Pyp's Flying Circus, Yuma, Arizona: The old Colorado River steamboat stop grew up under three flags, Spanish, Mexican, and finally the Stars and Stripes after the territory was acquired in the Gadsden Purchase. Famous after the Civil War mostly for its territorial prison, it became an important military hub and storage center thanks to its dry climate, ideal for testing and storing hardware of various kinds, and the premier Marine Corps pilot training center.

Under the Aztlan Kur, an association of like-minded Kurians covering northern Mexico and the Southwestern United States called the "Confederation" by the locals, it's still a city that breeds pilots. The more mundane Aztlan Air Carriers shuttle Quisling dignitaries and churchmen from post to post and fly police patrols, but the much more colorful "Flying Circus" of airborne mercenaries, with their distinctive winged-rattlesnake insignia, is what people usually refer to when speaking of the fliers of the Southwest.

In typical Kurian fashion Pyp's Flying Circus is divided into three centers for better control. Most of the fliers and their families live in Yuma, in well-guarded gated communities. Their amenities are so plentiful that it's hard to recognize them as hostages to their good behavior. Airplane storage and maintenance is located at the famous aircraft graveyard at the old Davis-Monthan Air Force Base, now just called "Lucky Field" by the ground staff, thanks to the job security it affords, and "DM" by the fliers. Pyp's operational headquarters is in Tempe, where orders are received from the Kurians and planes are armed and staged for their various missions. No one group of officers, and no one Kurian, really commands the Circus, though all think of their titular figurehead commander as the unit's boss.

There's an air of ringmaster flamboyance to their beloved "Pyp". Patrick Yenez-Powell is the sort of man who stands out in a crowd, not always an advantage that leads to survival in the Kurian Order. With his round-brimmed, blacky felt Navajo hat, river-guide sandals, gold earring and necklaces, often grease-stained denim flight suit, and elaborately beaded shoulder rig for his ivory-handled peacemaker, he's easy to pick out in a crowd. Though on the ugly side of fifty, he still moves with a spring in his step, and he's hard to follow, as he changes direction the instant he spots anything from flaking paint to litter to a misplaced tool; an adjutant usually carries a bag for such trash that blows across Pyp's transom, which will then be upended on some unfortunate lieutenant's desk.

David Valentine met the mind behind the odd wardrobe and energetic body on a hot April afternoon in Yuma.

* * *

The long trip, begun in the noisy vibration of the helicopter, was briefly suspended at a refueling stop at a service strip, where they shoveled down a quick meal of eggs and sausage. After breakfast they were both dusted with some kind of disinfectant/insecticide. Then it was back in the beater until another landing at the sprawling air base in Tucson, where they switched to a tiny, cramped prop plane for the final leg, which left Valentine tired and disoriented. Other than his astonishment over the distance they'd traveled in just a few hours, he also felt nauseous with fatigue.

He wanted cool and darkness when they arrived at Yuma. The soldiers threw their dunnage in a propane-powered flatbed and whisked Hornbreed, Valentine, and the medic with a clipboard full of notes off to a white building with the traditional red cross painted on its roof and walls. Valentine surrendered his weapons again to a pair of desert-camouflaged men with sidearms and blue-banded helmets. Hornbreed whispered into one of the military policemen's ears, but said little else until they reached the triage room, where he refused any attention until the MPs showed up again and looped a laminated ID card around Valentine's neck. Then Hornbreed allowed himself

to be put in a wheelchair and taken to an operating room.

Valentine fell asleep on the paper-covered table of an examining room. A thin woman who looked like a hat tree in a lab coat, stethoscope over her shoulder, woke him and checked his eyes, lymph nodes, pulse, and temperature. She asked him how he felt and where he'd traveled in the last month and he answered honestly.

"Drink lots of water", she advised, and turned on the tap in the washbasin. "If you want to get cleaned up, you can use the showers in 'E' corridor - just follow the signs. You can read, right? Wear your ID at all times, even in the shower. There's a staff commissary in that wing too - eat a couple of bananas". She signed a piece of paper and handed it to him. "You're on unlimited rations for three days, so enjoy. Don't skimp on the veggies".

She went to an intercom by the door. "Room three is cleared", she said.

"What about Equality?" Valentine asked.

"Wing Leader Hornbreed's doing fine. He's staying here for observation overnight. Check with the base security by the admitting door and they'll find you a bunk. You'll probably be here until we release the wing leader".

Valentine cleaned himself up using the washbasin, and felt better but still bleary when he presented himself to a potbellied example of base security. They looked him over as though wanting to arrest him on general principles, but eventually informed him that his reward was being arranged.

"Old Pyp's on the way", the corporal explained. "He wants to see you and the wing leader".

Valentine wondered if there was a "Young Pyp", or if the phrase, with its poetic evocation of Tempus fugit, indicated some measure of endearment.

"Mind if I grab a meal first?"

"Just don't be long about it", the desk sergeant barked. "He's a busy man and we don't want to be running around looking for you".

The corporal took him to the cafeteria, whistled at the food prescription. "Enjoy. We've been on ration cards for over a year".

Valentine winced. "I know what that's like".

He piled a tray with some dubious-looking meat in gravy, potatoes, fruit, and rice buns. The servers examined his piece of paper at each station, even the woman who poured him a glass of juice.

The corporal settled for a thick slice of bread smeared with "protein paste", and water.

"Hope that tastes better than it looks", Valentine said.

The corporal rolled his eyes. "They say it's refried beans. Tastes like they scraped it off a Dumpster".

"Dig into mine", Valentine said.

