Camp Liberty, November: The word "camp" implies a certain bucolic simplicity, but Camp Liberty is anything but. It is in fact a small town once named Stuttgart: "The Rice and Duck Capital of the World."

A few old-timers remain in town, "making do" as the locals say with the constant influx and outflow of people picked up from the banks of the Mississippi. Everything from exhausted, half-starved families to rogue river patrol units who beached their boat and ran for it are funneled into Liberty.

The former Camp Liberty, which stood just south of town, headquartered at the old high school just off Route 79, was destroyed during Solon's takeover. Much of Stuttgart's housing was demolished and populace was herded into "temporaries"-prefabricated homes designed for easier concentration of a populace, a Kurian specialty. Solon had great plans for the rice-growing region, and construction materials were hauled in for apartment buildings, a New Universal Church Community Apex, even a theater. When Solon's Trans-Missippi order collapsed, most of the residents fled the wire-bordered housing, happy to abandon the roof over their heads for wider horizons.

Southern Command was not about to let the construction gear, raw materials, and prefabricated housing go to waste, so Stuttgart became the new Camp Liberty and work began on a new hospital, training and orientation center, and combined primary I secondary school for children who escaped the KZ with their parents.

Meanwhile, their elders were put to work in the rice mills, when they weren't attending class to acclimate them to life in tougher, but freer, lands.

When David Valentine visited Liberty, it was the finest facility of its kind in the Texas and Ozark Free Republics-and it was still under construction.

After checking their luggage at the station, Valentine paid for a horse cart so he and his new sergeant major could ride through town-or the camp, rather-saving Patel's legs from the walk.

They passed through two checkpoints-there were no wire, towers, or searchlights at least visible from Main Street, as Valentine learned. There were guards watching from a balcony or two, and more mounted officers riding horses chatted and swapped news with the locals.

They held handkerchiefs over their faces as they passed through construction dust. Men in dungarees with sleeves and trouser legs of different colors were digging a foundation.

"POWs?" Patel asked.

"Doesn't look like it. I don't see a single guard," Valentine said.

"Look at all the signage," Patel said, gesturing to a general store. A universal white stick figure pushed a wheeled basket across a plain green background. Iconography for beds, phones, and even babies and animals hung over other doors or were stuck into second-floor windows. The streets, too, were color coded and marked with animal-cracker outlines.

Valentine had visited more Kurian Zones than even an experienced soldier like Patel. He was used to signs both written and in iconography. It hadn't registered this time for some reason.

"It's for illiterates," Valentine said. "Shopping cart for store, dollar sign for bank, syringe for medical center . . ."

Of course in the Free Territory there wouldn't be a smiley face for the NUC building.

They ate in a diner, killing time until Valentine's appointment with the camp supervisor.

Which was just as well, as the service was slow to the point that Valentine got their own coffee refills.

Valentine helped the attendant at the register make change for his bill, when Valentine threw him off by paying a $12.62 tab with $13.12.

"I'm all muddled up from multiplication and division, sir," the attendant said, tucking his head in that old Kurian Zone gesture of submission. "Clean forgot my subtraction."

"Take your time," Valentine said. "I just wanted a couple of dollars to buy a paper."

"Always amazes me that they can even find their way to the Territory," Patel said once they were back on the street.

"West to the big river and freedom," Valentine said. "The underground helps some of them along."

Valentine turned a WET PAINT sign right side up as they walked down the sidewalk, and the gap-toothed painter gave them a Morse-code grin and a thumbs-up.

Liberty's administration building looked like an old town hall or possibly a courthouse.

They got directions from a bright and attentive young woman in another strange dual-color outfit.

Supervisor Felshtinsky had a nice corner office with a view of the towering rice mills and a staff of three. One was arguing over the phone with someone about duck poaching and the other two were buried in paperwork.

"My name's Argent," Valentine said. "Southern Command. I've got a two o'clock appointment."

"The super is out on the grounds," an older woman said. "I can page him on the walkie-talkie."

"I'd appreciate that."

"Sorry he's out, but you never know with the trains," she said, smiling. "He's a very busy man."

The other put down his pencil and turned around and took a plastic bag off a bureau.

