Valentine's Rising
Chapter Four

The Eastern Ouachitas, Arkansas, February: In the decade before the Overthrow, the interstate between Little Rock and Hot Springs enjoyed a high-tech growth spurt. With key computer networks in prominent cities worldwide challenged by everything from terrorism to extended power outages, backup locations became the focus of a substantial slice of investment. In Americas heartland, in the basements of nondescript office parks, fiberoptic lines connected servers waiting to cut into action should the need arise without the slightest interruption in dataflow; "transparent redundancy, " in the phrase of the times.
Southwest of the blasted ruins of Little Rock, off of one of the feeder highways to the old interstate, a chocolate-colored three-story with bands of black windows once housed claim and policy-holder records for one of the world's top ten insurance companies. In 2022 the building nestled in the Ouachita foothills looked a little like a giant slice of devil's food cake amidst its landscaping and parking lots. Now the lots are meadows, and saplings grow on its roof as birds fly in and out of paneless top-story windows; just another unraveled piece of the commercial fabric of a rich nation. The lowest floor shows some sign of recent renovation. Plywood has been nailed up over broken windows and horses graze behind the building in a paddock made from downed power-line towers. A few camouflage-painted pickups sit parked outside a barbed-wire festooned gas station between the highway and the office building. The battered office building looks peaceful behind a sign reading STATION 26.
Except for the three bodies rotting in the noonday sun.
All male, all naked and all covered in a black mixture of rotting flesh and pitch, visited only by crows, they swing from a pylon that once held four lights above the parking lot next to the gas station. An uprooted stop sign stands in the parking-lot meadow between the bodies and the entrance road, redone in whitewash and black lettering-the two colors have run together in the hasty paint job -reading SABOTER S REWARD.
* * * *
"Bullfrog's been at it again," Finner said. "Sumbitch never could spell." He and Valentine crouched in the thick bush bordering the improvised horse pasture, examining the bodies from a stand of wintering lilac bushes, the western wind blowing the stench the other way. The rest of the column sheltered in the deeper woods a kilometer away, eating the midday meal out of their packs. The screening Wolves had been exploring the more open ground around the old office park and came across what looked like an inhabited office building. When they found the bodies they had summoned Valentine.
"Bullfrog?" Valentine asked.
"Sergeant Bill Frum. Top sergeant in the Guards, or so the men in his old unit say."
"A guerilla?"
"In a manner. He and his men joined up with Solon's crew in Little Rock and they gave him a commission. Only he's playing double agent or whatever you want to call it. He's got twenty or thirty diehards, twice that in part-time guerillas in the farms east of here, and about two hundred men scattered around who are supposed to be hunting guerillas. What they mostly do is look the other way."
Valentine reread the block letters on the sign. "So what about the bodies?"
"Camouflage."
"What's that mean?"
"His guerillas aren't really going up against the KZ forces. More like sneaking around and hitting the folks who cooperate. That burned-out farm we passed yesterday; I bet that was his work."
The scouts had reported bodies in the ruins, Valentine remembered.
"He's a good source of intelligence about the roads between the Rock and Hot Springs, for all that. Sometimes he sends a messenger, trades information or supplies he's been issued. In the last swap he told us they'd open the rail line south from the Rock again."
"He went to some effort to preserve the bodies. I wonder why?" Valentine asked!
"Shows any inspection groups that he's killing guerillas. I know he shoots deserters trying to get back home to Texas or Oklahoma. Picks off an occasional wildcatter come in from Illinois or Tenesseee to set up shop, and then burns down an empty house or two in fake 'reprisals." Bullfrog likes a good bonfire. He burns anything used to trade with the enemy-from a cart to a farm, and buries locals who join up and are carrying arms."
"Buries?"
"Buries alive, in a coffin with an airhole of old pipe, so they have time to think about what they did. Then claims the guerillas did it. That's what Major Rojo used to say, anyway."
Valentine found himself feeling less contemptuous toward General Martinez and his moonshine-sotted camp. He'd rather have his men drunk and disorderly than burying people alive. Valentine squatted and crept away from the bodies through the new grass. Finner and his patrol rested among the newly mature trees that had sprung up in old landscaping.
