by E. E. Knight
"There's a witch hunt—maybe it should be called a wizard hunt, at that—going on right now. I hope Pacific Command doesn't fall apart again. Thunderbird and his Bears are all tainted by this."
Interesting as the political fallout was, Valentine's time was limited. "Speaking of Thunderbird's Bears, if you think a successful action would help restore things here, I have an idea or two along those lines. There's a dreary party being planned in my honor and I'd like to see it crashed. But you'll have to get the Resistance Network in Seattle and the Bears to work together. That's going to take a little diplomacy. One more thing. What are the chances of you helping me write a proposal that'll get a scout/sniper named Gide temporarily seconded to the PeaBees?"
"Can do," LeHavre said, and gave one of his dashing pirate-quarterdeck salutes.
* * * *
Two weeks later, with plenty of notice about the date and time, Valentine stood tall on the field of honor.
Seattle's remade downtown around him, thanks to tricks of optics played on someone standing on the plaza, seemed to be bowing to the Seattle demigod's tower. The strange, clamshell-like growth extending from the central pillars hung in the sky as though suspended by invisible wires, linked to the pillars by joins so narrow they seemed to defy principles of engineering. No cantilevering, no braces, no suspension, assisted the mollusklike housings of Seattle's Kurians.
And above all the rest, a vast jellyfish-like shape, faintly luminescent like dying phosphors, squatted the home of the demigod, challenging even Mount Rainier for dominance of the horizon.
Madness, madness, madness. But Valentine wanted the ring. By blood and thundering rapids, it was his.
Despite the rain, the watching crowds seemed larger than usual.
Silas stood at his side, his elegant camel-hair coat taking the drizzle as if confident that it would be properly dried and pressed after doing its duty.
"Good crowd today, despite the cold. The so-called Radio Free Northwest reported the death of 'one of the leading minds of the Resistance,' " Silas said. "Our broadcasts have been reading locations and numbers of people killed."
"I wonder which epitaph he'd prefer," Valentine asked.
"Every lumberjack and longshoreman's ready to celebrate, it seems. Watch the stairs—they can get icy when it rains in this kind of cold," Silas advised.
"Don't let the echo from the loudspeakers throw you off either," Miss L. said, behind the pair of them. "Just do your speech."
Valentine had rehearsed it twice with Silas the night before. Not much longer than the Gettysburg Address, it would "get the job done," according to the mouthpiece. Valentine checked the words on the little laminated index card one more time.
I stand here, an ordinary man with extraordinary purpose. Today I've been honored with the highest award our saviors can give. But in the end, the sacrifice and struggle that went with winning this ring are meaningless compared to the service Kur has done for us. Kur bestows, with a parental hand that heals more than it hurts, a gift for those with the eyes to see, the new, universal creed that we aspire to: a united human family in harmony with itself and the planet it lives upon, stronger, healthier, happier in our new purpose. Giving up selfishness, I found plenty. Giving up knowledge, I found wisdom. Giving up independence, I found freedom. I thank Kur, not only for myself, but for all mankind.
It had helped him take his mind off the coming ceremony. If he gave the speech he wanted, he would most likely end up looking like a fool for the few brief seconds of his remaining, violently concluded life.
Gears worked and the scaffolding rose and unfolded itself into place, a steel skeleton animated by hidden cables and counterweights. A banner hung from the central walkway.
seattle is the future
At a nudge from Silas, Valentine crossed the plaza. The two Reapers at the bottom of the stairs, dressed in long dark robes like judges and wide-brimmed Pilgrim hats to keep off the rain, parted and pointed with their hands facing the tower up the golden stairs. Valentine wondered if anyone was to be marched up the black stairs.... He or she might just earn a reprieve.
If they showed.
Otherwise, he'd have to give Silas' speech. That would be quite a memento for the newsreels. David Valentine, former Resistance hero, praising the Kurians.
Valentine climbed the steps toward the multifaceted blister, saw a Reaper inside, something else, looming behind, like an octopus perched on a leather umbrella.
"Take my ring, David Valentine," the Ready Reader said in his head. Valentine found his hand moving up, passing through the glowing pane at the bottom of the blister.
His hand came back, suffused with light. Drops of rainbow fell from his hands.
