by E. E. Knight
* * * *
The job offer didn't come as much of a surprise. It happened over dinner in the "field house"—a small apartment building that reminded Valentine of Price's motel, essentially a line of tiny rooms, two sharing one bath, that housed the lowest of the low of Xanadu's laborers: the "hands."
Up one step from the hands were the service workers, who mixed with the hands at their shared recreation center just behind the hospital. The fixtures made Valentine think it had originally been built to be a large-vehicle garage, but now it held Ping-Pong tables, a video screen and library (full of dull-as-distilled-water New Universal Church productions), and a jukebox ("Authentic Vintage MCDs").
The service workers performed cafeteria and janitorial duties inside the main buildings. Valentine learned his first night there that they expected the hands to do the same for them. He learned how to cook "factory food,"—washtub-sized trays of pastas, vegetables, and sweet puddings. Every other night there was meat from the Xanadu livestock. Beef predominated, which Valentine found remarkable. Even during his hitch as a Coastal Marine he'd only been fed chicken; beef was saved for feasts before and after a cruise.
A step above the service workers was the security. There weren't many of them, considering the evident importance of the facility. Enough to man the two gates (there was a smaller one to the east) and the towers, and to keep guard at all the main building doors. Valentine could have stormed the place with a single company of Wolves, had he been able to get the company that deep into the Kurian Zone.
And made it past the cordon of Reapers.
The security forces lived and worked from the long building almost connecting the hospital with the salmon-colored apartment blocks.
That was all Valentine could learn about the self-contained community in his off hours. During the day he worked on the plumbing for a fourth barn, stripped to the waist and digging the ditch for the piping. He recognized make-work when he saw it; a backhoe could have completed the digging in a day.
"You ever think of joining the Ordnance, Tar?" Michiver, the chief hand, asked him over his plate of stew at one of the long cafeteria tables in the rec center. Michiver had a nose that looked like an overgrown wart and ate slowly and stiffly and with a bit of a wince, like an old dog.
"I like the soap and the flush toilets," Valentine said, truthfully enough.
"When I saw you pull up with your big Grog in that leather outfit, I thought you were just another Kentucky quirt. But you put in a real day's work and stay sober at night."
"That's not hard when the nearest liquor store's ten miles away."
Michiver's eyes puckered as he leaned close. "Ordnance duty is nice, if you put in the hours. Three hot meals a day, good doctors and dentists, Lake Ontario cruises for your vacation."
"I'm not much on the Church, though."
Michiver rested his head on rough hands. "It's just one day a week. I've gotten good at sleeping with my eyes open. Heard one lecture about the importance of recycling, heard them all."
"So are you offering me a job, boss?"
"For you and your Grog, assuming he's willing to work. When that new barn goes in I'll need a supervisor, you could be it."
"I was thinking of joining up with the Kentucky Legion."
"And get your head blown off? Chasing guerillas up and down the hills is alright for some, but you've got character and intelligence. I see it plain. We could use you here."
"Doc Boothe warned me off about diseases."
"Hands work outdoors; you're not cleaning up after the patients inside. I've been here fourteen years and I've never seen anything but colds and flu and a bit of pneumonia in the winter. Don't concern yourself with what's going on up at the Grands."
"You sure seem eager to have me. That means there's a catch."
"I'm no spring chicken, Tar," Michiver said, rolling a lock of gray hair between thumb and forefinger. He had an I GAVE MY LITER button on his shirt. "If there's a catch, it hasn't caught me."
"Do I have to sign a contract or anything?"
"Ohio's booming. Hard to find reliable men these days; everyone wants city work under the lights. You Kentuck aren't so hot for jump joints and dazzle halls. Don't worry about contracts, you can quit whenever you like. Forget about your tribesmen. No one in Kentucky's in a position to say boo to the Ordnance. Stay the weekend at least. Saturday's a half day and we're having a dance in town at the NUC hall. The Church is bringing down some husband-hunters from Cleveland and the beer's all the way from Milwaukee, if you're partial to that poison." Michiver made his points poking the table, each poke nearer to Valentine as though trying to herd him into saying yes. "Great way to end your week here, either way—what you say?"
