Valentine's Rising (42 page)

Ceremonies weren't for the dead; they were for the living. There was a lay preacher to say the right words over the bodies. When they were rested in their graves, Valentine walked down the line of bodies in their shrouds, searching for words to add meaning to what had been random slaughter.

“We're in a siege, men. This hill is like a medieval castle, and the enemy is at our gates. That enemy, the TMCC, is in the first phase of taking a position by siege. It's called the ‘Investment.' He's already put an effort into destroying us. Last night we killed eighteen Reapers, thanks to the Quickwood. Eighteen Reapers.” Nothing else could explain the malevolent choice of targets: the magazine, the infirmary, the maternity ward. “That means there's more than one Kurian Lord in the area, perhaps four or five . . . even six. Not many Kurians can work more than two or three Reapers at once. Thanks to the rising that we began across the river, I suspect some governors have already been kicked out of their holes.”

He picked up a handful of dirt, and tossed it on the row of corpses.

“Last night they tried to get our lives cheap. We kept the price up, thanks to the Quickwood, your courage and especially the sacrifice of those killed last night. Solon's investment isn't paying any returns yet.

“The fifty-three soldiers we're putting in the ground pinned down thousands of troops with their lives. Those mortars, and the guns that will probably soon support them, could be used outside Hot Springs, or against the Boston Mountains. The forces around the hill, from the snipers to the machine-gun crews, are looking up the hill at us instead of at Southern Command's Archangel operation. They're here because our guns are covering the rail and water nexus for Solon's territory. There's no fast and easy way around us; it means moving on broken-down roads, crossing bridge-less rivers. Nothing moves by water or rail, east-west or north-south, without our stopping it. They're not able to shift troops fast enough, and Southern Command's eating up what they can move piecemeal.”

They liked the sound of that. Bared heads of all skin tones and hair colors, sharing a common layer of sweat and dirt, lifted, nodded, turned to each other reassuringly.

“Every town Southern Command takes is liberated partly by us . . . though at the moment we're doing nothing here but having the occasional mortar shell dropped in our laps.

“Unless we're lucky, the fifty-three here are going to have more company as the days and weeks go by. It could be that we'll all end up on this hill with them. If that's our fate, I hope we cost the TMCC as much as they did. If any of you want to say anything, now's the time.”

“I've something to say,” Yolanda, the woman who had mutilated the captured guards back at the prison camp, began. “It is not right for such men to go into the ground without a flag to be under. They are soldiers. Soldiers are their flag.”

Free Territory flags weren't stocked in the warehouses we raided,
the overtired part of him said.

“So I made them one. The men who came in to get us, I thought of them as I made this. Styachowski helped me with the wording, and Amy-Jo on the mortar team drew the animal.”

She held it up. It was not a big flag. The base of it was red, rimmed with blue and gold roping . . . probably from a curtain somewhere in Solon's imperial Residence. In the center was a silhouette of a tusked Arkansas razorback in black, pawing the ground angrily and lowering its head to charge. Blue letters stood out against the red as if luminescent. DON'T FEED ON ME read the block-letter slogan.

The men laughed, not at the amateurish nature of the flag but at the pithy sentiment it expressed. They liked it. Valentine felt a little electricity run through the men as she turned it so everyone could see. It was a fighting flag: black and blue set against red, the colors of a brawl. A team could rally round the image of an animal—that was part of the Lifeweaver Hunter Caste appeal—and a savage boar was as good as any. Wily, tough, stubborn, a brute that would gore any animal that dared hunt it—and ugly as its mood when challenged—it suited the dirty funeral attendees.

Valentine went to Yolanda's side, and Styachowski came forward to admire the flag in the sun. Three parallel wounds, probably Reaper claw marks, stood out on her forehead.

“Let's have it up,” Valentine said. “Ahn-Kha, where's the pike Hurlmer got that one with?” Ahn-Kha walked along the graves until he found the aluminum conduit pipe.

