Bearfire: Ask twenty different Bears to describe the feeling of Bearfire running through their bodies and you will get twenty different answers. Some speak in terms of space and time, everything slowed down and yet compressed. Others describe it mentally, as a determined form of psychosis, where every obstacle, from a minor vexation to a hail of machine-gun fire, is overcome by boundless violence. Most describe physiological changes: heat, euphoria, a terrible driving energy.
Ask the same number of doctors to describe the injuries they've seen Bears survive, fighting on to victory and recovery or toppling only once what's left of their bodies falls apart, and be prepared to have a short book's worth of incredible stories.
This is one of them.
You fueling cunt!
Valentine realized he couldn't breathe or see, and all he felt was a horrible, slimy mess surrounding him, seeping into hairline and nostril, lip and ear hole.
Can't breathe, wet cold panic
And flipped around again, violently jostled.
Wet hot fear
--turning into
White-hot anger.
Valentine wriggled a hand up, closed fingers around the corded knife hilt.
Red!
He lashed out, hand and foot, head and arm. Stabbed hard with the knife handle, punctured, punched through resistance, then with a long backhanded sweep opened up the voluminous gullet of the Big Mouth.
It vomited him out before he could fight his way free, rolled away, stricken and thrashing.
Valentine broke the surface of the hard-flowing river, hurt as he sucked air, found himself bouncing, got his toes pointed downstream, fetched up against a rock, lost it, slid against another, caught it, losing his knife in his desperation to get a grip.
He pulled himself half out of the rushing river, saw a long leg flail as the wounded Big Mouth went over the falls.
He climbed up onto the rock, thought about his wound, reached, and felt the hot wet blood against his palm. The bullet had plowed one long furrow along his rib cage.
You'll live.
She won't.
He jumped to another rock, sucked a deep breath of air, felt pain again, realized his rifle was still bouncing against his chest.
He removed the weapon's final proof against liquid infiltration, a heavy-duty condom over the barrel, and found a stone to crouch where he could watch events at the Outlook.
A stream of sparks cut across the night sky, exploded into red light as a flare wobbled down, blown northeast by the wind.
The parking lot where Valentine had once watched a few drunk figures play basketball was alive with slithering, hopping, humpbacked shapes.
Glowing red goggle eyes fixed on the snow-dusted gables of the Outlook. Warm yellow light shone within, fell in checkerboard patters on the virgin snow in front of the hotel.
Sleekee, slee-kee, slee-kee...
Mr. Norman Rockwell, meet Mr. Hieronymus Bosch. Mr. Bosch, Mr. Rockwell.
Valentine lifted his gun, chambered the first round in the magazine, sighted on Lieutenant Nageezi. An urge to run at her, grind her face into mush, was suppressed as he straightened up and felt the pain in his side. He lowered the front sight to her thigh as she paused behind a parked truck in the lot, Big Mouths flapping and surging around her.
No, she knows her business. Wait. Get back to the kayak. First-aid-kit.
The Big Mouths knew their business too. They divided into three streams of hopping shapes. Leap-gather-hunch-leap-gather-hunch-leap-gather-hunch on their way to the front and side entrances.
Crashes, screams, somehow softened by all the snow. There it was, the mad music of gunfire.
He gained the kayaks and tore open a dressing, pressed it to his wound, found the surgical tape, and went to work.
A Big Mouth made it all the way to the roof of the Outlook in a single leap. Another chased a shadow on a curtain right through the window, crashing through window, frame, screen, and curtain. Valentine heard a squelching noise and blood sprayed on a wall, three quick arterial jets.
A man fled out the front door, uniform coat torn, one shoe off, running into the night toward the parking lot with arms pumping. A Big Mouth flung itself out the door after him, flew over the footprints he'd left in the snow, and fixed its mouth over his head as it landed, folding its prey like a clasp knife.
