Fall with Honor (Vampire Earth #7)

Fall with Honor (Vampire Earth #7) Page 2

Stipple Field, Arkansas, October: The skeleton of Southern Command's short-lived Air Force School craws with fresh activity.

There was a time when Southern Command had a substantial fleet of aircraft and helicopters. Accidents and lack of spares has reduced the fleet to a few choppers and long-wearing crop dusters or air shuttles, Frankenstein flyers operating on the parts of dozens of dead ships.

Twenty years ago the airfield, tower, hangers, and office space of Stipple Field had trained younger pilots and mechanics to handle and fix Southern Command's air wing, but with so few craft left, the school only operates for two months in the winter as experienced pilots and mechanics test and give initial training to the few recruits they need.

In the summer, Stipple hosts the cadet games, where promising youngsters compete in marksmanship, riding, and athletic and academic face-offs.

The rest of the year, a few custodial workers keep the place painted, cut back, and lit.

Because the location is remote and easily guarded, low-level conferences between political and military leaders in eastern Arkansas use the facility, mostly to give each side a chance to have grievances heard and smooth over the resulting ruffled feathers over alcohol in the "Flyer's Club."

Kurian spies don't pay much attention to Stipple. Nothing important ever was decided or planned there.

Which is why Colonel "Dots" Lambert chose it as the site for the High-beam conference.

David Valentine hated Stipple Field's folding metal chairs. And the hangar lights turned the attendees' faces shades of blue, purple, or green, but that didn't bother him like the chairs.

There was something exactly wrong about their design for his butt and lower back. Sitting in it for more than an hour made his bad leg ache and his kidneys hurt.

Most days of the Highbeam conference he was in it for six, wearing his rather ill-fitting militia uniform and a fine new pair of fatigue boots, Dallas-made no less, a present from Colonel Pizzaro to replace the ones lost to the Mississippi current-or a Grog scavenger looking for something he could fashion into knee pads.

The hateful chairs were arranged in a square in a big, cold hangar around a map drawn onto the floor in four colors of tape. White for topography, green for Southern Command's routes toward New Orleans, red for known Kurian strongholds and Quisling bases, and yellow for notations.

It was all bullshit. But well thought-out bullshit, in Valentine's opinion. Lambert had probably kept a team of officers working in odd hours planning an operation that wouldn't take place. Maybe it was part of the General Staff training Valentine had once been set to enter.

Lambert did her briefings on whiteboards, which she and her staff worked on for hours each morning and then meticulously washed each night.

The sentries for the conference, all of whom were going on the trip, had every reason to be alert. But Kurian promises of eternal life had found willing ears before. Some maintenance person might figure out a way to get a picture of the map with a micro-digital camera.

The first day of the conference had been spent mostly in social activities, as officers got to know each other and inevitable late arrivals trickled in-Southern Command's rather rickety infrastructure did well if you arrived within twenty-four hours of the time on your travel orders.

Valentine played cards the first night with a craggy Wolf captain named Moytana. Moytana sported streaks of gray in his long, ropy hair and had once served as a junior lieutenant in LeHavre's old Zulu company, Valentine learned. The Gods of Poker chose not to favor Valentine that night, but Moytana consoled the losers by buying drinks.

He also received, and smoked, a cheroot with an agreeable young staff lieutenant named Pacare. He had a golden, round face, and Valentine thought he'd make a good sun king. Pacare was a communications specialist and told Valentine about the latest mesh that was supposed to keep the juice bugs out of the wiring. Pacare did enough talking for both of them.

Valentine turned in early.

After breakfast, everyone was directed into the hangar. Forty folding chairs, ten to a side, were arranged in a square around the chalked map. Each chair had a name taped to the backrest. Each person stood in front of his or her chair; a few of the regulars stiffly "at ease." A civilian who'd sat stood up again when he realized no one else was sitting.

Everyone waited to take their cue from the general, who stood chatting with some lieutenant colonels.

General Lehman, in charge of Southern Command's eastern approaches, opened the first day of the conference. The general had a famously heavy mustache that covered most of his lips. He was affectionately known back at Rally as "The Big Dipper," as the ends of his mustache visited soups and beverages before his taste buds. The moniker might have also referred to his habit of dipping his little silver flea comb in his water glass at the end of the meal.

Valentine's name had been put in the line with support and technical staff, judging from the insignia around him. Opposite him sat Montoya and a couple of his poker-playing Wolves.