"Welcome to Camp Liberty. Visitor ID tags and a house key," he explained, handing the bag to Valentine. "You can use the ID tag to eat in any of the cafeterias. Your trailer's in the southeast quadrant, just behind this building. Go in through the green arch. You can see it from the south side of this building. You're lucky: As guests, you have a kitchen with a fridge and everything. We'd appreciate it if you didn't wear pistols, and you can check any other guns in at the armory. It's in this building's basement."

"Why no pistols?" Patel asked.

"Most of the folks here, they just wilt when they see someone with a gun," the older woman with the walkie-talkie said. She spoke into it again and then returned her attention to Patel. "Might as well put on a pair of lifts and a Reaper's hood."

Patel looked at Valentine and glanced heavenward.

Valentine changed the subject. "I'd asked for an index of your current residents who came out of Kentucky and Tennessee. Even the Virginias."

"And we haven't got to it yet," the man on the phone said, covering the mouthpiece.

"We've got only one computer allocated to admin and only one man who knows how to work the database. Our old printer runs on curses and tears."

"Ho dog," Valentine said, letting out a deep breath. "Hammer's going to go red as a baboon's butt."

Patel's eyes widened, then he nodded. "Tell me about it."

"Who's Hammer?" the man with the key packet asked.

"My CO," Valentine said. "Ex-Bear." He tapped the scar running the side of his face for emphasis. "He'll probably be here by tomorrow to get things moving."

"You think the file cabinets will fit through that window?" Patel asked Valentine.

"Eventually," Valentine said.

"You'll have your list delivered to the trailer this evening," the man with the phone said, clicking off his call and dialing a new set of numbers.

They met Supervisor Felshtinsky out front. He had a tall, muscular assistant and rode in an electric golf cart.

Valentine had never seen a golf cart fitted out with a gun rack. A beautiful over/under shotgun rested in its locks, and Felshtinsky had flying ducks painted on the back of the low-riding vehicle. Its rear was filled with plastic file folders.

"You'll excuse me not standing," Felshtinsky said as he turned in his seat to shake their hands. He looked relaxed and tan in a polo shirt. "I've been on wheels since 'fifty-eight."

He had a strong grip and heavy shoulder muscles. Valentine guessed he lifted weights; you didn't get muscles like that just dragging your body around. Valentine felt humbled and apologetic, as he always did when meeting someone who'd lost a piece of themselves.

"Hop in back there. I'll give you a tour."

As they drove around to the cart's smooth, almost silent engine whine, Felshtinsky told them about his post. He was proud of his operation. He had close to four thousand people under his charge, temporary residents acclimating to the Free Territory, or permanents who'd settled around Liberty.

"We've got as many teachers here as Little Rock or Dallas," Felshtinsky said.

"How long do they stay?" Valentine asked.

"Depends. Sometimes a young couple meets up here, decides to get married and start fresh, and leaves right away. We get some not much smarter than a well-trained horse. They count on their fingers and can recite a few Church verses about flushing only once a day. Try learning to write at forty-three."

Felshtinsky explained how all the residents earned "Liberty bucks" doing training. Liberty bucks could buy them furniture and appliances for their homes or beers at the camp's bowling alley, and most of the merchants in town let them use the scrip to buy from a limited selection of toiletries and merchandise provided by Southern Command's warehouses at a discount.

They passed the first wire Valentine had seen. It was ordinary fencing, and a military policeman with a pistol stood in a guardhouse at a gate.

The tightly packed trailers inside the fence looked too numerous for a prison compound, unless the residents of Liberty were unusually lawless.

"What's that?"

"That's for Quislings. They stay there until they're cleared by Southern Command. They're worried about another big sabotage outburst, like just before Solon showed up, so they make sure."

Valentine saw one of the residents pushing a wheelbarrow with a yellow plastic water keg in it. He wore that alternate-color scheme Valentine had seen here and there.

They drove around the hospital and the ethanol plant, the rice mill and the cane fields.

Arrowheads of ducks and geese flew overhead.

"Lots of waterfowl in this part of Arkansas," Felshtinsky said. "If you want to get up early and go for a duck, I've got the best blind in the county. Privileges of rank."

"Sergeant Major?" Valentine asked Patel.

"I would like that. If I could have the loan of a birding gun. What about you, sir?"

