Valentine's Resolve

by E. E. Knight

  The eight bodies were laid out between the wrecks in a pattern that might have been trying to be a flower, or a boat propeller. All were hollow-socketed and opened at the rib cage. Valentine guessed that the heart and liver were missing at least, along with more obvious extractions of eyes, noses, and tongues. Taking a deep breath, he knelt beside one sandy-haired corpse and looked in the nose.

  They'd spooned out a good deal of brain as well.

  Valentine heard a flutter and whirled, but it was just a crow. The black bird opened its mouth, an angry Kawwl contesting the bodies.

  Valentine paid it no attention and did a fast search of the trucks and vans. He found three more bodies, similarly picked at but not arranged in any fashion save what was needed for a quick extraction of organ meat.

  He heard a chatter of machine-gun fire and the sudden gunning of a motorcycle. He hopped up in a pickup bed—the contents had been stripped as hastily and messily as the bodies—and saw one of the bik­ers taking off against a running, sun-browned figure. The runner had a bad limp, with blood and dirt caked on his leg.

  The biker stopped his bike, lifted an oddly thick rifle, pumped its action three times, and fired. Valentine saw a thick dart blossom in the back of the runner, who flopped over again.

  The biker answered a hoot from one of the wreckers with a wave of his leather cap, and turned his bike back for the road.

  Somehow the Jaguar rose again, a thin spear lodged in a grooved thrower. Valentine brought up the Steyr and sighted on the dark blotch of armpit hair under the Jaguar's raised right arm. The gun boomed, startling more crows.

  Valentine didn't watch the effect of his shot. Instead he scanned for more threats.

  Valentine watched the misthrown spear change trajectory, from straight up to straight down. The biker glanced over his shoulder, turned his bike again, and made for the spot where the Jaguar fell. He raised himself in the saddle and bumped over the body in a figure-eight pattern, making sure this time. Valentine scanned the countryside, wondering if the wounded warrior had been sacrificed to draw the biker into a trap, but no other threats emerged from the brush and cacti.

  With the killing that couldn't quite be labeled a skirmish over, Valentine waved the Rover forward, and Salsa gave the okay for the wreckers to come up.

  Valentine grabbed a bungee cord and a shovel off a bracket on the back hatch of the Rover. Using the bungee around the ankles, he pulled the bodies one by one off the road, lining them up in the median. When the corpses were lined up, he loosened some soil with the pick end of his worm hook and threw loose dirt over the butchered collection.

  Swell rinsed his mouth out with a canteen and spit onto the front windscreen. Zuniga activated the wipers. "You don't mean to bury all those bodies?"

  "I do," Valentine said.

  The bikers roared up, curious. "Hell, man, the birds and coyotes will take care of them with a lot less sweat," the fat one with the beard said.

  Valentine ignored him.

  The one who had chased after the Jaguar, a lean, greasy-haired man who looked as though he'd crossed New Mexico dragged by the bike rather than in the saddle, put his bike on its stand. "Coot, be a mensch for once," he growled. "Have a little respect."

  The biker slid into the median and took up the pick. "Name's Loring," he said. "Zeb Loring."

  "Max Argent," Valentine said. "Muchogusto."

  "Aye-yup," Loring said.

  "Never met a Zeb before," Valentine said. "That short for Zebulon?"

  Loring had his share of scars. His leathers were carefully stitched up, his face much less so. "My father never made it much past Genesis in the Bible. Mom was a rabbi outta New York. It was a compromise."

  They moved on to another body. Valentine rolled a rock using his shovel as a lever. "You're a long way from the East."

  "Aye-yup. You too, looks like. Those are Kentucky legworm leathers."

  "That they are."

  "Always thought those beasties were grand. You don't have to feed them gas and oil."

  "Ever rode one?" Valentine asked.

  "Naw. Too slow. I like to be on something that can outrun those damn golems."

  Valentine grunted agreement. "Hey, lookit that," Loring said. He leaned the pickax against his knee and pointed up.

  Valentine saw aircraft, in three groups, flying high toward the southwest.

  "I bet Denver got hit again. That's the Flying Circus. They range all over the Southwest, set up temporary airfields on old roads."

