by E. E. Knight
Valentine could tell from the exchanged glances and squeaking shifts in weight the officers were uncomfortable being addressed by a churchman. Or maybe it was the patronizing tone.
"There's a potential in that part of the country for a true Freehold. With regular soldiers such as yourselves to handle external threats, the populace could organize its own defense on a county-by-county basis. I'd say the population is six-to-one in favor of the guerrillas, though they've seen enough reprisals to be chary of rising up en masse. Not the best specimens in that part of the country, either physical or mental."
He paused again to let his gaze rove over the room. He settled his stare on Captain Moytana, who had the thumb of his fist pressed to his mouth as if to keep his lips from opening.
"Yes, we all know what happened when a rising like this was attempted in Kansas. Unlike Kansas, we already have local fighters in place who've lost their fear of the Kurians. This time the rising won't take place until your forces arrive and are integrated with the locals."
Lambert spoke again: "It's not Kansas. The Kurians are holding on to their mines by their fingernails. A couple strikes on key Kurian held centers, destruction of the local constabulary, and a few Reapers burned out of their basement lairs would greatly further the Cause in North America."
A hand went up, and Lambert nodded.
"That's awfully near Washington," a lieutenant colonel named Jolla with the big bugs said. He was perhaps the oldest man at the briefing other than General Lehman. Campaign ribbons under his name lay in neat rows like a brick wall. "They're tender about that, what with all those Church academies and colleges and such. The Kurians in New York and Philly and Pits would unite."
"The Green Mountains are just as close," Lambert said. "There's a Freehold there. Smaller than ours, but they're managing."
"Can we count on them to take some of the heat off?" a youngish Guard major named Bloom asked.
"You won't be alone," Brother Mark said. "God sees to that."
Valentine glanced around the assembly. Some eyes were rolling, expecting a mossbacked homily.
"You'll have a friends to the west," Brother Mark said. "The guerrillas are getting help from some of the legworm ranchers in Kentucky. About four years ago the Ordnance—that's the political organization north of the Ohio, for those of you unfamiliar with the area ... as I said, the legworm ranchers have grown restive, especially since the Ordnance began conducting raids into their territory, coming after deserters and guerrillas."
Valentine, who had fled into Kentucky from the Ordnance as something between a guerrilla and a deserter, could tell the assembly didn't like their renegade churchman. The officers were keeping their faces too blank when they listened.
"Some of the troops won't like it," a Guard captain said. "That's a long way from home."
"Their forefathers went ten times as far against lesser evils," Brother Mark said.
This time General Lehman came to his rescue. "Tell 'em what the gals in Kentucky look like, brought up on milk and legworm barbecue. You know that area, Valentine."
"They're pretty enough. Tough too," Valentine said, thinking of Tikka from the Bulletproof. "All that time in the saddle. The backhill bourbon's smooth. Everybody and his cousin has a recipe. Some of the older ones will want to allot out and become whiskey barons."
"Whiskey barons," someone chuckled. "They'll like the sound of that."
* * * *
The second day they broke into working groups. The big bugs from the one end divided assembly into three groups: "combat," "support and liason," and "hunter."
Valentine ended up in the support and liason group, under the bald lieutenant colonel with the wall of campaign ribbons who'd asked the question about how the Kurians would react to a new Freehold. Valentine wondered if the question hadn't been prearranged by Lambert.
"Don't be fooled by all this," Jolla chuckled, tapping the campaign ribbons. "Just means I'm old. I don't know much more about Highbeam than you. They called me in because I know how to keep the soup pots full for an army on the march." Valentine couldn't help liking him. Some of the other officers who knew him from other campaigns called him "Jolly." Jolla told those in Valentine's team to do the same.