"You're a real guapo ... uh, Mr. Argent". He hunched over the table and worked a chunk of Valentine's steak free from bone and gristle.

"Why the food shortage?" Valentine asked.

"Troubles out east", the corporal said, shoveling food and looking over his shoulder. "We just took a bunch of California farmland, thanks to the Circus, but it's taking time to get organized. Headhunters down south are having a tougher time finding peons to work the land. This territory used to be Frolic City - Pyp's Circus brought in a lot of in-kind trade from the Gulag. Now we're fighting to hold our own".

"Here's to better days", Valentine said, swallowing some watery juice.

The corporal removed some gravy with his heel of bread. "If you're looking to set up an establishment somewhere comfy with your reward..."

Valentine picked up his wiped-clean tray. "Haven't thought that far ahead, friend".

Hornbreed was on the telephone when they entered the room. The corporal pulled up a chair outside.

"No", Hornbreed said, wincing a little at the effort. "No. Let's get Bettie Page stripped. Put Tigress and Zorro into reserve, and Brunhilda in for a complete overhaul. Let me know the status of Rockette as soon as the

salvagers bring her in. Yeah, I flipped her. Tell them at least a week for the wing to reorganize. Colorado tore us a new one".

He paused. Then: "Kur! I don't care. We'll lose half the wing if we go into action now. Yes, I'll take the responsibility".

Valentine listened to another call to someone named "Lo", full of many reassurances as to his condition. He went to the window, watched the quiet airfield. Gliders circled far above, featherless hawks on the air currents. Valentine watched a new string of gliders take off, a twin-engine prop with five fiberglass baby planes in tow.

Hornbreed returned the phone to its cradle and rubbed his eyes.

"What are all the gliders for?" Valentine asked.

"Pilot training. You learn most of the principles of flight, and it saves a lot of gas".

"Looks fun", Valentine said, and meant it.

"Just say the word and..."

The corporal's chair in the hallway scraped and Valentine heard him come to his feet. Boots squeaked on the linoleum.

Patrick Yenez-Powell had darkish but freckled skin, a boxer's squashed nose, and ears like a pair of beat-up trash can lids. Valentine didn't know what to make of the variegated uniform. The gold necklace, dungaree overalls, and shoulder holster made him look like a motor-pool inventory guard called away from a good card game, but the round, black felt hat added a serious note.

Valentine envied the sandals, though. They looked cool and comfortable.

"Knock knock", Pyp said. "Got a minute, Horny?" His voice flowed low, musical, and a little sad. If basset hounds could talk, they'd sound like Yenez-Powell.

"Always", Hornbreed said.

Valentine saw a pair of adjutants, male and female so alike that they looked like brother and sister, peering in from the doorway.

Pyp strode in, holding his left arm behind.

"You dumb sonofabitch. I told you Rockette wasn't fit to get home. You had to be a hero and make it or go down with the ship".

"Got her in range of the salvage bird", Hornbreed said.

"We'll have to invent a new medal for you - you got all the others. Just park it for now. I brought you a present. Fresh from the Cali Dairy", Pyp said, revealing a big bottle of white liquid Valentine guessed to be milk. "Still a little warm from the cow".

Hornbreed produced one of his little gasps. "Huff. Thanks, sir. You're a wonder". He twisted off the cap and tried a swallow.

"Milkman", Valentine said quietly.

"Is this our stray herder?" Pyp asked, turning to Valentine.

"He got me out of a dark hole", Hornbreed said. "Almost punched out doing it".

"Thank you, young man". He offered his hand. "Call me Pyp".

Valentine shook his hand. "Max".

"Good with his gun and cool in a hotbox", Hornbreed said. "We could sure use him".

Valentine shrugged. "I'm flattered, but I'm more interested in the reward".

Pyp sucked air through his teeth. "Sorry to hear that. But don't worry, you'll get it in full".

"Your jackets say the reward is nonnegotiable", Valentine said. "Is that firm?"

Both the pilots exchanged looks and frowns. "Hey, Max...", Hornbreed started.

"Son, most of the fellers who want to haggle don't hand over the pilot first", Pyp said. "You're either dumb or impractical".

"I didn't mean the amount", Valentine said. "I meant the type. Does it have to be gold?"

"What, you want something lighter? We can look into gems", Pyp said.

Valentine held up a hand. "Oh, nothing like that. I was wondering if I could trade the reward for a ride in one of your planes".

This time the pilots exchanged furrowed brows.

"Where you wanna go, Japan?" Pyp said. "You're screwing yourself, son".

"Gold just brings trouble. I've got family on a patch of land up toward Canada. I'd like a ride up there".

Pyp tipped his hat up and forward, scratched his stubbled head. "Easily done. We've got a friendly field in northern Utah".

"Thanks".

"You'll find a little gratitude goes a long way", Pyp said. "We'll put you in the VIP jet if you like".

"Throw in some flying lessons and we'll call it a deal", Valentine said.

"Not sure a man who turns down mint gold should be working a stick and rudder, but we'll oblige", Pyp said. "Horny, you tell Alvarez to arrange some privates".

"I'll take him up myself", Hornbreed said, setting down his almost-empty quart of milk. "The wing's going to be down for a while anyway".

"That's the other thing", Pyp said. "We're going to have to dummy up for a week or so and make you look operational. There's a purification drive".

"Huff..". Hornbreed lost some of his color. "Oh hell".

Valentine wanted to ask what a "purification drive" was, but Hornbreed read his face. "Looks like you haven't spent much time in the Confederation".

"They could show any day", Pyp said.

Hornbreed swung his legs out of the bed, took a deep, wheezy breath. "Get my boots, huh?"