  "Pyp's Flying Circus?" Valentine asked, shading his eyes to take a look at the craft. He guessed they were at above ten thousand feet.

  "That's what they're called. I saw a couple of them in their fancy leathers in a bar in Nogales once. Aye-yup. They're not ones for staying put either."

  "What are you going to do when we hit LA?" Valentine asked.

  "Celebrate. Then we might head up the valley to wine country. They do a few runs a year over the mountains to the Missouri and Arkansas riverheads. Good money guarding wine, and a flask out of the supply cask really makes dinner an experience." He mumbled a few words as Valentine covered a corpse with a thin layer of dirt. Valentine stood silent.

  "I like the old words, don't you?" Loring said.

  "Yes. Thanks for the help."

  "Muchogusto," Loring said.

  * * * *

  With the wrecks out of the way, and their remaining fuel safely stowed in the tanks and drums of the bikes and wreckers, the vehicles reassembled in the formation they'd used as they approached the blockade. Valentine, sweaty from his exertions and moody because of the bodies, ate a salted hard-boiled egg after carefully washing his hands.

  "You feel better?" Salsa asked.

  "Pardon?"

  Salsa threw his arm over the seat. "You feel better now that those bodies are buried? 'Cause it sure makes no difference to them."

  "Nothing in my contract about leaving bodies in the sun," Valen­tine said.

  "Coyotes will probably have them dug up by midnight," Zuniga said.

  "What's that?" Swell shouted from the gun.

  "Oh, for Kur's dark asshole," Salsa said. He poked his head out the window. "You're at the wheel next—hey!"

  Valentine heard it too. A sputtering engine sounded overhead and Valentine marked a twin-engine plane, a dirty-clay color with a red stripe going up the tail like a hockey stick; it spewed white vapor from one engine and faint black puffs from the other as it passed overhead. The engine sounded stronger for a moment and the plane gained altitude, trying for the mountains to the west. Valentine watched as it shrank to a cross in the distance. Then it plunged, leveled off, and disappeared into the valley floor.

  "That poor dumb bastard," Salsa said. "He should have set it down in the road by us."

  Valentine, meanwhile, searched his map of the Southwest.

  "He was trying to make it to his home airfield," Zuniga said.

  "Are those the guys with the reward message on the backs of their jackets?" Valentine asked.

  "Tempting, isn't it?" Salsa said. "But forget it, the Jaguars will have him by dark."

  "How long would it take us to get to where he landed?" Valentine asked.

  "I ain't even guesstimating. We're not risking the Rover."

  "Then stop, please," Valentine said, feeling light-headed. "I'll go on foot."

  "You're nuts," Swell shouted down from the gun.

  "Now he can hear," Salsa said. "What about your contract, Argent?"

  "I've got the option of breaking it. Please, stop the car."

  Zuniga honked and the vehicles slowed, then stopped.

  "You don't get paid, then," Salsa said.

  "I'd appreciate an extra canteen and some of the freeze-dry," Val­entine said.

  "Hey, if this is about those bodies, I didn't mean to step on any re­ligious practices. Running my mouth is just how I get to know a man. Nothing to kill yourself over."

  Valentine got his gun, sword, and pack and tucked a few extra odds and
ends in from the Rover's supplies: freeze-dried veggie packs— about as appetizing as a bathroom mat but full of vitamins— beef sticks, dried fruit....

  "Guy's nuts," Swell called to a grizzled mechanic leaning out of a tow truck window to watch. "He's going to go rescue that cloud jumper. Wants the ten grand in gold."

  "Big money isn't worth getting dead over, kid," the mechanic advised.

  Been a long time since anyone's called me kid, Valentine thought. But the strange clarity that came over him sometimes, the one that infected him when he went into Chicago after Molly, or struck off into the Nebraska sandhills to warn the trekkers against the general, or pushed him to save a wounded Grog who would become his best friend—Valentine felt his eyes go wet at the memory of Ahn-Kha— told him he was doing the right thing.

  Sergeant Patel used to talk about a third eye capable of perceiving the invisible. Valentine wondered if there was a third ear, hearing the whispers of guardian angels.

  A motorcycle engine blatted and Loring sat his bike next to him as Valentine marked a reference point for the fallen aircraft. The bike growled like a threatening watchdog.

