being bounced almost high enough to see the Ohio River over the hills and trees, the missionaries had cut down on the specificity of their claims.
Always-hungry Bears had great noses for food.
He dismounted long enough to clear the legworm driver and Duvalier—a blanket-covered carbuncle on the mossy back of the worm—into the fort.
A block-and-log guardhouse stood at the gate now, along with an unmanned machine gun position. They were positioned well to cover each other. Valentine saw a couple of doughnuts resting on a sill, an easy reach through the window of the guardhouse.
“Crumbs on your uniform, son,” he told the guard.
“Sorry, Major.” The private brushed the crumbs off.
“Let’s watch the eating on sentry duty. We don’t want our friends across the highway thinking we’re slack.” He forced a smile.
Valentine scowled at the corporal standing at the guardhouse door. He didn’t like this kind of petty officiousness, especially when he was riding into camp dirty, unshaven, and dressed in a collection of odds and ends that barely qualified as guerilla-wear. But a quiet word and a glare or two now were better than going to the man’s captain, who’d roll it downhill to a lieutenant or sergeant, and the poor kid would hear about it tonight or the next day, with all that added momentum.
Once through the woods and to the fort proper, Valentine thanked the worm driver and checked off on a list of supplies he’d carry back to their Gunslinger allies. He woke Duvalier and sent her to the showers, then walked up to the great house that served as Fort Seng’s impressive headquarters.
He noted new gravel on the athletic field and some log bleachers. Baseball and basketball were the traditional sports of Southern Command, but for some reason the men of Fort Seng loved kicking around soccer balls outside and Ping-Pong indoors. It had probably started because that was the only athletic gear at hand. They’d added some rule modifications of their own that brought it closer to rugby or football. Exciting stuff to watch, but Valentine hadn’t had the chance to do much but goaltend during practices yet.
There were some new vegetable beds in on the mansion grounds as well. Time was, when a sergeant wanted to drill his platoon, he’d take them to “the field” or “the hill.” There they’d crawl, run, walk, squat, and roll until he or she could smell the sweat. Colonel Lambert changed that. She preferred exercising the troops under her care by having them build or haul or dig, and if the fort didn’t need gravel or lumber or rubble cleared away that week, well, the city of Evansville did.
Valentine approved—for the most part. He voiced a concern that Evansville had to look on their allies at Fort Seng as soldiers first, and a handy source of disciplined labor a long second. Evansville had to organize itself, the day might come when Lambert’s battalion would move out and be gone for a year.
No new faces at headquarters. Lambert was off at the big guns that watched over the river, so he reported to her acting adjutant, a former Quisling he’d trained up for the long march across Kentucky last year. She’d been promoted to captain and, next to his old top sergeant, Nilay Patel, was probably the best officer at Fort Seng. Captain Ediyak had proven her worth since day one as a Southern Command recruit, and Valentine was pleased to see her under Lambert’s wing.
Through the doorway, Valentine saw an unfamiliar man wearing a major’s cluster sitting in Lambert’s office reading personnel files. He had the hard, glitzy look of a headquarters type, like polished chrome. He needed reading glasses but didn’t put them on his nose. Instead he lounged there with one bow in his mouth, nibbling thoughtfully as he read through the lenses. Ediyak didn’t mention him so Valentine didn’t ask.
“Once you’re cleaned up, there are a couple new faces you need to meet,” Ediyak said. She always reminded
Always-hungry Bears had great noses for food.
He dismounted long enough to clear the legworm driver and Duvalier—a blanket-covered carbuncle on the mossy back of the worm—into the fort.
A block-and-log guardhouse stood at the gate now, along with an unmanned machine gun position. They were positioned well to cover each other. Valentine saw a couple of doughnuts resting on a sill, an easy reach through the window of the guardhouse.
“Crumbs on your uniform, son,” he told the guard.
“Sorry, Major.” The private brushed the crumbs off.
“Let’s watch the eating on sentry duty. We don’t want our friends across the highway thinking we’re slack.” He forced a smile.
Valentine scowled at the corporal standing at the guardhouse door. He didn’t like this kind of petty officiousness, especially when he was riding into camp dirty, unshaven, and dressed in a collection of odds and ends that barely qualified as guerilla-wear. But a quiet word and a glare or two now were better than going to the man’s captain, who’d roll it downhill to a lieutenant or sergeant, and the poor kid would hear about it tonight or the next day, with all that added momentum.
Once through the woods and to the fort proper, Valentine thanked the worm driver and checked off on a list of supplies he’d carry back to their Gunslinger allies. He woke Duvalier and sent her to the showers, then walked up to the great house that served as Fort Seng’s impressive headquarters.
He noted new gravel on the athletic field and some log bleachers. Baseball and basketball were the traditional sports of Southern Command, but for some reason the men of Fort Seng loved kicking around soccer balls outside and Ping-Pong indoors. It had probably started because that was the only athletic gear at hand. They’d added some rule modifications of their own that brought it closer to rugby or football. Exciting stuff to watch, but Valentine hadn’t had the chance to do much but goaltend during practices yet.
There were some new vegetable beds in on the mansion grounds as well. Time was, when a sergeant wanted to drill his platoon, he’d take them to “the field” or “the hill.” There they’d crawl, run, walk, squat, and roll until he or she could smell the sweat. Colonel Lambert changed that. She preferred exercising the troops under her care by having them build or haul or dig, and if the fort didn’t need gravel or lumber or rubble cleared away that week, well, the city of Evansville did.
Valentine approved—for the most part. He voiced a concern that Evansville had to look on their allies at Fort Seng as soldiers first, and a handy source of disciplined labor a long second. Evansville had to organize itself, the day might come when Lambert’s battalion would move out and be gone for a year.
No new faces at headquarters. Lambert was off at the big guns that watched over the river, so he reported to her acting adjutant, a former Quisling he’d trained up for the long march across Kentucky last year. She’d been promoted to captain and, next to his old top sergeant, Nilay Patel, was probably the best officer at Fort Seng. Captain Ediyak had proven her worth since day one as a Southern Command recruit, and Valentine was pleased to see her under Lambert’s wing.
Through the doorway, Valentine saw an unfamiliar man wearing a major’s cluster sitting in Lambert’s office reading personnel files. He had the hard, glitzy look of a headquarters type, like polished chrome. He needed reading glasses but didn’t put them on his nose. Instead he lounged there with one bow in his mouth, nibbling thoughtfully as he read through the lenses. Ediyak didn’t mention him so Valentine didn’t ask.
“Once you’re cleaned up, there are a couple new faces you need to meet,” Ediyak said. She always reminded
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