There were study guides to go through about Kentucky, the Virginias, and the surrounding areas. Every day Valentine lugged around two hundred or more pages of text and maps in Southern Command's battered three-ring binders, with tabs for future additions as the operational plans were developed. An artist, or maybe just a bored student, had sewn a denim cover on Valentine's binder at some point or other. Valentine smiled when he saw William Post's name as one of the intelligence staff who'd prepared background. Post was at Southern Command's general headquarters now, studying and tracking Quisling military formations and assessing their capabilities.
The appointment said a lot about his old number two, Will Post.
General headquarters wasn't a place for cushy assignments bought by politics, patronage, or a mixture of rank and bureaucratic skill. You had to be good to get an office at GHQ. Post was good.
They thumbed through the study guides until Lambert and Seng arrived. The big bugs had worked out a preliminary organizational chart before they even arrived, but gallstone surgery and the death of a major's spouse had meant a little last-minute juggling.
The pair met with Jolly first, relocating to a corner while everyone else read through their local study guides. Valentine was studying a history of the legworm ranchers—he recognized some phrasing from his own reports about the Bulletproof, one of the Kentucky clans— when Jolly told him Seng and Lambert wanted him next.
They shook hands and the triad sat down.
"Glad to meet you at last, Valentine," Seng said. His squashed-flat face was pulled down a bit at the corners, reminding Valentine of a catfish.
"Thank you, sir," Valentine said, a bit befuddled by the "at last."
"I had charge of the brigade in the Boston Mountains that was keeping Solon's boys busy while Southern Command was reorganizing in the swamps. They were getting set to roll over us when you derailed them in Little Rock."
Why in God's name isn't this man a general? Seng's history, prompted, came back to Valentine in a flash. He'd kept ten times his number tied down with a couple of regiments of regulars and some Wolf and Bear formations. He'd been at the Trans-Mississippi combat corps briefings.
"I should be thanking you, then," Valentine said. "They were so scared of you, they never shifted enough men to Little Rock to just roll over us. It's an honor to meet you, sir."
"If you two want to hug, I won't tell," Lambert put in. "We've got twelve more sit-downs today, Colonel."
"Terrible thought. Dots off schedule," Seng said.
"Are you sorry you're not with the hunter or combat groups here?" Lambert asked Valentine.
"I'm just happy Highbeam is under way," Valentine said.
"I know. Ahn-Kha," Lambert said. "There's a picture of you and him up at GHQ, by the way. It's in the case with some mementos from the drive on Dallas. You guys are sleeping on the hood of a truck. He's sitting with his back against the windshield and you're pillowed on his thigh. It's rather sweet. His fur is all muddy and spiky. I recognized you by the hair."
"He was a good friend," Valentine said. If the rumors of a golden Grog leading the guerrilla army in the coal country had any truth to them, a piece of Valentine's soul knew it had to be Ahn-Kha.
"He's the one who brought in the heartroot tuber, right?" Seng said.
"It's more like a mushroom than a tuber," Valentine said. Heart-root was protein rich, with a nice balance of fats and carbohydrates. It was usually ground up and made into animal feed, or a hearty meal that could be boiled in water or baked, or a sweet paste that could be put on a biscuit, the last variant popularly called "Grog guck."
"But we're putting Dots off schedule again."
"Thanks, Val," she said.
"Where's Styachowski?" Valentine asked. "I'd think she'd
be involved in this."
Lambert's face blanked into a funereal mask. "Killed, two months ago. Plane crash in Mississippi. She was coordinating our Wolves with some guerrillas in Alabama."
"I'm sorry to hear that," Valentine said. Numb now, he would feel the shock would sink in when he was alone at night, the way it always did. He was horribly used to this kind of news after a dozen years of fighting.
"That's why I try to avoid the bother of a personal life," she said. She opened the thick folder on her lap. Bookmarks with notations on it ran all around its three edges like a decorative fringe. She glanced at Seng and he spoke.
"We want you to put together a formation of company strength. You'll recruit them out of a pool of refugees at Camp Liberty. You know about Liberty?"