It took a few minutes to rig wire through the grommets and fix it to the pole. Valentine recognized Yolanda from the prison yard, but he only knew Amy-Jo as one of the heroes from the hospital fight. She'd snatched up the infant Perry and barricaded the babe and his mother in a bathroom, holding the door shut as the Reaper pried it off its hinges before it was swamped by pursuing men.

“Where do you want it, sir?” Yolanda asked.

“Here at the graves,” Valentine said. “You said they deserved a flag above them. Can you think of a better place?”

“Make some more,” Ahn-Kha said. “Or at least another, for the headquarters. This battalion needs an emblem.”

“Hell, with the prisoners, we're a regiment,” Styachowski said.

“Valentine's Razors,” Post suggested.

The phrase passed up and down the ranks and more cheers broke out.

Valentine looked at his feet, embarrassed for the tears in his eyes.

Styachowski dug the pole into the ground and Amy-Jo and Yolanda found rocks to pile about its base. It wasn't a big flag, nor was it high off the ground, but every eye was on it as it flapped in the fresh spring breeze.

 

“What kind of shape is the battery in, Hanson?” Valentine asked, after the memorial service dispersed.

“Is ‘piss-poor' an appropriate military description?” the new lieutenant asked.

“Can you quantify it a little more?”

Hanson scratched the growth on his chin. “Those Reapers that came up the cliff, half of them made straight for the guns. That suicide mission into the ready magazine—I lost men there. Ives, Lincoln and Lopez bought it in their gun pit. We found Streetiner in a tree. Smalls is missing, Josephs—”

“Smalls? Hank Smalls?”

“Yes. He was a designated as a messenger. When I heard the firing at the base of the hill, I sent him to tell the mortar pits to start preregistered fire missions. He never came back. There's still some woodland that we haven't searched yet. Maybe he ran and hid, and has been too scared to come out yet. Can't say as I blame him.”

Valentine tore his mind away from Hank. He feared for the boy, but had to keep the rest of his command in mind. “How many guns can you have in action?”

“I'm jimmying the lists so I can keep three firing, sir. It won't be quick fire, and I'd like another twenty men to start training.”

“We're thin as it is. But ask Lieutenant Post about it.”

“Thanks, sir.”

“Feel free to practice on the Kurian Tower. No shell fired at that is wasted, as far as I'm concerned.”

“In all honesty, sir, I'm not sure I'm up to being battery officer. Could you give me a new commander? Like Styachowski? She knows the theory, and she's good at putting theory into practice.”

It took guts for Hanson to tell Valentine that he didn't feel up to the job.

“I'll talk it over with her.”

“Thanks, sir. We'll get 'em firing again.”

“I'll talk to Beck about getting your ready magazine rebuilt.”

“Yeah, it's probably landing in Berlin right about now.”

 

Valentine finished his walk of the perimeter. The men were in better spirits than he would have expected; killing the Reapers and resisting the probe had made them confident.

What success they enjoyed should be shared with Beck's defenses. There were clearings along the easier paths up the hill for open fields of fire, and a series of foxholes and trenches, many lined with logs, for the men to do their shooting. They were still digging dugouts for the men to wait out shellfire, adding interconnecting trenches and access to the flatter hilltop so the men could bring food and water forward safely, and laying mines and wire along likely alleys of approach. Valentine saw one of Kessey's—now Hanson's—forward observers teaching the other soldiers the defensive fire mission zones. With the use of a simple code word, they could call in mortar fire on their attackers.

He returned to the headquarters building, and asked around for Styachowski. She was in her usual spot, beneath the speaker in the radio lounge, eating a bowlful of rice and milk. Her skin had that translucent look to it again; she'd been pushing herself too hard.

“What is that?” Valentine asked.

“Rice pudding. Narcisse made it.”

“Don't you ever sleep? You were up all last night.”

“Listening to the radio is like sleep. I can zone. What I really need is food.”

“I'd still rather see you flat on your back.”

