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Honor. Duty. Country. How many millions in the old days marched to their doom with such platitudes in their ears? Wasted potential. It is for each man to add value to his life. Don't let wastrels spend the currency of your days."
The crane elevated him to its maximum extension.
"Our divine Prophet's Moondagger is still sheathed," the mouthpiece boomed through the speakers. The drums in town sounded in time to his pauses. "Do not tempt him to draw it, for it cannot be put away again until every throat in this camp is cut."
"We're volunteers," Valentine said. "We've all seen how lives are counted when Kur is the banker."
The crane lowered the mouthpiece.
Valentine stood, arms dangling, relaxed. He opened and closed his right fist, warming his fingers.
"Your face will be remembered. You'll regret those words, over and over and over again, tormented in the living hells."
"Can I borrow that?" Valentine asked. He whipped out his hand, raked the mouthpiece under the chin, came away with the silver pin-and a good deal of bushy black beard.
"Outrage!" the mouthpiece sputtered, eyes wide with shock. Blood dripped onto his white shirt.
Valentine, keeping clear of the extended crane arm, cleaned his ears with the silver pin and tossed it back into the Last Chance's lap, where it clattered against the curved dagger.
"Thanks," Valentine said.
"You'll writhe on a bridge of hooks. You'll roast, slowly, with skin coated in oils of-"
"Is that part of the living hells tour, or do I have to pay extra?" Valentine said. He called over the shoulder at the brigade: "That's how it always is, right? They hook you in with the price of the package tour, but all the worthwhile sights are extra."
The soldiers laughed.
"Here's my moon. Where's your dagger?" someone shouted from the back of the mob.
Because of the crowd, Valentine couldn't see what was on display.
"You have until dusk to decide," the mouthpiece said, pulling his chair back toward the truck. The drumming started again.
The mouthpiece's flatbed rumbled to life. It backed up, turned, and rocked down toward the picket line. Some stealthy Southern Command hooligans had hung a sheet off the back of the flatbed, with ASS BANDIT-PUCKER UP! written on it in big block capitals.
The rest of the assembly laughed the Last Chance out of their camp.
Had this Last Chance ever ridden off to the sound of raucous laughter? Valentine doubted it.
Outside of the color guards and bands, no officer had ever quite succeeded in getting any two Southern Command soldiers to look alike in dress and hair, even for formal parades. They etched names of sweethearts in their rifles, sewed beads and hung tufted fishing lures in the caps, dipped points of their pigtails in tar, and stuck knives and tools in distinctly non-regulation snakeskin sheaths. But David Valentine had never been more grateful their mulish contrariness.
llegheny Alliance, West Virginia, June: The campaign surrounding the great union in the Alleghenies near the town of Utrecht is one more men claimed to be at than ever were. Or if not themselves in person, a brother, a cousin, an uncle or aunt, or a cousin-laid down like a trump card when veterans get together to talk about their experiences in the Liberation. (Only writers of lurid exploitative novels title the fight against the Kurian Order the "Vampire Wars.")
It's safe to say that Utrecht, West Virginia, had never seen such a feast, even during holidays during the platinum age pre-2022. The town square had a smaller square of groaning white-clothed banquet tables set up within. The old pedestal in front of the courthouse that had once contained a memorial to First World War veterans (replaced by a statue of a Reaper holding a human baby up so it could look up at the stars, and happily sawn off at the ankles the week before when the "guerrilla army" occupied the town) had a new set of stairs, as well as platform and loudspeaker system for speechmaking. Most said Special Executive Karas had been working on a stemwinder for months, looking forward to this moment.
For David Valentine, out of thousands readying themselves for a party of special magnificence, the night held little promise.
* * * *
David Valentine drove the cart back into company headquarters, fighting tears. All around the people were putting up colorful bunting (red, white, and blue or yellow being the colors of choice, but some folks were making due with tinsel and other old Christmas decorations).
Blueberries were in season, and Bee happily scooped out an entire pie Ediyak purchased for her. Ediyak was whistling Southern Command marching tunes, rather off-key. Every storefront had fresh baked goods for sale, and around the back door bottles and flasks and mason jars of liquor were being passed out in exchange for everything from gold or silver coin to overcoats, old eyeglasses, and boots.
Southern Command's officers and NCOs spoiled not a few prospective evenings by checking packs and ammunition pouches of those traveling to and from town.
Valentine pulled himself together enough to institute a liquor search of his own when he returned, and three bottles were emptied into the thirsty Allegheny dirt and Patel had new miscreants for latrine and garbage duty. Though he'd laid out his best uniform for the banquet, the prospect of a feast had lost all its luster and he decided not to attend. He checked in at headquarters and swapped purchases he'd made in town for twenty-four duty-free hours after the banquet. He wanted quiet and solitude.
Jolly was left in command of the camp. He said he'd heard enough speeches about Kurian tactics of fear never conquering the human spirit in his life. But he almost ordered Valentine to go.