"I'll spend the morning going over the printouts. Assuming they showed up and we don't have to sic the Hammer on our host's staff."

Everything about the next day, save for Patel's ducks-simmered in a homemade korma sauce all afternoon in their tiny cabin oven and served over (what else?) rice-disappointed.

Their first order of business, after dressing the morning ducks, was to check out Liberty's militia training camp. The young men and women were sad specimens, mostly undersized, undertrained, and undereducated. Valentine had never seen so many hollow chests, flat feet, bad eyes, and rickety knees.

"To think these are the ones with the ability to make it out," Patel said.

They stopped by the rifle range and saw a bored Southern Command corporal watching a couple of men in the two-tone Quisling fatigues training some kids to shoot.

"Hold it tight into your shoulder," one said, patting a recruit on the back. "It's not going to hurt you, 'less you hold it like a snake that's gonna bite."

"Kur's sake, keep your damn eyes open and on target when you pull the trigger," his companion bawled.

"Let me see that gun, um . . .," Patel said.

"'Probation,'" the Southern Command corporal supplied. "That's what we calls 'em."

"Sergeant," Patel barked. He still didn't have his stripes with the star in the middle for his old Wolf deerskins.

"That's what we call them, Sergeant," the corporal said, stiffening.

The "probation" came to his feet smartly, took out the magazine, and opened the breech, presenting the weapon to Patel.

"Sir," he said.

Patel placed his cane against his crotch and took the rifle, checked it barrel to butt. "They take good care of their weapons."

"They're not afraid to clean them, sir."

The other probation ignored the byplay. His recruit, firing from the prone position with the gun resting on a sandbag, shot across the field. The hidden range man in the trench flagged a miss.

"Them sights is all messed up," the militia recruit complained.

The probation/trainer next to him took up the weapon, put his cheek to it, and fired from the seated position. The spotter pulled the target down and pushed it up again with a bit of red tape at the edge of the ten-ring.

"You're right. The sights are off."

"These, I like," Patel said.

Valentine had announcements that called an evening meeting in one of the rec centers, but the meeting wasn't as crowded as Valentine would have liked. The basketball courts in the rec center could have held a thousand people, with more in the stands, but he got only a few hundred, and many of them were women with children.

Valentine didn't see a single person in the two-tone overalls or outfits. He wasn't that surprised. A former Quisling could expect an instant death sentence if found bearing arms against the Kurians.

"You should have advertised free beer," Patel said, sotto voce.

"I'm looking for volunteers to go back into the Kurian Zone," Valentine announced. "To go back fighting. This time with an army of our people. I don't need riflemen so much as facilitators-people who know the locals and can interact with them."

Valentine saw a few at the back slip out and head for the washrooms or the exits.

"Service grants you all the benefits of OFR citizenship, pension benefits, retirement allotment, and combat service bonuses.

He was flopping. He felt the sweat running down his back. "Anyone interested, join Sergeant Major Patel here on the bleachers. We'll come around and get your information, meet, answer questions. Then we'll let you know in the next day or so if you'll be called back for a physical and a second interview."

A man with a Riceland cap laughed as the crowd dispersed. He smiled at Valentine and touched his cap. "First rule, johnny soldier, is don't volunteer for nothing. Goes same in Free Territory."

They got eleven. Valentine could tell right off that he wouldn't want three of them-way too young or far too old. They took down the details of them all anyway.

Later, over the duck and rice and a couple of beers Patel had had the foresight to buy as the day went south, Valentine looked over the "applications." They'd had to fill out the blanks for the four illiterates-well, they could write their names, but that was about it.

"Six or eight, depending on the physical," Valentine said in the dim light of the cramped trailer kitchen. "We might get another couple dozen out of the militia in training, and that's if we don't restrict it to those from Kentucky and Tennessee. Southern Command's already got the pick of the men passing through here. The ones eager to fight have already joined up."

"The only two I really liked were those Quislings on the rifle range," Patel said.

"I think those will be our first corporals," Valentine said.

"God help us," Patel said, reaching for two more beers. That was one nice thing about the prefabricated trailer home. You only had to turn around to reach the fridge.

Patel was slow getting up. He'd flex his legs and then get up on one elbow. Then he'd swing his legs down and raise and lower each shoulder.

