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Southern Command offered jars of honey or wrapped pieces of taffy or can openers or clasp knives in exchange for Grog machete sheathes and wrist protectors or earrings.
Valentine facilitated where he could, using a half-gnawed pork rib as a pointer. He found himself smiling more than he had at any time since that Fourth of July gathering.
It wouldn't last, of course. Some Grog would kill a pack trader, looking for loot and a trophy to show his prospective bride's family, or a hotheaded sergeant would teach cattle-rustling Grogs a lesson in the language of the noose. Then matters would flare up and not be calmed down until the next holiday or bad-weather season.
The past was done and the future would come soon enough. If better than thirty years on Vampire Earth had taught David Stuart Valentine anything, it was to enjoy the good moments for what they were.
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.