"You said this is was pretty quiet area, Jess."
"Quiet's relative, Val," Finner said.
"Let's visit this setup," Valentine said.
"What, everyone?"
"No. Keep the column hidden in the hills. I want to visit this Bullfrog's lily pad and find out for sure which side he's hopped on."
Valentine crouched alongside a wrecked pickup covered in kudzu, and moved his hand as though he were throwing a dart three times. He could hear Styachowski's quick breaths behind. She'd vouched for the authenticity of Bullfrog's intelligence; as far as she knew his information had never led to the capture or destruction of Southern Command forces. Nail, looking back at him from twenty meters ahead, whipped his wiry arm in a wheeling motion forward and his Bears rose out of the ditch in front of the chocolate-colored office building-Valentine guessed it had once held a decorative pond-and entered, two remaining behind to cover. At another wave from Nail in the doorway, they ran in after him.
His old Wolf senses took over and he listened to the footsteps, the low calls, the crash of something heavy overturning.
"Blue Tick! Blue Tick! Blue Tick!" Nail called. The Bears had reached the door of the office building. Some boarded-over windows had station 26 stencilled on them.
"Running! They're running," Nail shouted.
Valentine rose and another thirty men rose with him. They trotted inside the swept-up but still water-damaged reception foyer; it stretched up through the building's three stories to paneless skylights, and dispersed to cover all sides of the building. Years' worth of plant life had established itself on the floors above so that roots and old extension cords and recent phone lines shared space on the wall. Valentine and Styachowski followed a pointing Bear named Ritter down a flight of stairs. Finner waited for them at the bottom. The landing was cluttered with suspiciously fresh blown leaves.
They stepped down an electric-lit corridor just in time to see Nail fling himself at a vaultlike door that was being closed.
"Open up, Sergeant Frum," Nail called. "Southern Command. Operations verification Squeak-Three."
"That's out of date," Styachowski said, coughing after the run.
Valentine examined the cinderblock walls. Heavy girders supported a concrete ceiling above. This Bullfrog had chosen his panic room, or hideout, or bomb shelter well.
"Southern Command hasn't set a new code for this year," Nail said. "It's the last effective password." Then, to the door: "C'mon, Sergeant, Squeak-Three. This is Lieutenant Harold Nail, Volmer's Bears."
Valentine pressed his ear to the cool metal and listened. If anyone stood on the other side of the door, he or she remained silent.
Finner pounded on the door. "Jess Finner here. For chris-sakes, Bullfrog, gimme a break and open up. These Bears is just gonna blow you out otherwise. I'm not shitting you, ol' buddy."
Valentine heard an authoritative click from the door and breathed a sigh of relief. They had no explosives to make good Finner's threat.
The door opened and a brilliant beam of light filled the corridor. It hit Valentine's eyes like a knife, giving him an instant headache. Valentine could just make out light-frosted outlines of heads and gun barrels.
"Whoa there!" he said, holding out his hands. "Friends, okay? I'm codename Ghost, Cat of Southern Command."
"No Southern Command no more," argued a deep voice, smooth as buttermilk being poured.
"You call me 'sir," Sergeant, and get that light off."
"Just making sure." The light went out and Valentine could see a dozen hard faces, guns ready, set against nondescript gray-green office decor.
"Just making sure, sir," Valentine corrected.
"I'm not blowing your head off, and I'm not calling you 'sir." I might change my mind about one. Like I said, no Southern Command to say 'sir' to. They sold us out, just like they did my granddaddy in '22." A man proportioned a little like Ahn-Kha stepped forward, filling the doorway, and held up his hand, palm out. "Howdy, Jess. Had to make sure there wasn't a gun to your head. I'm Bill Frum. What can I do for you boys?"
* * * *
It turned out Bullfrog was willing to do almost nothing.
