by E. E. Knight
"Engine noise reported overhead. One plane," Nowak reported from the field phones.
A second drop. How long until they start to fall, hard?
"Is the HQ dugout done yet?" Jolla asked.
"It's just a hole at the moment, sir," Nowak said.
"We'll adjourn there."
The hole was only half dug. There weren't any floorboards even. They squelched uncomfortably into the mud. It was deep enough so they could sit with heads below ground level. Nowak stayed at the headquarters tent.
Some squatted. Valentine's bad leg ached if he did that for more than a minute or two, so he settled uncomfortably into the mud.
"Go on with your story," Bloom said to Dool.
"Here, sir?"
"We've got little else to do," Jolla said.
Except get the camp moving. Forward, back just somewhere other than where the Kurians expected them to be. Valentine could hear the engine noise growing—a single prop, by the sound of it.
Observation planes. The herald of coming trouble.
Moytana was gnawing on the back of his hand again.
"Where did I leave off?" Dool asked.
"Karas's speech," Jolla said. "Do they really call him King Karas?"
"King of the Cumberland, some of those legworm fellers say, sir. It was a real good speech, I thought. Real good. He was just going on about mankind saying 'enough,' and there was this bright blue flash from the podium and he was just gone. Like lightning struck him, only there wasn't no bolt.
"Then the town square just sort of exploded, sir." Dool thought for a moment, as though trying to describe it. "Like a minefield wired to go off or something. Anyway, they blew up like mines. One went off right under the colonel's chair. I've always had decent reflexes, otherwise that grenade I tossed from the squad at the rail line would have been the end of me. Gunfire then, a real sweeping fire, and they started cutting down everyone. Women with serving trays and beer mugs—everyone. Only now that I think back on it, the guerrilla leaders clustered around the podium, they weren't blown up or shot; they were sort of clear from it in this little cement area with benches and a fountain. I think they all jumped in that old fountain. Wish we could have put a shell into it. The top half of the colonel was still sitting in his chair, tipped over, like. You know, like when you're at the beach and the kids half bury you in the sand, only it was real. I tried to drag Roscoe into some bushes but he was dead."
He paused for a moment. Valentine looked away while Dool wiped his eyes.
"All clear," Nowak called down into the hole.
Valentine noticed that the engine noise had died. They picked themselves up and returned to the headquarters tent.
Gamecock was there in full battle array, a big-handled bowie knife strapped to one thigh and a pistol on the other. Black paste was smeared on the exposed skin of his face and each bare arm. He had his hair gathered tightly in a food-service net.
"The whole Bear team's ready to go into that town, suh," Gamecock said. "I got twenty-two Bears already halfway up. We'll get the colonel back safe."
"Too late for that," Jolla replied. "I'm afraid he was killed in an ambush."
"Treachery, you mean," Bloom said.
"Then we'll pay them a visit to even the score," Gamecock said. "Just say the word."
Jolla tapped his hand against his thigh. "No, they're probably fortifying the town now."
"Sir, they told me to tell you what I saw," Dool said. "There wasn't anything like an army in town that I saw, just maybe a company of these bearded guys and the guerrilla turncoats."
Dool spoke up again. "The ones that surrendered, they took the prisoners and chopped their heads off. That big gold Grog was taking off heads with this thing like a branch trimmer. I thought I was gonna get chopped but it turned out I was the only one left from the brigade. Colonel Gage drew his pistol and was shooting back and they gunned him down, and a sniper got Lieutenant Nawai while he was wrestling with a redhand for his gun."
"And they told you we'd hear their terms in the morning," Jolla said. "I think we should wait."
"Wait?" Valentine said, unable to believe his ears.
"Way I see it, the fight's started," Gamecock said. "I think we can guess what their terms will be."
"Javelin's almost four hundred miles from Southern Command," Jolla said. "The locals were supposed to support us, and now we've found that they're hostile. How long can this expedition survive without the support of the locals?"