A soldier ran across the deck, heading for the wire gondola crossing the falls, spraying bullets from a pistol back through the door. Valentine sighted on him, but another shot rang out and Valentine caught sight of Nageezi's features in the shadows of a station wagon parked in the lot.
Gunfire shattered a second-floor window, peppering the station wagon, deflating a tire, and forcing Nageezi to flatten. Two men hurled themselves from the shattered window, hit the snow rolling,
and came up with assault rifles ready. One poured a magazine into the Big Mouth on the lawn, tearing its still-gobbling head to pieces.
They ran for a red full-cab truck. One paused, turned to look up, and waved at something in the broken window as the other made it to the driver's-side door on the truck.
Valentine recognized Thunderbird's features as he turned, bathed in the light of the Outlook.
Adler was at the window now. He hesitated, jumped, fell for what seemed to Valentine an eternity, but landed lightly and with more skill than the Bears.
Nageezi popped up from behind her bullet-stitched car, aiming, but Thunderbird spun and tore her to pieces with a short blast of his assault rifle.
Adler seemed to flow over the snow-covered yard, legs a blur. Thunderbird covered him as he approached the pickup.
Glass exploded and a Big Mouth followed the glittering pieces out onto the lawn, drawn by the motion. Thunderbird put in a new magazine as the creature turned, watching Adler run as the truck came to life, gathered...
And was brought down by a long tongue of muzzle flash from Thunderbird's weapon. He took two steps forward, pumping more bullets into it, flesh flying everywhere in the night.
More screams, more gunfire, a grenade explosion within the Outlook, and the red truck backed out of its spot, Adler slamming the rear passenger door.
Another Big Mouth, having passed all the way through the Outlook only to emerge at the far end of the wraparound porch, liked the look of the truck and covered half the distance to it in a jump. Thunderbird turned, but something went wrong with his gun. He threw it down, pulling a pistol as the jammed weapon hit, and sidestepped for the turning truck.
Now it was Valentine's turn to sight, not at Thunderbird, or Adler, but at the driver of the truck as he reached out to clear ice from
the windshield. He flipped the selector to single shot and put three 5.56mm shells through the front windshield into him.
Valentine ducked and changed positions. He came up again to see the truck rolling across the parking lot at the purposeless speed of an unpushed accelerator in drive, turning slightly to follow the path of least resistance downhill.
Thunderbird sprinted for the truck and Valentine fired at him, knocking him down. The Big Mouth liked the look of his fall and pounced.
The truck waggled, then turned, and Valentine saw Adler climbing into the front seat - too late. It bounced over the curb and nosed into the river, doors flying open as it hit.
Valentine splashed, slipped, recovered, and hurried toward the truck before Adler could escape. He saw a shape dive out the door on the opposite side, marveled at Adler's fluid athleticism. Ex-Cat? Valentine jumped up onto the river-walk path and pounded after him, saw Adler slipping and floundering on rocks, arms waving so fast in the light it looked as though there were three of them.
Valentine whipped his rifle behind him on its sling and launched himself into a flying tackle, brought down his quarry in a body blow that felt more like he hit a badly stuffed tackling dummy than a man.
He hauled Adler up by his slippery, oily hair and dug for the eyes, the nostrils, his left hand reaching for the windpipe and finding only cool squishiness.
But the blood was wrong...
"Turn around, Valentine", Colonel Thunderbird said. "I'm putting this right between your eyes. I want to see them empty as the bullet pops the back of your head off".
"Before you pull that trigger", Valentine said, turning and raising his hands, "have a look at this".
Thunderbird's blood-circled eyes widened; the pistol in his hand shook and lowered. Valentine held aloft the leaking, slippery body of a Kurian.
Or perhaps a Lifeweaver. Or both. Only the dying mind, twitching as it passed into inferno, glory, or nothingness, could say for sure.
"Is that..."
"A Kurian Lord", Valentine said.
Valentine threw the corpse up at Thunderbird, then hopped into his kayak and started across the river, half expecting a bullet in the back. He chanced a look over his shoulder.
