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"I imagine there's an unless coming up."
"I can think of several. Unless you're clever enough to kill yourself before a down payment is arranged and delivery worked out. Unless you escape. You've done it before, so I'm considering welding you into your cell and putting napalm somewhere where it can be delivered into the cells in a hurry in case of a disturbance."
"Or unless I join you."
"That makes me into a video villain, and a not very imaginative one at that. I do wonder if it wouldn't be better to release you, at that. To my knowledge you've been involved in some very unlucky operations. Very unlucky indeed. Southern Command is much the worse for wear thanks to the David Valentines of its officer corps. Full of plots and plans ahead of them and lines of silent, shallow soldiers' graves behind."
Valentine yawned and sat. "Mind if I stretch out? I'm not as much of a night owl, even with some of your drugged coffee."
The Gray Baron shrugged. "I don't expect you to weep and crawl, but some recognition of the relative balance of power between us would be in order. Since I'm running a silent auction for your hide, I might not take the highest bidder and instead send you to whoever has the most vicious way of dealing with your brand of nuisance. You know, Valentine, when I risk something, I try and make sure it's a pawn or a bishop at most. That's why I lead Grogs. There are always more Grogs. That bright young lieutenant, Rand-how many more like him are in Southern Command? Or somebody like William Post-there's an active, intelligence man who'd be an asset to any headquarters. He's reading intelligence reports from his wheelchair these days, I believe."
Valentine put his feet on the elaborately knobbed armrest of the sofa. "You have my full attention. If you're going to offer an alternative to winding up in Seattle's rooftop aquarium, I'll be happy to hear it."
"Your name and abilities intrigue me, Valentine. You have some kind of understanding of Kurian Zone politics, I believe?"
"I don't keep up with the latest alliances and betrayals," Valentine said. "It's all I can do to stay current on Noonside Passions, and that has much prettier actors."
The Gray Baron smiled. "We can agree on that, Valentine. I've always had a bit of an obsession with that Barbara Diamate. Leggy and hippy, but it makes that Youth Vanguard Directing Executive uniform skirt look so much better during her walk and talks. Slit higher than regulation, of course, but that's television for you. I've asked for a publicity tour in Iowa, of course, but they're much too busy."
"We could have a Christmas Truce to watch it together, Baron."
"Back to business. I mean to say-I and the Iowans have certain enemies . . . Kurian enemies ... who it would be expedient to be rid of, or at least see greatly weakened in power and influence. Now, I could provide you with information, possibly even a contact or two on the inside, and you and your barefoot little Kentucky band could, what's the phrase-choke a bitch for me."
"My troops aren't barefoot," Valentine said.
"Then perhaps someone's been feeding me bad intelligence. Since my sources are in Southern Command proper, I'd suggest keeping your own superiors more up-to-date."
Valentine needed to buy time. He said he would have to consider their conversation carefully, at leisure.
"Tell me one thing. What clued you in?"
"Something funny happened. After you spoke up for Beach Boy, Sergeant Stock here asked for Scar to be assigned to him for a day. Except he didn't call you Scar. Called you Valentine. I mentioned it to Chuckles here and she recognized the name and dug up your file."
They took him to a no-fooling jail car in a wired corner of the rail yard. It was well lit and noisy from the sound of work on the trains.
He reviewed the conversation. Whoever was feeding the Gray Baron intelligence wasn't doing a very good job of it. Or perhaps they were passing on misinformation.
Should have kept my fool mouth shut, Valentine thought. Well, he'd been playacting the laconic, insolent veteran and let it get away from him.
They let him stew behind bars for two days. Then, on the final night of the Warmoon Festival, they put him in irons again, under gunpoint from a pistol close, a shotgun at the door, and a rifle outside the bars.
"You got another fight on, buck," his guard said.
On the way to the headquarters, they saw that festivities had spilled out in front of the headquarters, where a throng of Gray Ones and some men were gathered around parked vehicles.
"Hey, the roamin' emporium's set up already," he said.
Valentine couldn't believe they'd arrived so quickly. He'd figured it would be another few days at least.
They were parked there, bold as brass in a line of thick-wheeled trucks in the vehicle loading lot between headquarters and the motor pool. Valentine recognized two of the trailers from near Brostoff's headquarters.
Frat rode on the hood of one, sitting cross-legged with yards of woven hair and necklaces of dog teeth and ear-reamers made out of shinbones. God knew where he accumulated the Grog trade goods, probably from some back room at Hobarth's Truckstart and Trading Post.
"Name's China Jack, they say," the guard said. "Sergeant Major Quince knows him from Kansas City."
Valentine wondered if this was some strange ability that went with Frat's background as a Kurian agent. As far as these men were concerned, he was somebody they knew from way back.
"I met him south of Omaha. Got a great pair of boots," the shotgun man said.