Valentine sat among silent machines in the dusty basement room. A single candle made more shadows than light. He stared at the six dark boxes. Each about the size of an upended footlocker, the old computers-netservers, or so the tiny chrome letters next to the main power button said- stood like a squad of soldiers on parade. Bullfrog's men avoided this small, stuffy corner room, like Visigoths afraid to enter the heart of a Roman temple, fearing ancient, half-understood wrath. A little dusting and some power, and it would be hard to tell the past half century had even happened-
Except for some long-ago philosopher who'd written the joke is on us on the wall, using a permanent marker to form the two-foot block letters.
He had to think.
His command was divided; the rest of the column was resting in the woods just under a mile away, while the team that penetrated the old office building stayed and mixed with Bullfrog's men, with orders not to reveal anything about their numbers.
Bullfrog had taken the handful of guests on a tour of his domain, made cozy by gear plucked from the dead organs of Southern Command or issued by the Kurians. Crates of supplies covered with stenciled letters were stacked floor to ceiling along with guns, leather goods, bolts of cloth, camp gear, cooking pots, and medical and commissary supplies. The sergeant organized his command with a professional NCO's eye to detail and a mind for long-term operations. His men were clad in a variant of the old Louisiana Regular outfits Valentine had an intimate knowledge of from his days posing as a Kurian Coastal Marine in the Gulf.
Bullfrog wouldn't part with any of it, orders or no. He was overgenerous with what was lying around on the mess room tables and counters, offering the guests canned peanut paste smeared on heartroot, jerky, creamed corn, even root beer.
"No Southern Command no more," Bullfrog said each and every time the subject came up. "Just patriots and collaborators, mister, patriots and collaborators. We've gone underground. Literally. I got arsenals hidden all over the place for my Night Watch."
"You're guerillas."
"Yes," Bullfrog said, smiling so mat his face seemed mostly made up of teeth. "Helluva war I got going here. I'm running both sides of it."
"And what do the Kurians get out of it?"
"A bunch of 'somedays,"" Bullfrog said. "I'm supposed to be recruiting. They're broke-dick on troops, not getting as much cooperation out of Ozark folks as they expected, and the troops that took down Southern Command are heading home. They got soldiers running the lights and phones, driving trucks, running switches on the railroad. Most locals won't do anything unless you've got a soldier poking them along with a bayonet."
"What do you do with the ones who cooperate?"
"They get a warning. The Night Watch beats the hell out of 'em. After that-" He passed an index finger across his throat.
"We could really use some of those guns I saw in your armory."
"Can't. Strict inventory. Those are for the forces I'm supposed to be recruiting. They watch guns and gas like Jew accountants. There's never a pistol missing or a drop short. That's why they keep me as honcho hereabout. Figure if I'm honest about the small stuff, I'll be honest about the big stuff too."
* * * *
Valentine felt hot and restless. He wanted to swing his arms and kick with his legs. Seeing the hoarded supplies appear and then vanish like a desert mirage frustrated him. If he could draw on Sergeant Bill "Bullfrog" Frum's stores in a substantial way his column might be able to make it the rest of the way to the Boston Mountains. They were already short of food; seven hundred people on the march couldn't live on the local rabbits and wild onions. Frum's obstinacy might mean the destruction of his column.
He needed release. An hour chopping wood might clear his buffers. What did that expression mean, anyway?
"Hell, sir, you look like a Bear warming up for a fight," a voice from the other side of the Arkansas broke in.
"What's that?" Valentine temporized, bringing himself back to the room with the dead servers.
Nail stood in the doorway, scratching the afternoon's growth on his face. The Bear officer put a half-eaten lasagna MRE on one of the old computers and crossed his arms as though he were wrapped in a straightjacket, pulled his heels together and rocked on them. Valentine realized that Nail was aping his pose. "You look like a stomped-down spring."
"About to go 'boing," huh?" Valentine forced his body to relax. "I'll give you a warning before I snap."
"I've worked with Bears for six year, Captain. I'm used to it. It was more the staring-at-nothing look in your eye. You smell action in the wind?"
"No. I should get back to Post and Meadows."
"You know, sir, we've got enough men to empty this joint. Lots of stuff here we could use. 0l' Frum could say his headquarters got attacked unexpectedly."
"The sergeant's worked hard on his setup. I don't want to give the Kurians a reason to replace him."