Thunderbird was on his knees, crying.
Two days later Valentine staggered into a motorcycle-cavalry depot in Maple Valley, scribbled a message to be transmitted to Troyd at the Redeye Run, and promptly collapsed.
He woke in an ambulance, and paid a brief visit to a hospital, where they found him suffering more from exhaustion and blood loss than any specific injury - though he did carry a recently healed bullet wound - and after feeding him, they sent him back to his old temporary apartment in Silas' building.
Troyd visited him, called him "ring brother" or something just as insipid - Valentine could never remember later - and dropped off a few personal possessions from his berth at the Redeye Run.
"Three of your Big Mouths made it back the day before you did. We found two more in Lake Sammamish, but they were making a nuisance of themselves and had to be destroyed".
"Nageezi got it in the parking lot of the hotel", Valentine said.
"I dunno about her", Troyd said. "You know we found one of Burlington's shoes in a bunch of BM shit? I'm thinking she chummed him after getting him to write that desertion note. You're lucky she didn't try to rung-jump over your corpse".
"I guess I am", Valentine replied.
He found he'd suddenly acquired a personal chef and regular visits from Miss L. to ascertain any needs beyond food and sleep. "Does the hero of the hour require anything else?"
"My ring, as soon as I'm feeling up to it".
"Does it mean that much to you?" she asked, looking a little disappointed.
"I went through hell to get it. Cold, angry hell. It's worth it to me".
Even Silas stopped by, with a gift-boxed bottle of brandy to put an edge on his constitution. Valentine suddenly couldn't stand his presence, and pretended to be overcome with yawns. Silas took the hint.
But he found himself leaving his bed, again and again, to look at the downtown skyline and the crystal-capped Kurian Tower. But how?
Once up and around and evidently with plenty of time and money for his recovery, Valentine walked into the student cafe he'd visited when touring Seattle, but unfortunately didn't see the kid with the drum.
He recognized the girl who'd fought with Double Deck, working behind the counter.
"Young lady", Valentine said. "Double Deck's not around, is he?"
"He's got class. I think he said he had to report to community center later. You might catch up to him there".
"How much are those T-shirts on the wall?"
She raised her eyebrows in surprise. "You don't look like the Earworm Cafe type. They're twelve dollars, two for twenty".
"I'll take six. But I don't have to walk out the door with them, if you'll just get Double Deck here".
"What do you want with him?"
"Babylon's going to make him an offer of extremely brief, extremely lucrative employment".
"If you're wanting to ditch your tracer for a night or two, you'll need an excuse". She stuck out a fleshless hip. "If the price is right, I could say you were tied up to me".
Thanks to a dead tracer and a borrowed mountain bike, Valentine made it to the north tip of Lake Sammamish. From there it was a fairly easy run to the borders of the Seattle Kurian Zone.
"We don't know how he kept himself fed", Captain LeHavre said. "There are a couple of theories, mostly flavors of shit whirling off the fan blades".
They spoke inside a sentry checkpoint just outside the headquarters, a little prefabricated set of roof and three walls built like an outhouse and just as cozy. Valentine didn't want his presence known to the men, so he waited until he saw a familiar face and hailed him from cover. He in turn got LeHavre.
"He liked to tour the nurseries a lot, where the babies grabbed in the Action Group raids would be taken. Seems like a crib death or two struck now and then. Some staff got suspicious at an Ellensburg orphanage and they all were 'disappeared.' "
"He had to have some help somewhere".
"There's a Kurian Tower out by the Grand Coulee Dam that might have been visited too. He kept going out that way to survey it with an eye toward taking the power station, but conditions never seemed right for him to give the go-ahead".
"On the inside too".
"I hope most of them took it in the neck at the Outlook".
"There's a witch hunt - maybe it should be called a wizard hunt, at that - going on right now. I hope Pacific Command doesn't fall apart again. Thunderbird and his Bears are all tainted by this".