A lieutenant with a scarred cheek and absent earlobes and who Valentine guessed to be a Bear waited at the far end of the row. Only a Bear would come to a conference wearing a crisp new uniform shirt with sleeves freshly snipped off. A pop-eyed civilian in a natty sportcoat that looked about two sizes too small fidgeted uncomfortably next to the Bear. The fresh sunburn and two-wheeler full of reference binders gave Valentine a guess that a quick look at his ID card confirmed-he was an expert from Miskatonic.

The row of chairs to Valentine's right held General Lehman and the big bugs; to his left, Guard regulars.

The assembly was mostly officers, with a smattering of senior sergeants and neatly dressed civilians seated with the big bugs.

The chair with name "Lambert" taped to it stood empty, as did the one next to it with no name on it. Lambert was present; Valentine had seen her in the hangar office with some other uniforms. She was the closest thing he had to a commander in his ill-defined, ill-starred relationship with Southern Command.

Valentine also recognized one civilian to the other side of Lehman, a well-dressed fixer named Sime. At this distance Valentine couldn't tell if he still used that rich sandalwood soap or not. Valentine had last smelled it when Sime came to visit him in prison, when he was offered up as a sacrificial lamb to doubtful Kansas officials who were considering switching sides and feared reprisals. The Kansas uprising hadn't gone as well as most hoped: The Kurians brought an army all the way from Michigan across the Mississippi and Missouri rivers and smashed most the rebellious territories before Southern Command could get there.

Sime ignored him. Valentine, skin crawling as though trying to make a discreet exit, doubted it was out of embarrassment.

Lambert and her group arrived. A man on the hard side of middle age with a loose-skinned face that reminded Valentine of a woeful hound stood next to her at the unmarked chair. He wore a plainly cut black coat, trousers, and leather shoes that made him look like either a Mennonite or a backwoods undertaker. Valentine wondered if he was a Lifeweaver, relatives to the Kurians and mankind's most powerful allies in the war against the Kurians.

"Be seated," Lehman said. Lehman tightened his words before shooting them out of his mouth in little explosions of air, making his mustache ripple like a prodded caterpillar.

Valentine's relationship to the uncomfortable metal chair began well enough. He was glad to sit. Metallic creeks echoed in the empty hangar.

Lehman remained on his feet: "We're present at a historic moment. You've been brought together for an important campaign. What we have come here to plan is no ordinary op. A new Freehold is about to be born. You will all be midwives." The general unbent a little.

"Let's just hope it's a live birth.

"Some of you have heard rumors of Highbeam being a move against New Orleans. That's still what it is as far as the various people in your commands who are going to help you organize the men and material are to think. I expect you all to go to sleep every night with a Creole phrasebook next to your bed and maps of swamps and bayous piled on your desk.

"Our true objective is an area in the Appalachians. Some of you may have heard what's happening in West Virginia and eastern Kentucky. A coal miners' revolt has grown into a thriving resistance. Usually uprisings like this are stamped out in a few months, but the fellows running the show there vanish every time the Kurians think they have them trapped.

They've got popular support and friends on both sides of the mountains.

"We're going to cross the Mississippi and Kentucky in reinforced brigade strength and offer assistance."

He let that sink in.

Valentine's felt a momentary loss of balance. He'd been working out a route of march but had only a couple companies of Wolves and perhaps a contingent of training and technical units in mind when he presented his ideas to Lambert.

Lehman gestured to the big bugs behind him. "And that's it for me. I'm just here to sign and seal the op orders. You all are going to do the planning over the next two weeks. With forty of us I think we can get a little softball going on Wednesdays and Saturdays. I'll handle the rosters and decide who'll be playing and who'll be grilling and baking when. Unless you vote on basketball, that is. My headquarters, barring contingencies, will be located at the old motel just across the road. I've given most of my staff furlough or dispersed them for training. I'll try to get the pool filled so you can use it, if you like. Drop by if you want to sample the liquor and tobacco a general gets."

Valentine's heart warmed at that. It wasn't often you met a general who knew when to get out of the way.

Lambert took over the rest of the welcome briefing. She introduced the big bugs and allowed the other three sides of the squares to present themselves. Valentine was most interested in the first man introduced: Colonel Seng, who would be overall command of the expeditionary brigade. Seng had a flat face; indeed, he looked as though he'd spent some time using it as a battering ram, as it was heavily pocked and built around a big, pursed mouth suggesting he'd been tasting vinegar. After each introduction, Seng's chin dropped and he shifted his eyes to a blank space between his knees.

Seng had a lot to think about. A full regiment of two battalions of Guard regulars would be his responsibility, each with organic light artillery, plus a support battalion with more artillery and anti-armor-or anti-Reaper-weapons. Of course the men and gear couldn't travel without commissary, transport, and medical companies. Another smaller ad-hoc regiment included a full company of Wolves, three Bear teams under the sleeveless lieutenant, and logistics commandos- the scroungers. Seng's headquarters would have engineers, signals, and intelligence staff, and even a meteorologist and an agronomist.