"Still like to see Bullfrog taken down a notch. He's been the biggest buck of these woods too long; thinks he makes right and wrong. I don't like making war on civilians, ours or theirs."
Valentine felt a better warmth at those words. He saw a crack of light from Frum's locked-off door. "Neither do I. Follow me, would you?"
Valentine traced a line with his index finger under the the joke is on us graffiti as he left. He nodded at one of Bullfrog's guerillas, dripping wet with a towel around his waist as he came back from the improvised bath-Bullfrog had turned an old janitorial closet into a one-man shower-and followed his ears to the canteen, where Bullfrog was shooting the breeze with Finner about the last few months.
"Troop trains heading back south and west lately," Valentine heard as he approached. "Borrowed troops heading home with boxcars of booty and prisoners. As long as the Night Watch keeps out of Little Rock and away from the lines, these hills stay quiet. If I touch the railroads I get a flying regiment sent-"
"Bullfrog, I'm taking over," Valentine said, cutting off the storytelling.
Bullfrog had one leg up on the table, the worn waffle pattern in the boot turned toward him, like a religious icon shifted to ward off evil.
"Taking over what?"
Valentine's heart tripped when he saw Bullfrog's hand fall to his holster.
Valentine stuck his thumbs in his belt. "Your unit. They'll be taking orders from me, until I depart."
"Doubt it. They answer to me."
"Never said otherwise. I outrank you. I'll give the orders to you, then you'll amplify, organize and carry out. Way it always worked in Southern Command."
Bullfrog sighed. "That again. I told you before, I don't-"
"You will, or I'll knock you into next week."
The sergeant stood up. Valentine's leveled stare hit Bullfrog just below the collarbone. "You think you can whip me?"
"If you won't take my word for it."
"If you're dead set on an ass-kicking, I'll oblige, Valentine."
"You've been around the Kurians too long. You're not the local demigod. Time to put you back in the chain of command, since you can't handle the responsibility." Bullfrog turned an intriguing shade of purple, took a breath- "I'm going to use these stores. And another thing. I won't stand for any more reprisals against civilians," Valentine finished, delaying whatever was coming.
Bullfrog's rapid-fire laughter filled the mess room and echoed like a string of firecrackers going off: heh-ha-heh-ha-heh-ha. "I fight with my fists, not paper."
"That's your prerogative. I'm not filing a Jagger complaint."
* * * *
Bullfrog wasted no time. He led Valentine outside. Word passed around among the men via the mysterious network that exists in any organization, always faster and more effective than any communications flowchart. As they walked out the thick steel door and up the stairs, everyone from Nail's Bears to Bullfrog's own headquarters staff followed.
Valentine took off his tunic as he exited the plant-cluttered office building. The cool air felt good as it licked across his hot ears. The sky had become overcast again; the late-winter rains looked to be building again. Meadows, guided by a pair of Wolves, was crossing the parking lot.
"Valentine," Meadows hallooed. "Since we're resting I wanted to-"
"Sorry, sir, busy," Valentine said.
Meadows' forehead wrinkled as Bullfrog removed his own jacket. "That you, Fa-no, Frum. Sergeant Frum?"
"Colonel Meadows," Bullfrog said, not bothering to salute.
"What's all this?" Meadows turned in a circle as he looked at the mixed contingent of men, some throwing suspenders over their shoulders or still pulling on boots as they emerged from the office building.
Valentine ignored him, but the remoter, calmer quarters of his brain filed away Bullfrog's familiarity with Meadows. "Men!" he said, not having to try too hard to sound fighting-mad. "An exchange of blows between officers of Southern Command is considered a court-martial offense by the Uniform Code, especially if there is a difference in rank. I picked this quarrel with Sergeant Frum; he's to be held blameless." Valentine spat into each palm and formed his hands into tight fists. "Sergeant Frum, do you hold me blameless under the Uniform Code?"
Bullfrog planted his feet. "You can count on it, Valentine."
"Tell the men, and Colonel Meadows, so he's a witness. I don't want to hang with those others."
Bullfrog somehow managed to shout using the side of his mouth, keeping his vision locked on Valentine. "He's blameless too, under the Uniform Code."
