Choice of the Cat

by E. E. Knight

Southeastern Nebraska, July: The Great Plains Gulag produces the wheat and corn of the Kurian Order. Collective farming settlements, managed under discipline that would make Stalin envious, dot the flat expanses of the Plains. Good farmland is divided into roughly fifty-mile-diameter regions from the main railheads with their towering grain elevators. At the center of the circle, like the spider in the middle of its web, is the well-guarded fortress of the local Kurian Lord. His eyes and ears and appetites are in his Reapers. The Reapers pass the Master's orders to the Marshals and Managers below them, making sure they attend to duty with the devotion expected of ones absolved from any chance of providing auric fodder for the Kurian Overlord.

  The trade in this part of the country is a tragic exchange. Boxcars full of grain and corn leave the Gulag to feed the urban population elsewhere and return with a few dozen assorted captives, criminals, and disposables as payment. The Marshals then unload the unfortunates from the boxcars and route the prisoners to their doom with the knowledge that each unknown fed to the hungry Kurian Lord means one less friend or neighbor selected and sacrificed in the dead of night. Rumor has it that in Dallas, Chicago, Atlanta, and Seattle there are trading pits, run with the same frantic energy of the Old World, and devoted to buying and selling wheat, corn, soy, barley, and legumes with human lives. The trades are administered and run by the accountants and dealers for their Kurian Lords, seeking the best deal in living bodies per ton in what might be called a futures market for those who have no future.

  Lincoln, formerly the capital of Nebraska, is a good example of the Kurian Order in the Gulag. The Dark Lord lives, appropriately enough, in the fourteen-story stone tower that looms over the reduced city skyline. Its solid construction, commanding view, and numerous carvings and statues appeal to the megalomaniac temperament within. Though one valuable statue from the pre-Kur days is missing: the Daniel Chester French study of a pensive, standing Lincoln. Some say that the Kur destroyed it as they did the larger, more famous seated one at the memorial in Washington, D.C, but others maintain it was spirited out of the city and now resides in one of the Western Freeholds, a hidden icon of liberty.

  The people within his realm call the Kurian Lord "Number One," and nothing gets the local Quislings' attention like someone walking in a room and announcing, "Orders from Number One." Just across from the dreaded tower is the old City-County Building, now just referred to as the Hold. The local Marshals are quartered here, and the ample prison space is the last stop for those on the way to the Reapers. The city is now home to artisans and technicians in the employ of the Kurian Order, as well as being a main depot of the Troop. Their armored cars and trucks are maintained in a huge garage, once the Pershing Auditorium. The Regional Director, a Quisling in charge of the thick belts of farmland within the Kurian's realm, lives (at the pleasure of Number One) in the Colonial-Georgian governors mansion. The house has a sad history: assassination and suicide, as well as the occasional Reaper-led housecleaning, have plagued the series of Regional Directors and their families. The suicides especially drive the Kurian to distraction—he sees it as a tragic waste of aura.

  The Lincoln Lord has six Reapers. One or two are usually at the Capitol Tower serving as bodyguards and mouthpieces. Another is circulating in the city, checking up on the doings in Lincoln, and another will almost always be on tour in the farmland with a dreaded retinue of Marshals, spreading fear wherever he goes. Finally two more hunt in the unclaimed buffer zone between the Kurian principalities, looking for threats to the realm and feeding their lord with drifters, runaways, and the occasional sleeping-on-duty Trooper.

  * * *

  "Why'd it do that?" Valentine asked, peering through the empty window of the parked patrol car.

  It was a ridiculous-looking vehicle, an old police cruiser on a jacked-up suspension, sitting on fat on-and-off-road performance tires and missing its trunk hood. Camouflage greens and browns replaced the old state-trooper markings.

  "Haven't you ever seen a Reaper hole?" Duvalier said, looking at the grisly scene within. Bronze-colored flies clustered around a ragged wound. "They poke their tongues in right above the collarbone. Pretty good chance at hitting the heart or a big blood vessel."

  "This just happened." Valentine's hair was standing on end from something other than cold river water hitting his nethers. The Reaper must have been just over the hill when they crossed.