Valentine brought him some hickory coffee. Though moving coffee beans between Kurian Zone and Free Territory wasn't illegal, at least as far as the UFR was concerned-just dangerous-and "smug-glers" saw to it that such luxuries were available, Valentine couldn't afford the price. The only thing stimulating about the hickory coffee was the temperature.

Whoever made this mix put just enough of the real thing in to remind you what it wasn't.

"I was thinking we could try having breakfast in that probation camp," Valentine said.

"You think we will do better with the Quislings," Patel said, massaging and rotating his knees. He paused, reached for the cup, and downed half his steaming coffee-his throat must be tough as his leathers, Valentine decided-and held out the mug for a refill.

The Quislings ate in an oversized Quonset hut. Every word, every clunky of cup being set upon table, every scrap of knife and fork in a tray was magnified and bounced around by the curving walls as though the diners were musicians in a concert shell. Valentine tried to turn off his ears.

Valentine looked across the group-mostly men; there were far fewer women and children in this group-with something like hunger. These specimens were straighter, fleshier, longer of limb, and more alert of eye. Some wore tool belts or had hard hats dangling from nearby hooks; others read or did crosswords over the remains of their breakfast. He shifted his feet and cleared his throat.

"Could I have your attention please?" Valentine said.

He'd misjudged the volume required. His words were lost in the breakfast clatter and chatter.

"Oi!" Patel shouted. Patel's voice was like a mortar round exploding beside him. It almost blew him out of his boots. "Who wants to kill a few Kurians?"

The room quieted admirably as better than a hundred faces turned their way in interest.

"Sorry, but you can't have 'em," Felshtinsky said from his office wheelchair early the next morning. He pushed the names of the probations back across his desk at Valentine and Patel, seated opposite.

"Why?" Valentine asked.

"Ex-Kurian Forces aren't allowed to just leave Liberty whenever they want. They have to be cleared by Southern Command."

"If you just need a signature, I'll take responsibility," Valentine said.

"Sorry, it's not that simple. I can't release them to you."

"What if General Lehman's HQ signs off for them?"

"It's not just Southern Command. The civilian authority has to sign off on them as well."

"Which civilian authority?" Valentine asked.

"Interstate Security Office."

Valentine knew little about the ISO, save that their field officers were called marshals.

He'd once seen one come in to Rally Base to pick up two river patrol Quislings who'd gotten drunk and decided to fish from the wrong bank of the river. The marshal wore blue pants with a navy stripe down each side and had a badge, but other than that he looked like a typical hand on a horse farm.

"I don't suppose there's someone from the ISO here."

"As a matter of fact, there is. You've got a UFR/ISO district marshal just across the street at the station. He runs a one-man show. He's got an office off our regular police force. His name's Petrie and I wish you luck with him."

Ray Petrie had alcohol on his breath at ten thirty in the morning.

The duty sergeant at the small police station had advised them that he showed up anytime between eight and eleven, depending on how late the card games went.

You had to catch him quickly before he left for lunch, a uniformed woman struggling with a rusted padlock on an evidence cage added. So Valentine and Patel drank police-station coffee (and used the station washroom shortly thereafter; Liberty cops liked their smuggled-in beans strong) and waited for Petrie to appear.

There was already a waiting line. A couple, both in the two-tone dungarees, the woman swollen in pregnancy, waited.

"Not long now," Valentine said, looking at the mother-to-be.

"You don't know Petrie," the man said. "I was a librarian in a Youth Vanguard school. I've got a job here, filing, but our application still hasn't been approved. We don't even want to move out of town! And we met here; that's how long the wait's been."

"I meant not long for the child," Valentine said.

"It's our second," she added, closing her eyes and sighing.

Petrie came in yawning, a fleshy man with a heavy mustache and a growth of beard. He paused on the way in, a thoughtful look on his face, grabbed the edge of the duty sergeant's desk as though to keep himself from keeling over, and farted abundantly.

"Christ, Petrie," the duty sergeant said.

The marshal took a chained ring of keys and opened his side office.

"A minute," he said to them. Valentine had time to spot a dead houseplant atop a file cabinet before Petrie closed the office door behind him.