* * *

They put Valentine in a comfortable little house in a no-man's-land of fencing that wasn't on the airfield, but rather grew out beside the main gate in a dogleg shape. More houses, a little school with thick bars around it, and some rows of two-story apartments surrounded an empty pool that someone had turned into the world's biggest sandbox for the kids. A driving range/putting green ran in a green carpet out to the fencing. As if to make up for the missing pool, housing management

turned a big sprinkler on every afternoon, watering the putting green, and the base kids shrieked as they ran in and out of it.

Runoff fed a vegetable garden, and served as a birdbath. The birds looked every bit as happy as the kids.

Skinny, shoeless, half-naked kids watched from the other side of the wire, sticking their arms through the fencing and begging food, alternating pleas in Spanish and English.

Valentine took a short joyride his first evening. A young instructor named Starguide offered him the chance to watch a sunset from just beneath the clouds. Valentine gazed down on the rooftops of Yuma, spotted a few antlike vehicles on the wide roads, saw the Colorado and Yuma rivers running muddily beneath, along with the old, perforated border fences and trenches dividing Arizona from Mexico. And of course the sun, turning everything shades of red and copper.

/ see why, Dad. But how did you ever give this up?

"Ready to take over?" Starguide asked

Valentine wiped the tears out of his eyes.

"Like with most everything, first time's the best", Starguide said. "Pick a spot on the horizon and keep her level. Don't be afraid... I'm here. Small, gentle movements. You'll just have her for a few minutes - it's getting dark".

Valentine took the controls. The plane waggled a little and settled down.

"You've got good hands for this, Argent", Starguide said.

"I bet you say that to all the boys", Valentine said.

"Dude, don't even joke about it. You don't want a rep as a rainbow chaser. Pilot culture is muy macho".

After the exhilaration of a night landing, with the airfield lights changing speed and perspective until they touched down with the softest of bumps, Starguide filled out some paperwork. He then took Valentine toward Yuma on a spring-worn shuttle bus. They stopped well outside of town at a cavernous wooden restaurant, where Hornbreed watched while some musicians set up. A petite, caramel-skinned woman with cheekbones and jawline as sharp as a hunting arrow sat

beside Hornbreed, resting her hand on his arm, loving but not overly demonstrative.

"Any news?" Starguide asked.

"No sign of 'em yet", Hornbreed said. "Maybe they'll skip us and concentrate on the out-there".

Starguide didn't say anything, but he didn't have to. His face said "That'll be the day".

Valentine looked around the place. A big U of a room, with pillars where he guessed dividing walls once stood, surrounded the bar. Doors to the kitchen were on one side, to the washrooms on another. A stairway at the side had a blue neon arrow zigzagging up and the legend wild blue yonder in cloud-scrolled letters.

"Welcome to the Mezcal", Hornbreed said, pulling out a chair at a table with a good view of the band. "Best liquor and music between the LA Slimepits and Austin Holdout. This is my wife, Louisa".

"I am, jusslike, so grateful to you", the caramel-skinned woman said, her voice oddly nasal.

"That's the sound of California class", Hornbreed said. "But she fell for a dashing pilot and joined me in the wasteland".

"Jusslike the movies", Louisa agreed.

Hornbreed gave her a kiss on the temple. A waitress approached them. "Buy you a drink?"

"Whatever you're having".

"It's milk. I don't drink".

"Milk, then", Valentine said.

"Struth, not another one", Starguide said. "Hey, he needs his wings".

Starguide went to the bar and yanked a piece of plastic off a peg. He returned just as the milks and drinks arrived, set it on Valentine's head, and fixed a thin bungee under his chin. It was a kid's toy hat, spray-painted silver, with wings that swept up and back.

A trio in leather jackets, parked at the end of the bar and chatting with a buxom bartender, whistled and raised their glasses to Valentine.

Valentine, Hornbreed, and Starguide clinked glasses. Valentine's milk slopped out a little.

"Why the milk?" Valentine asked.

"My folks were sort of fitness fanatics", Hornbreed said.

Valentine knew better than to inquire further about their health. One never asked about relatives in the Kurian Zone, especially when the past tense was employed. Instead he watched customers stream in. Some pointed to his funny little silver hat, and a pilot or two broke away from their friends and came up to clap him on the back.

"Kick it, Ge-arge", a bandsman with a guitar said. Ge-arge raised his sticks above his head and clacked them together three times, tchk tchk tchk - Valentine jumped a little. The sound reminded him of the hunter-gatherers.

A fusion of salsa and Western coursed through the bar.

"Place is gonna be full tonight", Louisa predicted. "Everyone's nervous".

Valentine raised an eyebrow at Hornbreed, who shook his head. A few couples left the bar and began to dance. Valentine recognized one of the pilots from the rescue helicopter, stomping away in elaborately stitched pointed-toe boots.

The band took a quick break. Hornbreed used the silence to tell an abbreviated version of the hunter-gatherers story, attracting a small crowd. "I've seen their tracks, on mule patrol up Goner Ridge", a woman put in. "He's not exaggerating".

Hornbreed left out his injury, and embellished a little, saying Valentine had carried him halfway down a mountain, plinking at bugs the whole way.

When the band started up again they were joined by a zebra-haired singer. She performed in a silver mesh bikini and matching strappy cork-heeled sandals, rattlesnake tattoos winding down each arm and a Chinese ideograph on her back. She'd applied makeup with an airbrush, giving her bright, intense eyes wings like a pit viper's:

"Take one take two take three take me

Bled out in an attic so's nobody sees"

The dancers were limp in one another's arms as they moved, shambling like ravies cases about to keel over. The singer's arms waved hypnotically as she passed the microphone first to one hand, then the other. Valentine looked around, a little shocked at the explicit lyrics, but maybe musicians could sing what no one dared say.

