Winter Duty by E. E. Knight Page A

Kentucky? Pull out or go all in for Kentucky? Pull out or go all in for Kentucky?

    Valentine spent an evening enjoying a mock-Thanksgiving dinner with William Post and his wife, Gail. She looked strained by Valentine’s presence—or perhaps it was the effort involved in cooking a turkey with the sides.
    Jenny resembled her mother, white-haired and delicate-skinned. Maybe Valentine’s imagination was overworked, but she crinkled her eyes just like Post when she smiled. The little three-year-old had two speeds, flank and full stop.
    She was shy and wary around Valentine, standing in the protective arch of Post’s legs, but she ate as though there was a little Bear blood in her.
    The two old shipmates talked long after Valentine cleared the dishes away, Post had sorted and stored the leftovers, and Gail and Jenny went to bed. Valentine told the whole story of Javelin’s trek across Kentucky, the sudden betrayal in the Virginia coal country, the Moondaggers and the strange lassitude of first Colonel Jolla and then Cleveland Bloom. He described the victory at Evansville, where the populace had successfully revolted, thinking that deliverance was at hand.
    Valentine chuckled. “The underground was so used to parsing the Kurian newspapers and bulletins, assuming that the opposite of whatever was being reported was true, that they took all the stories about a defeated army being hounded across Kentucky to mean it was a victorious march along the Ohio. When the Kurians called up whomever they trusted to be in the militia to guard the Moondaggers’ supply lines from the Kentuckians, they acted.”
    A cold rain started down, leaving Valentine with an excuse to treat himself to a cab ride back to the base’s visiting housing. Post asked him to spend the night, but Valentine declined, though the accommodations given a corporal of militia couldn’t match up to Post’s cozy ranch-style. If he spent the night, they’d just be up all the while talking, and he wanted to get back to the logistics and support people about more gear on the alleged barge.
    The “cab” showed up after a long delay that Post and Valentine were able to fill with pleasant chitchat. They shook hands and Valentine turned up his collar and passed out into the cold, rainy dark.
    The cab was a rather claptrap three-wheeled vehicle, a glorified motorbike under a golf-cart awning that had an odd tri-seat: a forward-facing one for the driver, and two bucket seats like saddlebags perched just behind. The rear wheels were extended to support the awning and stabilize the vehicle. They reminded Valentine of a child’s training wheels.
    Valentine buckled himself in rather dubiously, wishing Post had offered him a drink to fortify himself against the cold rain. Another soldier, a corporal, slouched in the seat with his back to Valentine, his backpack on his lap and clutching the seat belt white-knuckled as though his life depended on it.
    “Don’t mind sharing, do you now, milly?” the driver asked.
    “No. Of course not.”
    He gunned the engine, and it picked up speed like a tricycle going down a gentle grade. Valentine wondered why the other passenger was nervous about a ride you could hop off a few seconds before an accident.
    “Of course you don’t mind. Cheaper for both; gotta save fuel and rubber. Speaking of rubber, if you’ve a mind to expend one in service, I know a house—”
    “No, thanks.”
    “I’m taking the other corp. It’s right on the way.”
    That accounted for the nervousness. Worried somebody he knew would spot him. The awning wasn’t like a backseat you could slump down into and hide. “Bit tired, thanks.”
    “Suit yourself. It’s clean and cheap. Only thing you’ll go back to the wife with is a bangover.”
    “A what?”
    “Like a hangover, only your cock’s sore instead of your head.”
    Valentine wondered what percentage the house gave the cabbie.
    They pulled up to the house, a big old brick foursquare in the older part