by E. E. Knight
"Who does it, Churchmen?" Valentine asked.
"Yeah, the church handles it."
"Ever worry that your songs might get you purified?"
"Fuck no. I think they like having me around. They need a place for the zips to let off a little steam. The Mezcal's sort of cathartic."
"Sort of what?" Valentine asked.
"Catharsis. Healthy elimination of emotion. Like a big bawlin' shit into the toilet of life."
"Singer and philosopher."
"My old man was a cowhand, but that doesn't mean he was dumb. Always had a book or two tucked away and he read to me a lot. I grew up in the saddle with a rifle instead of a doll. Killed a mountain lion when I was eight."
"If you can shoot, why didn't you join the service?" Valentine studied her tattoos. The snakes were posed differently. The left arm seemed to be striking; the right wrapped itself protectively around her upper arm and watched the world from the soft spot on her forearm.
"I'd be tempted to pull the trigger with the gun pointed the other way. How far away from here are you going?"
"About a thousand miles north."
Her fingers tightened on the stained bedding. "Take me with? I can work off my expenses. Or we can arrange something. I ain't exactly a virgin, but I'm healthy and horny on my own account, not just to keep my job. I'll fuck you like Scheherazade, not some high-mileage brothel cunt."
"I'm tempted just for the conversation."
She tipped back into the bed. "Make fun. Who are you to talk to me like that?"
"I was hoping to figure that out on this trip. How do you survive a purification?"
"No telling what sets them off. But I'd cover that limp if I were you. Life is precarious for the lame and halt. I don't suppose you're a big shot somewhere, and you're just keeping your brass ring hid?"
"No such luck," Valentine said. "How can I get in touch with your
"I live above Ling's market in Yuma. I help him stock after a gig. Then I sleep out the day. But don't be afraid to wake me up, know what I mean?"
"I look forward to the rest of your set."
"Wait," she said, standing. "Undo your hair."
Valentine unwound the thick rubber band that kept his hair out of the way. Gide reached up and ran her metallic-nailed fingers through his hair, tousling it.
"You've got three gray hairs," she said, and kissed him. Her lips traveled down his neck. "Just a little lipstick smear. Someone might wonder why you carried me up here to talk. Though I ought to give you a black eye."
"Thanks for the advice, Gide."
"What about my offer?"
"Under consideration. But if I bring you, it'll be for your trigger finger, not the thousand and one nights."
She blinked. "You've done some reading too."
"Haven't had the time lately." Valentine put his hand flat against the small of her back and gave her lips a quick brush with his own.
"And what was that for? My makeup's already fucked."
"Gratitude. Lone man's dilemma. I was beginning to think all these flyboys were the sane ones and I was the nut."
* * * *
Valentine took the stairs quietly, noticing on his way down that the crowd had grown. Masses of people and noise made him tense and headachy, so he joined some of the smokers outside. People sat on old car seats and lawn chairs, drinking and smoking and looking at the stars. In the shadows, couples kissed.
Cigarette smoke, stars, and the occasional eager moan turned above Valentine as he stargazed. Were women aware of their strange healing power? He felt the wounds begin to close, but nothing, not Gide, not Blake, not even the satisfaction that would come with a successful assignment, could replace his daughter.
"Never should have made that trip," he said.
"How's that, Max? You regretting popping off into the sage to get me back?" Hornbreed said from behind.
"Didn't see you," Valentine said. "No, different trip, two years ago. Just as soon not talk about it."
"Suit yourself. How'd you like your flight?"
"Loved it, but I still want my reward."
"We're always short planes, but it'll be arranged. You'll go fast and in style. We'll tack on an extra day or two to maintenance and put the fuel use down to testing. Tomorrow I'll set you down with some workbooks—you need to learn a few principles—and then maybe you'll go up in a two-seat glider."
"You worried about some 'purifiers' showing up?"
"I keep my nose clean. Worst thing you can do is get all nervous about it. They see you stammering and sweating, they figure a guilty conscience is showing itself."
"I know what you mean," Valentine said, prickling at Hornbreed's blasé attitude. Did they put something in the water here? Suppose they carted Louisa off?