Valentine lowered his fists. "Sergeant, the Southern Command's Uniform Code isn't a buffet. You can't pick and choose which rules apply. You either operate under it or you don't. You've just accepted its protection, and with its protection goes-"
"Bullshit!" Bullfrog shouted. "Tricks won't-"
He charged, arms up and reaching for Valentine's diroat.
But Bullfrog was just big, and Valentine was a Cat. He sidestepped the rush, reached out and grabbed a handful of Quisling-issue collar, whipped his legs up and got them around Bullfrog's waist. They both went down, Bullfrog using his weight and strength to hammer Valentine into the ground.
Valentine got his forearm under Bullfrog's chin, an old wrestling move he'd learned-the hard way-from his old top sergeant in Zulu Company.
Bullfrog croaked in what Patel called his "hangman."
The sergeant gave one terrific shrug and spun, bringing Valentine sideways into the ground, but Valentine clung, battered and smashed by Bullfrog's weight, with the same tenacity as Rikki-Tikki-Tavi with his teeth locked in Nag the Cobra's neck. For the honor of his family Rikki wanted to be found dead with his teeth locked in the enemy, and for the honor of Zulu Company's champion wrestler Valentine clung to his choke hold despite the red-yellow-red flashes of pain from his ribs. Then Bullfrog went limp.
Valentine suspected a trick until he felt, and smelled, warm urine on his leg.
"He's done," Valentine said, getting to shaky legs and brushing himself off.
Bullfrog groaned.
"Somebody get the sergeant a towel," Valentine said, breathing into the pain.
"Enough of that, Captain," Meadows barked. He hooked Valentine with his good hand and his thumb and finger, pulling the Cat up. "You men, help the sergeant inside. Captain, you'd better have Narcisse look at those ribs. The rest of you, pay off your bets and get inside. Sun's going down."
Valentine's eyes rose to the tarred bodies hanging from the lamppost. Meadows nodded in understanding.
"Lieutenant Nail, take a detail and get those bodies down. Anyone else feels like fistfighting can work off their aggressions digging six feet down."
* * * *
"You come back from a beating like no man I ever knew," Narcisse said the next morning, applying cool, water-soaked towels to Valentine's battered frame. Unfortunately, Bullfrog's substantial inventory didn't include an ice machine.
Valentine looked at his reflection in the washroom mirror. A great blue-and-purple mark on his chin was just beginning to show a hint of yellow through the skin. The right side of his rib cage looked like van Gogh's Starry Night.
"I've never broken a bone before," he said, feeling around at the soft spot.
Narcisse rapped him across the probing knuckles with her handless arm. "Leave it be, and it'll heal. Just a rib. Count yourself lucky; your lung stayed airy and you got lots of stuff holding that rib in place."
A heavy tread sounded in the basement corridor, and Ahn-Kha's bent-over frame appeared. There was now enough of a mixture of Valentine's column and the guerillas that Styachowski had judged it safe for Ahn-Kha to make an appearance. The Golden One bore a contraption that looked a little like a corset made of tube steel. He'd put it together using the frames of a stack of office chairs he found and leather scraps.
"I adjusted it, my David. Try it now."
Ahn-Kha could be as gentle as a cooing dove when he chose to be. The great arms, thick as well-fed pythons, wrapped themselves around Valentine and then worked the buckles on the brace. Valentine had always had good pos-ture; constant insistence from first his parents, and then the more recently departed Father Max had given him an instinctive, erect carriage, but with the brace on he felt like a heroically posed statue, elbows slightly out. But he could breathe this time, unlike the preliminary fitting.
"Thanks, old horse."
He tottered out into the hallway, walking a bit like a drunk trying to conceal the extent of his load. He couldn't favor his bad leg, the way he usually strode. He made for Meadows, who stood at the far end of the hall, checking off supplies as they were distributed to Valentine's column. A somewhat subdued Sergeant-now Lieutenant, Valentine corrected himself-Frum stood just beside him, the bruise under his chin looking like a hangman's beard.
