Valentine's Resolve

by E. E. Knight

  The corporal rolled his eyes. "They say it's refried beans. Tastes like they scraped it off a Dumpster."

  "Dig into mine," Valentine said.

  "You're a real guapo ... uh, Mr. Argent." He hunched over the table and worked a chunk of Valentine's steak free from bone and gristle.

  "Why the food shortage?" Valentine asked.

  "Troubles out east," the corporal said, shoveling food and looking over his shoulder. "We just took a bunch of California farmland, thanks to the Circus, but it's taking time to get organized. Headhunters down south are having a tougher time finding peons to work the land. This territory used to be Frolic City—Pyp's Circus brought in a lot of in-kind trade from the Gulag. Now we're fighting to hold our own."

  "Here's to better days," Valentine said, swallowing some watery juice.

  The corporal removed some gravy with his heel of bread. "If you're looking to set up an establishment somewhere comfy with your reward—"

  Valentine picked up his wiped-clean tray. "Haven't thought that far ahead, friend."

  Hornbreed was on the telephone when they entered the room. The corporal pulled up a chair outside.

  "No," Hornbreed said, wincing a little at the effort. "No. Let's get Bettie Page stripped. Put Tigress and Zorro into reserve, and Brunhilda in for a complete overhaul. Let me know the status Rockette as soon as the salvagers bring her in. Yeah, I flipped her. Tell them at least a week for the wing to reorganize. Colorado tore us a new one."

  He paused. Then: "Kur! I don't care. We'll lose half the wing if we go into action now. Yes, I'll take the responsibility."

  Valentine listened to another call to someone named "Lo," full of many reassurances as to his condition. He went to the window, watched the quiet airfield. Gliders circled far above, featherless hawks on the air currents. Valentine watched a new string of gliders take off, a twin-engine prop with five fiberglass baby planes in tow.

  Hornbreed returned the phone to its cradle and rubbed his eyes.

  "What are all the gliders for?" Valentine asked.

  "Pilot training. You learn most of the principles of flight, and it saves a lot of gas."

  "Looks fun," Valentine said, and meant it.

  "Just say the word and—"

  The corporal's chair in the hallway scraped and Valentine heard him come to his feet. Boots squeaked on the linoleum.

  Patrick Yenez-Powell had darkish but freckled skin, a boxer's squashed nose, and ears like a pair of beat-up trash can lids. Valentine didn't know what to make of the variegated uniform. The gold necklace, dungaree overalls, and shoulder holster made him look like a motor-pool inventory guard called away from a good card game, but the round, black felt hat added a serious note.

  Valentine envied the sandals, though. They looked cool and comfortable.

  "Knock knock," Pyp said. "Got a minute, Horny?" His voice flowed low, musical, and a little sad. If basset hounds could talk, they'd sound like Yenez-Powell.

  "Always," Hornbreed said.

  Valentine saw a pair of adjutants, male and female so alike that they looked like brother and sister, peering in from the doorway.

  Pyp strode in, holding his left arm behind.

  "You dumb sonofabitch. I told you Rockette wasn't fit to get home. You had to be a hero and make it or go down with the ship."

  "Got her in range of the salvage bird," Hornbreed said.

  "We'll have to invent a new medal for you—you got all the others. Just park it for now. I brought you a present. Fresh from the Cali Dairy," Pyp said, revealing a big bottle of white liquid Valentine guessed to be milk. "Still a little warm from the cow."

  Hornbreed produced one of his little gasps. "Huff. Thanks, sir. You're a wonder." He twisted off the cap and tried a swallow.

  "Milkman," Valentine said quietly.

  "Is this our stray herder?" Pyp asked, turning to Valentine.

  "He got me out of a dark hole," Hornbreed said. "Almost punched out doing it."

  "Thank you, young man." He offered his hand. "Call me Pyp."

  Valentine shook his hand. "Max."

  "Good with his gun and cool in a hotbox," Hornbreed said. "We could sure use him."

  Valentine shrugged. "I'm flattered, but I'm more interested in the reward."

  Pyp sucked air through his teeth. "Sorry to hear that. But don't worry, you'll get it in full."

  "Your jackets say the reward is nonnegotiable," Valentine said. "Is that firm?"

