The Vampire Earth: Fall with Honor

by E. E. Knight

  "Cutting them up's not enough," Glass said to a Wolf scout. "Had to take their shoes too. Cruel I understand, but that's just mean."

  The Moondaggers probably wanted to make sure we caught up to them, Valentine thought, just as the Wolf voiced the same sentiment.

  "Webb ub uss," the tongueless man said.

  "Let us pass," the blinded one said. "We've said our words. Let us pass."

  "First tell me what happened," Valentine said.

  "Did you not see?" the blind man asked, his voice cracking.

  Ediyak wrote something on a sheet of paper and handed it to the deaf man. He read it and looked at Valentine.

  "We surrendered. We followed every instruction. They made us cut down trees and smash our guns on the stumps. Then they bound us in a line, and that's when they started working on the cages," the deaf man said, loudly and a little off key. "They laughed as the fires started. I can still hear the laughter."

  "Why did they pick you three?" Valentine added on to the end of Ediyak's note.

  The deaf man took it and read. "We were chosen because we all knew the Kurian chatechism."

  "What's that?" Tikka asked. "I never had much to do with the Church."

  Brother Mark cleared his throat.

  "Who are they?"

  The wise old gods of our childhood.

  "Where are they from?

  Kur, the Interworld Tree's branch of Wisdom.

  "When did they come?

  In our darkest hour.

  "Why did they come?

  To guide mankind.

  "How may we thank them?

  With diligent obedience."

  Brother Mark had tears in his eyes when he was done. He turned away.

  "Your church gives orders for this kind of thing?" Tikka asked.

  "Former church, daughter. Former. This most terrible sect of a misguided faith isn't spoken of much in the marble halls," he said. "But I fear they find them useful at times."

  "Tikka, can you spare a rider to get these men home?" Valentine asked.

  "I'll have to check with the veep," she said. "But the Mammoth have been friendly to us most of the time."

  One more body turned up. A young woman from the Mammoth, stripped of her leathers and wearing a plain smock, dead from what was probably a self-inflicted wound to the abdomen. She'd gutted herself with one of the curved knives of the Moondaggers.

  "Whoever lost his knife didn't want it back," someone observed.

  Valentine wanted another talk with the Last Chance. Might be fun to chain one end of him to his flatbed and use his crane to yank pieces of him off.

  "Try not to let it get to you, men," he said as the company reformed after disposing of the bodies. He sent word to headquarters that the brigade could move up the road again. "They did this to put a scare into you."

  "Hope we get a chance to get scary on them," DuSable said, wiping ash from his forearms with a wet rag.

  "Amen, Sab," Rutherford added.

  "Remember the Cause," Valentine said. "We're the good guys. You're better than that."

  DuSable straighted a little.

  You’re better than that, Sab, Valentine thought. He wondered how long he could keep the angry monster inside bottled up and channeled into duty.

  * * * *

  Brother Mark, with the lower ranks dismissed from the officers' meeting, sat down wearily.

  "I tried three different clans. They're terrified of helping us. Won't even take guns. The Kurians are promising destruction to anyone who gives us so much as a rotten egg."

  "It's the reputation of the Moondaggers," Moytana said.

  "Maybe we can tarnish it," Valentine said.

  "The clans can get away with not resisting us. Claim they don't have guns and so forth," Brother Mark said. "But trade? Never. The Moondaggers are promising to obliterate right down to the infants any clan who helps us. All legworm stock is to go to whichever clan reveals their 'treachery.’ They're filling wells with dead dogs and cats as we approach."

  "A little boiling will take care of that," a Guard captain said. "It's food I'm worried about. I believe we've got rations for the rest of the week. Then we're eating grass like the horses."

  "Two weeks on short. That's not enough to get us home. At least not intact," Bloom said. She sounded beaten.

  "So that's it, then," Valentine said. "We can't go on. Not without food."

  Brother Mark shook his head. "That's what they count on, my son. Despair. A victory comes so much easier when you are the one defeating yourself."