  "You're not," Loring said.

  "I am. Interested in making a Troy?"

  "I'm not parking three butts on my bike for an off-road trip to Neverland."

  "I just want you to get me to that airplane."

  Loring looked at the sun. "Let's see the color of your gold."

  Valentine reached into his belt and palmed one of his coins. He passed it over.

  "That thing with the bodies wasn't an act, I hope. If this is some fancy plan to get me out so you can debit my bike—"

  Valentine checked the buckles on his pack and the strap fixing his legworm pickax. "I arranged for the plane to go down just so I could get your ride?"

  "Right. Sorry. Paranoid is the best way to stay alive when you road it for a living."

  "No offense."

  "Give my regards to Lautenberg," Valentine told Salsa. "I'll either meet you guys tomorrow when you run the valley or dog southwest."

  "You a crusader, Argent, or just greedy?"

  "A little of both," Valentine said.

  Loring exchanged knuckles with his fellow biker, and edged for­ward on his seat. "Hang your pack there," he said, indicating a little backrest just above the taillight. "You can put the gun and the giblet prodder on the front rack, if you like."

  Quick-release plastic snaps secured the gear there. With that, Val­entine climbed on and they were off, back into the once-fertile valley.

  Loring gave him a quick lesson on how and when to lean in turns, where to put his feet when they stopped the bike, and what to do in case of attack: "Hug me like an ass bandit. You come off, I'm not turn­ing round."

  They stopped once while still on the highway to reconnoiter from a slight hill, and Valentine pointed to where he marked the crash site.

  "If you want to take a leak, do it now. It's going to be bumpy for a while," Loring advised.

  After a companionable release—Loring loosed a long, satisfied " Aye-yup" along with his bladder—they bumped off into the Arizona dirt, crossing through stands of cacti and waxy succulents.

  Loring negotiated the big, woolly bushes and dry washes with a good deal of skill. All they disturbed were rabbit, whose Ping-Pong ball tails bounced away from the bike's noisy exhaust, and roadrunners.

  "Practically ringing the dinner bell for the Jaguars, you know," Loring said, at a stop where Valentine mounted a rock to recheck their bearings.

  They reached the crash site perhaps two hours after the pilot had set down. Judging from the tire tracks, he'd made a good job of the landing, snapping off a few taller cacti, until the right under-engine landing gear hit a rock. The gear hadn't broken, but it bounced the plane up, and the right wingtip caught and spun it, and once the nose struck it was all over. The rugged frame of the aircraft, though thick with patched bullet holes, had stood up to even the pancake. Wings and tail were still intact.

  They made a slow circle of the wreck. Valentine cocked his head to admire the nose art: A girl in an abbreviated red uniform, fighting to keep the front of her skirt down, rode a rocket pointed toward the nose gear. Valentine retrieved his weapons and gear from the bike.

  "Wonder if they got him already," Loring said.

  "I don't see any tracks." Valentine looked at the upside-down craft. "Anyone in there?"

  Loring switched off his motor so Valentine could listen. He saw a pair of bloody fingerprints below one of the windows, upside-down letters reading

  milkman

  He stuck his head in and looked at the field of gauges and controls. He smelled blood, strong now.

  Cargo netting filled the rear of the plane, mostly empty save for a couple of battered crates and strewn duffel bags. He smelled a sweet odor, and traced it to a broken jar of preserved plums in syrup resting against a big water bottle and a mouth tube. An open camera case with a body and a long lens inside rested on the roof. "There are some bags of cargo here. And a camera. You want to check for salvage?"

  "Rocket rails," Loring said, still firmly in his saddle, bike pointed for a quick exit.

  "Hmmm?" Valentine asked. He pulled the camera case out and inspected the prize. It looked quite valuable.

  "On the bottom of the wings. This thing's built to carry rockets, and they've been fired a lot. Let's get out of here. Let the colab choke out here."

  Valentine made a slow circuit of the plane. The ground was rocky and—

  Blood on the air.

  The pilot's keeping close to his ship, but hiding. Sensible, if his friends come looking for him.

  Valentine approached the bike. "He's still in the area," he said quietly.

  Loring watched the sun, now touching the mountains. "If you say so. I'm dusting off. You coming?"