Interesting as the political fallout was, Valentine's time was limited. "Speaking of Thunderbird's Bears, if you think a successful action would help restore things here, I have an idea or two along those lines. There's a dreary party being planned in my honor and I'd like to see it crashed. But you'll have to get the Resistance Network in Seattle and the Bears to work together. That's going to take a little diplomacy. One more thing. What are the chances of you helping me write a proposal that'll get a scout/sniper named Gide temporarily seconded to the PeaBees?"
"Can do", LeHavre said, and gave one of his dashing pirate-quarterdeck salutes.
Two weeks later, with plenty of notice about the date and time, Valentine stood tall on the field of honor.
Seattle's remade downtown around him, thanks to tricks of optics played on someone standing on the plaza, seemed to be bowing to the Seattle demigod's tower. The strange, clamshell-like growth extending from the central pillars hung in the sky as though suspended by invisible wires, linked to the pillars by joins so narrow they seemed to defy principles of engineering. No cantilevering, no braces, no suspension, assisted the mollusklike housings of Seattle's Kurians.
And above all the rest, a vast jellyfish-like shape, faintly luminescent like dying phosphors, squatted the home of the demigod, challenging even Mount Rainier for dominance of the horizon.
Madness, madness, madness. But Valentine wanted the ring. By blood and thundering rapids, it was his.
Despite the rain, the watching crowds seemed larger than usual.
Silas stood at his side, his elegant camel-hair coat taking the drizzle as if confident that it would be properly dried and pressed after doing its duty.
"Good crowd today, despite the cold. The so-called Radio Free Northwest reported the death of 'one of the leading minds of the Resistance,' " Silas said. "Our broadcasts have been reading locations and numbers of people killed".
"I wonder which epitaph he'd prefer", Valentine asked.
"Every lumberjack and longshoreman's ready to celebrate, it seems. Watch the stairs - they can get icy when it rains in this kind of cold", Silas advised.
"Don't let the echo from the loudspeakers throw you off either", Miss L. said, behind the pair of them. "Just do your speech".
Valentine had rehearsed it twice with Silas the night before. Not
much longer than the Gettysburg Address, it would "get the job done", according to the mouthpiece. Valentine checked the words on the little laminated index card one more time.
I stand here, an ordinary man with extraordinary purpose. Today I've been honored with the highest award our saviors can give. But in the end, the sacrifice and struggle that went with winning this ring are meaningless compared to the service Kur has done for us. Kur bestows, with a parental hand that heals more than it hurts, a gift for those with the eyes to see, the new, universal creed that we aspire to: a united human family in harmony with itself and the planet it lives upon, stronger, healthier, happier in our new purpose. Giving up selfishness, I found plenty. Giving up knowledge, I found wisdom. Giving up independence, I found freedom. I thank Kur, not only for myself, but for all mankind.
It had helped him take his mind off the coming ceremony. If he gave the speech he wanted, he would most likely end up looking like a fool for the few brief seconds of his remaining, violently concluded life.
Gears worked and the scaffolding rose and unfolded itself into place, a steel skeleton animated by hidden cables and counterweights. A banner hung from the central walkway.
SEATTLE IS THE FUTURE
At a nudge from Silas, Valentine crossed the plaza. The two Reapers at the bottom of the stairs, dressed in long dark robes like judges and wide-brimmed Pilgrim hats to keep off the rain, parted and pointed with their hands facing the tower up the golden stairs. Valentine wondered if anyone was to be marched up the black stairs... He or she might just earn a reprieve.
If they showed.
Otherwise, he'd have to give Silas' speech. That would be quite a memento for the newsreels. David Valentine, former Resistance hero, praising the Kurians.
Valentine climbed the steps toward the multifaceted blister, saw a Reaper inside, something else, looming behind, like an octopus perched on a leather umbrella.
"Take my ring, David Valentine", the Ready Reader said in his head. Valentine found his hand moving up, passing through the glowing pane at the bottom of the blister.