  Both the pilots exchanged looks and frowns. "Hey, Max—," Hornbreed started.

  "Son, most of the fellers who want to haggle don't hand over the pilot first," Pyp said. "You're either dumb or impractical."

  "I didn't mean the amount," Valentine said. "I meant the type. Does it have to be gold?"

  "What, you want something lighter? We can look into gems," Pyp said.

  Valentine held up a hand. "Oh, nothing like that. I was wondering if I could trade the reward for a ride in one of your planes."

  This time the pilots exchanged furrowed brows.

  "Where you wanna go, Japan?" Pyp said. "You're screwing yourself, son."

  "Gold just brings trouble. I've got family on a patch of land up toward Canada. I'd like a ride up there."

  Pyp tipped his hat up and forward, scratched his stubbled head. "Easily done. We've got a friendly field in northern Utah."

  "Thanks."

  "You'll find a little gratitude goes a long way," Pyp said. "We'll put you in the VIP jet if you like."

  "Throw in some flying lessons and we'll call it a deal," Valentine said.

  "Not sure a man who turns down mint gold should be working a stick and rudder, but we'll oblige," Pyp said. "Horny, you tell Alvarez to arrange some privates."

  "I'll take him up myself," Hornbreed said, setting down his almost-empty quart of milk. "The wing's going to be down for a while anyway."

  "That's the other thing," Pyp said. "We're going to have to dummy up for a week or so and make you look operational. There's a purification drive."

  "Huff..." Hornbreed lost some of his color. "Oh hell."

  Valentine wanted to ask what a "purification drive" was, but Hornbreed read his face. "Looks like you haven't spent much time in the Confederation."

  "They could show any day," Pyp said.

  Hornbreed swung his legs out of the bed, took a deep, wheezy breath. "Get my boots, huh?"

  * * * *

  They put Valentine in a comfortable little house in a no-man's-land of fencing that wasn't on the airfield, but rather grew out beside the main gate in a dogleg shape. More houses, a little school with thick bars around it, and some rows of two-story apartments surrounded an empty pool that someone had turned into the world's biggest sandbox for the kids. A driving range/putting green ran in a green carpet out to the fencing. As if to make up for the missing pool, housing management turned a big sprinkler on every afternoon, watering the putting green, and the base kids shrieked as they ran in and out of it.

  Runoff fed a vegetable garden, and served as a birdbath. The birds looked every bit as happy as the kids.

  Skinny, shoeless, half-naked kids watched from the other side of the wire, sticking their arms through the fencing and begging food, alternating pleas in Spanish and English.

  Valentine took a short joyride his first evening. A young instructor named Starguide offered him the chance to watch a sunset from just beneath the clouds. Valentine gazed down on the rooftops of Yuma, spotted a few antlike vehicles on the wide roads, saw the Colorado and Yuma rivers running muddily beneath, along with the old, perforated border fences and trenches dividing Arizona from Mexico. And of course the sun, turning everything shades of red and copper.

  I see why, Dad. But how did you ever give this up?

  "Ready to take over?" Starguide asked

  Valentine wiped the tears out of his eyes.

  "Like with most everything, first time's the best," Starguide said. "Pick a spot on the horizon and keep her level. Don't be afraid— I'm here. Small, gentle
movements. You'll just have her for a few minutes—it's getting dark."

  Valentine took the controls. The plane waggled a little and settled down.

  "You've got good hands for this, Argent," Starguide said.

  "I bet you say that to all the boys," Valentine said.

  "Dude, don't even joke about it. You don't want a rep as a rainbow chaser. Pilot culture is muy macho."

  After the exhilaration of a night landing, with the airfield lights changing speed and perspective until they touched down with the softest of bumps, Starguide filled out some paperwork. He then took Valentine toward Yuma on a spring-worn shuttle bus. They stopped well outside of town at a cavernous wooden restaurant, where Horn-breed watched while some musicians set up. A petite, caramel-skinned woman with cheekbones and jawline as sharp as a hunting arrow sat beside Hornbreed, resting her hand on his arm, loving but not overly demonstrative.

  "Any news?" Starguide asked.

  "No sign of 'em yet," Hornbreed said. "Maybe they'll skip us and concentrate on the out-there."