“I say fine.”
* * * *
Ahn-Kha watched him get dressed for the dance—leathers on the bottom, freshly washed blue chambray workshirt up top—and offered only one piece of advice: "Don't drink. Doctor Boothe says Michiver doesn't touch a drop of alcohol."
Valentine wished he had something other than work boots to put on his feet. "I'm more interested in getting friendly with the security staff. There's one odd thing about this place; except for the people in charge of the various departments, and that vet's nurse, seems like no one here's worked here longer than a year or two. Except friend Michiver."
Ahn-Kha gave that a moment's thought. "Perhaps you either get promoted or rotated out."
"I get the feeling Michiver's offer is a wiggling pink worm inside the mouth of a very big snapping turtle."
"It gives us time to look down the turtle's throat, my David."
* * * *
Valentine waited in front of the staff apartments, a little apart from the crowd of off-duty hands and service workers waiting for the buses into town. A last bottle of sealed Bulletproof was tucked inside a plain paper bag he cradled. He watched those waiting to go to the dance. A few passed around a silver flask, more smoked. The women wore golden metallic eyeshadow and heavy black liner, apparently the current style in Ohio.
A dozen of the security staff all waited together in a line against the wall, like the schoolkids too cool to be out on the playground.
Doctor Boothe rode by in her little four-wheeler—an electric golf cart tricked out for backcountry. She used it to get from animal to animal on Xanadu's horizon-spanning acreage. She stared at Valentine for a moment, then picked up her bags of instruments and turned indoors.
Three buses took them into the riverside town. Valentine managed to take a seat next to one of the security men, but he either stared out the window or spoke to the two of his class in the seats just ahead during the half-hour trip. The church hall turned out to be a quasicathedral with attached school; the dance was set up beneath raised basketball backboards in what had been the gymnasium. A raised stage was built into one end of the gym.
Red and blue streamers formed a canopy overhead and decorated the refreshment tables—provided by the Ohio Young Vanguard, Actualization Team #415, according to a sign and a jar accepting donations. A teenage girl, eyes bright enough to be the result of Benzedrine, thanked him for his five-dollar donation and offered him a four-color pamphlet.
THE ORDNANCE AND NUC THANKS ITS HEALTH SECURITY WORKERS OF XANADU read the banner over the raised platform at one end of the gymnasium. Dusty red curtains half closed off a stage, hiding the lighting gear for the musicians. At the other end folding tables and chairs had a few balloons attached.
A nostalgic hip-hop dj-backed band ("lame" pronounced one of the security staff) laid down a techno beat as they entered, and the chief bandsman started exhorting the crowd to enjoy themselves as soon as the workers trickled in. The music echoed oddly in the high-ceilinged, quarter-lit gym, making Valentine feel as though he'd just stepped inside a huge kettledrum.
Valentine knew a handful of names and a few more faces, and once he'd nodded to those he knew he sat down on the basketball stands and read the tri-fold pamphlet the Young Vanguar
d girl had given him.
7 Civic Virtues we grow inside, as our bodies grow outside:
1. Humility—we understand that mankind has been pulled backfrom the brink of self-destruction by wisdom greater than ours, giving us hope.
2. Hope for the Future—we know we can build a better world if we just listen to the quiet voice in our hearts.
3. Hearts that know Compassion—to act for the better of all, we pledge our minds, and the mind's servant, the hand.
4. Hands Busy in Labor—we pledge to work and sacrifice so that the following generation may live happier lives.
5. Heroism—we stand for what we know to be right and pledge our lives to the future; our word is our bond.
6. Honesty—we must be honest with others, for only then can we be honest with ourselves.
7. Healthy Bodies and Minds—we pledge to refrain from partaking of any substance that might cloud mind or pollute body.
Pictures of particularly outstanding Vanguards and their Ordnance sponsors filled the back. Valentine more than half believed it all. The Churchmen knew how to keep their flocks all moving in the same direction—straight to the slaughterhouse.