His hand came back, suffused with light. Drops of rainbow fell from his hands.
Or was it just illusion?
The ring felt real enough, heavy, a little piece of a far-off planet weighing on his hand. He turned, was vaguely aware of cheering, and stepped toward the microphones.
Is a man just a big, talking bag of chemicals? A reputation? An aura?
No skirmish lines of men broke from the surrounding buildings. No trucks roared up the wide avenue from Mercer Island. The Resistance Network had failed, or Pacific Command had, no telling.
Valentine took a deep breath.
"I stand here, an ordinary man with extraordinary purpose. Today I've been honored with the highest award our saviors can give. But in the end..."
Did he catch a glimpse of light on one of the columns at the other end of the plaza?
"But in the end, all Kur offers us is death", Valentine said.
A Reaper at the base of the stairs twitched.
Ka-rack - Valentine heard the shot a split second later.
Another shot, and a Reaper at the base of the right stairs began to run up. It didn't make it a third of the way before it stiffened.
The crowd spread into chaos. Valentine saw men lifting weapons from beneath their heavy coats and ponchos.
It appeared LeHavre had gone one step beyond the plan for guiding the insertion of Pacific Command's forces into Seattle, and had decided to occupy the plaza before seizing it. But, then, his old captain had always been an improviser.
The Bears bellowed and shot into the air, driving the crowd toward the tower with noise and confusion. What it must have looked like to the Kurians above, he could guess - a mass attempt to storm their collective Bastille.
One Reaper stood at the base of the stairs stupidly; perhaps its Kurian had panicked and forgot what it was supposed to be doing. It jerked as a bullet struck, and immediately stiffened.
Score three for the Miskatonic armorer.
Gide missed with the fourth bullet as the Reaper ran for the stairs. Valentine backpedaled, expecting a final, brief struggle, but the Reaper threw itself inside the organic door, which opened and closed like a toad grabbing at a fly.
Below, the riot continued. Police whistles blew, but to little effect, as the Bears fell into teams, pushing panicked spectators out of the way as they streamed for the tower.
Valentine ran down the stairs, heading for Silas, who had hiked his coat up like an old lady lifting her dress to hop a puddle, and was running across the plaza.
Valentine gave chase, heard explosions from outside the column, a scattering of gunfire.
Miss L. separated herself from the crowd, flung herself on Silas as a police detail opened up with shotguns. As Valentine ran up she drew her pistol from its holster, but instead of aiming for Valentine, she pressed its muzzle to the back of Silas' head.
"Stay down, Sly".
"I need him at the base of the tower", Valentine said.
"Get up, Sly", she ordered.
"You doing this for his own good?" Valentine asked.
They hurried into the center of the four pillars, where the Bears, dressed in variegated civilian attire, now with camouflage vests and
hats thrown over them, were prying up cobblestones to make barricades to lie behind.
Valentine saw Thunderbird giving orders, as Bears and PeaBee troops emptied backpack after satchel after bag of dynamite sticks and plastic explosive through holes being made in the concrete with power drills and portable masonry saws.
"We got most of the C-4 in Pacific Command ready to blow, boss", Thunderbird said to Valentine.
"Dunno if it'll bring the whole shebang down", a Bear feeding wire into one of the holes said. "Depends on how strong those supporting towers are".
"How did you get all that past the bomb dogs?" Silas asked.
"The dogs were in the Resistance Network too", Miss L. said.
"Not... not you too?"
" 'Fraid so, Sly".
"This bang better work, or we're going to have a hell of a fight getting out of here", Thunderbird said.
"I'd like to avoid that if I can", Valentine said.
"What's the alternative?" Miss L. asked.
"We'll negotiate", Valentine said. "They've got something we want - those people and Lifeweavers I saw in that tank up there. We've got something they want, an intact tower".
"They won't listen to us", the Bear at the wires said.
"They'll listen to him", Valentine said. "Care to deliver terms? Not of surrender, just an exchange of hostages".