  Starguide didn't say anything, but he didn't have to. His face said "That'll be the day."

  Valentine looked around the place. A big U of a room, with pillars where he guessed dividing walls once stood, surrounded the bar. Doors to the kitchen were on one side, to the washrooms on another. A stairway at the side had a blue neon arrow zigzagging up and the legend wild blue yonder in cloud-scrolled letters.

  "Welcome to the Mezcal," Hornbreed said, pulling out a chair at a table with a good view of the band. "Best liquor and music between the LA Slimepits and Austin Holdout. This is my wife, Louisa."

  "I am, jusslike, so grateful to you," the caramel-skinned woman said, her voice oddly nasal.

  "That's the sound of California class," Hornbreed said. "But she fell for a dashing pilot and joined me in the wasteland."

  "Jusslike the movies," Louisa agreed.

  Hornbreed gave her a kiss on the temple. A waitress approached them. "Buy you a drink?"

  "Whatever you're having."

  "It's milk. I don't drink."

  "Milk, then," Valentine said.

  "Struth, not another one," Starguide said. "Hey, he needs his wings."

  Starguide went to the bar and yanked a piece of plastic off a peg. He returned just as the milks and drinks arrived, set it on Valentine's head, and fixed a thin bungee under his chin. It was a kid's toy hat, spray-painted silver, with wings that swept up and back.

  A trio in leather jackets, parked at the end of the bar and chatting with a buxom bartender, whistled and raised their glasses to Valentine.

  Valentine, Hornbreed, and Starguide clinked glasses. Valentine's milk slopped out a little.

  "Why the milk?" Valentine asked.

  "My folks were sort of fitness fanatics," Hornbreed said.

  Valentine knew better than to inquire further about their health. One never asked about relatives in the Kurian Zone, especially when the past tense was employed. Instead he watched customers stream in. Some pointed to his funny little silver hat, and a pilot or two broke away from their friends and came up to clap him on the back.

  "Kick it, Ge-arge," a bandsman with a guitar said. Ge-arge raised his sticks above his head and clacked them together three times, tchk tchk tchk—Valentine jumped a little. The sound reminded him of the hunter-gatherers.

  A fusion of salsa and Western coursed through the bar.

  "Place is gonna be full tonight," Louisa predicted. "Everyone's nervous."

  Valentine raised an eyebrow at Hornbreed, who shook his head. A few couples left the bar and began to dance. Valentine recognized one of the pilots from the rescue helicopter, stomping away in elaborately stitched pointed-toe boots.

  The band took a quick break. Hornbreed used the silence to tell an abbreviated version of the hunter-gatherers story, attracting a small crowd. "I've seen their tracks, on mule patrol up Goner Ridge," a woman put in. "He's not exaggerating."

  Hornbreed left out his injury, and embellished a little, saying Valentine had carried him halfway down a mountain, plinking at bugs the whole way.

  When the band started up again they were joined by a zebra-haired singer. She performed in a silver mesh bikini and matching strappy cork-heeled sandals, rattlesnake tattoos winding down each arm and a Chinese ideograph on her back. She'd applied makeup with an airbrush, giving her bright, intense eyes wings like a pit viper's:

  "Take one take two take three take me

  Bled out in an attic so's nobody sees"

  The dancers were limp in one another's arms as they moved, shambling like ravies cases about to keel over. The singer's arms waved hypnotically as she passed the microphone first to one hand, then the other. Valentine looked around, a little shocked at the explicit lyrics, but maybe musicians could sing what no one dared say.

  "Hiya, cherry," a female voice twanged in his ear.

  A girl in fishnets and feathers, a swan-shaped black bottle nestled under one netted breast, put down a shot glass in front of him. "Jolt of Swan Neck? On the house."

  "I'm not drinking," Valentine said.

  "He's already at half-staff," Louisa said. "No assistance required."

  The woman planted the bottle at the center of the table, put a hand on each of Valentine's shoulders, and did a brief bump and grind. "You wanna go upstairs? Ready, willing, and free of charge."

  "No thanks."

  "Ah, the follies of youth," Hornbreed said, though Valentine guessed the wing leader had only half a decade on him. "You should take advantage of the newbie's wings. One night only."