"Hiya, cherry", a female voice twanged in his ear.

A girl in fishnets and feathers, a swan-shaped black bottle nestled under one netted breast, put down a shot glass in front of him. "Jolt of Swan Neck? On the house".

"I'm not drinking", Valentine said.

"He's already at half-staff", Louisa said. "No assistance required".

The woman planted the bottle at the center of the table, put a hand on each of Valentine's shoulders, and did a brief bump and grind. "You wanna go upstairs? Ready, willing, and free of charge".

"No thanks".

"Ah, the follies of youth", Hornbreed said, though Valentine guessed the wing leader had only half a decade on him. "You should take advantage of the newbie's wings. One night only".

"What was the fighting up in Colorado about?" Valentine asked.

"Those jokers are trying to starve us by cutting off the Colorado River. We took out the dams".

"Must have been big bombs".

"No, demolition teams. It was more an airmobile operation. Ever since that fiasco in Fifty we use our own troops on the ground if we have to land anything. Damn Grogs flapped off as soon as things got a little hot".

Valentine wondered if the Kurian Year Fifty "fiasco" was the operation at Love Field in Dallas. His old regiment, the Razors, had been so battered by the aerial pounding, Southern Command had broken it up - but he wasn't about to make Hornbreed feel better by saying so.

Odd that he felt more like shaking the man's hand than ever. The aerial assault had been well coordinated and deadly.

"Don't let the rationing fool you", Starguide added. "This is a profound creche. You never hear a Hisser, unless you're riding a desk at GHQ. We run our own lives. We get..."

A rattlesnake-decorated arm cut him off as the singer wrapped herself around Valentine's back.

"We've got a first timer here tonight, named..."

"Max", Hornbreed supplied.

She hopped up and planted her thong-divided buttocks on the bar table, planting her sandaled foot firmly on Valentine's crotch. Valentine watched her eyeballs rattle around and decided she was a little stoned. "Let's rass it for the Circus' newest hero, Max.

"From the rigs of Catalina

To the shoals of Mississippi

We shall fight for mankind's uplift

To Earth's glorious destiny

"In our fight for truth and justice

And to keep our conscience clean

We will always follow orders

of the Saviors of Our Dream".

Cheering broke out at the end of the song and Valentine reached up for a kiss, lifting her leg out of the way. He used the leverage to throw her slight body over his shoulder.

"I'm taking her up", he called to the crowd, heading for the stairs.

"Hit that silk hard!" a drunk in the crowd shouted.

"My set's not over, you bastard", the singer yelled, punching him in the small of the back.

Two pipeline-armed men in leather vests, probably bouncers, appeared at the front of the crowd, but no call for assistance came.

He slapped one tan buttock in return. "She'll be back after a brief intermission", Valentine said as he took the first steps, to cheering approval.

He paused at the top of the stairs. A hallway led to a marked washroom and several doors. He tried the nearest door; it wasn't locked.

A big, cushioned wooden lounge chair and a double bed almost filled the little paneled room. Sponge-painted clouds gave the room a nursery feel. He found a light switch. A single bulb in an orange and blue Chinese lantern gave the room a grotto glow. There was a rag rug on the floor, and a pair of towels next to a washbasin and an empty pitcher on a little shelf.

The band had already transitioned into a dance number. Muffled percussion and guitar rose through the floor.

"Classy", Valentine said. He dumped the singer on the bed.

"Fucker!" she protested. "You could ask a..."

"I will", Valentine said. "What's your name?"

She sat up and kicked off her sandals. "Gide. Be careful with my face, okay? Rough stuff will mess up the makeup". She took off the bikini top. "I know it's traditional to keep the pants as a souvenir, but these were..."

"Gide, you can keep them on". Valentine sat in the chair. "I just want to talk".

She flopped back against the wall, extracted a hand-rolled from her hairdo. "What, like dirty?"

"No. One of those songs, the one about the attic, it struck me as odd. Aren't you afraid of saying stuff like that?"

"Got a light?"

"I don't smoke".

"Shit". She felt around under the mattress, peeked under the bed. "They sneak in condoms all the time, but can they leave a match? Dream deferred". She reattached the cigarette, or joint, to a hairpin and put it back in her tangle of hair.

"You wrote that song?"

"Yeah. You hot shits could use a bite of reality. It got a response, you saw".

"What's a purification?" Valentine asked.

Some of the hard edge came off. "It's... it's not my place".

"Please. I'm new here. Call me Max, if you like. I brought in Wing Leader Hornbreed. I'm wondering if I should grab my reward and run while the getting's good".

"You got your gold yet?"

"Working on it. I'm trading most of it for a trip far away".

"Purification's head-count reduction", she said. "Lotta times it makes no sense, who gets chosen".

"Who does it, Churchmen?" Valentine asked.

"Yeah, the church handles it".

"Ever worry that your songs might get you purified?"

"Fuck no. I think they like having me around. They need a place for the zips to let off a little steam. The Mezcal's sort of cathartic".

"Sort of what?" Valentine asked.

"Catharsis. Healthy elimination of emotion. Like a big bawlin' shit into the toilet of life".

"Singer and philosopher".

"My old man was a cowhand, but that doesn't mean he was dumb. Always had a book or two tucked away and he read to me a lot. I grew up in the saddle with a rifle instead of a doll. Killed a mountain lion when I was eight".

