Valentine's Resolve

by E. E. Knight

  "What about the Reapers?"

  "Not so much. Sure, they'll defend a tower or a hole, if their master's inside. I've heard it's bad going up against a bunker full of those dropedcocks, but Adler's all about Jew-Ginsu. Hit them where they ain't."

  * * * *

  Valentine's gyro arrived and after some technicians partially took it apart to learn the design, he started doing practice flights over the backcountry. An overzealous Resistance machine gunner tried to take him down—Valentine dived behind the tree line to avoid the tracers and came home with brush in his landing gear, but refueling gave him a chance to catch up with Gide.

  The militia just got issued green caps with yellow safety tape at the back, and the rest of her uniform consisted of a big green field jacket, construction trousers, and some sad-looking sneakers made out of tire tread.

  "Someone swiped my boots," she said. "The women have a hell of a time with the footwear. The rifle's a joke. Worn-down barrel."

  "Do your duty."

  "I do," she said. "Your friends from the Holes have an interesting definition of duty, byways."

  "Meaning?"

  She shoved her hands in her pockets. "Taking it down pipes or up the chute for the team. It'd be one thing if we were in a bar in town, but I'm just trying to do my job."

  Valentine didn't like the sound of that. He'd been in too many Kurian Zones where the soldiers exerted certain "prerogatives."

  "Let's go into town. I'll buy you a beer."

  "Town" was a little row of saloons, a cafe, and two theaters, one that showed movies on an old presentation projector, and the other with little rooms playing pornography.

  "Duty tonight."

  "Breakfast at the Coffee Grinder, then."

  "Sure. I should tell you, though, I'm asking for a transfer to one of the ranch towns. Being a pump jockey isn't my thing. And I don't like those guys from the Holes. They remind me of the Circus flyboys."

  * * * *

  Tuesday nights there were political and social lectures about the miser­able lives of those in the Kurian Zone. Valentine hadn't seen anything of the Seattle area, but it must be a hellhole in comparison with some of the most wretched corners of the Caribbean, so black did they paint the picture.

  "Their only relief is death," Thunderbird boomed, backing up the mousy little refugee who gave that week's lecture. Foot-high letters painted on the wall under the ceiling read, Are you a SHIRKER or a DOER? "We'll pick this up in the conference room in fifteen for those who want to know more. Card tournament tonight, grand prize is a four-day weekend at the next quarter-moon party at the Outlook."

  "What's the Outlook?" Valentine asked Thunderbird as the Bears rearranged their folding chairs to make room for the poker tables.

  "That's a big resort in the mountains. Beautiful area. Sort of a retreat and conference center for the Free Territory. Sometimes we even get visits from the Old Feds at Mount Omega."

  "I thought that was a myth," Valentine said, though he knew differently. The last refuge of the old United States government was part El Dorado, part Camelot, in Freehold urban legendry.

  "No, it's real enough. Going there's a bit of a letdown, though. It's not as impressive as it sounds."

  The poker tournament got going, a fairly basic game of five-card draw with jokers wild. Each player started out with small stakes, a hundred dollars in chips, and when he accumulated five hundred dollars he could move to the five-hundred-dollar table.

  The "grand prize" table required a three-thousand-dollar buy-in.

  The laurels would go to whoever managed to reach the ten-thousand-dollar mark.

  Valentine was lucky—first in betting and then in card strength— for his first two hands and shifted to the five-hundred-dollar table. Other men who'd abandoned the tables made sandwiches and passed out low-grade beer, apple ciders, and "Norridge Cross," a wine from some pocket in the Cascades. Valentine stuck to coffee.

  The men at the five-hundred-dollar table were serious players, and Valentine languished there until after midnight, until he got a feel for their respiratory tells. Using the hearing he'd acquired as a Wolf gave him an unfair advantage, he supposed, but a card table knew no law but Hoyle.

  He was the last of six seats to join the championship three-thousand-dollar table.

  His luck returned the first two hands, thanks to three kings and then a dealt flush. After that promising start, he began to fight a long, slow, losing battle against a Bear named Rafferty, who called him on a bluff. Rafferty's black ringlet hair, long as a pirate's, brushed the felt-covered championship table as he gathered the lost chips.