He reemerged only to go into the washroom carrying some items wrapped in a towel. He emerged again, shaved and combed.

"Just another minute," he said, nodding to them. This time the station cat managed to flash through the door.

A radio flicked on in the office. Valentine heard the keys employed again, a file cabinet open, the pop of a cork being pulled, and the marshal sit heavily. A minute passed, then the cabinet and keys sounded again.

The door opened. "C'mon in. Open for business," he said to Valentine.

"They were here first," Valentine said, gesturing to the couple.

"They can wait. They're used to it."

Petrie turned heavily away and went to his chair.

"Go ahead," Valentine said to the Quislings.

The couple went in. Petrie didn't bother greeting them. "Good news, Courage," Petrie said.

Valentine watched the interaction "Your application came back, provisionally approved."

"Provisionally?" the man and woman groaned, if not in unison, at least in harmony.

"Your list of references got misplaced somewhere between here and the office." Petrie got up and shut the door, but that didn't matter to Valentine's ears, or to Patel's for that matter.

"Believe you me, it might take a while. I could make sure they get found soon for another five hundred," Petrie said. "You want that kid born a regular citizen, right?"

Valentine flushed. Those poor people. This was how business was carried out in the Kurian Zone. Some combination of an office and a title with a bit of power, looking for his taste of sugar on the transactions crossing his desk.

He and Patel exchanged a look. Patel worked his jaw as though he wanted to spit.

"You'll have it in a week," the man called Courage said. Valentine suspected it was a first name.

"To show you two just how good I take care of you, I'll give you the provisional without waiting." Valentine heard a couple of resounding thumps on the desk as Petrie stamped paperwork. The couple left, the man holding a file folio as tightly as he did his wife.

Valentine and Patel stood up to enter, but Petrie was right behind the couple. He took his keys out and stuck them in the lock.

"Missed your chance," the marshal said. "I'm going to lunch."

Valentine extracted a bill. "I'm in a hurry. How about I buy you lunch in exchange for fifteen minutes of your valuable time."

"You got it, militia." The bill disappeared so smoothly Valentine thought Petrie an amateur magician. He held the door open and they entered his office.

The cat crouched, peering under a bookcase. Valentine suspected a mouse down there.

Maybe more than one. Enough crumbs and bits of paper-wrapped sandwich littered the desk and sat in the unemptied wastebasket to feed a family of mice.

A file cabinet with PENDING stenciled on it had another overflowing box of paperwork atop it marked "priority pending."

"What can I do for a militia major and a Wolf, by the looks of it?" Petrie asked.

"I'm going to need some paperwork processed quickly. I want to do some recruiting among the probations. About a hundred."

"A hundred?" Petrie ejaculated, showing more animation that he had all morning.

"Probations? You mean, let them loose?"

"No, just released to Southern Command, through me."

"That would take months."

"You want to do this the easy way or the hard way, Petrie?" Valentine asked.

Petrie tested his newly shaven chin. "Meaning what?"

"Meaning you can say 'Anything for the Cause' and get off your duff. Figure out a way to get ISO sign-off on the men I want. Pick up the phone and talk to whoever you need to talk to in order to get them cleared to join the Command."

"What's the easy way?" Petrie asked.

"That was the easy way," Valentine said.

"I'm late for lunch," Petrie said.

"He wants the hard way," Patel sighed.

Valentine stood up and opened the door for him. "Go to lunch, Petrie. Make it a big one.

By the time you get back, Sergeant Major Patel and I will have sworn out a warrant for your arrest. We both heard you extort a civilian on a Southern Command base. For five hundred dollars, to be exact. In case you don't know military law, that's a very big no-no."

Petrie looked around his office as if to see where they were hiding when they overhead the conversation.

"Lose your appetite?" Valentine said. He shut the door again and turned to address Petrie.

"You might think that being OSI, you're not subject to military law, but the people you've been juicing are certainly protected by it. You'll spend at least a night in the cells, probably more, as it'll take a bit of time to get you counsel. With our sworn statements, JAG

investigators will be here tomorrow. I'll tell them to be sure to bring a good accountant to see just how your paperwork balances up for this little corner of ISO. I wonder why you don't have a clerk to help you with some of these files, Petrie. Or do you? Existing only on paper, maybe? In any case, maybe the jaggers can't prosecute, but they can tie up your case in a beautiful ribbon and present it to the circuit court."