"If you can shoot, why didn't you join the service?" Valentine studied her tattoos. The snakes were posed differently. The left arm seemed to be striking; the right wrapped itself protectively around her upper arm and watched the world from the soft spot on her forearm.

"I'd be tempted to pull the trigger with the gun pointed the other way. How far away from here are you going?"

"About a thousand miles north".

Her fingers tightened on the stained bedding. "Take me with? I can work off my expenses. Or we can arrange something. I ain't exactly a virgin, but I'm healthy and horny on my own account, not just to keep my job. I'll fuck you like Scheherazade, not some high-mileage brothel cunt".

"I'm tempted just for the conversation".

She tipped back into the bed. "Make fun. Who are you to talk to me like that?"

"I was hoping to figure that out on this trip. How do you survive a purification?"

"No telling what sets them off. But I'd cover that limp if I were you. Life is precarious for the lame and halt. I don't suppose you're a big shot somewhere, and you're just keeping your brass ring hid?"

"No such luck", Valentine said. "How can I get in touch with your

"I live above Ling's market in Yuma. I help him stock after a gig. Then I sleep out the day. But don't be afraid to wake me up, know what I mean?"

"I look forward to the rest of your set".

"Wait", she said, standing. "Undo your hair".

Valentine unwound the thick rubber band that kept his hair out of the way. Gide reached up and ran her metallic-nailed fingers through his hair, tousling it.

"You've got three gray hairs", she said, and kissed him. Her lips traveled down his neck. "Just a little lipstick smear. Someone might wonder why you carried me up here to talk. Though I ought to give you a black eye".

"Thanks for the advice, Gide".

"What about my offer?"

"Under consideration. But if I bring you, it'll be for your trigger finger, not the thousand and one nights".

She blinked. "You've done some reading too".

"Haven't had the time lately". Valentine put his hand flat against the small of her back and gave her lips a quick brush with his own.

"And what was that for? My makeup's already fucked".

"Gratitude. Lone man's dilemma. I was beginning to think all these flyboys were the sane ones and I was the nut".

* * *

Valentine took the stairs quietly, noticing on his way down that the crowd had grown. Masses of people and noise made him tense and headachy, so he joined some of the smokers outside. People sat on old car seats and lawn chairs, drinking and smoking and looking at the stars. In the shadows, couples kissed.

Cigarette smoke, stars, and the occasional eager moan turned above Valentine as he stargazed. Were women aware of their strange healing power? He felt the wounds begin to close, but nothing, not Gide, not Blake, not even the satisfaction that would come with a successful assignment, could replace his daughter.

"Never should have made that trip", he said.

"How's that, Max? You regretting popping off into the sage to get me back?" Hornbreed said from behind.

"Didn't see you", Valentine said. "No, different trip, two years ago. Just as soon not talk about it".

"Suit yourself. How'd you like your flight?"

"Loved it, but I still want my reward".

"We're always short planes, but it'll be arranged. You'll go fast and in style. We'll tack on an extra day or two to maintenance and put the fuel use down to testing. Tomorrow I'll set you down with some workbooks - you need to learn a few principles - and then maybe you'll go up in a two-seat glider".

"You worried about some 'purifiers' showing up?"

"I keep my nose clean. Worst thing you can do is get all nervous about it. They see you stammering and sweating, they figure a guilty conscience is showing itself".

"I know what you mean", Valentine said, prickling at Hornbreed's blase attitude. Did they put something in the water here? Suppose they carted Louisa off?

"They might not even show. The higher-ups are more worried about the food situation. They'll probably concentrate on agro in California and Mexico".

"I'd just as soon get going".

"We're still going to give you a couple thousand in gold, you know. That's got to be arranged for".

Valentine wondered if a stall was on. "How you feeling?"

"Better. Whatever juice the bugs put in me, I think it's about worked its way out. Just sore as hell. You're bunking in our house tonight, by the way. Let's go over to the hospital and sign for your gear. It sits there too long, someone might decide to sell it".

"I'm ready to go".

They took a little Volkswagen ("The Mexicans changed the name for a couple years, but people quit buying them", Hornbreed explained). Hornbreed's house was just shy of some of the estates in Iowa. The imposing, Spanish-style house lacked only the expansive grounds to be a true manor. Instead it sat on a small plot of land in a gated community filled with other equally impressive houses. Louisa gave Valentine a pleasant little room of his own on a central courtyard - its fountain made a pleasing sound - where he could look up at the master suite's second-floor balcony.

He startled awake, reaching for the sword under the pillows, but it was only a pretty Asian teenage girl in an apron bringing morning coffee - real coffee, at that.

"Breakfast in kitchen", she said.

After the strictly portioned meal Hornbreed showed him "the neighborhood". There was a swimming pool, a school, and a small golf course, a private store, and a common garage where the favored families "checked out" vehicles. Hornbreed explained that most of the residents rarely went beyond the gates. Necessities were brought to them.

There was a small playground but only a few children, in simple clothes that looked homemade. They shrieked and chased each other, shouting in a Spanish-English patois that sounded like it had a little Chinese thrown in for flavor. "Staff children", Hornbreed said. "They're really not supposed to be there, but no one complains".

"What about the kids who are supposed to be using it?"

"Most of our kids go to church school, or private academies. Class all morning, sports in the afternoon, and tutoring or apprenticeships at night. Really first-class schooling. Tumlo next door has a daughter already beginning medical training, and she's only fifteen. We got to get to the field. But we're making one more stop. I've got something to show you".