  "Lucky for us he was here." Duvalier grabbed a key ring off the body's belt. "Crap—no codes."

  "But what I meant was, why would a Reaper take out one of his own militia?"

  Duvalier touched the corpse. "Not quite cold. Either it was a Reaper from down Kansas way poaching—which is pretty unlikely, they might grab some farm boy but not a soldier—or the Hood caught him sleeping on the job."

  "Kurian justice is efficient, I'll give them that."

  "Solves one problem. You were talking about scrounging a uniform. Here's your chance."

  Valentine ignored her buttocks as best as he could as she rooted in the car through the window.

  "The vest you mean? We'll have to clean it. We'd also better take the whole body."

  "Why, you want to give him a Christian burial?" She summoned a tongue full of spittle and let it drop on the Trooper's forehead.

  "No, they're going to be a little suspicious if they find a body missing a vest and identity papers."

  "Your idea. You carry him, then. Better get him over the shoulder. Rigor will be setting in," she said, putting on her claws.

  "Why the metal? Think the Reaper is coming back for seconds?"

  "Nope. Omaha is Grog country. We're near enough to make it look like they made off with the body."

  "Would they touch a man in uniform?"

  "They're kind of freebooters. I've heard that they don't take orders from the Quislings to the east or the Kurians to the west. As long as they don't interfere with the rails or roads, they do as they please. Maybe a few Harpies smelled the blood and came down for the body."

  She scratched the paintwork on the roof and hood with the claws, a sound painful to Valentine's sensitive ears. She looked inside. "I'd put marks in the upholstery, but I don't think anyone would notice. Three generations of corn-fed Troopers have done their worst."

  Valentine searched the car, but was disappointed at the results. A little bit of food, some tools, a pump-action shotgun, and a box of shells were the extent of the booty. He also carried a fist-sized key ring, which had a number of varicolored disks threaded on it like beads on a string. Duvalier explained that the disks served as money, useful enough in Lincoln itself but no good in another Kurian's territory. He pocketed it nevertheless. Grogs would definitely take the shotgun, for trade if nothing else, so he took it and the shells. "Not even a radio. Kind of primitive up here, huh?" he said, shouldering the body.

  Duvalier erased their footprints as they moved off the road and to the west.

  They weighted the body with rocks and sank it in some swampy water along the shallow river they'd been following when they came upon the car. In the distance they saw a few lights, the first they had seen since Missouri.

  "We're on the outskirts of Number One's land around Lincoln. If we keep heading north, we should hit the rail line between Lincoln and Omaha. Then it's just a matter of catching the first westbound."

  Dawn brought a blush to the sky, and they found some tall growth at the banks of the river to sleep away the day's heat. Duvalier believed in hiding in plain sight, so to speak, when this close to enemy territory, rather than looking for concealment under old bridges and in barns. She examined the vest and papers of the dead Trooper. price w was stenciled across the back of the body armor, and the identification card had "Price, Wesley" typed in the blank for name.

  "Hmmm. Okay, Val, how does 'West Rice' sound?"

  "Like a Texas side dish. Can you do it?"

  She took out a small scalpel and a bottle of ink. "O ye of little faith. Think I'll get some rest first, so I can concentrate. Wake me
with some lunch at midday, Rice."

  "Sure thing, Beans."

  She was good to her word and spent the afternoon removing the P from the back of the vest, then dabbing black ink in to cover the worst parts. Valentine tried it on; the Trooper had gone to some trouble to make it more wearable by adding leather panels to the inside with a layer of cotton mesh sewn over them. It was still hot and heavy even with the side panels open all the way. Duvalier did a masterly job with the ID, right down to placing a new photo over the old complete with imprinted seal. This last she managed with the tip of a small screwdriver. After the ink dried, she folded it and had Valentine place it under his armpit for an hour. "Nothing like a good sweat stain to add some realism," she said.

  "You'd think they could make these up for us before we left," Valentine said, unfolding the damp ID papers and looking at the details again to refresh his memory.

  "Sensible if we were just going one place, but there are many, many different Kurian Camps just in the Gulag. A lot use different kinds of ID. We'd have to carry a whole satchel just with forged papers. We're safe enough around Lincoln, as long as we don't run into one of Price's close personal friends. If we go in the town, it should just be Marshals."

