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"Not firsthand. But I know the history. He was what we called a plantation burner. Left a lot of scorched earth-and scorched bodies-behind. But it made the Kurians pull out of most of Missouri. I won't argue the results. I'm sorry if he told you different, but that's the truth of the matter."
"He never told me anything at all."
"You a fan of football, Valentine?"
"I know the basics, but I never had much time to follow it."
"I'm a big fan. We have some fair mud leagues running the spine from Little Rock to Texarkana. I'm a Buzzsaw man, myself."
Valentine had overheard enough sports talk to be conversant. "I've heard of them. I think they won the championship a few years back."
"Two seasons ago. Every good team needs what I like to call a hatchet. With the Buzzsaws, it's a linebacker. It's the crazy mean player, the guy who puts people down for a game or two. So instead of covering assignments, the opposing team's eyeing the hatchet, wondering who's going to be broken next. Bad sportsmanship? Maybe. But I've learned something before I started shaving my gray hairs. Most good organizations have a hatchet or two to do the dirty work."
"I see."
"You'd make a pretty good hatchet. You have the right name, anyway, thanks to your father's, well, fierce reputation."
Valentine shrugged. The gesture made him feel like a hypocrite-a shrug from a subordinate always annoyed him-but he was only too happy to use it himself with the slippery Sime. "I always thought of myself as more of a screwdriver. Always being used for jobs other than the one I'm designed to do."
Sime was good to his word. An Assembly ID showed up for Valentine the next day. Though he had to report to the Assembly's own sergeant at arms to get his picture taken with a Polaroid and have a card made.
The Assembly itself was run by the Agenda. That office was held by a woman, thin and wan and brittle-haired; she looked like a cancer victim. Brother Mark introduced Valentine to her. She greeted him gravely, made a polite mention of the power plant and said she hoped Kentucky would support his command in the manner of allies who'd bled together, and then she moved on to other business.
Her handshake was a frail one.
"You are no doubt wondering," Brother Mark said. "Some kind of cancer, but it's not public knowledge. She's doing her best to get through the Assembly before it claims her."
"Brave woman."
"From a great old family in Lexington," Brother Mark said. "Our good Agenda believes that however this goes, the Kurian Order is going to extract their revenge on whoever leads the Assembly. She intends to die quietly this winter and deny them the satisfaction."
Once the formalities were taken care of, Brother Mark showed him around the pre-22, poorly lit convention hall, which smelled like musty carpet and popcorn to Valentine's sensitive nose. A lectern platform stood at one end, with most of the folding chairs around more-or-less arranged to face it. On the platform was a lectern with its own podium and a small desk just above a discreetly placed recorder's station.
The Kentuckians, a smattering of representatives from the Evansville area, and even a delegation from the rebels in West Virginia-he'd hoped Ahn-Kha would be among them but the golden Grog would have stood out among the men like an elk in a goat herd-had gathered into three distinct groups.
As Brother Mark explained it, the biggest faction in the room was the Militant Independents. A mixture of legworm clans and burghers, these Kentuckians believed that Kentucky now stood in a position of strength to negotiate with the Northwest Ordnance north of the Ohio and the Tennessee Kurians and the Georgia Control to the south. They had a provisional charter drawn up that declared Kentucky a self-governing territory with a promise not to engage in operations outside its old United States borders, nor to shelter fugitives or guerrillas.
"The fugitive law is the real sticking point," Brother Mark said. "Almost everyone in the legworm clan has a relative or an in-law who fled the Kurian Zone. They'd be grandfathered in, of course, but there's sympathy for escapees."
"How do they know the Kurians will go along with it?"
"I suspect there's already been some back-and-forth. Rumor has it a top-brass ring fixer has been negotiating in Louisville."
Valentine had heard of "fixers" before: trusted human interme diaries who handled difficulties between the various Kurian Zones. Without their intervention, the Kurians would eliminate each other in the snake-pit world of high-level Kurian politicking.
Was there a conference going on in, say, Chicago or Cleveland or Atlanta, with Kurian representatives meeting to determine what to do about the chaos in Kentucky? He hoped some stealthy Cat had managed to worm her way in to listen. Or better yet, plant a thermobaric bomb.
Next in size among the groups at the Assembly was the All-Ins. These delegates represented the legworm clans gathered under "King" Karas last summer for Javelin and their supporting towns, the thinned-down remainders of the Kentucky Alliance who'd done much of the fighting in the destruction of the Moondaggers. They'd already beaten the Moondaggers and were expecting the other delegates to join them in a rebellion well-started, to their minds.
The Old Deal Caucus was the smallest contingent but, not surprisingly, the most polished and best turned out. They represented Kentucky's Kurian-occupied cities and those with financial interests in the Kurian system. They had their chairs in a circle in the far east corner, mostly talking among themselves.
Of all the delegates, these men and women from the Old Deal Caucus may have been the most courageous, to Valentine's mind. Their lives, and probably those of their families, would be forfeit if the Kurians learned of their presence here. The more hard-line rebels considered them only a baby step away from being open collaborators, and Valentine's sharp ears picked up one of the All-Ins saying that they should hang the lot of them.
Whichever way the Assembly ultimately voted, Valentine suspected that these delegates would suffer the most.
Maybe it was just ego, the desire to show Valentine that there were victories to be won in the political arena as well as on the battlefield, but Sime had facilitated Valentine's credentialing on the day he was scheduled to address the Assembly on behalf of Southern Command.
Sime, looking like a walking advertising poster for skin toner, stepped to the podium as the Agenda introduced him from her little desk. Sime's aides had cleared away the Styrofoam cups and the scribble-covered scraps of provisional resolutions and vote-counts littering the podium and the stagelike platform. Much of the audience quieted-not just hushed voices and close-together heads, but true attention. Evidently all were interested in what he had to say.