The male-female ratio equalized a little when a pair of local Churchmen arrived with a contingent of single women. Their clothes and stockings marked them as city girls, looking like peacocks dumped in a headwater barnyard, and smelling of desperation. Or perhaps that was just the name of the perfume. The Churchmen divided the group in two parts and led their subflocks around, making introductions.
"Take a heck of a lot more than applejack to get me to take a run at one of those boxies," one of the security men said to his mate.
"Try a blindfold," another agreed from behind a thick mustache.
Valentine sidled up to the trio. "I've got an untapped bottle of Kentucky bourbon, if you like."
Thick Mustache sneered. "Take a hike, cowpuncher."
"My—" Valentine began.
"Get lost, quirt," the one eyeing up the women said. "You're not making yourself look good, you're making us look bad."
Valentine felt the room go twenty degrees warmer. "We could talk more outside, if you like."
"I'll share your liquor, new man," a female voice said in his ear.
Valentine startled. Six feet of creamy skin stood barefoot next to him, her heels dangling loose from one hand and a clutch purse in the other. She was at least a decade older, but high-cheeked and attractive in a shoulder-padded dress. Or simply more skilled with makeup and clothing than the rest of the women in the gym. Valentine wondered if she'd come in by a different route—she'd neither arrived on the buses nor been escorted in by the Churchmen.
"Looking hot, Doc P," the security man who'd called Valentine a "quirt" a moment ago said.
The woman cocked her head, an eyebrow up. Even Valentine, thirty degrees out of the line of fire of the stare, felt a chill.
"C'mon, you 'bot," Thick Mustache said, pulling his companion away.
"What's your name?"
"Tar. Tar Ayoob."
"Tar? Like in 'nicotine and
"Short for Tarquin," Valentine said.
She transferred her shoes to her purse-holding hand. "Fran Paoli. I work up at Xanadu too."
"I'm liking it better and better there," Valentine said, shaking her offered hand. She laughed, but lightly.
Valentine showed her the bottle.
"That's real Kentucky Bourbon, I believe," she said.
"Care for a snort?" Valentine asked.
"With water," she said. "About 5ccs."
"How much is that?"
"A shot glass."
When Valentine returned from the refreshment table with two ice-filled plastic cups of water, she stood next to a paper-covered table festooned with balloons reading "Happy Birthday."
Valentine set his glasses down and held out the chair for her. "Why did you take your heels off?" he asked.
"I can be sneaky that way. Besides, it makes me feel sexy."
It also makes you two inches shorter than I am, Valentine thought. "I didn't know we'd have any doctors in attendance."
"I'll be it. Oriana and I came down to the waterfront to do some shopping."
"And you just couldn't resist the music and the decor?" Valentine passed her drink to her. She sipped.
Fran rolled the liquor around in her mouth, and swallowed. "No. I wanted to meet you."
"You're very direct."
She looked up as the liquor hit. "Whoo, that takes me back. I did a term with a field hospital down your way."
"Wanted to meet me?" Valentine insisted.
"When you get a few more years' . . . oh . . . perspective on life, let's say, you run short on patience for gamesmanship."
Valentine watched more uniforms flow in. Couples began dancing, doing curious, quick back-and-forth movements, one part of the body always touching. Hand gave way to arm that gave way to shoulder that gave way to buttock that turned into hand again. He felt like a scruffy backwoodsman at a cotillion.
Good God. Ali's here.
She wore a plain woolen skirt and a yellow blouse that flirted with femininity, but went with her flame-colored hair. Lipstick and eye makeup were making one of their rare appearances on her face. A soldier who looked like a wrestler's torso on a jockey's legs was introducing her to one of the Churchmen. Valentine wondered if he was looking at an infatuated boy or a dead man.
"Do you want to dance?" Valentine asked.
"You don't look like the slinky-slide type."
"Is that what that dance is called?"
"It was when they were doing it in New York ten years ago. God knows what it's called out here." Her thin-lipped mouth took on a grimace that might be called cruel.