Or was it just illusion?
The ring felt real enough, heavy, a little piece of a far-off planet weighing on his hand. He turned, was vaguely aware of cheering, and stepped toward the microphones.
Is a man just a big, talking bag of chemicals? A reputation? An aura?
No skirmish lines of men broke from the surrounding buildings. No trucks roared up the wide avenue from Mercer Island. The Resistance Network had failed, or Pacific Command had, no telling.
Valentine took a deep breath.
"I stand here, an ordinary man with extraordinary purpose. Today I've been honored with the highest award our saviors can give. But in the end—"
Did he catch a glimpse of light on one of the columns at the other end of the plaza?
"But in the end, all Kur offers us is death," Valentine said.
A Reaper at the base of the stairs twitched.
Ka-rack—Valentine heard the shot a split second later.
Another shot, and a Reaper at the base of the right stairs began to run up. It didn't make it a third of the way before it stiffened.
The crowd spread into chaos. Valentine saw men lifting weapons from beneath their heavy coats and ponchos.
It appeared LeHavre had gone one step beyond the plan for guiding the insertion of Pacific Command's forces into Seattle, and had decided to occupy the plaza before seizing it. But, then, his old captain had always been an improviser.
The Bears bellowed and shot into the air, driving the crowd toward the tower with noise and confusion. What it must have looked like to the Kurians above, he could guess—a mass attempt to storm their collective Bastille.
One Reaper stood at the base of the stairs stupidly; perhaps its Kurian had panicked and forgot what it was supposed to be doing. It jerked as a bullet struck, and immediately stiffened.
Score three for the Miskatonic armorer.
Gide missed with the fourth bullet as the Reaper ran for the stairs. Valentine backpedaled, expecting a final, brief struggle, but the Reaper threw itself inside the organic door, which opened and closed like a toad grabbing at a fly.
Below, the riot continued. Police whistles blew, but to little effect, as the Bears fell into teams, pushing panicked spectators out of the way as they streamed for the tower.
Valentine ran down the stairs, heading for Silas, who had hiked his coat up like an old lady lifting her dress to hop a puddle, and was running across the plaza.
Valentine gave chase, heard explosions from outside the column, a scattering of gunfire.
Miss L. separated herself from the crowd, flung herself on Silas as a police detail opened up with shotguns. As Valentine ran up she drew her pistol from its holster, but instead of aiming for Valentine, she pressed its muzzle to the back of Silas' head.
"Stay down, Sly."
"I need him at the base of the tower," Valentine said.
"Get up, Sly," she ordered.
"You doing this for his own good?" Valentine asked.
They hurried into the center of the four pillars, where the Bears, dressed in variegated civilian attire, now with camouflage vests and hats thrown over them, were prying up cobblestones to make barricades to lie behind.
Valentine saw Thunderbird giving orders, as Bears and PeaBee troops emptied backpack a
fter satchel after bag of dynamite sticks and plastic explosive through holes being made in the concrete with power drills and portable masonry saws.
"We got most of the C-4 in Pacific Command ready to blow, boss," Thunderbird said to Valentine.
"Dunno if it'll bring the whole shebang down," a Bear feeding wire into one of the holes said. "Depends on how strong those supporting towers are."
"How did you get all that past the bomb dogs?" Silas asked.
"The dogs were in the Resistance Network too," Miss L. said.
"Not—not you too?"
" 'Fraid so, Sly."
"This bang better work, or we're going to have a hell of a fight getting out of here," Thunderbird said.
"I'd like to avoid that if I can," Valentine said.
"What's the alternative?" Miss L. asked.
"We'll negotiate," Valentine said. "They've got something we want—those people and Lifeweavers I saw in that tank up there. We've got something they want, an intact tower."
"They won't listen to us," the Bear at the wires said.
"They'll listen to him," Valentine said. "Care to deliver terms? Not of surrender, just an exchange of hostages."
"What hostages do you have?" Silas asked.
"You, for a start. Maybe they grabbed a few others on the way here. Bridge sentries and such."
"I'm not sure I want to stand in front of Seattle and start naming terms," Silas said.
"Then we'll shoot you and blow the fucker," Thunderbird responded. His hand dropped to his pistol holster.
"I suppose I could try," Silas said.