Gamecock sat down in a folding chair, took out his big bowie knife, and started sharpening it on a tiny whetstone.
Frustrated, Valentine felt like he was playing a chess game where only his opponent was allowed to take three moves for his one. They'd be checkmated in short order.
"Longer than it'll last if we wait on what the Kurians have dreamed up," Valentine said.
"Javelin was named right, that's for sure," Jolla said. "Thrown over the front rank of shields at the enemy. If it hits, great. If it misses, the thrower doesn't expect to get it back. 'Sorry, General Lehman, we missed.'"
Bloom and Moytana exchanged glances. They both looked to Valentine. What were they expecting, a Fletcher Christian moment? Valentine wondered just what was said about him in Southern Command mess halls.
Valentine didn't want to think that Javelin's acting CO had his nerves shattered. Maybe he'd recover in the light of day.
Except by the light of day it would be too late.
"I'm willing to wait and hear what their terms are," Jolla said. "They may allow us to just quit and go home."
"Why would they do that?" Bloom said. "We're at the disadvantage now."
"Perhaps their real target was Karas. Kurian regulars are good enough when suppressing a revolt by farmers with pitchforks and rabbit guns. They're not as successful against trained troops. Except for in extraordinary circumstances, like Solon's takeover."
"All the more reason to pitch into them," Valentine said.
Jolla wiped his head again. "I'll go and see what they have to say. Bloom, this is a little unorthodox, but I'm promoting you to command of the Guards with a brevet for colonel. Radio to Lehman's headquarters for confirmation and orders about how to proceed. Do you think we can get a signal through, Nowak?"
"So the radio silence order—"
"I think the Kurians know we're here now," Jolla said.
Nowak's face went red. Jolla shouldn't have snapped at her. Anyone might ask a dumb question under these circumstances.
"Thank you for your confidence, sir," Bloom said.
Nice of you, Cleo, changing the subject.
"You know the regiment and commanded them when Gage was away. If something happens to me, you're the best regular . . ."
Of what's left, Valentine silently added the unspoken words.
Valentine didn't know Southern Command military law well enough to know whether a colonel commanding could promote someone to colonel in the field, and frankly didn't care.
Nowak put down the handset.
"Colonel, I don't think you should go," she said, her face still emotionless. "Let me get their terms."
"They might pull one of their tricks," Jolla said.
"All the more reason for me to go," she said.
"Oh, Dool," Jolla said. "Why did they take your pants? I can see your shoes."
Dool tugged at an ear. "What's that, sir?"
"Your pants."
"I plain dumb forgot! They said to tell the brigade commander, 'Caught with your pants down.' I thought they were nuts. He was laying there dead in the town square. I guess they meant you to get it."
Jolla stood up. "Those were their words?"
"Yeah, caught with your pants down. I was to remind you."
"That mean something, sir?" Moytana said.
"It must just be a coincidence," Jolla said. "It's an old joke, goes back to my days at the war college. A dumb stunt I pulled."
"Has it come up recently?" Valentine asked.
"I . . . we were
telling stories over cigars. Right after that fight at the railroad cut. Colonel Seng, myself, Gage was there, Karas, a few of the leaders from the legworm clans."
"I remember, sir," Nowak said. "The story about six-ass ambush. Five got away."
"And one didn't," Jolla said. "Forever branded as the one who couldn't get his pants up and tripped on his own belt."
"I wonder if there's a spy in our ranks?" Bloom asked.
"Dumb spy, to give himself away with a detail like that," Moytana said.
Or did the Kurians want everyone looking over their shoulder? Valentine wondered. They were better at sewing dissention than fighting.
* * * *
The meeting broke up and Jolla ordered Valentine to check the defensive perimeter of the camp. Everyone was nervous, so he took the precaution of using the field phones to let the next post know he was on the way as he left each post.
He was checking the west side of camp when he saw group of men. It looked like some sort of struggle. One had lit a red signal flare and held it high so the troops knew not to fire.
Valentine trotted up to the mob. They were mostly regulars from the Guard regiment.
uStop, hold there!"