  "The sword won't be suspicious?"

  "You got it off a dead Grog. It was valuable, so you took it. I once saw an Oklahoma Territorial walking around with a battle-ax, God knows why. The thing must have been heavier than hell."

  "You're the boss."

  "I'm more worried about the gun. That big round magazine, it makes it look pretty memorable. Anything no one's ever seen before is suspicious. It makes sense to stand out a little, but not too much."

  "I've got a regular clip for it. Or better yet, I could leave it unloaded."

  "That would work," she said. "It's such an ugly thing, except for the stock. Looks like you put it together yourself."

  They angled around the village that night, moving through fields of tall corn. Most of the houses showing lights were clustered in little groups, but an isolated farm here and there appeared to be occupied. "Not many big harvesters and combines left," she commented as they passed a tall John Deere that looked well maintained. "Most everything is done with horses again. The Kurians like having a lot of labor under them."

  "Where do you figure on jumping on the train?" he asked.

  "I thought you were the expert on train travel. Maybe we should stick to the Platte River—it's between Omaha and Lincoln. Follow it north until we hit a bridge, and jump a train there. They always slow down crossing a bridge—you never know when one of those resourceful long-range Wolf patrols are going to take out something like that."

  When they settled down for the evening, Valentine had the first watch. He stood above the camp, wishing they could run across some Wolves. It would be good to see the beards, the hats, the sweaty buckskins again. Hear the rude jokes. Life was simpler in the Regiment: you followed orders, camped, moved, slept with the assurance of your comrades all around. He felt naked moving in the Kurian Zone without the companionship of his pack.

  On the other hand, being a Cat brought independence and its concomitant responsibility. Best of all, freedom to use his judgment.

  All things considered, he'd take it. Even at a price of loneliness. Of course, he'd been paying that bill since he was eleven years old.

  Duvalier opened sleepy eyes. "Val, relax. I can hear you grinding your teeth all the way over here."

  "Sorry."

  He watched seed-laden grass bend in the soft summer breeze and tried to quit thinking, to be that breeze. The tension left his neck and shoulders.

  "That's better." She rolled over onto her side.

  By dawn they struck the Platte where it threw a wide loop south around Omaha before joining the Missouri. They camped in a thick patch of timber, about halfway up the slope to the crest of the river valley. Their spirits rose for a moment at the distant clatter of a train, but they realized it was eastbound when they found a vantage point allowing them to see the line of cars.

  As Valentine ground some stolen ears of corn into flour in the predawn clamor of rising birds—it was Duvalier's turn to set the traps or try for a game bird with the wrist rocket they carried for small game—he suddenly felt his luck was in. They would catch a train that day, or at worst the day after. He felt confident enough to walk into the Tower in Lincoln and see what Number One was up to, for that matter. Or maybe he just looked forward to the excitement of train travel after weary weeks of walking.

  Duvalier returned, bearing a pheasant. "I think it was asleep. It never knew what hit it. I probably could have just reached up and grabbed it," she said, sitting down on a rock and opening her small clasp knife. She cut the bird's throat, nearly severing its head, and bled it into her canteen cup.

  "Pretty feathers, these things have," she said, beginning to pluck it. She picked up the cup. "Blood, Val? Nice and warm. Chock-full of vitamins."

  Valentine chewed dandelion leaves and young fern buds, among other things, for his vitamins. "Thanks, no. I only like it with lemon and sugar."

  "Great for the eyes, my friend. But it's your choice. I can use the iron anyway." She drank it down, smacking her lips in appreciation, and continued plucking the bird. Valentine enjoyed the taste of fresh blood only in cold weather for some reason, perhaps because it reminded him of winter hunting trips with his father.

  The pheasant turned out to be an old and stringy specimen, so they made soup, plucking the painfully hot joints out of the broth with their fingers and gnawing the bones clean.

  "Is this breakfast or dinner, Ali?" Valentine asked, watching the sun come up.

  "That's a philosophical question; I'm too tired to care, Valentine. Put the fire out and let's get some sleep."