He said no more until they took the Volkswagen out to one of the more remote hangars on the big airfield. Hornbreed maneuvered it around piles of junk, engines hanging from chains, and racks of assorted rusting spares. It was half-junkyard, half-machine-shop, worked by men with overalls and close-cropped hair in their last days.

Hornbreed parked in the shade inside the hangar. A radio hanging from a cord played cheerful NUC choir music as it spun in the dry desert breeze.

"This is sort of a private workshop. The men here aren't paid by the Circus or AAC. The pilots keep them to work on their private craft. Hey, Jimmy".

The man who'd trotted up to get the door liked to chew tobacco. His hands had a fascinating patina; the oil had worked itself into every crevice. He wiped them on a rag before shaking hands with Hornbreed.

"This the bounty man?" Jimmy asked, looking at Valentine's ID card. An aluminum can with a rubber lid hung around his neck.

"Max Argent", Valentine said, extending his hand.

Jimmy didn't shake it. "You got a lift all the way back to Yuma. Sure didn't do much for that gold. I could've done that".

"You didn't face down ten-foot scorpions", Hornbreed said. "He did. Where's the crate, Jimmy? Hope you haven't put it in the same spot as your manners".

"Just speakin' my mind, sir. Pat's just over here".

Jimmy led them past a couple of fixed-gear prop planes and to a little contraption in the bright colors of a yellow jacket that looked like a wheeled two-man bobsled under an oversized beach umbrella missing its fabric. It had a big prop sticking out the back.

"This is a Personal Advanced Aerial Transport. It's an autogyro, Max.

Just about my favorite toy for flying out over the dunes. Seats two and some personal cargo. She's a fun little ship, and can run on ordinary high-octane gasoline. Twin rudders. Pretty safe, as long as you watch the weather, and if you stow your gear in to balance the load. Can take off from a cleared field and if the engine conks out, you just rotate back down".

"What works the rotors? All I see is a control mechanism. Or is there an axle hidden in there?"

"Forward velocity. Air resistance keeps the rotors spinning, and they give lift. That's where it's different from a helicopter - you can't hover, and you need takeoff room. Engine's a hundred ten horsepower, and you can engage a driver that works the wheels so it's a motorized tricycle too. There's pretty good ground clearance. This thing was the range model".

"All yours?" Valentine asked.

"No. She's yours now".

Jimmy popped the lid and spit into the aluminum can.

"You're kidding".

"No. It's a thank-you for going into that hole after me. Most men wouldn't have".

"Most men don't like seeing an Archon's ransom disappearing down a big rat hole either".

Hornbreed shrugged. "Maybe. Maybe not".

"Don't know how to thank you", Valentine said.

"I still got my Air Ranger, Argent. You're getting the kiddie toy".

Valentine gave in to his pleasure at the gift. "What are we waiting for? Let's take her up".

"Duty calls. And you've got some workbooks to get through. I'll be checking your math at lunch".

* * *

There were anxious faces all over the utilitarian command building and the sound of steel doors opening and shutting as people hurried from office to office.

"They're at the tower now", an airman said.

"That just means they'll be gone by lunch", Hornbreed countered calmly.

Hornbreed's office had pictures of aircraft, glossy pre-'22 images and simpler black-and-whites of younger versions of himself in a neat school uniform and flight suits standing in groups in front of various craft. Manila envelopes and folders were piled on his desk. Assorted pilots were gathered outside, seeking an opportunity to take their planes up. Hornbreed checked off flight card after flight card.

"Huff. We'll look busy today, that's for sure".

Hornbreed whistled tunelessly as he got out a clipped stack of paper titled "Basic Principles of Aviation" and handed it to Valentine. "Grab a pencil off my desk if you like. There's an empty classroom at the end of the hall, if you want somewhere quiet to work, but you should shut the curtains or it'll get hot".

"I'll just grab a chair in here".

"Be my guest".

Valentine dived into equations about lift. Some of them brought back memories of the book-walled little room in Father Max's house. He'd read some about flying in the lonely days after he lost his parents and siblings, suddenly wanting to know about his father only after he was cold in his grave.

Three times Circus personnel popped their heads into the office to tell him about the "purifiers". Each time Hornbreed waved them off.

"They said we lost too many ships in Colorado!" one nervous, pimpled young airman said. "They already took two out of the tower".

"We got the water flowing again", Hornbreed said. "Tell you what, I'm out of copier toner. I'll give you a warrant to run into Yuma and pick up some more. Grab a lunch while you're there, Daw".

"You know Ling's market?" Valentine said as the young man stood first on one foot, then the other, waiting for the purchase order and pass.

"Sure", the kid said.

"You need something?" Hornbreed asked.

"I might take up your milk habit. But give a message to this girl Gide. She lives above Ling's. Tell her Max would like to see her again".

"Max would like to see her again", the kid repeated.

"That oddball?" Hornbreed asked.

"I like the tattoos", Valentine said.

"This I have to hear. Let's take a coffee break".

"While the purifiers are here?" Daw squeaked. Hornbreed passed him the paperwork.

"Why not? Coming, Argent?"

They took some stairs down to a cafeteria, where the workers were frantically cooking, cleaning, and polishing. Valentine smelled cleanser and wet mops.

"Gide, huh", Hornbreed said, buying them some coffee with his ID. "I don't think she's all there. Though I'll admit what there is of her was expertly assembled".

"I like a challenge", Valentine said.

"If it'll plant you here, then I'm happy. Tumbleweeds have a way of disappearing. You could do a lot worse than the Circus, you know".

"I know", Valentine said, and meant it. He'd seen less comfortable cages.

A hubbub broke out in the hall, and a party entered.