Colonel Meadows and Bullfrog were comfortable enough with each other that Valentine had suggested that Meadows stay at the hideout with whoever felt unfit for a try at the Boston Mountains. Bullfrog could find jobs for them as guerillas or in some of the settlements under his command. Meadows accepted, and with the help of a staff captain had begun to sort through the horde of Quisling supplies. Everyone seemed happier for it, like tired horses back in familiar stalls.
"All this stuff missing; it'll go against me at the next inspection," Bullfrog said.
"You'll be able to justify it."
"How's that?"
"You were doing your job. Recruiting and equipping warm bodies."
Bullfrog scratched his head, and Valentine turned to Meadows.
"Colonel, I think I'm fit enough to talk to the men. Could you get them together, please, sir?"
The men who couldn't fit underground had to be dispersed every night in case of a prowling Reaper, looking for lifesign where it wasn't supposed to be. Once the sun was well up they usually gathered for meals and news. There had been plenty of the first and not much of the latter lately, though everyone was looking better for a few days' rest.
Styachowski popped up, dabbing a coffee mustache from her lips and showing her old snap-to-it briskness. She'd spent the past day combing through Quisling paperwork with the help of a corporal on Bullfrog's quasi-Quisling staff.
"I'll pass word around as soon as the morning patrol comes in," she said.
"Lieutenant Frum, you think you could send out your men as sentry? I'd hate to have a convoy come by for refueling and spot the whole bunch of us."
Bullfrog nodded. "Sure, Captain."
"Anything overnight?"
"Another train, pulling south; men returning to Texas and Louisiana, looked like," Frum said.
"The Ozarks seem good and pacified," Meadows said. "We're beat and they know it."
"Always interesting times, the pause between conquest and exploitation. I wonder if they're as organized as they think they are," Styachowski said. Valentine's selection of documentation from Bullfrog's files had given her quick mind enough to make a guess as to what the column's next move would be.
"Or if we're as beat as they think we are," Valentine added.
* * * *
Valentine stood at one of the glassless windows above the entrance to the office building, on the second floor. Bullfrog hadn't gotten around to reclaiming this floor of the building yet. Birds flitted in one side of the building and out the other, zipping over low cubicles and around offices.
Creeper and broken glass crunched underfoot as he tottered to the window, glad that the men hadn't seen Ahn-Kha half carry him upstairs. The men and women who had followed him out of General Martinez's camp sat around the door of the lot and in the notch leading toward the main entrance; unformed, unranked, a mass of faces and variegated uniforms-some still damp, Valentine noted, from a quick wash. Some elbowed others at Valentine's appearance, and faces turned up toward them. The chatter stilled.
The silence of their anticipation made Valentine oddly uncomfortable.
Valentine inflated his lungs, ignored the pain in his rib. "You all know about the Cats, am I right?"
"Yes, sir," a few answered back. Valentine thought about making them all holler a response back at him, but he wanted an honest conversation with the men, not an oration filled with theatrical tricks.
"They work behind the Kurian line," Valentine said. "Sometimes in their uniform. I've done it on more than one occasion."
He let that sink in for a moment before continuing. "We're making for what's left of Southern Command in the Boston Mountains. But if we keep going as we are, snaking back and forth, backtracking and sidestepping, we'll only show up sick, hungry, unarmed and tired-if we make it at all. If you men are willing, I know a way we can ride instead of walk, and join our comrades with rifles in our hands and ammunition in our cartridge cases."
They perked up at this. Even the jokers and snoozers in every informal assembly of personnel shut their mouths and fixed eyes on him.
"There'll be risks," Valentine continued. "But the risk of getting across the Arkansas River and through the lines with an unarmed column this big is about the same, by my calculations.
"So we have to balance the likely risks with the possible rewards. Anyone who isn't up for it, anyone who wants out of the game, can stay here with Colonel Meadows and Lieutenant Frum. Guerrilla service is just as honorable, just as important. But I have to make it to the Boston Mountains for reasons of my own. Anyone who wants to follow me, meet at the hollow where Lieutenant Post and and the Wolves are guarding the wagons."
"Then what?" Styachowski asked from among the audience. Just as they'd arranged when Valentine went over his prepared speech with her.
"Then we shave, strip and sew."