  "An army marches on its stomach," Moytana said. "What do you propose to fill my men's bellies with?"

  "They must march on hope."

  "That's not much butter to put on a long slice of bread," Moytana observed.

  * * * *

  The next day they woke to harassing gunfire from far-off batteries of the Moondaggers. The shots weren't being observed; they were falling wide by a half mile or more and not being corrected. But it unnerved the men, made them jumpy and scattered the way a coming thunderstorm puts rabbits underground.

  Valentine gave orders to put a reserve on alert and hurried to the headquarters to find a medical truck parked there and his staff silent and nervous. Even Red Dog panted and crisscrossed from man to man, seeking reassurance.

  "Colonel Jolla's dead, sir," the staff agronomist reported.

  "Who can tell me what happened?"

  "It's like this, sir," Tiddle, the headquarters courier, said. "I had the communications duty. Colonel Jolla came up to the rig and looked at the latest communications. Everyone was talking about the worm riders quitting on us.

  "Well, sir, he didn't say much. Just stared—didn't seem to be reading the communiqués at all. Colonel Bloom arrived with a report about some civilian bodies we found. She was just telling him that they were trying to bring us food. Oh, Colonel Jolla wasn't really paying attention to what she was saying. He just sort of nodded. Looked like his mind was elsewhere, like he was having a phone conversation or something."

  Tiddle looked miserable, the White Rabbit stilled for once. Valentine saw a bagged bundle resting in the back of the truck.

  "Well, then we heard some artillery fire in the distance, the usual calling cards from the Moondaggers to let us know they're back there, and Colonel Jolla just sort of went white. He reached for his service pistol and started to bring it up to his head. Bloom grabbed for it and they started wrestling. She said, for God's sake, help me,' and then we heard the shot. We were moving toward Colonel Jolla but he was too fast for us. He put the barrel in his mouth and pulled the trigger. Awful mess, sir—" Tiddle pointed at the front fender of the jeep, and Valentine saw caked blood in the crevices.

  "How's Colonel Boom?" Valentine asked, calming Red Dog and himself by flapping the dog's ears.

  "Shaken up. She's in command now."

  Valentine sought out Bloom. The usually quick and decisive Bloom seemed suddenly doubtful, but it might be the flecks of blood still on her cuff and shoulder. Red Dog approached her cautiously, sniffing.

  "We could try taking a crack at the Moondaggers, sir," Valentine suggested. "We might get the confidence of the worm clans back if we prove ourselves against them."

  For a moment her eyes flared.

  "Hmmmm. I don't know, Valentine. Southern Command doesn't want another Kansas on their hands, you know. I'm under orders to keep the brigade intact."

  They'd continue the retreat.

  * * * *

  Two days later Brother Mark returned from the Kentucky Alliance camp.

  "They're quitting on us," he said. "That Last Chance arranged a secret meeting with some of their leadership. Wildcats are packing up. Some of the Gunslingers are leaving, going to start a new clan. Even the Bulletproof and Mammoth are hedging their bets, sending some riders back to reinforce their main camp. All we have left are the attenuated what's left of those two and the Coonskins."

  He reached into his battered courier bag, brought up a black-lab
eled bottle. "They gave me a farewell gift. Were it were hemlock."

  "You've done your best," Valentine said, waving the others off. He sat Brother Mark down in the chair farthest from the communications desk, and the rest of the headquarters officers gave them a wide berth. Being the CO's chief of staff offered a few privileges.

  Brother Mark looked thoughtful, took a pull at the bourbon.

  "They always start you off easy. After I took my first vows, they put me in a little schoolhouse, helping the Youth Vanguard with their reading, writing, and 'rithmatic. Cozy. And they had a full priest there for all the tough questions. If someone asked where their grandfather went, all I'd have to say is 'Let's go talk to our guide.' Then sit quietly while the full priest talked about sacrifice for the greater good.

  "Then they moved me to the hospital. I'd just taken my second set of vows. Passed all my examinations with flying colors, by the way. Dead-even emotional resonance when presented with disturbing imagery."