"They might not even show. The higher-ups are more worried about the food situation. They'll probably concentrate on agro in California and Mexico."
"I'd just as soon get going."
"We're still going to give you a couple thousand in gold, you know. That's got to be arranged for."
Valentine wondered if a stall was on. "How you feeling?"
"Better. Whatever juice the bugs put in me, I think it's about worked its way out. Just sore as hell. You're bunking in our house tonight, by the way. Let's go over to the hospital and sign for your gear. It sits there too long, someone might decide to sell it."
"I'm ready to go."
They took a little Volkswagen ("The Mexicans changed the name for a couple years, but people quit buying them," Hornbreed explained). Hornbreed's house was just shy of some of the estates in Iowa. The imposing, Spanish-style house lacked only the expansive grounds to be a true manor. Instead it sat on a small plot of land in a gated community filled with other equally impressive houses. Louisa gave Valentine a pleasant little room of his own on a central courtyard—its fountain made a pleasing sound—where he could look up at the master suite's second-floor balcony.
He startled awake, reaching for the sword under the pillows, but it was only a pretty Asian teenage girl in an apron bringing morning coffee—real coffee, at that.
"Breakfast in kitchen," she said.
After the strictly portioned meal Hornbreed showed him "the neighborhood." There was a swimming pool, a school, and a small golf course, a private store, and a common garage where the favored families "checked out" vehicles. Hornbreed explained that most of the residents rarely went beyond the gates. Necessities were brought to them.
There was a small playground but only a few children, in simple clothes that looked homemade. They shrieked and chased each other, shouting in a Spanish-English patois that sounded like it had a little Chinese thrown in for flavor. "Staff children," Hornbreed said. "They're really not supposed to be there, but no one complains."
"What about the kids who are supposed to be using it?"
"Most of our kids go to church school, or private academies. Class all morning, sports in the afternoon, and tutoring or apprenticeships at night. Really first-class schooling. Tumlo next door has a daughter already beginning medical training, and she's only fifteen. We got to get to the field. But we're making one more stop. I've got something to show you."
He said no more until they took the Volkswagen out to one of the more remote hangars on the big airfield. Hornbreed maneuvered it around piles of junk, engines hanging from chains, and racks of assorted rusting spares. It was half-junkyard, half-machine-shop, worked by men with overalls and close-cropped hair in their last days.
Hornbreed parked in the shade inside the hangar. A radio hanging from a cord played cheerful NUC choir music as it spun in the dry desert breeze.
"This is sort of a private workshop. The men here aren't paid by the Circus or AAC. The pilots keep them to work on their private craft. Hey, Jimmy."
The man who'd trotted up to get the door liked to chew tobacco. His hands had a fascinating patina; the oil had worked itself into every crevice. He wiped them on a rag before shaking hands with Hornbreed.
/> "This the bounty man?" Jimmy asked, looking at Valentine's ID card. An aluminum can with a rubber lid hung around his neck.
"Max Argent," Valentine said, extending his hand.
Jimmy didn't shake it. "You got a lift all the way back to Yuma. Sure didn't do much for that gold. I could've done that."
"You didn't face down ten-foot scorpions," Hornbreed said. "He did. Where's the crate, Jimmy? Hope you haven't put it in the same spot as your manners."
"Just speakin' my mind, sir. Pat's just over here."
Jimmy led them past a couple of fixed-gear prop planes and to a little contraption in the bright colors of a yellow jacket that looked like a wheeled two-man bobsled under an oversized beach umbrella missing its fabric. It had a big prop sticking out the back.
"This is a Personal Advanced Aerial Transport. It's an autogyro,
Max. Just about my favorite toy for flying out over the dunes. Seats two and some personal cargo. She's a fun little ship, and can run on ordinary high-octane gasoline. Twin rudders. Pretty safe, as long as you watch the weather, and if you stow your gear in to balance the load. Can take off from a cleared field and if the engine conks out, you just rotate back down."
"What works the rotors? All I see is a control mechanism. Or is there an axle hidden in there?"
