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"Not when I'm working," the Baron said. "Sit."
The woman he'd seen draped behind his chair shuffled papers.
"Chuckles here has three degrees," the Baron said. "You know what a degree is?"
"Hot," Valentine said, wondering if he looked wary enough.
"No, it's a piece of paper that says you know better than someone who's been in the field their whole life. But she makes everything I do look right on paper. Keeps the generals in Iowa happy. I don't imagine you know any Iowa generals, but they expect the paperwork correct. Murder all you like, just file it in triplicate."
The dark woman came out with a wooden tray. A little chrome-and-glass pot and some cups sat on it.
"Three degrees to serve coffee," the Baron said.
"And five technical certifications, plus security clearance," she said.
Valentine sipped the coffee. It was rich stuff, but he felt a slight lift that wouldn't be explained by caffeine as it warmed him. Probably a few drops of some KZ happy/alert mix favored by higher-level Quislings.
"Why did you speak up for Beach Boy?" the Baron asked.
"Knew him, room, gang same-same," Valentine said.
"That made you like him better? He's been a problem since he hit the recruitment office in Davenport. He's been here nine months. Never bothered to learn the first thing about military discipline. We tossed him into labor after his three months probation was up, figured he could serve out his term there, then let him muster out. But sleeping on the job-that's a death sentence, whether it's a sentry on duty, a rail switchman, or a guy with a shovel."
Valentine shrugged. The dark woman was staring at him. It made him uncomfortable.
"You're clearly tough, well-muscled, healthy. I'm impressed with your reflexes. I think you're a lot smarter than you're letting on. I'd like you in one of my service uniforms."
"Soldier-no good," Valentine said. "Fighting-dead quick."
"Let's drop this pidgin shit, shall we?" the Baron said. The dark-haired woman handed him a red paper folder. He unhooked a binding band.
"David Stuart Valentine. Born date unsure, probably in 2047, Boundary Waters region, Northern Minnesota. Father Lee Valentine, formerly of Southern Command, formerly of the United States Navy. Mother-well, that's a bit of a question mark, isn't it? Mother is suspected to be Helen St. Croix, much of her information isn't available to a mind of my level and capabilities, as the Kurian Order styles it. Recruited into Southern Command by guerilla fighters-"
He turned the open folder around. Valentine felt cold sweat running over him, started to nerve himself for a fight. There was nothing on the desk that might be used as a weapon. There was an old picture of him, eyes closed, looking beat up, both full face and profile. It must have been when he was captured in Nebraska by the Twisted Cross, after the bullet to the leg in the General's rail yards.
"You might say I inherited it from your old friend the General. My Groggies used to guard his trains, sometimes. Valentine, let's be civilized about this. We're just talking."
"When do the Reapers show themselves?" Valentine asked.
"Not giving away all my secrets, but yes, my bodyguard is nearby. There are other forces I'm a lot more worried about than you. I don't think you understand the nature of my power. I determine my own destiny. I'm better than those ring-holding rabbits on their estates in Iowa with their board meetings and balls and cotillions. Those precious, precious, my precious rings. The Kurians can take those back.
"No one, no one, can take my power away from me. I can lose it, through inattention, bad luck, bloody Christ, some Grog witch doctor might even declare me an evil spirit if he thinks the graybacks'll stand by him. Have you ever drawn a truly free breath?
"Out here, there's no law but what I say is the law. I say I want seven new wives brought in and three old ones carried out, hippetyhoppety it's done.
"Want to know the secret of my success?
"I employ oddballs. There are two kinds of oddballs in the world, those who are weird because they got nothing else going for them, and those who operate on a level where they just don't fit in seamlessly with something like those Kurian ant farms. I'll take both kinds and watch 'em for a bit, just to see if I'm mistaken about which group they belong to. But I can find a place for either.
"I'm not asking you to join my team, Valentine. I'd like you as an ally, with that crew that's about to get kicked out of Kentucky. I know you're more open than most Southern Command military ticks to working with Grogs. I could arrange for you to take back Saint Louis. Think of all the human captives you'd free. You'd be the biggest liberator since Lincoln. All I'd ask in return is your help taking out a few Kurian towers of my choosing. The Rings in Iowa are worried that they're about to get muscled, since they're the only east-west connection left north of the Gulf, unless you count that patchwork in Minnesota connected to the Pacific Northwest through Oregon."
"Mind if I take a nap while you finish jerking off? That couch looks a lot more comfortable than those kennels." Valentine had the odd feeling that he'd been called a bastard, if that word applied for the ridiculous circumstance of having one's own mother unknown. Of course he was the son of Helen St. Croix, he had her cheekbones, hair, and dusky skin. He wished he had her kindness, or the gently teasing way she kissed fingers and toes as she put him and his baby sister to sleep.
"Play the hard-ass, Valentine. I have some exciting news. There are several parties very, very interested in getting you back for a variety of reasons. Don't worry, they think you've been captured in Minnesota, trying to get back to your birthplace. I have a smaller contingent up there, too. Bids are pouring in. The Ordnance in Ohio, the Lich King in Seattle, assorted lordships and illustriousnesses from New Orleans plus the plain old Coastal Marines, and one fat old rug runner in Michigan who resents what happened to his glorious, God-favored Moondaggers."
"An embarrassment of bitches," Valentine said. "Don't tell me there's not some Twisted Cross colonel over in Nebraska or Kansas who doesn't want his pound of flesh too."
"My Golden Guard did too thorough a job on them, Valentine," the Gray Baron purred. "Before they had the good sense to come under my protective wing. There are some Twisted Cross in the Alps in Europe and the mountains of Asia Minor, I understand, but they have no special grievance and are muchly occupied with another tiresome Polish rebellion. No, I'm limiting myself to Kurians, I think. They have the most to offer, and will probably be the most creative in making use of human vermin. I don't believe in hell in the classical sense, of course, but the Kurians can keep you alive and screaming for what seems like an eternity. Several human lifetimes of torment might be in your future."