  "I want to meet this guy," Valentine said.

  "Shit. You said there were bags of stuff?"

  "Yes."

  "Gimme one." Loring unwrapped a bungee cord from his handlebar.

  Valentine retrieved an ordinary-looking service duffel. It con­tained a rolled-up sleeping mat and spare blankets. He watched while Loring took off his leather jacket, zipped it on the upright duffel, then placed it in the saddle behind him. He whipped the bungee around it and fixed it at his belly button.

  "From a distance it'll look like we're still riding together. Maybe the Jaguars will chase me instead of hunt you up. Pyp's gold isn't worth your life, Max."

  "No," Valentine agreed.

  "Hope you make it back to the road, then, Samaritan."

  "Ride free," Valentine said, summoning his one piece of biker slang. He handed over the camera case. "Give this to Lautenberg. Maybe you and he can split the proceeds of the sale. A thank-you from me.

  "Aye-yup," Loring agreed. "Keep on God's good side." He winked and started up his bike.

  Valentine ducked back into the shadow of the plane and watched Loring bump off. He dropped into a crouch, and began to hunt.

  * * * *

  Valentine followed his nose uphill, found a telltale drop of blood or two, and finally heard rather wheezy breathing from a thick stand of barrel-shaped cacti. Wild sheep dotted the mountain slopes above, feeding on the grasses in the wind-sheltered washes.

  The flier had chosen his vantage well. It offered a good view of the wreck and the mountainside.

  Valentine sat down on a flat-topped rock about ten feet away from the cactus and opened a bag of dried fruit, listened to the breathing. He rinsed his mouth out, then extracted a couple of apple chips and crunched them down. "You want some?"

  The cactus stand didn't say anything. Whoever was within held his breath.

  "This is a nasty patch of ground, flyboy. You're not going to like the natives."

  Valentine took a swallow of water.

  "On the other hand," Valentine said, "they're going to be happy as hell to meet you. What I can't figure out is what they do with the eyes. Eyes don't keep. Do they eat them as soon
as they pull them out, maybe with a little salt like a hard-boiled egg, or do they carry around a jug of brine—"

  The cactus stand let out a cough and went silent.

  "Option three is me," Valentine said. "I'm just interested in that reward on the back of your jacket. I'm sure you know the wording by heart. It's a win for both of us: You get to be alive, and I get my money."

  "Ya-hey," the cactus stand said. A man stood up, a bloody bandage on his hand and a good-sized swelling on his head. He had the blond good looks of an old magazine cover model. Powerful shoulders tested the limits of his jumpsuit, and a brown leather jacket of the type Valentine had last seen outside Dallas was tied around his waist. "You could have said so to begin. Navajo or Apache?"

  "Neither," Valentine said. "Max Argent."

  "Equality Hornbreed."

  Valentine wasn't sure he'd heard correctly.

  "First name was good politics," Hornbreed said. He blew his nose into a silk handkerchief, coughed again. "My genitors were all about good politics."

  "Your ribs intact?" Valentine asked.

  "It's the pollen. Spring allergies. I can walk all night if I have to. Got a headache that about has me cross-eyed is all."

  "I think I've got some aspirin—"

  "Took a couple, thanks. Grabbed the medical kit first thing."

  "Your friends know you went down?"

  He took a handful of dried fruit. "They do. Everyone was low on fuel—end of the leg. Guess no one had the guts to try a setdown to pick me up—strict rules about that, we lose too many ships. The strip we're heading for is just a temp, though, no pickup helicopter. There's a couple parked at Yuma, so I might be on my own until tomorrow."

  "Hurt the hand on landing?"

  "No. Planted it on some broken glass, otherwise I'd offer you a candied plum. Didn't look when I unhooked. I smelled smoke and was worried I was on fire."

  "You armed?"

  "Pistol and my flare gun. Want me to turn them over to you?"

  He was oddly accommodating.

  "Can I look at the offer on the jacket again?"

  The wording hadn't changed, nor had the logo of a rattlesnake with dragon wings flying openmouthed toward the viewer. Colorful mission patches and squadron insignia—a hairy pirate face with a classic skull-and-bones cap appealed—decorated the sleeves and pockets.