"Good luck," Valentine said, and meant it. "If it doesn't work out, try and get out of the center tower. You've got fifteen minutes from when you disappear in that tower. Any troops show up on the plaza, we blow it."
Silas gulped, looked up at the towering mushroom cap. "I'll see what I can do."
Valentine watched him ascend the scaffolding, stopping to gape at one of the frozen Reapers. He made it to the door. The organic mouth admitted him.
"Can I stop loading clay into this tower?" one of the Bears on the demo team whispered.
"Sure," Thunderbird said. "Hope this works, Valentine."
Gide returned from her sniper perch, hugged Valentine. "Long time no see."
"Thanks for keeping the Reapers off me."
"They're your fancy bullets. You want the gun back now?"
"I think it's in better hands with you."
Miss L. checked her watch every two minutes, reading the time to Valentine. They heard trucks pulling up on the roads around the plaza.
Then the mouth opened. Rafferty came out, crossed the bridge from the scaffold, carrying a little girl wrapped in a blanket. "They're coming! They're coming! Turn off the bombs!" Rafferty called.
Seven other humans who emerged, rather shakily, still glistening with the solution they'd been suspended within, must have been favorites to the Pacific Command soldiers. Some of them cheered.
"I don't see any of the Lifeweavers," Valentine said. "Maybe this is a down payment against our leaving."
"Somehow or other, we'll make it back with the real thing," Thunderbird said.
"What is that, a kite?" Gide said, pointing up.
Valentine followed her gaze. Four shapes, reminiscent of jellyfish, drifted, circling down on air currents.
"Creepy-looking things," a Bear commented.
"Depends which side they're on," another said.
"What's that coming down now?" Thunderbird asked.
It was Silas, camel-hair coat flapping in the wind. Gide screamed. Valentine turned away when he hit.
"What was that, a bonus?" a PeaBee asked.
The four Lifeweavers drifted to earth, too exhausted to mask their native form. They couldn't even speak. It didn't stop the Bears from cheering them, nonetheless.
But one figure did not rejoice.
Valentine couldn't say how he crossed the plaza without being noticed. Perhaps he crawled from body to body, hiding among those police killed in the organized riot. But nevertheless Silvers stood over the body of his master. Valentine saw tears wet his eyes, felt his own throat tighten. Even Ahn-Kha wasn't one for tears.
Except once.
The Grog went down on one knee, put a hand against Silas' crushed face, bent down, and listened to the chest. He came away with the side of his face wet with blood.
A deep growl started in his throat. He took a blade out of his kilt and checked the edge with his thumb. For one horrible moment Valentine thought he was going to plunge the blade into his hairy breast, but Silvers made a quick, shallow cut, crossing the angled scar straight up and down, an even longer cut than the old wound. He went down on all fours and hurried to the limo, extracted his twin-barreled cannon from the cupola, and snapped on the harness.
Then he gripped the blade between his teeth and turned for the tower.
As he passed Valentine, he pulled back his lips and one ear flicked up. Valentine, unable to imitate the gesture, thumped his chest three times with his left hand.
Silvers snorted and chambered a round in each barrel. He climbed up the scaffolding, and a loud report echoed as he blew a hole in the door-creature. He worked the bolt on his cannon; then he jumped inside.
"Let's get out of here," Valentine said.
"I'll go talk to the troops outside the plaza," Miss L. said.
"Tell them that anyone who wants to march out with us is welcome," Thunderbird said. "No reprisals. No trials. No more Action Groups. We'll choke Seattle the old-fashioned way, with our bare hands."
Chapter Sixteen
Union Rock, Wyoming, July, the fifty-fourth year of the Kurian Order: David Valentine headed east again on a road even older than Route 66, escorting two of the four Lifeweavers rescued—some might say negotiated, others swindled—out of Seattle. The Oregon Trail had its posts and stops rearranged, but the old path is still much the same as it was in the nineteenth century, right down to form of conveyance, for oxen and horses have no octane requirements.
Instead of bringing pioneers west, it sees refugees plodding east and smugglers traveling in both directions. Like their forefathers of two centuries ago, the parties travel in groups for safety, guided by experienced mountain men. They travel armed and wary with good cause, for bandits and grifters hover along its length, and Reapers cover a shocking amount of distance in seven hours of hard running. All are on the prowl for the vulnerable and the careless who might be threatened or cajoled out of valuables, from transport animals to hand-cranked radios, even if they manage to hang on to their auras.