"Who says?" someone in the mob called.
"Shut it, you, it's Major Valentine," a corporal said. "Sir, we caught our spy."
The mob parted and two men dragged another forward, one holding each arm. He already had a noose around his neck. The man was folded like a clasp knife, coughing, clearly gut-punched—or kicked.
They raised his face, using his scant hair as a handle. It was Brother Mark.
"He was dressed all in black. Sneaking off."
"He always dresses in black," Valentine said. "Let him go; give him some air."
"He's the spy for sure," someone called, and the group growled approval.
Valentine wondered how word of "a spy" in camp had spread so quickly. Soldiers had their own communications grapevines, especially for bad news.
"God help me," Brother Mark gasped.
"Let's hope so," Valentine said. "Who arrested him?"
At the word "arrest" the mob stiffened a little. Valentine had used it intentionally, hoping that a whiff of juridical procedure would bring the men back to their senses.
Brother Mark groaned and sucked air.
"I guess it was me, Major. Corporal Timothy Kemper, Bravo Company, first battalion. Pickets under my command caught him sneaking out of camp."
The man in question came to his knees, grabbed Valentine by the sleeve.
"The pickets didn't 'catch' me," Brother Mark almost wept. "I hailed them and requested a guide to get me to Karas' encampment. For God's sake, tell him the facts, Corporal."
Valentine wondered if crying on bended knee got you off the hook in the Kurian Zone. Tears wetting his uniform coat cuff just left him feeling embarrassed for both of them.
"Stop that," Valentine said, backing away. "Karas is dead."
"I'd heard there was some kind of treachery in town. I thought I should see to our allies. I'm sure they're as frightened as we are."
The men growled at that again. For a man of the cloth and a diplomat, Brother Mark wasn't very good at communicating with ordinary soldiers.
"Who told you to do that?" Valentine asked.
"I thought it was my duty," he said, reclaiming some of his spaniel-eyed dignity.
"Your duty?" Valentine said, almost amused.
"My higher calling to unite—"
"Save it. You should have checked with someone and had orders issued."
"I've never had to ask permission to come and go, son." With the noose now loose around his neck, he rose to his feet, dusting off the plain black moleskin.
"Major," Valentine reminded him.
"I'm not sure where I fit in to your hierarchy."
"Under the circumstances it would have been wiser to get permission and an escort. Corporal, return to your pickets." Valentine picked out two men who made the mistake of standing a little apart from the others. "You two, come with me as an escort. I’ll take our churchman to headquarters and see what he has to say. Consider yourself confined to camp for now, Brother."
"I must be allowed to visit the other camps. We must hang together, or as Franklin said, we shall all surely hang separately."
Valentine saw no point in engaging the churchman in a debate. They were already wasting time. Wasting words would just add insult to injury.
He took him up to the headquarters tent. Jolla had pushed two tables together and spread out a map of western Kentucky. He had the mission book, a set of standing orders that covered several contingencies, including loss of the commander and abandonment by the legworm clans.
Nowak was gone. Another officer was handling the communications desk—if a folding-leg table covered by a tangle of wires connecting assorted rugged electronics boxes could be called a desk—but if anything, headquarters was busier than in the first shock of the alert. Complaints and problems were coming in from all points of the compass. It was just as well that they weren't under attack, Valentine thought. The artillery spotters couldn't communicate with the mortar pits, two companies were trying to occupy the same defilade, leaving a whole eighth of the perimeter unguarded . . .
Valentine ignored the assorted kerfuffles and explained what he'd seen, and stopped. He let Brother Mark do the rest of the talking. Jolla apologized for the men being on edge.
"But you must give me orders to contact our allies, it seems," Brother Mark said.
Jolla scrawled something on his order pad and signed it.
"Do you think it's wise to just let him wander around, under the circumstances?" Valentine asked.
"I wouldn't be wandering," Brother Mark said.