"Forward velocity. Air resistance keeps the rotors spinning, and they give lift. That's where it's different from a helicopter—you can't hover, and you need takeoff room. Engine's a hundred ten horsepower, and you can engage a driver that works the wheels so it's a motorized tricycle too. There's pretty good ground clearance. This thing was the range model."
"All yours?" Valentine asked.
"No. She's yours now."
Jimmy popped the lid and spit into the aluminum can.
"You're kidding."
"No. It's a thank-you for going into that hole after me. Most men wouldn't have."
"Most men don't like seeing an Archon's ransom disappearing down a big rat hole either."
Hornbreed shrugged. "Maybe. Maybe not."
"Don't know how to thank you," Valentine said.
"I still got my Air Ranger, Argent. You're getting the kiddie toy."
Valentine gave in to his pleasure at the gift. "What are we waiting for? Let's take her up."
"Duty calls. And you've got some workbooks to get through. I'll be checking your math at lunch."
* * * *
There were anxious faces all over the utilitarian command building and the sound of steel doors opening and shutting as people hurried from office to office.
"They're at the tower now," an airman said.
"That just means they'll be gone by lunch," Hornbreed countered calmly.
Hornbreed's office had pictures of aircraft, glossy pre-'22 images and simpler black-and-whites of younger versions of himself in a neat school uniform and flight suits standing in groups in front of various craft. Manila envelopes and folders were piled on his desk. Assorted pilots were gathered outside, seeking an opportunity to take their planes up. Hornbreed checked off flight card after flight card.
"Huff. We'll look busy today, that's for sure."
Hornbreed whistled tunelessly as he got out a clipped stack of paper titled "Basic Principles of Aviation" and handed it to Valentine. "Grab a pencil off my desk if you like. There's an empty classroom at the end of the hall, if you want somewhere quiet to work, but you should shut the curtains or it'll get hot."
"I'll just grab a chair in here."
"Be my guest."
Valentine dived into equations about lift. Some of them brought back memories of the book-walled little room in Father Max's house. He'd read some about flying in the lonely days after he lost his parents and siblings, suddenly wanting to know about his father only after he was cold in his grave.
Three times Circus personnel popped their heads into the office to tell him about the "purifiers." Each time Hornbreed waved them off.
"They said we lost too many ships in Colorado!" one nervous, pimpled young airman said. "They already took two out of the tower."
"We got the water flowing again," Hornbreed said. "Tell you what, I'm out of copier toner. I'll give you a warrant to run into Yuma and pick up some more. Grab a lunch while you're there, Daw."
"You know Ling's market?" Valentine said as the young man stood first on one foot, then the other, waiting for the purchase order and pass.
"Sure," the kid said.
"You need something?" Hornbreed asked.
"I might take up your milk habit. But give a message to this girl Gide. She lives above Ling's. Tell her Max would like to see her again."
"Max would like to see her again," the kid repeated.
"That oddball?" Hornbreed asked.
"I like the tattoos," Valentine said.
"This I have to hear. Let's take a coffee break."
"While the purifiers are here?" Daw squeaked. Hornbreed passed him the paperwork.
"Why not? Coming, Argent?"
They took some stairs down to a cafeteria, where the workers were frantically cooking, cleaning, and polishing. Valentine smelled cleanser and wet mops.
"Gide, huh," Hornbreed said, buying them some coffee with his ID. "I don't think she's all there. Though I'll admit what there is of her was expertly assembled."
"I like a challenge," Valentine said.
"If it'll plant you here, then I'm happy. Tumbleweeds have a way of disappearing. You could do a lot worse than the Circus, you know."
"I know," Valentine said, and meant it. He'd seen less comfortable cages.
A hubbub broke out in the hall, and a party entered.
"Huff. Oh hell," Hornbreed said. He stood and faced them.
Valentine did likewise, trying not to gape, but it was a strange procession that strode into the cafeteria.
Two teenagers led it, a handsome Hispanic boy 2nd a blond girl with prom-queen hair. They wore impossibly clean white robes that might have been martial arts uniforms had the coats been a little shorter. Neither of the youths could have been over seventeen or eighteen.