Valentine tried a tiny amount of bourbon, just enough to wet his lips and make it appear that he drank. "So how did you know you wanted to meet me?"
"Moonshots."
"Is that something else from New York?"
"No," she laughed, a little more heartily this time. "Have you been in the Grands yet?"
"The four big buildings? No."
"I have a corner in Grand East. Top floor." She said it as though she expected Valentine to be impressed. "Apartment and office. I've got a nice telescope. Myself and some of the nurses have been known to take a coffee break and check out the hands. We call a particularly attractive male a 'moonshot.' It's hard to get a unanimous vote from that crew, but you got five out of five. The hair did it for Oriana—she's the tough grader."
"There's not a bet having to do with me, is there?"
"Admit it. You're flattered."
"I am, a little." He picked up his drink. "Don't go anywhere." He took a big mouthful of his drink, headed for a corridor marked "bathrooms," and turned down a cinder-block corridor. He found the men's. An assortment of student- and adult-sized urinals stood ready. He went to the nearest one and spat out his bourbon, thinking of an old Wolf named Bill Maranda who would have cried out at the waste.
Alessa Duvalier tripped him as he exited. He stumbled.
"You're a rotten excuse for the caste," she said, keeping her voice low and watching the hallway. "Have you found her?"
"No. Just as tight on the inside."
"So how do you like pillow recon?" she asked. "Is she tight? Or is the bourbon loosening her up?"
"Haven't had a chance to find out, yet."
"According to my date she's big-time. You be careful. I've moved to the NUC women's hostel, by the way. My would-be boyfriend was horrified by my accommodations. Bed checks."
"I've got a chance at an upgrade too, methinks."
She pressed a piece of paper into his hand. "Phones work around here, but you get listened to," Duvalier said. "If you need to run, leave a message at the hostel that your migraines are back. I'll get to the motel as soon as I can and wait. Do they allow inbound calls up there?"
"I think there's a phone in our rec center. I'll call with the number."
"Good luck." She made
a kissing motion in the air, not wanting to leave telltale lipstick. She dived into the women's washroom, and Valentine went to the bar for more ice.
He chatted with Fran Paoli for thirty minutes or so, learned that she'd been born in Pennsylvania and educated in New York. She found the Ordnance "dull enough to make me look forward to Noonside Passions" evidently a television show, and wouldn't discuss her work, except to say that it required specialized expertise but was as routine as the NUC social. But it promised her a brass ring and a Manhattan penthouse when she completed her sixteenth year at Xanadu.
She couldn't—or wouldn't—even say what her area of medical expertise was.
Paoli waved and another woman approached, with the purse-clutching, tight-elbowed attitude of a missionary in an opium den.
"Oriana Kreml, this is Tar, our moonshot babe. Tar-baby! I like that."
"The market was a joke. 'Fresh stock in from Manhattan' my eye. Are you done presenting in here?"
"Oriana's a great doctor but a greater prig," Fran Paoli laughed. "Would you like a ride back, Tar-baby?"
"Thank you," Valentine said.
"Then let's quit the Church. Crepe paper gives me a rash."
They took Valentine outside to the parking lot. A well-tended black SUV huffed and puffed as its motor turned over. It was a big Lincoln, powered by something called Geo-drive.
"Would you like to drive my beast, Tar?" Fran Paoli asked.
"Would you forgive me if I wrecked it?" Valentine said. "I'm not much with wheels." Valentine liked cars, the convenience and engineering appealed to him, but he didn't have a great deal of experience with them.
He climbed into the rear seat. The upholstery had either been replaced or lovingly refurbished. A deep well in the back held a few crates of groceries. Valentine smelled garlic and lemons in the bags. The women in front put on headsets.
Fran Paoli turned on the lights and the parking lot sprang into black-shadowed relief. Music started up, enveloping Valentine in soft jazz. She turned the car around and drove down a side street until she reached the river highway. Two police pickup-wagons motored west. Valentine wondered how many unfortunates they carried to the Reapers. Two each? Three? Nine? Valentine stared out the window as the red taillights receded into demon eyes staring at him from the darkened road. They blinked away.