Valentine hoped he had a good chief of staff.

When it came time for Valentine to introduce himself, Lambert nodded at him, giving him the go-ahead to use his real name. Valentine just stood and said: "David Valentine. Last held the rank of major, Hunters and Special Operations."

"I was wondering what a militia corporal was doing here," a civilian sitting next to Sime murmured, showing off the fact that she could read shoulder tabs and stripes. Sime didn't seem to hear her; he was busy refolding his handkerchief.

Some of the regular officers took another look at Valentine. For once, Seng didn't look down. Valentine nodded to Seng as he sat. The chair squeaked and the colonel returned his gaze to that spot between his knees.

"He's attached to my Special Operations Directory," Lambert said.

"Knew he was a SOD," someone in the regulars muttered.

Lambert moved on, beckoning to the woman next to Valentine, a captain with training and indoctrination who smelled faintly of boiled vegetables and butter.

Only one face hadn't been introduced, the person Valentine suspected was a Lifeweaver. If so, he-she-it? was an extraordinary specimen. In Valentine's limited experience they never mixed with so many humans at one time. He suspected they found all the thoughts and moods stressful, or perhaps frightening. The human imagination sometimes wandered into rather dark and nasty corners when not otherwise engaged.

"You've probably all noticed that I skipped someone," Lambert said, stepping forward again to give voice to Valentine's thoughts. "Brother Mark is an expert on the Kurian Zone.

He's former New Universal Church with the rank of elector, I believe. He's serving as liaison between Southern Command and the rebels."

Valentine received his second shock of the meeting. An elector was a senior priest with voting privileges that allowed them to set Church policy-for all intents and purposes a bishop, though they were technically below bishops and the all-powerful archons. Most Quislings were expected to obey orders from the Kurians. Churchmen were trained from childhood to love doing so.

"He's also been prominent in the Kurian Order longer than I've been alive."

The sorrowful spaniel in black rose.

"I'm not sure the guerrillas rate a term like 'army' from such professionals," Brother Mark said. "May I call them partisans without offending anyone? Good. The partisan army in the Virginias-Kentucky borderland triangle isn't like the military as you understand it. It is a small cadre of leaders who go from place to place, where they temporarily swell their numbers in order to destroy a specific objective, be it a mine or a tunnel or a garrison house.

With the job done the guerrillas return to their homes and remove and telltales of their participation. Still with me?"

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 mistrust-ing 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."

Meanwhile, Valentine's denim-covered file folder grew ever thicker as they worked out variants on the basic plan involving weather and enemy countermoves. Highbeam was taking shape, and Valentine approved. He learned there was even a network of Cats in place to wreck rail lines in Tennessee and a bridge or two across the Ohio to delay any countermoves with large formations of troops. There was only one functioning rail line through central Kentucky anyway, and it would be easy enough to disable it.

Then it was time for them to disperse. They'd meet again outside Rally Base in a gradual buildup. The regulars wouldn't arrive until the last moment. They'd marshal farther to the south to preserve the illusion of the move on New Orleans.

Lambert walked around the square one last time and handed each of them a folded sheet of paper the size of a small piece of stationery. Lambert's neat handwriting was a little blotchy.

Obviously the ink she used to write the forty notes wasn't the best quality. The note read: The code name for this operation is now Javelin. Any changes to the blue-book plan will be marked javelin.

Everyday correspondence and orders will still be marked Highbeam, as will certain messages from me designed to bring confusion to the enemy. Please ignore any Highbeam order from my office dated with an even number. This message is printed on sweet rise paper. It's tasty-enjoy.

Valentine smiled. Confusion to the enemy.

A week later he stood before a house well outside Russellville, Arkansas, wearing civilian clothes and carrying his Maximillian Argent identification.

The imposing brick house had a rebuilt look to it, with a newer roof and windows added to something that had probably stood vacant and deteriorating since 2022. There was paper over the upstairs windows and Valentine saw a pile of sawdust in the garage. A big garden stood out back, and melon patches flanked the house. Household herbs grew under the sills.

Valentine scanned around with his ears and heard soft clicking out back.

He walked through the nearer of the two melon patches and found Nilay Patel next to a small mountain of stacked river-smooth rocks, digging what looked like a shallow trench connecting two foxholes but judging from the roll of waterproofing might be a sizable artificial pond. Patel had put on a little weight since he'd last seen him.

"Sergeant Patel!" Valentine called.