  Valentine didn't know what that was but didn't want to change the old churchman's loquacious mood. He'd only seen the church from the outside.

  "Did hospital service change your opinions?"

  "No, it took me a long time to wake up. Nightmares shouldn't be allowed to pose as dreams."

  "I ran into one of those about a year ago," Valentine said. He still felt conflicted about the course he'd chosen in the Cascades. Valentine was not a believer in the revolutionary's morality, where the result justified the means. Could he have come up with a better way to get rid of Adler's bloody direction of Pacific Command?

  Brother Mark broke in on his thoughts. "Again, they made it so easy. At the hospital I had a nice little office, and each patient went through a rubric while their medical needs were being evaluated. Took into account age, physical condition, skill set, community activism, and responsibility ... and of course how involved the treatment might be and prognosis for recovery to full useful life. Above a certain score and they were treated. Below a certain score and they found themselves on the drop list.

  He whispered the last two words, as though they were something shameful.

  "Drop list," he continued. "Sounds innocuous, right? It meant they crossed over into the hands of the Reapers, of course. In a lot of cases the really sick people stayed at home or had quacks treat them, so we always talked to the school-agers about reporting any adults they knew who were sick. Spread of contagion and so on.

  "There were scores in between the drop list and treatment. In those cases I consulted higher authority. I'd call the local senior guide and we'd talk it over. Sometimes I'd visit them. Later I found out my guide would phone the family and ask them to come into his office for a consultation. He'd tell their families that serious decisions had to be made about a loved one, and by the way, the residential hall is practically falling apart on the east side and everyone knows clergy aren't paid salaries . . .

  "After a year there my senior guide started having me make decisions myself and then explaining them to him. I must have been good at it. He only overruled me once, in the case of a nephew of a brass ring who had cerebral palsy. They'd found some sinecure for him, and I suspect old Rusty had a big bag of money drop between his ankles under the table. With practice it got easier. I was able to tell myself it was for the good of the species, all the usual Guidon false analogies and circular arguments when it's not engaging in outright devil's advocacy. You wouldn't believe—or maybe you would. But I was destined for greater things."

  "So when did you start to question your Guidon?"

  It might have been the time I went to the basement. There was an incinerator down there for medical waste and so on, and I was responsible for destroying certain records. Lost records are the bureaucrat's best friend when trouble pays a call, Valentine, and don't you forget it if you ever rise to a desk.

  "Now usually I just dumped the files down the chute, but it was after normal office hours and for some reason I thought the incinerator might not be burning since we were on a winter fuel savings drive. I went down to check. The basement had its own cargo lift, otherwise you had to take the stairs, and there were two doors out of the lift. The first set, by the buttons, went to the incinerator. I'd always heard that only people who were dropped went out the back doors.

  "I took the lift down to the basement because they were painting in the stairs and the fumes bothered me—we'd hit the natal goal for the year, and the doctors and nurses from the delivery ward were having all their faces painted on the landings—and I heard a sound from the other side of the back door as my exit opened. It was like . . . like a sander, a belt sander or one of those ones with the little round pads. I heard screaming."

  "We'd always been told, you see, that everything was done to make death painless and worry-free, right down to the use of drugs to relax the person designated for recycling. I still hear that whirring noise and the screams, right to this clay, like someone made a tape of it.

  "I went to the incinerator and burned the old records and took the stairs back up. Though it almost choked me."

  Valentine asked Ediyak to see if she could scare up some food, worried what the ten fingers of bourbon consumption would do to Brother Mark's nerve-worn system.

  "You're a good boy, Valentine."

  "Where did they send you after the hospital?"

  "Education in Washington, DC, seat of the New Universal Church. The Vatican, Medina, Jerusalem, and the River Ganges all wrapped up around one green mall. Ever seen it? No, I suppose you haven't."

  "No."