Valentine had heard of it. He'd even seen horse-drawn wagons full of people leaving for it. Just like Camp Freedom in the South, or Independence in the Northwest. What was the new one in north Texas called? Reliance. "That's where the rabbits picked up by Rally Base were sent."
"Rabbits" was Southern Command slang for people who made the run out of the Kurian Zone.
"Been there?"
"No."
"The commander's a good egg. He'll help you out," Lambert said. "He'll be ordered to assist, as a matter of fact."
"What has he been told?" Valentine asked.
"The bare minimum," Lambert said. "Keep using the Argent ID for now. 'Southern Command indulges war criminals' is one of the more popular Kurian propaganda points. They talked up your escape in Kansas, to show what Southern Command does with murders. Even the Clarion still mentions you now and then, when they're picking at old scabs. 'Sham justice for real murder.' That sort of thing."
The Clarion was an antiwar paper. Most of the soldiers called it the Clarinet, because of the high, squealing tune its editorial page frequently played.
"What's the purpose of this company?" Valentine asked, though he was already guessing.
"We want a few locals who can speak to the folks in their own language," Lambert said. "Facilitation with trade, scouting, scavenging. Ideally, your men will later get promoted to lead squads and platoons of their own, once we're set up properly in the triangle. So think about that: One day your company could swell into a regiment."
"Officers?"
"We'll give you a lieutenant to take your place if something happens to you," Lambert said.
Lambert was chilly little calculator at times. "Happy thought. NCOs?"
"Take your pick, though we'd rather you did it from the ready reserve. We'd hate to disturb frontline units too much. We've got some names if you feel like you're out of touch."
"I'd like to be able to offer a sergeant major star, sir."
"For a company?" Seng asked.
"You said it might grow."
"I don't see a problem with that," Lambert said. "I'll speak to the general."
"Where will we train?" Valentine asked.
"Haven't worked that out yet. It might be Rally Base, unless they decide that's too far forward. Highbeam will establish a separate depot, wherever they end up."
"I don't suppose you can tell me when we're going."
Lambert smiled. "You must be joking. But it won't be before next year. So if you want to take some time off to disappear into northern Missouri again, you can have a couple weeks once you've got your men assembled and they're training. Clear it with Seng and myself and we'll square things with the general. Just don't get yourself caught."
"Be terrible if they found out New Orleans was about to be hit," Valentine said.
"So, how does it sound?" Seng asked. "I know you've wanted a mission to aid the guerrillas in the coal country. Suit you?"
"It's back to the Kurian Zone. I like it there. I can shoot at my enemies."
"You'd like to take a shot at Sime, I bet," Lambert said.
Valentine shrugged. How did she know that? Well, not worth thinking about that. Lambert had taken an unusual interest in him. He wouldn't be surprised if she'd read the old letters from Molly Carlson, resting in some warehouse with his Cat claws and other souvenirs.
"One more thing. Do you mind being available for questions about conditions in Kentucky? I get the feeling Brother Mark isn't going over that well."
"New Church just sticks in some of these guys throats," Seng added. "They're not swallowing what he says."
Valentine didn't like churchmen, even former ones. "My gag reflex has been acting up too."
"Speaking of swallowing, he only eats raw food. Nuts and milk and honey and stuff," Lambert said. "Gets odd looks at lunchtime and he never joins in for pizza or barbecue."
"I saw him eat a hard-boiled egg," Valentine put in.
"But you don't mind being called on for an opinion?" Seng asked.
"Not at all, sir."
"Go on to your next meeting," Seng said to Lambert. "I'll catch up in a minute."
Lambert glanced at Valentine. "It's going to be a busy ten days. We'll talk again."
"I'll look forward to that, Colonel," Valentine said.
She left and Seng shifted his chair so it faced Valentine directly.
"You were headed for staff training when they arrested you."
The shock and hurt had long since healed over. That was a different young man. "Yes."