"What hostages do you have?" Silas asked.
"You, for a start. Maybe they grabbed a few others on the way here. Bridge sentries and such".
"I'm not sure I want to stand in front of Seattle and start naming terms", Silas said.
"Then we'll shoot you and blow the fucker", Thunderbird responded. His hand dropped to his pistol holster.
"I suppose I could try", Silas said.
"Good luck", Valentine said, and meant it. "If it doesn't work out, try and get out of the center tower. You've got fifteen minutes from when you disappear in that tower. Any troops show up on the plaza, we blow it".
Silas gulped, looked up at the towering mushroom cap. "I'll see what I can do".
Valentine watched him ascend the scaffolding, stopping to gape at one of the frozen Reapers. He made it to the door. The organic mouth admitted him.
"Can I stop loading clay into this tower?" one of the Bears on the demo team whispered.
"Sure", Thunderbird said. "Hope this works, Valentine".
Gide returned from her sniper perch, hugged Valentine. "Long time no see".
"Thanks for keeping the Reapers off me".
"They're your fancy bullets. You want the gun back now?"
"I think it's in better hands with you".
Miss L. checked her watch every two minutes, reading the time to Valentine. They heard trucks pulling up on the roads around the plaza.
Then the mouth opened. Rafferty came out, crossed the bridge from the scaffold, carrying a little girl wrapped in a blanket. "They're coming! They're coming! Turn off the bombs!" Rafferty called.
Seven other humans who emerged, rather shakily, still glistening with the solution they'd been suspended within, must have been favorites to the Pacific Command soldiers. Some of them cheered.
"I don't see any of the Lifeweavers", Valentine said. "Maybe this is a down payment against our leaving".
"Somehow or other, we'll make it back with the real thing", Thunderbird said.
"What is that, a kite?" Gide said, pointing up.
Valentine followed her gaze. Four shapes, reminiscent of jellyfish, drifted, circling down on air currents.
"Creepy-looking things", a Bear commented.
"Depends which side they're on", another said.
"What's that coming down now?" Thunderbird asked.
It was Silas, camel-hair coat flapping in the wind. Gide screamed. Valentine turned away when he hit.
"What was that, a bonus?" a PeaBee asked.
The four Lifeweavers drifted to earth, too exhausted to mask their native form. They couldn't even speak. It didn't stop the Bears from cheering them, nonetheless.
But one figure did not rejoice.
Valentine couldn't say how he crossed the plaza without being noticed. Perhaps he crawled from body to body, hiding among those police killed in the organized riot. But nevertheless Silvers stood over the body of his master. Valentine saw tears wet his eyes, felt his own throat tighten. Even Ahn-Kha wasn't one for tears.
Except once.
The Grog went down on one knee, put a hand against Silas' crushed face, bent down, and listened to the chest. He came away with the side of his face wet with blood.
A deep growl started in his throat. He took a blade out of his kilt and checked the edge with his thumb. For one horrible moment Valentine thought he was going to plunge the blade into his hairy breast, but Silvers made a quick, shallow cut, crossing the angled scar straight up and down, an even longer cut than the old wound. He went down on all fours and hurried to the limo, extracted his twin-barreled cannon from the cupola, and snapped on the harness.
Then he gripped the blade between his teeth and turned for the tower.
As he passed Valentine, he pulled back his lips and one ear flicked up. Valentine, unable to imitate the gesture, thumped his chest three times with his left hand.
Silvers snorted and chambered a round in each barrel. He climbed up the scaffolding, and a loud report echoed as he blew a hole in the door-creature. He worked the bolt on his cannon; then he jumped inside.
"Let's get out of here", Valentine said.
"I'll go talk to the troops outside the plaza", Miss L. said.
"Tell them that anyone who wants to march out with us is welcome", Thunderbird said. "No reprisals. No trials. No more Action Groups. We'll choke Seattle the old-fashioned way, with our bare hands".