Behind them a New Universal Church Youth Vanguard warden carried a big briefcase handcuffed to his wrist.
Then came the muscle. A pair of men in combat vests, burnished pistols holstered low on their thighs, might have been watching him from behind dark sunglasses. It was hard to tell—they kept their noses pointed straight ahead.
Hovering at the edge of the mass was Pyp himself, hatless and complaining. His stray hair gave him a desperate look.
"Wildlife's one of my best radarmen. He lost that arm in action, you know."
"He seemed insolent," the boy said. His voice was that of a man's, but nevertheless a little high-pitched. Sergeant Patel would tell him to "talk like you've got a pair, boy."
"Uh-huh. Or maybe he was just trying to make sure that those planes taking off didn't crash into each other."
"Who's this?" the girl asked, staring at Valentine.
"Follow your heart, Ariel," the warden advised. He opened his briefcase.
"You don't have paper on him," Pyp said. "He brought in the wing leader, here. Saved his life in tribe country."
"No doubt seeking the reward. Greedy," the young man said.
"Is that how you spend your life?" the girl asked. "Chasing money? Flesh for gold?"
"Shut up, Ariel," Hornbreed said. He placed the slightest extra stress on the name, perhaps mocking it. "You don't know what you're talking about."
The teens stood up, almost crackling like charged hair.
The warden shuffled through his folder. He handed a sheet to the young man.
Pyp put himself between the purification team and his wing leader. "You don't let men who bring in our pilots claim their reward in peace, that'll be it for anyone who goes down."
"That's the problem, isn't it? They keep going down," the boy said. "There's sabotage among the mechanics, certainly."
"If we could trade for real spares instead of modifying stuff from the bone
yards," Pyp said.
"Do you think you're immune, old man?" Ariel asked. "One word from me and you'll be off with the others. There's more than a whiff of personal corruption about you." She glanced at his feet. "Too lazy to wash your own socks and shine your own shoes?"
Valentine recognized a couple of the phrases from the New Universal Church Guidon, while the rest of him was tensing as he evaluated the muscle. How much was show and how much was go?
"You take him and you'll never see three-quarters of the pilots again," Hornbreed said.
The young man consulted the sheet the warden had handed him. "A man who crashed on his last flight might be worried about his own fate."
"Crashed?" Ariel cut in.
"Wipe that sneer off your face or I'll do it for you," Hornbreed said.
"He was trying to get a lame bird back," Pyp said. "I'd ordered the ship destroyed at the forward field, but he insisted he could get it back. He almost did. She's been salvaged and is being repaired now. He's a damn hero."
"This is the real test, Ariel," the warden said.
"He's going," she said, glaring at Hornbreed. One of the security talked into the mini-walkie-talkie clipped to his epaulet.
Hornbreed shook his head, a sad smile on his face. "You'll think about today. Later."
"Lack of humility. Willfulness," the youth said to no one in particular, but the warden checked off ticks on a pad. "Disparagement. What's the phrase? 'Three strikes and you're cut'?"
"Out," Valentine corrected, watching two men, one with a baton in his hand and the other with cuffs and leg-irons, step inside.
"Max, be quiet. Looks like someone else will have to check your equations at lunch." Hornbreed wore the same bland fatalism Valentine had first met in the desert.
Valentine's hand convulsed over the sword hilt that wasn't there. If he angled it just right, he could open both sets of carotid arteries with a single sweep. Make a red mess of the spotless white robes.
Hornbreed turned toward the girl, chuckled. "One day it will be your turn.... I wonder how you'll take the news."
"Our generation will not be tainted," the youth said. Pyp fought with his hands, which were balling up into fists.
"Tell Louisa I'm sorry," Hornbreed said to Pyp as they shackled him. The wing leader was shaking, just a little. Valentine looked away, embarrassed. Just another Quisling, getting what's coming to him from the blood-greased machine he kept moving, he told himself. "I know she loves that house," Hornbreed said as they led him toward the door, where a woman and two other men waited, chained together. "It's gonna kill her to leave it."