  "Well, all the Church upper education schools and monuments are there. Tor the service of mankind,' they all say. Yes, each and every one of them. Sometimes in letters six feet high in marble.

  "My six years there reaffirmed my faith in mankind's future. I took lots of classes on old wars, intolerance, racism, studied how mankind had been in a downward spiral and that the so-called Age of Reason led to anything but. I could recite the four controls Homo sapiens needed and wrote long essays on the correctly actualized person.

  "Oh, and I had my great moment of fame, when I acted in an atrocity film. I got to play both a local priest bemoaning the slaughter of an entire town and a colonel who admitted giving orders to your terror operatives to poison water supplies feeding hospitals and schools. Different films, of course."

  "Of course."

  "I wondered if anyone would recognize me. Of course I had a full beard and an eyepatch when I was playing the captured colonel.

  "They assured me my script was based on actual documentation. The problem was the colonel's testimony sounded quite similar to a film I'd seen three times as a Youth Vanguard. Of course they always began and ended with a 'authenticated documentation' seal and statement. Of course, my films bore one too. I had to wonder. Since we were filming fake documentaries allegedly based on real documentation, I naturally began to have doubts about the veracity of the real documentation. Had it been based on the documentation in that film I saw sixteen years before? I wondered whether my transcribed testimony based on the real documentation might serve as further documentation for another film. Do you follow?"

  "You lost me two documentations ago."

  "Sorry." He took another drink.

  Ediyak arrived with some flatbread sandwiches and a shredded-meat stew that didn't commend itself to close analysis.

  * * * *

  They camped the next night with Valentine's usual caution, flanked by the legworm clan encampments, Coonskins to the south and the rest of the Alliance to the north, in a hummock between two higher hills. The hills sloped off to the west like unevenly cooked soufflés, and were situated above a good supply of firewood and water in an old crossroads town. His scavengers dug up a supply of wire in town. Old copper wire had any number of uses in a military camp, mostly in quick repairs. The only interesting feature was an almost paintless church with a steeple that served as a cramped observation post. Otherwise it was no different than any of their other half-dozen camp
s in the hills of central Kentucky.

  Distant gunfire, a sound like sheets slowly torn under a comforter, woke him. He had his boots on by the time the camp siren went off.

  The sound brought moisture to his palms and dried his mouth.

  Only two events warranted that alarming wail: Reapers in the camp or a surprise attack.

  The wail brought the camp together like drizzle turning into pools on a waterproof tarp. Individual drops of soldiers sought their nearest comrades and corporals with the same molecular cohesion of water. The fire teams called to the nearest sergeant or officer as captains passed word and gave orders.

  Valentine needed to travel only forty feet or so to headquarters, Bee appearing like a genie summoned by the siren. He forced himself to go at a brisk walk, buckling on his combat harness. The first flares burst to the south as he did so, turning the twigs and leaves of the young trees on the slope into a lattice.

  Bloom, who slept just off the headquarters tent, barked orders to a succession of couriers and confused junior officers.

  "Legworms coming through the pickets to the south. They'll be on top of us in a few minutes," she said.

  "Already over the south ridge," a corporal at a radio receiver reported.

  "I'll take a look," Valentine said. He spotted Tiddle, the lieutenant with the motorbike.

  "Your bike gassed up?"

  "Yes, sir, always."

  "Get to the Alliance. Tell them the Coonskins have turned on us. They're not, repeat, not to come into the camp. They'll get shot at."

  "What about some kind of marking, so we can tell the difference?" Rand asked. He'd been hovering, waiting for orders for his company.

  Valentine gritted his teeth. He should have thought of that.

  "Good thinking, Rand," Valentine said. "Have them drape a couple of sheets over the side of their legworms, anything we can make out in bad light," Valentine told Tiddle.

  "How do you know the others haven't turned too?" a Guard lieutenant asked. He looked like he should be leading a high school football team rather than a company. "You've got a direct line to the Bulletproof?" he asked.

  "He's got a line on that Alliance girl," Bloom said. "I'd reel her in, if I was you."