"Sorry to hear that. I went through it, you know. I think we would have done it about the same time, right after Dallas."
"How was it?"
"Tough. Felt like I was being rotated through every unit in the command. I've got most of a footlocker filled with my texts and workbooks. I'd like to loan it to you. There's a lot of good training materials in there. I expect if Highbeam gets off the ground, it might be useful to you. Lambert wasn't kidding about that regiment. We're going to have to rely on the locals to supply most of our manpower. They'll need training from our best people."
Valentine fought down a stammer. "Thank you. I'd like that."
Seng wasn't a smiler, but his mouth relaxed. "You haven't had to decipher my handwriting yet. I know we've just met, but I'm glad you're with us on this trip. When I went over the list of names our sharp young colonel drew up and I saw yours, I remembered when we heard you'd blown up the Little Rock depot. You don't know what that meant to us, boxed up in those mountains."
Again, military formalities saved him embarrassment. "Thank you, sir."
Valentine spent the next ten days on double duty, working with the planners in his group and acting as a second opinion to Brother Mark, though he couldn't answer the questions about the guerrillas in the triangle, of course. He attended working meetings, helped write plans and orders, but mostly thought about the company he was to build. Some days he had little to do but listen and be grateful for the quiet time to get himself organized and draw up his own plans.
The officers bonded in meetings, at meals, and especially on the baseball diamond. Colonel Gage, in charge of the regulars, blew hot and cold, alternately charming and cutting. Gage's chief of staff was the rather pugnacious and compact Major Cleveland Bloom—an odd name for a woman, Valentine thought. She captained Valentine's team and went by the name Cleo on the baseball diamond, where she once pitched a shutout—not the easiest thing to do with softball. When her team was at bat she slapped each of them, man and woman, on the butt and ordered them to "get a hit." She didn't care about stolen bases, doubles, or walks—she wanted hits and more hits.
She had a similar reputation in the field as a fighter.
The Bear lieutenant, a scarred figure named Gamecock, only stayed a week and was the first to leave. "One of my team is in hospital," he said as they said good-bye at dinner. 'I've got two places to fill, and there's few enough Bears about these days. I'm going to try to talk a couple out of retirement."
Valentine heartily wished him luck, thinking of his own plans after the departure date.
Gamecock hadn't been much involved in the meetings in any case. Bears didn't give a damn about planning. You put them up close to the
enemy and turned them loose.
The civilians rotated in and out of the meetings unpredictably. Usually one or two were away, but never all three. Valentine began to think of them as a single organism that morphed, for they dressed and spoke remarkably alike.
One day a courier arrived bearing a package. Valentine unwrapped it in his Spartan quarters and found a basket containing a set of paper-wrapped soaps inside.
Glad things worked out for the best.
Please except this peace offering.
Best of fortune and rewards of honor in the coming year—
—S
Valentine unwrapped one of the soaps and took a cautious sniff. Sandalwood. They even had elegant little labels written in French.
Sime had remembered that Valentine had asked for a bar during their interview while he was incarcerated in the Nut awaiting trial.
At Valentine's shower that evening he spent an extra fifteen minutes wallowing in the silky feel of Sime's gift. It lathered up at the barest kiss of water and left his skin as smooth as an infant.
He found Brother Mark silent, gloomy company during their meetings together. He was the one member of the group Valentine couldn't get a feel for one way or another. Of course, high-ranking members of the New Order were habitually standoffish, quiet, and reserved.
He sometimes wondered if Lambert just placed Brother Mark with the planning group to act as a lightning rod for discontent. In mistrusting the churchman, all the other officers grew closer together.
He grew fond of the unassuming Jolly. Valentine was looking forward to serving under him.
"Beats being called Jelly, my old playground nickname," Jolla said. "I was chunky as a kid. Don't know how I managed it—whole family was just about starving, thanks to the cold summers. At sixteen I became a letter boy and started biking around with mail, and it finally came off."