"You're right, Valentine, and you just named your own poison. Go with him. They tell me the Reaper hasn't been built that can sneak up on you."
"Yes, sir," Valentine said, fighting a battle with his face.
"Besides, someone in uniform should be representing Javelin. Tell them that I've informed Southern Command of the situation and I'm waiting for orders. Until then I'm free to act as I see fit."
That'll reassure a bunch of nervous Kentucky wormriders.
Valentine had heard rumors as a junior officer that the Kurians could befuddle key men through some sort of mental evil third eye, but had never attributed to mysticism what could be explained by stupidity. Jolla's sudden plunge into routine and procedure, when circumstances called for anything but, made him reconsider his old attitudes.
"You're a sharp instrument of good in His hands, my son," Brother Mark said. "Thank you for getting the noose off me. Those poor anxious men were rather letting their passions run wild on them."
Valentine decided he wanted the far blunter instrument of Bee along, just in case, so he delayed Brother Mark for five more minutes. He took Ediyak as well. Beauty sometimes calmed better than brawn. He grabbed some legworm jerkey and peanuts and took an extra canteen. If the real fireworks began, they might be forced to flee in the wrong direction.
As they set out, Brother Mark graced them with only a single aphorism: "Let's be about God's work this night of fear and doubt." Then he stalked off toward the legworm campsites, taking long, measured strides, for all the world like a hero in one of DeMille's old biblical videos they liked to show on washed-out old 1080 screens in church basements on community night.
Valentine almost liked him. He couldn't say whether the renegade churchman was crazy, a true believer, or simply the kind of man who always stepped forward when necessity called.
He took care moving—God knows what might be prowling in the dark—with first Bee scouting while he made sure nothing was following him, and then swapping with the Grog.
The legworm clans didn't even have anything that could be called a camp. They'd gathered their legworms together into five big clumps, feeding them branches cut and dragged from the woods, with a few more grazing at the borders of their camps. Their sentries and picket
positions were two-man pairs who lay behind clumps and lines of leg-worm droppings, the fresh deposits notched with little sandbags the size of small pistols supporting deer rifles. Behind the spotter/sniper positions more men stood ready to mount their legworms.
Valentine had seen the mobile breastworks that legworms provided in action before. The riders planted hooks and straps in the fleshy, nerveless sides of their mounts and hung off the living walls, employing their guns against an opponent, using tactics that combined First World War trench warfare with wooden ship actions from Nelson's day.
The legworm clans were quick to blame Southern Command for not properly securing the town. Valentine conceded the point. The Wolves had checked it out, and then the Guards conducted a more thorough search, but whatever soldiers had been posted at key buildings and crossroads were missing along with the rest of the celebrants.
"I told Spex Karas this whole affair would go wrong," the dispatcher of the Coonskins said. He glared at Valentine through his one good eye. The other was a milky wreck. "The Free Territories egg us into fighting with the Kurians. We're for it now. For it deep."
"It's not this young man's fault," Brother Mark said.
Valentine thought of correcting him. He'd urged Southern Command to explore an alliance with some of the legworm clans and support the guerrillas in the Alleghenies.
"Careful, Coonskin," a low female voice said. "He's Bulletproof. Might just challenge you to a duel."
Tikka forced her way to the front of the throng. "Welcome back, Reiner. My life gets interesting whenever you show up."
"Hello, Tikka. Where's Zak?"
Valentine heard startled breaths. She replied in a monotone, "He was at the party."
"I'm sorry to hear that," Valentine said.
She thanked him quietly, looked around at the assembly. "I'm able to speak in my brother's place, with my dispatcher's authority. The Bulletproof won't quit. Won't throw down their guns. Won't run."
"I stand for the Alliance too," another called. Cheers broke out.
But they sounded half-hearted.
By the pinkening dawn, they were at the camp of the Green Mountain Boys and Valentine was growing tired. The New England troops took the precaution of blindfolding the party before letting them into camp. Bee didn't appreciate being blindfolded, so Ediyak offered to wait with her outside the lines.