Petrie glowered for a moment, and then his lips cured into a sneer. "You think you're so smart, militia. Didn't you read the name on the door? My uncle's the lieutenant governor of Texas. I'll make a couple of phone calls and whatever stink you made will get blown right out the window. You'll get busted down to private and you'll spend the next four years pumping out porta-johns for the biodiesel plant."

"Thanks for the tidbit, Petrie. I don't follow politics, so I didn't recognize the name. But right after I talk to JAG I'll see if I can get a couple of newspapers interested. 'Recent arrest implicates Lieutenant Governor in corruption probe,' is how the Clarion will put it, I expect.

Better yet, 'Governor's office tainted.' The papers love a good coat of taint. Be interesting to see if your uncle lifts a finger to help you. Hope you remembered to send him his birthday card."

"Two can play your game, militia," Petrie said, folding his arms. "I can fill out warrants of my own. You're threatening an ISO officer into malfeasance. Maybe they'll put us in adjoining cells."

"You're not a big fan of reason, are you, Petrie? You never should have hit me."

"I never put a hand on-"

"The nose, Patel, good and hard."

Patel made a fist and punched him hard across the bridge of his nose. White light shot through his brain, and when Valentine opened his eyes again, he tasted blood, felt it dripping.

"Patel," Valentine gasped. "Restrain the marshal. He's flipped."

Patel moved nimbly for a man of his bulk. Petrie tried to rise but Patel sat him back in his chair hard with a good shove. When the time he rose again, Patel spun him around and gripped him across the back of the head and his right arm.

The cat gave up on its mouse and hid.

Valentine recognized the grip; he'd been in it often enough. Patel had been the Second Wolf Regiment's premier wrestler for three years running. Valentine had once seen his new sergeant major dislocate a horse rustler's shoulder when he didn't like the tone of his answers under questioning.

Valentine turned up the radio. "Give him something to think about, Sergeant Major."

"Hel-" Petrie began to shout.

It was a tight fit, with the three of them behind Petrie's desk, Valentine keeping Petrie's mouth shut with a stiff-arm.

Petrie finally gave, his muscles turning from wood to oatmeal.

"We're going to take care of three pieces of business this morning, Petrie," Valentine said, wiping his bleeding nose and flicking the blood onto Petrie. "First, you're going to fill out a hundred releases for me with the names blank. Second, you're going to do whatever paperwork needs to be done for your central office. Patel and I both know how to write and type. We can do either to give you a hand. We'll even send out for sandwiches on my tab and have a working lunch. When I'm satisfied, we're going to write out your resignation from ISO.

You can tell your uncle you got sick of rice.

"One slipup, one bit of paperwork slowed up, one questioning telegram-and you're going to jail, Petrie. I'd better see a postcard from whatever sinecure your uncle finds you. Yes?"

He removed his hand from Petrie's mouth.

"They're Quislings," Petrie said.

"That wasn't a yes. Dislocate his shoulder whenever you like, Patel."

"Who cares if they get squeezed? They've done plenty of squeezing across the river, believe you me."

"That's in the past."

"You're assaulting an ISO officer. You'll wind up-"

Valentine heard-and felt-the pop of Petrie's shoulder.

"Arrrrgh-" Petrie grunted, sagging. Patel shoved him back into his chair, his arm hanging.

"I didn't think you'd do it," Petrie said softly, his face white with pain.

"A dislocation's easy to fix," Valentine said. "Petrie! Keep your hand away from that phone.

Broken fingers are a bitch while they heal."

"I could pop his jaw," Patel said, gripping either side of Petrie's head. "That'll cut his talking down to lOw.' "

Valentine let Petrie catch his breath.

"So, Marshal, have we reached a deeper understanding? You've got three more limbs. I don't want have to leave you in a bathtub full of ice without any of them working, but I will."

"You can have 'em," Petrie said. "Hope one of them rolls a grenade into your tent for me.

That's all the thanks you'll get from those mooks."

"You're a mean, stubborn bastard, Petrie," Valentine said. "If your uncle can't find anything for you, you're welcome to join my outfit."