"No need to shout. I heard you come off the road," Patel said, fiddling with some tools in a bucket.

Valentine took a closer look. There was a revolver handle in there.

Patel's bushy eyebrows shot up. "Lieutenant Valentine!"

Valentine felt pleased to be recognized. He wondered if he'd recognize himself. "How are you, Sergeant?"

"Come across the hedge, just that away. Nadi," he called to the rear screen door. "Drinks!

An old comrade is here to visit."

He picked up a curve-handled cane and limped to some garden furniture with hand-sewn cushions.

Nadja Patel, whom Valentine had once met as Nadja Mallow, emerged with a tray. Though she kept her glorious head of hair, she'd aged considerably, but then Solon's takeover of the Ozarks had taken her first husband.

She turned her back on Valentine as she set down the tray. Valentine smelled spicy mustard. "I thought I might as well bring you your lunch," she said to her husband. "Would you like something . . . ummm-"

"David," Valentine supplied. "Yes, it's a good walk from Russelville."

"I like it that way," Patel said. He used his cane to help himself sit. "Ahhh. The knees. I stayed too long a Wolf," Patel said.

"You're not listed as a disable."

"If there's a crisis, I don't want to be stuck behind a wheel or a desk," Patel said, rubbing his kneecaps. "I have good days and bad ones. I've been working since morning, so this will be a bad day."

Valentine heard a clatter from the kitchen and the woman's voice, quietly swearing.

"Can I help in there?" Valentine called.

"No," Nadja called back.

"I know this is not a social call," Patel said. "She has guessed too."

"Nilay, you were the best sergeant I ever knew in the Wolves, which makes you the best I ever knew, period. I saw you listed as inactive. I would have called, but-"

We don't have a phone," Patel said, smiling. His teeth had yellowed. "I keep a radio. For emergencies."

Nadja Patel emerged and dropped a sandwich in front of Valentine. "You're welcome," she said, before Valentine could thank her. A quartered watermelon followed.

"Now, Nadi," Patel said.

"I know what he's here for. A sandwich he's welcome to. Another husband he's not."

Valentine thought it best to keep silent.

Nadja returned to the house.

Valentine didn't touch the sandwich. "I'll leave. You two enjoy your lunch. It's a beautiful garden, by the way."

"Sit down, sir! Let me hear what you have to say. You came all this way."

"It's an op. Outside the Free Terr- Republics. I can't say any more. But your legs-"

"Are still fit to carry me. David, I've been retired just long enough to feel the grave close in. With nothing to do I've started smoking again. I should like very much to help." Patel tossed the cane he'd been using into the diggings.

"Here I thought I'd have to convince you," Valentine said, getting up and retrieving the cane. "I've got warrant papers for a star to go in the middle of the stripes. You'll be my top."

"I do not need convincing. She does. That would help."

"Don't you want to talk it over with her first?"

"For three years I have done my best to give her whatever she wants. This, I want. She is upset because she knows me. I said no once before to Captain LeHavre and came to regret it."

"He's still alive, as far as I know. He made it to the Cascades. He's fighting out there now."

"I always suspected there was more to you."

"Tell her it would raise your pension. You'd get a sergeant major's land grant too. You could sell it or add to this spread."

"Thank you, sir. Not for the land; for the chance to get back to important work."

Valentine raised his voice, hoping the woman inside was listening. "It's just for a few months' work, all in the Free Territory. Training. When we step out, you'll come back here with your rank permanently raised. I'll promote someone else into your place."

"We shall see. You say you need men trained? Not Wolves?"

"Unfortunately, no. Regulars, more or less. I'm due at Camp Liberty in six days. Is that enough time to get your affairs in order?"

"Camp Liberty? Yes, if I have the written orders."

Valentine opened his rucksack and extracted his order book. "I pre-filled out most of it.

Except your . . ." He lowered his voice. "Next of kin. That kind of thing."

"I know where to submit the copies," Patel said.

"Thank you, Nilay. It'll only be a few months. I can promise her that, if you like."

"Don't. It would be better coming from me. She knows promises don't mean much where the Cause is concerned."

"I could find housing for her, you know. You wouldn't have to be separated so much."

"I think she would prefer to keep fixing this place. She's a better carpenter and painter than me anyway. When it comes to homely matters I'm fit only for ditch digging. Besides, she has a sister in Russelville. She will be better here."

Valentine ate his sandwich, wondering if she'd spit in the mustard. They talked about old friends until it was time to leave.

Patel's eyes shone with excitement as they shook hands. Odd that Valentine was now the reluctant one. Maybe it was the faint sobbing from inside the house.