March in Country (36 page)

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Authors: EE Knight

BOOK: March in Country
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“Welcome to my home, Scar, isn’t it?” he said. Valentine nodded in reply. “Sorry to keep you up so late. I’m a night owl. Useless in the morning. Coffee?”
“Whiskey spirits?” Valentine asked.
“Not when I’m working,” the Baron said. “Sit.”
The woman he’d seen draped behind his chair shuffled papers.
“Chuckles here has three degrees,” the Baron said. “You know what a degree is?”
“Hot,” Valentine said, wondering if he looked wary enough.
“No, it’s a piece of paper that says you know better than someone who’s been in the field their whole life. But she makes everything I do look right on paper. Keeps the generals in Iowa happy. I don’t imagine you know any Iowa generals, but they expect the paperwork correct. Murder all you like, just file it in triplicate.”
The dark woman came out with a wooden tray. A little chrome-and-glass pot and some cups sat on it.
“Three degrees to serve coffee,” the Baron said.
“And five technical certifications, plus security clearance,” she said.
Valentine sipped the coffee. It was rich stuff, but he felt a slight lift that wouldn’t be explained by caffeine as it warmed him. Probably a few drops of some KZ happy/alert mix favored by higher-level Quislings.
“Why did you speak up for Beach Boy?” the Baron asked.
“Knew him, room, gang same-same,” Valentine said.
“That made you like him better? He’s been a problem since he hit the recruitment office in Davenport. He’s been here nine months. Never bothered to learn the first thing about military discipline. We tossed him into labor after his three months probation was up, figured he could serve out his term there, then let him muster out. But sleeping on the job—that’s a death sentence, whether it’s a sentry on duty, a rail switchman, or a guy with a shovel.”
Valentine shrugged. The dark woman was staring at him. It made him uncomfortable.
“You’re clearly tough, well-muscled, healthy. I’m impressed with your reflexes. I think you’re a lot smarter than you’re letting on. I’d like you in one of my service uniforms.”
“Soldier—no good,” Valentine said. “Fighting—dead quick.”
“Let’s drop this pidgin shit, shall we?” the Baron said. The dark-haired woman handed him a red paper folder. He unhooked a binding band.
“David Stuart Valentine. Born date unsure, probably in 2047, Boundary Waters region, Northern Minnesota. Father Lee Valentine, formerly of Southern Command, formerly of the United States Navy. Mother—well, that’s a bit of a question mark, isn’t it? Mother is suspected to be Helen St. Croix, much of her information isn’t available to a mind of my level and capabilities, as the Kurian Order styles it. Recruited into Southern Command by guerilla fighters—”
He turned the open folder around. Valentine felt cold sweat running over him, started to nerve himself for a fight. There was nothing on the desk that might be used as a weapon. There was an old picture of him, eyes closed, looking beat up, both full face and profile. It must have been when he was captured in Nebraska by the Twisted Cross, after the bullet to the leg in the General’s rail yards.
“You might say I inherited it from your old friend the General. My Groggies used to guard his trains, sometimes. Valentine, let’s be civilized about this. We’re just talking.”
“When do the Reapers show themselves?” Valentine asked.
“Not giving away all my secrets, but yes, my bodyguard is nearby. There are other forces I’m a lot more worried about than you. I don’t think you understand the nature of my power. I determine my own destiny. I’m better than those ring-holding rabbits on their estates in Iowa with their board meetings and balls and cotillions. Those precious, precious,
my precious
rings. The Kurians can take those back.
“No one, no one, can take my power away from me. I can lose it, through inattention, bad luck, bloody Christ, some Grog witch doctor might even declare me an evil spirit if he thinks the graybacks’ll stand by him. Have you ever drawn a truly free breath?
“Out here, there’s no law but what I say is the law. I say I want seven new wives brought in and three old ones carried out, hippetyhoppety it’s done.
“Want to know the secret of my success?
“I employ oddballs. There are two kinds of oddballs in the world, those who are weird because they got nothing else going for them, and those who operate on a level where they just don’t fit in seamlessly with something like those Kurian ant farms. I’ll take both kinds and watch ’em for a bit, just to see if I’m mistaken about which group they belong to. But I can find a place for either.
“I’m not asking you to join my team, Valentine. I’d like you as an ally, with that crew that’s about to get kicked out of Kentucky. I know you’re more open than most Southern Command military ticks to working with Grogs. I could arrange for you to take back Saint Louis. Think of all the human captives you’d free. You’d be the biggest liberator since Lincoln. All I’d ask in return is your help taking out a few Kurian towers of my choosing. The Rings in Iowa are worried that they’re about to get muscled, since they’re the only east-west connection left north of the Gulf, unless you count that patchwork in Minnesota connected to the Pacific Northwest through Oregon.”
“Mind if I take a nap while you finish jerking off? That couch looks a lot more comfortable than those kennels.” Valentine had the odd feeling that he’d been called a bastard, if that word applied for the ridiculous circumstance of having one’s own mother unknown. Of course he was the son of Helen St. Croix, he had her cheekbones, hair, and dusky skin. He wished he had her kindness, or the gently teasing way she kissed fingers and toes as she put him and his baby sister to sleep.