  Thunderbird checked in occasionally to offer a joke and console the losers, and then returned to the bull session in the corner of the conference room.

  With a full house Valentine assayed forth, and Rafferty folded. Valentine played the next hand cautiously, and eked out a win with three of a kind, causing two others to drop out. Another Bear demolished all of them the next hand, and then retired to bed, yawning, as a winner in his own mind but unwilling to hang in for the grand prize.

  The Bears ate, drank, played, ate, and drank some more. Bear metabolisms could tear through six thousand calories or so a day and still feel underfed.

  Card playing provides its own kind of late-night tension, and Valentine gave in to it as the advantage shifted between him and Rafferty, both built up enough so that they could not hurt each other. The other two at the table just played along out of interest.

  Valentine drew into a straight, judged Rafferty doubtful, gulped down the last of his second glass of wine, and went all in. Rafferty laid down four of a kind, plus a joker.

  "Good night, David," Rafferty said, gathering the chips and draining a tankard of beer. "I'll give your regards to the Outlook." He whipped a thong off his wrist and gathered up his hair, then did the same with his chips.

  "I don't know anyone there who can accept them."

  Rafferty cocked his head. "Never been?"

  "No."

  "Oh hell, well, take the prize," he laughed. "You hear that, Thunderbucket? I'm offering up my poor winnings to our newcomer."

  "Don't you always get thrown out after half an hour anyway, Riffraff?" Thunderbird called back. "But duly noted."

  "Give me a ride in your whirlybird sometime, eh?" Rafferty said.

  "Gladly," Valentine replied. "Interested in flight?"

  "No. I want to take a crap over downtown Seattle from a whizzing great height."

  "Spoken like a patriot," one of the losing Bears commented.

  * * * *

  Valentine, with a routine established, felt the days fly by while tension mounted at the warren. Late one afternoon he watched an Action Group set out at the next full moon. Various hidden, revetment-shielded doors opened and belched men and machinery from the depths of the caverns. Armored cars led a long line of pickup trucks towing oversized horse trailers behind, followed by a few military trucks hauling light artillery.

  Valentine watched, leaning on the empty mount of a machine-gun nest high on the ridgeline. He'd volunteered to go, but Thunder-bird had declined. "It'll be a tough one. We want to start you out on something easier. Besides, I'm setting up something for you and your whirlybird."

  So he had to watch.

  "Make the poor dumb bastards die for their country!" a legless Bear who manned a communications relay shouted as they passed. His voice boomed over the sound of the engines.

  A long arm and hand reached out from the cave mouth and patted him on the back. Long, scraggly hair dripped from it like Spanish moss.

  A captive? The Lifeweaver?

  Valentine hopped down the shaft leading up to the machine-gun nest, ignoring the iron rungs, and hurried down to the "Gathering Deck," as the extensive level at the valley floor was called. He took a wrong turn, and had to retrace his steps, and arrived at the right cave mouth only as the legless Bear wheeled himself back into the commu­nication center at the cave mouth.

  "Excuse me."
Valentine fumbled the man's name. He turned and read the man's name tag. "Pop-Tart?"

  "Yeeeees?" he said, holding a headset to his ear.

  "I was above and saw someone pat you on the shoulder. Funny-looking arm."

  "That's the old hairy-ass himself. Came up to see the guys off."

  "I've just never met him."

  "How'd you rate that uniform?"

  "Import from Southern Command."

  He put down the headset and looked at the gauges on the master radio relay. "Hairy-ass is the only one we got left. Our others disap­peared after the big raid up Interstate Pass in 'sixty-one, where I earned these wheels. He lurks under a blanket of Bears ever since."

  One Lifeweaver left. And from the sound of it, even he's not all there.

  "Still like to meet him."

  "Talk it over with T-bird when he gets back," Pop-Tart advised.

  "Hey, Pops," an assistant called from the radio.

  " 'Scuse me," Pop-Tart said.

  Valentine went down to the reading room to await the Action Group's return.