"Huff. Oh hell", Hornbreed said. He stood and faced them.

Valentine did likewise, trying not to gape, but it was a strange procession that strode into the cafeteria.

Two teenagers led it, a handsome Hispanic boy 2nd a blond girl with prom-queen hair. They wore impossibly clean white robes that might have been martial arts uniforms had the coats been a little shorter. Neither of the youths could have been over seventeen or eighteen.

Behind them a New Universal Church Youth Vanguard warden carried a big briefcase handcuffed to his wrist.

Then came the muscle. A pair of men in combat vests, burnished pistols holstered low on their thighs,

might have been watching him from behind dark sunglasses. It was hard to tell - they kept their noses pointed straight ahead.

Hovering at the edge of the mass was Pyp himself, hatless and complaining. His stray hair gave him a desperate look.

"Wildlife's one of my best radarmen. He lost that arm in action, you know".

"He seemed insolent", the boy said. His voice was that of a man's, but nevertheless a little high-pitched. Sergeant Patel would tell him to "talk like you've got a pair, boy".

"Uh-huh. Or maybe he was just trying to make sure that those planes taking off didn't crash into each other".

"Who's this?" the girl asked, staring at Valentine.

"Follow your heart, Ariel", the warden advised. He opened his briefcase.

"You don't have paper on him", Pyp said. "He brought in the wing leader, here. Saved his life in tribe country".

"No doubt seeking the reward. Greedy", the young man said.

"Is that how you spend your life?" the girl asked. "Chasing money? Flesh for gold?"

"Shut up, Ariel", Hornbreed said. He placed the slightest extra stress on the name, perhaps mocking it. "You don't know what you're talking about".

The teens stood up, almost crackling like charged hair.

The warden shuffled through his folder. He handed a sheet to the young man.

Pyp put himself between the purification team and his wing leader. "You don't let men who bring in our pilots claim their reward in peace, that'll be it for anyone who goes down".

"That's the problem, isn't it? They keep going down", the boy said. "There's sabotage among the mechanics, certainly".

"If we could trade for real spares instead of modifying stuff from the boneyards", Pyp said.

"Do you think you're immune, old man?" Ariel asked. "One word from me and you'll be off with the others.

There's more than a whiff of personal corruption about you". She glanced at his feet. "Too lazy to wash your own socks and shine your own shoes?"

Valentine recognized a couple of the phrases from the New Universal Church Guidon, while the rest of him was tensing as he evaluated the muscle. How much was show and how much was go?

"You take him and you'll never see three-quarters of the pilots again", Hornbreed said.

The young man consulted the sheet the warden had handed him. "A man who crashed on his last flight might be worried about his own fate".

"Crashed?" Ariel cut in.

"Wipe that sneer off your face or I'll do it for you", Hornbreed said.

"He was trying to get a lame bird back", Pyp said. "I'd ordered the ship destroyed at the forward field, but he insisted he could get it back. He almost did. She's been salvaged and is being repaired now. He's a damn hero".

"This is the real test, Ariel", the warden said.

"He's going", she said, glaring at Hornbreed. One of the security talked into the mini-walkie-talkie clipped to his epaulet.

Hornbreed shook his head, a sad smile on his face. "You'll think about today. Later".

"Lack of humility. Willfulness", the youth said to no one in particular, but the warden checked off ticks on a pad. "Disparagement. What's the phrase? 'Three strikes and you're cut'?"

"Out", Valentine corrected, watching two men, one with a baton in his hand and the other with cuffs and leg-irons, step inside.

"Max, be quiet. Looks like someone else will have to check your equations at lunch". Hornbreed wore the same bland fatalism Valentine had first met in the desert.

Valentine's hand convulsed over the sword hilt that wasn't there. If he angled it just right, he could open both sets of carotid arteries with a single sweep. Make a red mess of the spotless white robes.

Hornbreed turned toward the girl, chuckled. "One day it will be your turn... I wonder how you'll take the news".

"Our generation will not be tainted", the youth said. Pyp fought with his hands, which were balling up into fists.

"Tell Louisa I'm sorry", Hornbreed said to Pyp as they shackled him. The wing leader was shaking, just a little. Valentine looked away, embarrassed. Just another Quisling, getting what's coming to him from the blood-greased machine he kept moving, he told himself. "I know she loves that house", Hornbreed said as they led him toward the door, where a woman and two other men waited, chained together. "It's gonna kill her to leave it".

"Let's see how clean that kitchen is", Ariel said, looking past Hornbreed. Did she have a tear in her eye? The kids led the procession away. One of the guards didn't like the look of Valentine, and watched him.

"Argent, wait for me in his office", Pyp said. Valentine listened as they walked toward the kitchen. "Last chance, you two. I'm going to fight to get this commuted to a labor term in California. You resist me on it, and, well, I've got old friends in the church, right up to the Archon. I'll make sure there's a set of eyes on you both every time you draw a breath. You so much as yawn during services..".

Valentine hoped for Hornbreed's sake that Pyp could get it done. He returned to the office.

He could still smell Hornbreed's aftershave on the chair. Valentine found the rest of the math impossible.

* * *

Pyp didn't return until after 1500, according to the twenty-four-hour clock on the wall. Valentine spent the time looking at the photos around the office, and didn't like what he saw.

"I'm so tired", Pyp said, sinking into Hornbreed's chair.

"Who was that Ariel to Equality?" Valentine asked.

"How'd you work that?"

"There's a picture of them on the shelf next to the running trophy".

Pyp looked up. "I see. She's his sister. He half raised her after their father disappeared. His mother was useless, from what I know about her. I need some food, or I'm going to upchuck".

