Malita in Jamaica. The coffee had been real there. Had the emotional connection been fake? What was real and what was wishful thinking—on both their parts— in this little hillside tent?

  Duvalier leaned on the tent pole, sipping hers.

  "You used to joke all the time about sexing me up. I think you're the only man who crossed the whole state of Kansas with a hard-on."

  "Twenty-three will do that to you. My balls did my thinking for me whenever you seemed approachable. You used to say, what was it—"

  "Dream on, Valentine," they said in unison. They both giggled.

  She kissed him, softly, on the lips. Looking up into his eyes, she smiled. "There's a grand alliance forming down there, helped along with liquor and barbecue. I think tonight's a night for dreams coming true.

  It was so tempting. He could forget everything, thrusting into her. He could find oblivion in satisfying lust the way some men lost themselves in drink, or at the green gaming tables, or in swirling clouds of narcotics. So tempting. No more thoughts of Ahn-Kha's face, those curious townies peering at him from behind quilted curtains, the apparently bottomless supply of alcohol ...

  Valentine put his hands on her, tickled the back of her neck. "But we d—

  The krump of an explosion interrupted him. The distant pop -pop -pop of small arms fire followed.

  Duvalier's brow furrowed. "I hope that's fireworks."

  Valentine grabbed his pistol belt and sword and poked his head out of the tent. No comforting bursts of fireworks filled the mountain valley, but there were red flares firing in the air above the Green Mountain Boys' encampment. He couldn't see the town, but the torchlight glow in the sky over it was almost gone.

  "I've got to get to headquarters," he said.

  "I know," she said. "Where do you want me?"

  "If any of your fellow Cats are in camp, round them up and report to Moytana's headquarters."

  The corner of her mouth turned up. "It was a nice moment, while it lasted."

  "It was," Valentine agreed. He trotted a few feet over to company HQ as the brigade bugle sounded officers' call.

  Rand was already up and Patel came into their two-pole headquarters tent carrying his boots and his rifle. Red Dog was running around, excited in the commotion but not looking at all frightened. That gave Valentine some comfort.

  "I'm going to brigade," Valentine said. "Preville, come along in case I need a messenger. I've no news, other than that something's wrong. Assemble the men with full field kit and three days' rations. Make sure the reserve dehydrated food and ammunition reserves are handy. Get a meal into the men if there's anything hot handy."

  They nodded. Patel just kept putting on his boots. Preville patted back some rather straggly hair over his ears that made him look more than ever like a revolutionary intellectual.

  Valentine could rely on them. He hurried to brigade headquarters, saw Duvalier's head bobbing off toward the Hunters' collection of tents within the larger encampment. Lights died out all over camp, and she vanished as a lantern was extinguished. He tried to let the red hair take his regrets with it.

  He beat Moytana into the headquarters by fifteen seconds. Others trickled in, way, way too many junior officers who missed the celebration thanks to privileges of rank. Nowak was speaking to someone over a field phone.

  Major Bloom stood behind, looking like a pit bull waiting for the release. From her position, Valentine guessed she was the temporary senior for the Guards.

  Jolla's balding head glistened. He kept wiping it with a handkerchief. "There's been some kind of disturbance in town. We don't know anything more than that."

  "Observers report the firing is dying down. There's still some torchlight and lanterns in the town square, but the rest of the lights in town are out," Nowak reported.

  "Are . . . are the lines to the Green Mountain contingent and Karas', er, headquarters functioning?"

  "Not strung yet," Nowak said. "We're in radio contact with the Green Mountain troops. They're asking us what's happening in town, since we've got a better view. They got a walkie-talkie distress signal, it seems." She spoke with the flat monotone of someone operating on autopilot.

  More officers arrived and Jolla silenced the babble.

  "Defensive stance," Jolla said. "Let's get the men to their positions for now. Where's Colonel—oh, at the party, of course."

  Valentine dispatched Preville to pass the word to Rand, met Moytana's eyes, and jerked his chin toward Jolla. As everyone filed out to get their men to battle positions, some of which were only half-completed, they were joined by Bloom and Nowak.

  "Your Wolves haven't reported enemy formations?" Valentine said.

  "No, Major," Moytana said. "Only thing out of the ordinary they reported was a lot of activity at an old mine north of here. Military-style trucks and command cars. Locals said it had been shut down for years and just reopened and was being garrisoned. Said it was because the guerrillas had wrecked a couple of other more productive mines and they had to reopen. Seng's got us keeping an eye on it, and a Cat is taking a closer look."

  "You could hide a lot of men in a coal mine," Jolla said.

  "Maybe the 'Green Mountain Boys' aren't really Green Mountain Boys," Bloom said.

  "No, they're real enough," Nowak said. "Lambert and Seng were expecting them. We've had progress reports."

  "Perhaps we should shift camp, Colonel," Valentine said. "Move closer to the Karas' bunch and the Green Mountain Boys. Right now we can't support each other."

  "In the dark?" Jolla asked.

  "Old Wolf trick, sir," Moytana said. "If somebody's marked out our positions for artillery, might be better if they wasted their shells on empty space."

  "I took a look at their positions this morning," Valentine added. "They've got a good high hill to their backs."

  "I think the enemy would be firing on us already if they had our position," Jolla said. "We don't even know what's happened in town yet."

  "We may soon, Colonel," Nowak said, ear to the field phone again. "Pickets are reporting Private Dool is coming in. He ran all the way from town. Says there's been a massacre."

  "No one else?"

  "Just Dool, sir. He said they took away his rifle and his pants."

  "His
pants? Get him up here," Jolla said.

  Valentine had the uncomfortable sensation that Dool's missing pants was just the first oddly heavy raindrop in a storm to come. He could almost feel trouble gathering, like the heavy air in front of piled up thunderclouds. Like an animal, he wanted to get away or underneath something.

  Dool showed up soon enough, shoeless and footsore, a blanket wrapped around his waist. Dool was a Guard regular who'd been wounded by a grenade in the cleanup action after the fight at Billy Goat Cut. He looked distraught. He still had his uniform shirt, though a blood splatter ran up the front to his shoulder like a rust-colored bandolier.

  Jolla said, "Just give it to me, Dool. Don't worry about military form."

  "Killed them all, sir. Colonel Seng and the rest, Roscoe next to me—they're all dead. They told me to tell you. Said that someone was to come into town to hear terms at dawn. They told me to tell you."

  "They?"

  "The fellers with the squarecl-off black beards."

  "Like this," Moytana said, passing his hand just under his chin.

  "Yessir, yes, Cap'n, that's just it."

  "What's this, Moytana?" Jolla demanded.

  Moytana cleared a frog from his throat. "It's the Moondagger Corps. Or elements of it. They all wear beards like that." Moytana's face went as gray as the washed-out ropes in his hair.

  Valentine knew the name. Oddly enough he'd heard it from Duvalier when they were discussing recent events in Kansas. They were some kind of special shock troops used to quell uprisings and had caused the 72 operation in Kansas to fall apart before it even got going.

  "Never mind that," Jolla said. "Tell us what happened. Take your time."

  Dool hitched the blanket around his legs a little tighter. "It was a fine dinner, sir. Officers from the Green Mountain troops were across the square from us, and the legworm guys were around the statue and on our left. Guerrilla troops too, only now I think they wasn't guerrillas but turncoats. Like Texas and Okie redhands, only worse.

  "Then King Karas, he gets up and starts one of those fine speeches of his."

  A siren started up, interrupting him.