“Major, under the Uniform Code, I believe you've just made a sexual suggestion.”

Valentine snorted. “That's not what I meant and you know it.”

“I was trying to make a joke. You look like you need one.”

“Hank Smalls is missing. Since last night. Hanson sent him with a message . . . He never came back.”

“A Reaper?”

“Could be. We never knew how many they sent in, just how many we killed. Poor kid.”

“And naturally you're blaming yourself.”

Valentine left that alone. “I did dig you up for a reason,” he said. “I need your help. How would you like a change of duty?”

She brightened visibly. “The Bears? I know Lieutenant Nail's hurt again—”

“Sorry. Hanson isn't confident in his ability to run the battery. I want to put you in charge of it.”

Styachowski pursed her lips. “I only know mortars.”

“But you know the theory, right?”

“Of course.”

“You've done everything I've asked you. You can do this, too. Those guns have to be kept good and lethal. They're the reason the Quislings are all corked up.”

“Major Valentine, I've got a question for you, if you don't mind.”

“Shoot.”

“Last night, you sent me down into the communications bunker. That's the safest place on this hill. Even a Reaper would have trouble clawing through that door Solon had put in. Why did you want me there of all places?”

“I notice you didn't stay. You're my second in command. I couldn't risk us both being killed.”

“I'll take over the battery if you take my place in the headquarters. I heard what you did last night, running around in the dark with Reapers everywhere. I've been scared all day thinking about it.”

“Are you afraid of having to take command?”

“Not that. I—”

“Courier, Major Valentine,” a staff soldier called. “A courier's come in. She's asking for you, and she said for you to hurry.”

“She?”

“Yes, popped up on the west side. Pretty gal, red hair, says she's your mama but she's too young for that. I think she climbed the cliff, just like the Reapers.”

“Where is she?”

“Eating in the main galley.”

“Thanks.” Valentine turned to Styachowski. “Sounds like we're getting intelligence. Want to come?”

“For news? Naturally.”

They found Alessa Duvalier shoveling rehydrated scrambled eggs into her mouth. She had changed into an outfit Valentine knew as her “traveling clothes.” She wore a long, deep-pocketed riding coat, wide-brimmed hat, hiking boots and a backpack blanket-roll combination.

“Hello, Ali. Tired of the showgirl routine?” He and Styachowski sat down opposite her. The cook brought a plate of fried potatoes and Duvalier loaded them with salt before digging in.

“They've got you boxed in tight here, Val. I had to wade across a swamp to even get to that damn cliff. This sort of reminds me of the day we met.”

She still had her fast, deft hands, now working knife and fork instead of tying dressings. Both of them had added a few pounds since then. They shared a smile at the memory.

“Then it must be important.”

“First, Hamm's back in town with his whole division. Another is moving for Pine Bluff. They won't be there for a couple days maybe; bad roads, guerillas, mines and no rail. Hamm's going to be going across the river in small boats to get south.”

“You're not going along?” Valentine asked.

“He's always been unpleasant. Last night he was a bastard. Mean as a stuck pig. The Trans-Mississipi is crashing down around his ears, he's angry at everyone. Executed a junior officer himself.”

“Anything from us?”

“Yes. Two days ago a Cat came in from Mantilla. He got your answer, and it's in this letter.” She reached into her coat. “What good can come of it beats me. We had to run risks to get this to you. Hope it was worth it.”

Valentine opened the envelope and looked at the page. A few bare paragraphs, handwritten, told him what he suspected.

“Where are you off to, Duvalier?”

“South. Every Cat's on the hunt for Solon. He was supposed to be assassinated at the outset of all this, but the Cat shadowing him missed. He disappeared and the Cat's dead.”

“Damn. Hamm's division is moving on too?”

“He was supposed to dust you off this hill cheap. They were supposed to take you out while the Reapers were up here causing trouble, but there was some screw-up at headquarters. Only half his division got here in time. The Ks lost a lot of Reapers. I think they're gonna blame him.”