There's a small Freehold or two along the trail, sometimes filling a mountain valley, or some good ground in a river basin. Valentine, listening to stories of other wayfarers along the route, heard talk of a big celebration that always took place in the Wyoming United Grange at Union Rock. People from as far away as Denver, the Nebraska Sandhills, and the Wind River Freehold attended. Picnic tables erupted during the day on land, and fireworks burst overhead at night. News was swapped for news, knitting and quilting for items from the trader stalls, and any number of young people met and married in a whirlwind of celebration. It sounded like the old summer festival in the Boundary Waters, and Valentine delayed his journey a week or two to linger and attend. He could go south easily enough from there, and, he hoped, reach Denver, and Southern Command's liaison, by late July.
They joined up with a bigger train, made up of old automobile chassis pulled by trail oxen. There was already talk of what each party would add to the festivities, making it sound like a potluck dinner with attendance running into the thousands.
* * * *
Valentine didn't have to get to the Ozarks. The Ozarks came to him. A party of Wolves was in attendance for the Independence Day festivities, recruiting out of a tent thick with tobacco smoke, pecan pies, and Texas chilies and barbecue.
Valentine had seen such displays before, like the welcoming feast on his arrival in Missouri fifteen years ago. Good
God, was it that long ago? He watched a boy clear a pie tin with two fingers like a bear dipping honey. Enjoy it, kid. It'll be brown rice and chicken twice a week with the Labor Regiments.
"Another Sioux, you think?" a sunbaked female sergeant with her stripes inked on her suspenders said to a bronze-skinned youth with a ponytail that dwarfed Valentine's. "Be a good summer for us if he joins. I'm sick of teaching kids how to stretch their canteens."
"Ya hey there, friend," the Amerind said, approaching. He raised his hand and met Valentine's palm hard enough to loosen a feeding tick, let alone trail dust. "You look like you know how to keep a scope zeroed. Thinking about using it on something bigger than antelope or wild horse?"
The Wolf at the food table hurried around it and into the crowd. "Bud above, that's Major Valentine! Tell me you ain't David Valentine, off Big Rock Hill and all." Valentine thought it an odd request. The goateed Wolf pushed forward and took off a battered slouch hat. "It's Hornsby, sir. We were in the rear guard on the march to Dallas, when the Razors were guarding the supply train. I helped you fix a bridge."
Valentine was grateful for the name. He extended his hand. "Hornsby. Red River. Good to see you again."
Hornsby made introductions to the recruiting team and guides. "I've got a couple more bodies for Southern Command. You'll want to keep an eye on these two. Meet Oberon and Titania. They're travelers like Father Wolf."
"I'll put us under your orders for the trip back, sir," the sergeant said.
"Actually, I think you're supposed to put me under arrest. But maybe I'll go with you as far as Missouri. I'll have to flake off there."
He'd let Styachowski know where to find him.
"Seen much of the celebration?" the sergeant asked.
"Just got in."
"Take a walk out to Union Rock. It's a sight to see."
Valentine saw the Lifeweavers comfortably installed in the Wolves' covered supply wagon, under constant guard thanks to the alcohol, tobacco, and firearms stored inside.
He wandered through the festival. A hundred or more separate parties seemed to be going on around a central broadway of trader stalls. Bikers congregated on their machines; black belts gave exhibitions of ice breaking for the kids. Ice cream was sold alongside bourbon and tequila. Teetotalers kept a distance from the stalls, and Valentine saw black-coated folk he guessed to be Mennonites, or maybe Amish. Games of baseball and basketball were in full swing on cleared patches of ground with equipment ranging from crude to commercial quality. Lively fiddles and bagpipes competed with accordion and tuba, but the biggest crowd was gathered around a pair of young, shaved-headed black boys creating an astonishingly complex rhythm with plastic produce buckets and drumsticks, with a few cowbells thrown in for gongs. When they finished, a preacher stepped forward and started an energetic sermon. Valentine listened to the mixture of oratory, showmanship, and gospel for a few minutes, then wandered off.