  * * * *

  They came back, almost unscarred. They'd lost one Bear to a booby trap, and another to "overexertion" (Valentine had once heard a story in Arkansas about a Bear dropping dead as he and his teammates worked themselves into a battle frenzy over a Bearfire) and still more suffered wounds and contusions Bear metabolisms would soon overcome. Valentine watched them eat before they even cleaned up.

  They were a strangely taciturn bunch. Maybe it was the gloomy climate. A group of Southern Command Bears back from action chattered like magpies, though the conversation usually limited itself to light subjects, like unusual vehicles they'd seen or how much quality toilet paper they'd managed to loot.

  Thunderbird, looking drawn, walked among them, passing out candy bars and bags of greasy peanuts.

  "New-moon party this weekend," Thunderbird said. He had a fresh uniform on, but Valentine saw dried blood on his boots. "Have they issued you a dress uniform yet?"

  "No."

  "I'll make a call."

  "What's a PB?" Valentine asked. He'd heard the acronym tossed around as the soldiers talked.

  "Punishment Battalion or Brigade. We've got a Brigade, unfortu­nately. Two combat battalions and a short support."

  "What, hard labor, that sort of thing?"

  "More like Reaper fodder. They're our first line, out in pickets about three klicks west. Their commander's not a bad sort—they've really shaped up under him. They're criminals. There's some shady types in these mountains, preying on both sides. If they don't like the feel of the noose, they can opt to PB their term. Of course a lot try to desert as soon as they get their bearings. They get shot, of course."

  "How did the fighting go?"

  "Well. Adler was right, as usual. We caught them pulling back. Got a fair bit of booty—they dropped everything and ran when we showed up."

  "I've never seen Bears operate in those numbers before. They're usu­ally used at platoon strength at most where I come from. Accidents."

  "They divide up pretty quick when we go into action, cuts down on the chances of two teams attacking each other. We're careful about getting them revved up and pushed into the redline. You'll see. Have a good hurrah up at the Outlook."

  "I'd like to bring Gide. She could use a little cheering up."

  "You're loyal. I like that. I'll authorize her transport, but she'll have to clear it with her militia duty."

  * * * *

  Gide cleared it easily enough. Perhaps Thunderbird made an extra call or two. In any case, they hopped on a horse-wagon train bringing captured scrap for salvage or to be melted down and recast. It was bottom-of-the-barrel stuff, mostly cookware and gardening supplies for civilian use. Hardly worth hauling away.

  "How's the transfer coming?" Valentine asked. The dress uniform hadn't shown up after all, so he cleaned and pressed his daily as best as he could.

  Gide wore a summer-weight sweater and skirt. "Denied. They want me to spend at least a year," Gide said. "I think it might move along if I fucked old D. B., the militia chaplain. He can arrange about anything."

  "Some chaplain," Valentine said.

  "Back in Arizona I would have dropped my drawers in a heart­beat. But I don't want it to work that way here."

  "Think you made a mistake?"

  She rubbed the bottom of her nose. "Shit no. Free air, you know ?"

  "That's a good way to put it."

  "I don't feel like I'm being watched all the time, except maybe through the peepholes in the showers. There's a rumor going around that I've got something exotic tattooed around the ol' chute, and everyone's trying to verify. Just fucked luck. I'll do my year. There's another girl there who isn't too bad—it's better if you've got someone to talk to."

  Valentine nodded. She understood, and patted his hand. He squeezed in return.

  * * * *

  The Outlook was beautiful under its sickle moon.

  It hung out next to, and partly over, a waterfall. Two long blocks of rooms, two stories tall and covered with balconies, looking out over the spill. At the center a great A-framed prow of glass and rough-hewn timber arched like an eagle's head.

  The carpeted inside was hunting lodge overlain on luxury hotel. Clean as an operating room, it even smelled like evergreens within. A small army of staff in jet black with immaculate white aprons scuttled around at the edges of the rooms and corridors.

  A clerk in a neat, gold-buttoned black shirt and pants admitted them, verifying their presence on an old computer. Valentine tried not to stare. He couldn't imagine Southern Command wasting a functioning computer on a hotel. But then he hadn't spent much time in the higher-class social circles.