"I'm not sure that I want to go back to the cafeteria", Valentine said.

"I know", Pyp said. "Let's go down to the ready room. They have a pizza oven".

The ready room was mostly maps on the walls and old books and magazines on the chairs and chipped tables. A shower hissed down a hall that was marked hygiene. Comfortable armchairs and recliners were grouped around a somnolent television, where Noonside Passions played out the melodrama. Valentine noted that the aging Rebeccah had a new, matronly hairstyle and a church ribbon around her neck. With a better angle Valentine recognized one of the pilots from the rescue helicopter, reading his Guidon. Maybe he was resolving to be a better example of mankind's evolution toward the communal spirit. Or maybe he was just memorizing a phrase or two to trot out to the next purifiers.

They found some congealed pizza and warmed it in the oven.

"Want a milk?" Pyp asked. "I'm having one".

"Sure."

They sat. Pyp lifted his carton, held it up until Valentine did likewise. "A good man".

"A good man", Valentine repeated.

The milk didn't do much for the greasy pizza. Both men ate mechanically. Another pilot came in and turned up the volume on Passions.

"Crap, a repeat", he said to the reading man, but sat down to watch it anyway.

With some noise cover Valentine finally spoke.

"What the hell was that?"

"Fair question, son", Pyp said, taking some napkins from a metal dispenser and wiping his hands. "It's just how they keep us on our toes. I spent some time researching it, if you want to hear. Pretty clever. You interested in mass psychology?"

"I'll take the short version".

"I think it started in the early years of the Redemption", Pyp said, setting his elbows on the table and leaning close. "In the Southeastern United States the Kurians started using pretty, teenage girls as spokespeople every time they opened a new medical center or fair-housing block.

"They find some young folks useful. They're good at picking out an elite, grooming them. Pretty soon the young and the beautiful were acting as spokespeople, passing news, bad usually. Up in the Northeast they were using kids as informers. If they turned in a ring of renegades, saboteurs, terrorists, whatever, the kids got rewarded pretty handsomely, positions in the church and whatnot.

"Practice spread. Down South, where they were having a lot of trouble with the old faiths, they started having the kids of a 'purer generation' rooting out those who didn't have their minds right. Our leaders adopted it. Having a couple kids go around picking out the wild hairs focused the resentment somewheres besides up".

"How do they get the kids to do it?" Valentine asked. "Turning in your own brother, even if he hasn't committed a real crime".

"The real crimes take place up here", Pyp said, tapping his temple. "The kids are actually pretty good at picking out those who have some kind of resentment. Good antennae for picking out those who don't fit in".

"Or maybe less empathy", Valentine said.

"You have kids?"

Valentine shrugged. Depends on the definition.

"Me neither", Pyp said. "Not that there haven't been women who've tempted me to settle. No. Some little shit telling his teacher who visits me in my own home at night".

"Why the interest in the purification, then?"

Pyp looked around without moving his head - a skill most older people in the Kurian Zone possessed. He used the shiny side of the napkin dispenser like a rearview mirror. "I was one. One of them. Raised in a church orphanage. I led up the first purification in Aztlan.

Mind spotless as an Archon's bedsheets. Zealotry comes easy at that age. They used fine words on us, oh, yes. We were a new generation who'd tear down all the old injustices, the old prejudices, the corruption. But twenty years, passed and then it was our turn to be judged corrupt".

Valentine decided to probe: "Ever think about putting your planes in the air and blowing up some of those towers?"

"You're kidding, right? I thought you were a traveling man. You know the teams, I'm sure. We got it better here than ninety percent of the world".

"You're on tight rations".

"Ahh, that'll pass. Same thing happened back during the Lincoln-Grande War. They'll swap a couple hundred square miles and it'll be put right".

"They're having a tough time containing Texas, now that they're linked up with the Ozarks. Suppose Denver throws in with them, or with that fellow up in the far Northwest, what's-his..."

"They'll just drop some new virus on 'em and that'll be the end of it. Now, Argent, listen. You seem bright enough. I know the towers give you the twitch. They do everyone. But that doesn't mean you can't do well in the shade of 'em. Learn a vital skill. Purifications don't come about closer together than six or eight years, and I've got a good chance of getting Hornbreed sprung".

"Seems to me no purifications would be better".

"That kind of operation would take weeks, hundreds and hundreds of sorties. We'd land and get throttled by..."

"So you have thought about it", Valentine said.

Pyp drew back. "Don't think you're going to inform..."

"I'm no rat", Valentine said. "Just heard someone say something about, if given a gun, they'd be tempted to point it in the other direction".

"I've been on Internal Security work groups. Renegade pilots are rare, but it's happened. They have contingencies. I'm sure there are contingencies I don't even know about. I'll tell you this: There are tunnels

under this base, under the housing areas. Not sure what's down there. I don't want to find out".

A jet engine rattled the airfield with the noise of its passage.

"They have long memories", Pyp continued. "You do them enough damage, they'll get rid of you one way or another. Even if you flee to the rebels. Assuming you survive touchdown. They chop men like me up, one joint at a time".

Frustrated, Valentine sat back and pushed away the crumbs of the pizza. The man was just as right as he was wrong.

"Anyway", Pyp said. "Pressure's off now. I can arrange your trip north anytime".

"Speaking of valuable skills... I'd like a couple more flying lessons", Valentine said. "Equality gave me an ultralight, I think he called it". Was that just this morning? "I'd like to know more about it".

"So you did listen. Good man. I need to get out of here anyway. Think I'll take you up myself".