  Valentine relaxed, and she stretched on the rattan mat she rolled out to keep herself off the cold ground. He listened for trains and watched her nod off. Her angular face softened in sleep; and he decided she was altogether desirable. You've been without a woman for a good year now, the responsible part of him said. Keep your hands to yourself. She's a comrade, not a lover.

  It was a three-day wait for a westbound train. Valentine hoped his lucky feeling regarding the train timing was an aberration, and the rest his premonition of good fortune would come through.

  They spent the time reconnoitering the bridge region, making a few cryptic notes in Valentine's journal. You never knew what knowledge might come in handy to Southern Command. A small sentry shack stood at each end of the bridge. Only the western side post was manned during the daytime, but both had a pair of soldiers at night. The sentries were supplied by a little guardhouse at a settlement called Gretna, which marked the start of the unoccupied area leading to the

  Omaha ruins. Trooper vehicles patrolled north from there on the east bank of the Platte and rolled out due west, probably as far as the Missouri River south of Omaha.

  They heard the train before it appeared atop the lip of the shallow river valley.

  The western side bridge post was a good spot to hop on. It would give them the added authenticity; a pair of deserters or runaways would hardly shelter somewhere run by the local Authority.

  With the train still well in the distance, they approached the guard post. A single middle-aged sentry, with a functioning radio and a bicycle for his commute, stepped out of the slant-roofed little blockhouse with his shotgun in his hands. He had the hairy, crusty look of someone who spent a great deal of time in the elements.

  "Howdy," Valentine said, breathing heavily as he climbed up the hill. He paused, put his hands over his knees, and faked exhaustion. "We didn't think we'd make it. I sure want to hop this train."

  "Then you have a lot more running to do," the guard said, gun pointed at Valentine as he watched the pair suspiciously. "Train doesn't stop here."

  "Oh, great, the difficult type," Valentine said to Duvalier, loudly enough for the sentry to hear. He looked back up at the guard. "Listen, I'm in a jam here. I just want
to ride it, not blow it up. My name's Westin Rice, and this is my bride-to-be, Ali. We're getting married in two more weeks out by Grand Island, where I'm stationed, and we were here visiting my folks out by Fremont. They never met her, you see? I've been away from my unit—it should've been just the weekend, but old friends and relatives showed up, you know how it is."

  "Can't say that I do," the man said, but at least he didn't move for the radio. Valentine noticed a brown stain at the side of his mouth.

  "My sarge is covering for me, of course. If we can catch this freight, everything's Toyota."

  "Not on my watch, kid. Don't know how you do things out there, where about all you got to guard against is prairie dogs, but here where we're staring down the wildthings in Omaha, rules mean something."

  Valentine was about to reach into his pocket for some cigars when Duvalier unexpectedly burst into tears. "Th-th-there goes your promotion, or w-w-worse," she sobbed. Valentine looked almost as startled as the sentry. She sank to her knees, pouring tears into palms clasped against her face. "Your mom b-b-being so n-n-nice an' all, and giving me her mother's wedding ring. Wh-wh-what're we gonna do?" she blubbered, staring up at him with tear-strained eyes.

  Valentine picked her up. "Don't worry, hon, I'll figure something out. Don't I always?"

  "Look, er—you two," the man said, rubbing the back of his neck. "Hop the damn freight. But if anything happens, I was taking a break in the bushes, you follow me? You never even got a good look at me, I was too far away."

  Valentine pulled out a cigar. "Thank you, sir. My pa gave me these. He has a connection over in Cedar Rapids with those rich big shots across the river. They're for the groomsmen, but I want you to have one."

  "Save it for the groomsmen, then. No, I won't take it, and that's final. Just take my advice, and don't do stuff like this. The way I got to be this age, pulling easy duty, is by not bending the rules. Get me, you two?"

  The train started down the opposite bank of the Platte and rolled onto the bridge.

  "We get you—thank you, sir!" Duvalier said, kissing him on the cheek as they hurried past him. "Sometimes the rougher they are on the outside, the more tender on the inside," she added sotto voce as they took positions alongside the tracks. "It's the ones who just seem not to give a damn one way or the other who make me worried."