  "What was the fighting up in Colorado about?" Valentine asked.

  "Those jokers are trying to starve us by cutting off the Colorado River. We took out the dams."

  "Must have been big bombs."

  "No, demolition teams. It was more an airmobile operation. Ever since that fiasco in Fifty we use our own troops on the ground if we have to land anything. Damn Grogs flapped off as soon as things got a little hot."

  Valentine wondered if the Kurian Year Fifty "fiasco" was the operation at Love Field in Dallas. His old regiment, the Razors, had been so battered by the aerial pounding, Southern Command had broken it up—but he wasn't about to make Hornbreed feel better by saying so. Odd that he felt more like shaking the man's hand than ever. The aerial assault had been well coordinated and deadly.

  "Don't let the rationing fool you," Starguide added. "This is a profound crèche. You never hear a Hisser, unless you're riding a desk at GHQ. We run our own lives. We get—"

  A rattlesnake-decorated arm cut him off as the singer wrapped herself around Valentine's back.

  "We've got a first timer here tonight, named—"

  "Max," Hornbreed supplied.

  She hopped up and planted her thong-divided buttocks on the bar table, planting her sandaled foot firmly on Valentine's crotch. Valentine watched her eyeballs rattle around and decided she was a little stoned. "Let's rass it for the Circus' newest hero, Max.

  "From the rigs ofCatalina

  To the shoals of Mississippi

  We shall fight for mankind's uplift

  To Earth's glorious destiny

  "In our fight for truth and justice

  And to 'teep our conscience clean

  We will always follow orders

  of the Saviors of Our Dream."

  Cheering broke out at the end of the song and Valentine reached up for a kiss, lifting her leg out of the way. He used the leverage to throw her slight body over his shoulder.

  "I'm taking her up," he called to the crowd, heading for the stairs.

  "Hit that silk hard!" a drunk in the crowd shouted.

  "My set's not over, you bastard," the singer yelled, punching him in the small of the back.

  Two pipeline-armed men in leather vests, probably bouncers, appeared at the front of the crowd, but no call for assistance came.

  He slapped one tan buttock in return. "She'll be back after a brief intermission," Valentine said as he took the first
steps, to cheering approval.

  He paused at the top of the stairs. A hallway led to a marked washroom and several doors. He tried the nearest door; it wasn't locked.

  A big, cushioned wooden lounge chair and a double bed almost filled the little paneled room. Sponge-painted clouds gave the room a nursery feel. He found a light switch. A single bulb in an orange and blue Chinese lantern gave the room a grotto glow. There was a rag rug on the floor, and a pair of towels next to a washbasin and an empty pitcher on a little shelf.

  The band had already transitioned into a dance number. Muffled percussion and guitar rose through the floor.

  "Classy," Valentine said. He dumped the singer on the bed.

  "Fucker!" she protested. "You could ask a—"

  "I will," Valentine said. "What's your name?"

  She sat up and kicked off her sandals. "Gide. Be careful with my face, okay? Rough stuff will mess up the makeup." She took off the bikini top. "I know it's traditional to keep the pants as a souvenir, but these were—"

  "Gide, you can keep them on." Valentine sat in the chair. "I just want to talk."

  She flopped back against the wall, extracted a hand-rolled from her hairdo. "What, like dirty?"

  "No. One of those songs, the one about the attic, it struck me as odd. Aren't you afraid of saying stuff like that?"

  "Got a light?"

  "I don't smoke."

  "Shit." She felt around under the mattress, peeked under the bed. "They sneak in condoms all the time, but can they leave a match? Dream deferred." She reattached the cigarette, or joint, to a hairpin and put it back in her tangle of hair.

  "You wrote that song?"

  "Yeah. You hot shits could use a bite of reality. It got a response, you saw."

  "What's a purification?" Valentine asked.

  Some of the hard edge came off. "It's—it's not my place."

  "Please. I'm new here. Call me Max, if you like. I brought in Wing Leader Hornbreed. I'm wondering if I should grab my reward and run while the getting's good."

  "You got your gold yet?"

  "Working on it. I'm trading most of it for a trip far away."

  "Purification's head-count reduction," she said. "Lotta times it makes no sense, who gets chosen."