“Play the hard-ass, Valentine. I have some exciting news. There are several parties very, very interested in getting you back for a variety of reasons. Don’t worry, they think you’ve been captured in Minnesota, trying to get back to your birthplace. I have a smaller contingent up there, too. Bids are pouring in. The Ordnance in Ohio, the Lich King in Seattle, assorted lordships and illustriousnesses from New Orleans plus the plain old Coastal Marines, and one fat old rug runner in Michigan who resents what happened to his glorious, God-favored Moondaggers.”
“An embarrassment of bitches,” Valentine said. “Don’t tell me there’s not some Twisted Cross colonel over in Nebraska or Kansas who doesn’t want his pound of flesh too.”
“My Golden Guard did too thorough a job on them, Valentine,” the Gray Baron purred. “Before they had the good sense to come under my protective wing. There are some Twisted Cross in the Alps in Europe and the mountains of Asia Minor, I understand, but they have no special grievance and are muchly occupied with another tiresome Polish rebellion. No, I’m limiting myself to Kurians, I think. They have the most to offer, and will probably be the most creative in making use of human vermin. I don’t believe in hell in the classical sense, of course, but the Kurians can keep you alive and screaming for what seems like an eternity. Several human lifetimes of torment might be in your future.”
“I imagine there’s an unless coming up.”
“I can think of several. Unless you’re clever enough to kill yourself before a down payment is arranged and delivery worked out. Unless you escape. You’ve done it before, so I’m considering welding you into your cell and putting napalm somewhere where it can be delivered into the cells in a hurry in case of a disturbance.”
“Or unless I join you.”
“That makes me into a video villain, and a not very imaginative one at that. I do wonder if it wouldn’t be better to release you, at that. To my knowledge you’ve been involved in some very unlucky operations. Very unlucky indeed. Southern Command is much the worse for wear thanks to the David Valentines of its officer corps. Full of plots and plans ahead of them and lines of silent, shallow soldiers’ graves behind.”
Valentine yawned and sat. “Mind if I stretch out? I’m not as much of a night owl, even with some of your drugged coffee.”
The Gray Baron shrugged. “I don’t expect you to weep and crawl, but some recognition of the relative balance of power between us would be in order. Since I’m running a silent auction for your hide, I might not take the highest bidder and instead send you to whoever has the most vicious way of dealing with your brand of nuisance. You know, Valentine, when I risk something, I try and make sure it’s a pawn or a bishop at most. That’s why I lead Grogs. There are always more Grogs. That bright young lieutenant, Rand—how many more like him are in Southern Command? Or somebody like William Post—there’s an active, intelligence man who’d be an asset to any headquarters. He’s reading intelligence reports from his wheelchair these days, I believe.”
Valentine put his feet on the elaborately knobbed armrest of the sofa. “You have my full attention. If you’re going to offer an alternative to winding up in Seattle’s rooftop aquarium, I’ll be happy to hear it.”
“Your name and abilities intrigue me, Valentine. You have some kind of understanding of Kurian Zone politics, I believe?”
“I don’t keep up with the latest alliances and betrayals,” Valentine said. “It’s all I can do to stay current on
Noonside Passions
, and that has much prettier actors.”
The Gray Baron smiled. “We can agree on that, Valentine. I’ve always had a bit of an obsession with that Barbara Diamate. Leggy and hippy, but it makes that Youth Vanguard Directing Executive uniform skirt look so much better during her walk and talks. Slit higher than regulation, of course, but that’s television for you. I’ve asked for a publicity tour in Iowa, of course, but they’re much too busy.”
“We could have a Christmas Truce to watch it together, Baron.”
“Back to business. I mean to say—I and the Iowans have certain enemies . . . Kurian enemies ... who it would be expedient to be rid of, or at least see greatly weakened in power and influence. Now, I could provide you with information, possibly even a contact or two on the inside, and you and your barefoot little Kentucky band could, what’s the phrase—
choke a bitch
for me.”
“My troops aren’t barefoot,” Valentine said.
“Then perhaps someone’s been feeding me bad intelligence. Since my sources are in Southern Command proper, I’d suggest keeping your own superiors more up-to-date.”
Valentine needed to buy time. He said he would have to consider their conversation carefully, at leisure.
“Tell me one thing. What clued you in?”
“Something funny happened. After you spoke up for Beach Boy, Sergeant Stock here asked for Scar to be assigned to him for a day. Except he didn’t call you Scar. Called you Valentine. I mentioned it to Chuckles here and she recognized the name and dug up your file.”
They took him to a no-fooling jail car in a wired corner of the rail yard. It was well lit and noisy from the sound of work on the trains.
He reviewed the conversation. Whoever was feeding the Gray Baron intelligence wasn’t doing a very good job of it. Or perhaps they were passing on misinformation.
Should have kept my fool mouth shut
, Valentine thought. Well, he’d been playacting the laconic, insolent veteran and let it get away from him.
They let him stew behind bars for two days. Then, on the final night of the Warmoon Festival, they put him in irons again, under gunpoint from a pistol close, a shotgun at the door, and a rifle outside the bars.

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