  The clerk issued them alligator-clip name tags, with first names and designations. Gide's had her name in large letters and volunteer militia in smaller type below. Valentine's read DAVID/DELTA GROUP.

  He tried to decline having a porter carry their small bags, but when the clerk said, "It's his job, sir—he needs it," he relented.

  Luckily the scrip he'd won on poker night was accepted at the Outlook. He overtipped the porter as the bags hit the floor of their room.

  "King-sized," Gide commented with a smile.

  Old beaver traps decorated the walls, and the lights were made to simulate ironmongery holding candlesticks. The candlesticks were topped with small but ordinary-looking bulbs. A painting of a farm­house surrounded by wildflowers adorned the wall above the dresser; a nude of a strategically disrobed seated woman drinking hot coffee, looking out her window at ice and snow, hung next to the bed by the window. Another sleeping nude hung above the bed.

  If it was a brothel, it was the plushest one he'd ever been in.

  Valentine checked the view. The waterfall was obscured by a deck from their room, but he had a good view of the river running west. He tried to guess how high it went in the opening minicanyon below the falls in the spring flood, but even with Cat eyes it was hard to judge.

  "Cocktails, dinner, dance party," Gide said, reading a schedule on the desk. "Looks like we missed cocktails and part of dinner. Tomorrow: breakfast, exercise, lecture on the glory of heroism, games, cocktails, dinner, party. Sunday: services, brunch, departure."

  Valentine despaired at a grease stain on his uniform. He must have brushed against a greasy pot in the wagon. "Let's get cleaned up and eat.

  There were two galleries showing movies on the biggest televisions Valentine had ever seen, colors impossibly bold and bright in the dimly lit rooms. A small casino added that special thick, nervous air unique to gambling dens, and some kind of art exhibition was going on in one of the lobbies, well-crafted patriotic pieces that Valentine liked better than the four-color slogan posters of Southern Command.

  Attractively dressed women lounged in the bars and in front of a gallery autopiano, ready to talk or dance or be taken back to a room. Valentine watched one military-haircut man in civilian clothes head for the rooms, his hand resting li
ghtly on his companion's buttock. Valentine examined her eyes as they passed. She'd popped or smoked something to get up for the evening.

  Valentine suppressed a shudder. He kept expecting the maitre d' from the Blue Dome to appear at his elbow.

  Gide, now dressed in a borrowed little black dress and heels, eyeliner running up the backs of her legs to simulate stocking seams, tracked down a late-night buffet and they ate.

  "I poked my head in the gift shop while you were looking at the pictures," she said. "Nice booze. Perfumes even."

  "Bonded whiskey, but they can't get you a decent set of boots."

  "Speaking of which, there's a shoe store on the gallery. If you'll loan me thirty bucks, I can sign for the rest. I have to hurry—they close in ten minutes."

  Valentine gave her the cash.

  He went out on the balcony and enjoyed the summer night, watched the roar of the fountain. He fell into a conversation with an­other falls gazer, an artist in an ill-fitting sport coat and trousers.

  "My piece is called Hope and Glory" he said. "I won a new-moon party here with it."

  Valentine quietly raked his memory. "The two rising—what are they, angels?"

  He seemed pleased that Valentine had remembered. He started talking about the difficulty of getting good paints, when he looked up. "That's Adler. He gave a quick talk at the reception for the artists."

  Valentine looked up at the peak of the A-frame. There was a small balcony, hanging over their own, and muted light glowed within. A man stood looking over the edge, his face in shadow thanks to the backlighting. He turned and leaned and Valentine got a better view.

  Valentine liked the look of him. Tanned—maybe the altitude of the Outlook helped—and lean but not gaunt, with gray white hair that set off the tan, a father figure in the twilight of middle age stood looking at the western horizon beyond the foothills of the Cascades. He held a lit cigar in his hand.

  Late-night diners trickled out of the dining room and joined in the waterfall watching. Gide returned, wearing low black-heeled shoes and real stockings.

  Adler set down his cigar on the railing. It rolled and he stopped it with a digit.

  "Liquor holding out?" he called down to those below. He had a clear, fast speaking voice, like a radio news announcer.